Two Poems and Two Pohms

Note: These are first drafts of poems. Nothing on this archived site should be read unless something has been recommended. All entries were posted for particular people, for specific purposes at a given time. Not knowing context can prove to be puzzling, or even off-putting. Please contact the author at for direction.

Two Poems and Two Pohms
by Oxman (15 September, 2012)

A pohm is… not quite a poem. I have lots to share with readers about what I’ve encountered in the realm of Santa Cruz poetry… which has counterparts in the local political/activist arena. It’s serious stuff, highly worth the heartbeats for consideration, but I won’t hold my breath; I don’t expect any show of interest at this juncture for a number of reasons. In the meantime, if anyone is looking at this page, intending to go through my Earth’s Immeasurable Surprise poem, I ask that they read Philip Larkin’s First Sight first. For EIS is a blend of a sort, incorporating many essentials from the former Librarian of Hull who declined the position of poet laureate in 1984.

Earth’s Immeasurable Surprise

Poems that burn and stalk and grow
Comprehension hides their lair
Meaning makes placebos
And soul’s cleft in clueless stare
Insight bumbling thus and so
All we find we have in hand
Is a lesson made of sand

But if our faith is not blue
Our love cerebral dark, the skies
Open in us, speaking through
Earth’s immeasurable surprise.
What is it dies if all we knew
Came from rains we cannot know
Poetry known like the snow?

For Watershed

The challenge is neither
Our government
Nor the corporations
Abominations both
Daunting obstacles

Rather, our challenges
Are those posed
By the Apathy
Of the average person
And the tearful Habits embraced
By concerned citizens
With arms around
Marching in circles crying
Obsolete paradigms of action

I have a new model for you to consider.

Relative to the Dead
by Oxman

Respecting remains of The Night
Whether you served the poor
Or ordered scones and drones
For breakfast on base
You eat it
Bit by buggered bit
On the lap of a chap
Who sodomizes soon thereafter
Sound of glass in your mouth
Then dragged
Little bones thinner than needles
Edged into your very vibrant eyes
A screaming at the South
Clutching at the North
Unless you’re a woman
Or a child
Then it’s worse
Not blackness
Never all-white
The living suffer not much
Relative to remains