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Anabell Donovan's Poems



The pile ups on 635

circles of hell

and detour signs

you are the chaos

horns blaring

one finger salutes

noon blazing

a Texas summer

meaner than 

a two dollar rattle snake

rock 'n roll and blues

tacos and barbecue

all hat and no cattle

polka and conjunto

black bean soup

swing and honky-tonk


and grand opera.

Stout Texas wine

wildflowers gracing freeways

endless rolling thunder

sultry torch songs

noise raising Cane

fiddler and pianist

cowboy chili

and pecan pie

Buddy Holly, Janice

and Stevie Ray

Cadillac Ranch

and chicken fried steak


greets walls

with twangy hellos

and is on the road again.

All's well deep 

in the heart of Texas.

Anna  5/9/21

Morose Muse

Morose Muse suffers sickness of souls.

She burns poutpourri in the coming

summer's fire, languidly throws in

a leaf, a cone, perfumed dried petals.

Her room is devoid of furniture,

she piled up carpets from

the East with cushions from the West

and ponders on life and death.

The chef from Midori's sent her

tender sushi, good for the soul.

She ate half, 

between the sun

and the shadow.

What of sturdy Philly Cheese?

What shoud I write? 

Whisper to 

me in your undertow,

and I'll tread hip high waters.

Face to face,

sternum to sternum,

hip to hip

in swift rapids,

taut currents

and undercurrents,

between him and I.

She says no, no more on love,

and she'll eat the Philly Cheese

when she's

good and ready,

just leave it by the door.

Like Scarlett O',

says she'll think 

about it tomorrow

if not the day after,

and let me know

which way goes the undertow.

She converses with 

Bernadette Banner

on lady Sherlock Holmes

capes and hats

and how to pattern

such things.

Anna  5/11/21

The Box

You left

the accumulated debris of us

in a box by the door.

Ridged as the spokes

in a chameleon's soul.

Even your cool Ramones t-shirt,

if I wear it, I'd feel I was

wearing you, stretching to fit with you,

your arms, the width of your chest,

even close to your heart where 

Joey stands on one leg,

the other one bent.

Would that I could rid of you

as easily as that box.

And the stray cat you fed

is sad for you,

and it weaves itself

through my bare legs,

through every verse

and word 


its feline sense

every silent meow

a question of your whereabouts.

I am at the avalanche's

kohl rimmed edge and

it takes my all

to not call with 

the excuse of your stray cat,

and I don't know 

anything about cats,

and I don't know

how to still my fingers' 

muscle memory

from tracing

your face 

and calling your name.

Anna  5/1/21


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