September 2017
Ryan Warren
r_p_warren@yahoo.com
I live with my family by the sea in Northern California where we try and balance our time between music, books, movies, the outdoors, working, playing and being present for each other's lives. My poetry has previously appeared or is forthcoming in a number of journals, including California Quarterly, Wilderness House Literary Review and Firefly Magazine. More on my published works can be found at www.facebook.com/RyanWarrenPoetry.

Mustard

 
I was the kind
who would be stopped
 
by Parrish colored clouds,
the rounded light of Vermeer,
 
the rendering of drapery.
Was soothed by the sound of water,
 
the scent of bergamot.
I even relished the pulling
 
of a fountain pen
from inside a jacket pocket.
 
But I’ve been whetted a bit.
Some loss is a stone.
 
So a measure, now, of silence.
The time to walk in trees.
 
I find myself laid newly low
by the terrible hardness of human hearts.
 
I admire spiders more.
I grow irritable with newness.
 
And Pollack has crept up on me,
those wiry sinews,
 
brittle bracelets of poured paint.
His declaration of independence
 
the unexpected texture,
thick at times as a coiled hose.
 
No pitcher. No virginal. No fruit.
It’s strange what can carry you.
 
How I now crave
the taste of mustard.
© 2017 Ryan Warren
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