Read The Last Night of the Earth Poems for Free Online Page A

win, don’t
    you?”
 
    “I come here not to
    lose.”
 
    I took my coffee to a seat
    facing the toteboard.
    the odds flashed, I sat down
    spilling hot coffee
    on my
    hand.
 
    “shit,” I said.
 
    and the day went
    on.

poetry contest
     
     
    send as many poems as you wish, only
    keep each to a maximum of ten lines.
    no limit as to style or content
    although we prefer poems of
    affirmation.
    double space
    with your name and address in the
    upper left hand
    corner.
    editors not responsible for
    manuscripts
    without an s.a.s.e.
    every effort
    will be made to
    judge all works within 90
    days.
    after careful screening
    the final choices will be made by
    Elly May Moody,
    general editor in charge.
    please enclose ten dollars for
    each poem
    submitted.
    a final grand prize of
    seventy-five dollars will
    be awarded the winner
    of the
    Elly May Moody Golden Poetry
    Award,
    along with a scroll
    signed by
    Elly May Moody.
    there will also be 2nd, 3rd and
    4th prize scrolls
    also signed by
    Elly May Moody.
    all decisions will be
    final.
    the prize winners will
    appear in the Spring issue of
    The Heart of Heaven.
    prize winners will also receive
    one copy of the magazine
    along with
    Elly May Moody’s
    latest collection of
    poetry,
    The Place Where Winter
    Died .

peace
     
     
    near the corner table in the
    cafe
    a middle-aged couple
    sit.
    they have finished their
    meal
    and they are each drinking a
    beer.
    it is 9 in the evening.
    she is smoking a
    cigarette.
    then he says something.
    she nods.
    then she speaks.
    he grins, moves his
    hand.
    then they are
    quiet.
    through the blinds next to
    their table
    flashing red neon
    blinks on and
    off.
 
    there is no war.
    there is no hell.
 
    then he raises his beer
    bottle.
    it is green.
    he lifts it to his lips,
    tilts it.
 
    it is a coronet.
 
    her right elbow is
    on the table
    and in her hand
    she holds the
    cigarette
    between her thumb and
    forefinger
    and
    as she watches
    him
    the streets outside
    flower
    in the
    night.

the bluebird
     
     
    there’s a bluebird in my heart that
    wants to get out
    but I’m too tough for him,
    I say, stay in there, I’m not going
    to let anybody see
    you.
 
    there’s a bluebird in my heart that
    wants to get out
    but I pour whiskey on him and inhale
    cigarette smoke
    and the whores and the bartenders
    and the grocery clerks
    never know that
    he’s
    in there.
 
    there’s a bluebird in my heart that
    wants to get out
    but I’m too tough for him,
    I say,
    stay down, do you want to mess
    me up?
    you want to screw up the
    works?
    you want to blow my book sales in
    Europe?
 
    there’s a bluebird in my heart that
    wants to get out
    but I’m too clever, I only let him out
    at night sometimes
    when everybody’s asleep.
    I say, I know that you’re there,
    so don’t be
    sad.
    then I put him back,
    but he’s singing a little
    in there, I haven’t quite let him
    die
    and we sleep together like
    that
    with our
    secret pact
    and it’s nice enough to
    make a man
    weep, but I don’t
    weep, do
    you?

going out
     
     
    the sweet slide of the luger
    toward your temple,
    a flight of birds winging
    northward,
    the clicking sound of the
    safety catch being
    released,
    the eclipse of the
    sun,
    the sound of something being
    shut
    hard,
    pal.

the replacements
     
     
    Jack London drinking his life away while
    writing of strange and heroic men.
    Eugene O’Neill drinking himself oblivious
    while writing his dark and poetic
    works.
 
    now our moderns
    lecture at universities
    in tie and suit,
    the little boys soberly studious,
    the little girls with glazed eyes
    looking
    up,
    the lawns so green, the books so dull,
    the life so dying of
    thirst.

the genius
     
     
    this man sometimes forgets who
    he is.
    sometimes he thinks he’s the
    Pope.
 
    other times he thinks he’s a
    hunted rabbit
    and hides under the
    bed.
 
    then
    all at once
    he’ll recapture total
    clarity
    and begin creating
    works of
    art.
 
    then he’ll be all right
    for