Two Poems by Gary Grossman

on

|

views

and

comments

Sir Isaac Newton's First Law of Metaphor

Am I an object at rest or in motion?

Newton proposes "an object
at rest remains at rest
" but by
remains, does he mean dead body
or just unmoving item--of course
that's metaphorical ground, no? But,
to read, write, or comprehend that phrase
one must be a flesh-coated polygon
that breathes, heart beating mainly
seventy-two times a minute--
an object, anything but at rest.


Debits and Credits

I'm ambivalent about space
exploration the way I'm
ambivalent about scrambled

eggs. They both exist and
always will, but they twist
my lips

downward. I admit to admiration:
moon landings, then a gap,
then landscapes from

Mars, looking like the Painted
Desert only with a sky
the color of Dijon

mustard. Explorers all, we
salute the singular, but what
is the

cost. When hurricanes spawn floods,
tornadoes unzip homes, crush cars,
and forests

torch? Climate change reigns and
we bicker over warming oceans
and Mars Rover and scrambled

eggs. It's not really a zero
sum game. Or is it?

Gary Grossman, Professor Emeritus of Animal Ecology, University of Georgia, has poems, short fiction and essays in over 50 literary reviews. His poetry and short fiction have been nominated for a Pushcart, Best Small Fictions, and Best of the Net (nomination pending). Gary enjoys running, music, fishing, and gardening. His poetry books Lyrical Years (2023, Kelsay), What I Meant to Say Was… (2023, Impspired Press), and graphic memoir My Life in Fish—One Scientist’s Journey…(2023, Impspired) all are available from Amazon or the author. Visit his website.

Featured Image: “Tumba de Isaac Newton” by Javier Otero licensed under the Creative Commons Attribution 3.0 Unported.

Share this
Tags

Must-read

Three Poems By Heaven Santiago

STABILISER My eyes floatedtowards nearby archers ...

Three Poems By Michael Young

Love Letters We who are wedded to timelounge on the beach. Gullssweep along the sandcarrying a message of depths.They have salted their pathsin the brine...

Three Poems By Kate Powell Shine 

EXHAUST FOUND HERSELF INSIDE AN EMPTY SNAIL SHELL A private spiral, whiff of yuck bit off her trail of pummel slick. The shell was cold,...
spot_img

Recent articles

More like this

LEAVE A REPLY

Please enter your comment!
Please enter your name here