Mark Thalman

Poet and Painter

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The Peasant Dance

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Poetry from The Peasant Dance

 
 
How to contact Mark: mark@markthalman.com

If you would like an autographed copy of The Peasant Dance please send me your mailing address.  I will send you my mailing address, so you can send me a check for $19.  The good news is I will pay for the postage.

 
Because
 

 
I swatted the fly
which otherwise the garter snake
would haven eaten, but now
having one less gram of energy
is caught by a hawk, whose flight
changes wind currents
just enough that it snows
at a quarter less degree
latitude, making a wave
of Canadian cold air
come down a week later,
so that when I step into night,
I see a ring around the moon,
reminding me
of 29 years of marriage
and still being
in love with you.



Published by The Multnomah Art Commission

 
Three-Sixty         
              


Pavement a dull sheen
from an early evening shower,
I’ve got the radio turned up—
singing harmony on Good Vibrations,
when a car pulls out and stops
broadside in my lane. 

I stomp the brake, jerk the wheel—
My Chevy Biscayne hydroplanes,
spinning as if on an axis,
a miniature planet. 

Twisting the wheel back, I continue
in a straight line, bracing myself—
ready to crash into the man staring at me
like he’s just seen a marvelous circus trick.

In the last thousandth of a second,
he gives it gas, and moving out of the way
in the flash of a matador’s cape,
the road opens miraculously,
a river of painted stripes,
while dashboard lights glow
low as votive candles,
and the engine hums like a choir.

I come up slow on a red light,
and no longer know my hands
trembling drunk on adrenaline.

It all floods back, the surge
of helplessness,
waiting for impact,
crush of metal, splintering glass—
once again, I am living
the illusion of being safe,
while this planet whirls through space,
me holding tight to the wheel,
steering as if convinced
I have control of my life.



Published in The MacGuffin

 
The Paint Store Owner
              

               
The paint store owner
always dreams in Technicolor, 

dreams that rainbows cascade
down the walls of his room, 

of painting the White House green
and Red Square purple,

of repainting everyone’s life
who passes by on the street, 

that he can blend and make new colors
the eye has never seen,

that colors fountain from his mouth
painting murals in the air, 

every sunset has a glossy sheen,
every color an unlimited warranty,

whenever someone flips on a wall switch
they are mesmerized by the beauty in their life,

like opening a fresh box of 128 crayons
for the first time.      



Published by Caffine Destiney.