Ed Werstein

CONTACT:
wersted@juno.com

BIO:
Ed Werstein, Milwaukee, WI, is a regional VP of the Wisconsin Fellowship of Poets. He was nearly 60 years old when his muse awoke and dragged herself out of bed. His poems have appeared in over 50 different journals and anthologies. He won the Poetry Society of Michigan’s Margo LaGattuta award in 2015. In 2018 he received the Council of Wisconsin Writers Lorine Niedecker award. His book, A Tar Pit To Dye In, is available from Kelsay Books.

Poetry

Your Cue

God is a million monkeys
chain-smoking Camels
flailing at Underwood keyboards
and since God has always existed
he’s been flailing away a long time.
So can you really be surprised
that he eventually churned out copy
with some semblance of plot
or that he finally got around
to writing you in as a character?

Now that you are here you can see
that you were inevitable.

The surprise of your existence
is no reason to get gaga
over this pack of primordial primates
because god has absolutely no idea
what he is doing.

If he had any idea, any design,
operated with any logic,
would he have conceived of babies
blown to bits right out of their mothers arms,
nine and ten year old boys
conscripted to die holding rifles,
sixteen year old sex slaves?

And when you are written out of the story
and you will be
soon, too soon,
don’t go thinking that you’ll be
written into some heavenly sequel.

This is it,
your one appearance.
No one else holds your script.
You are the only one that knows your role.
This is your one chance.

Speak.

The Smiling Mortician Foiled

Lawrence Ferlinghetti, Poet Who Nurtured the Beats, Dies at 101
– New York Times, February 23, 2021

After more than 101 years you finally tired
of waiting for the American Eagle
to drop those arrows from its talons
and join the parliament of birds
in their search for a rebirth of wonder.

Yes, after 101 years of waiting
for a disarmed eagle, its wings clipped
to address the avian summit, confess
and repent, you gave up, you stopped
for death and waited patiently

while it caught up with you.
Then, just as that smiling mortician
was catching its breath, just as
it raised its scythe for the harvest,
I saw Elijah’s fiery winged chariot

swoop down with the gulls,
swing low and gather you,
the last of the great prophets
and carry you away, blazing
and still breathing.