3 POEMS

By Ken Anderson

ITALIAN FISHING BOY

What better god to love
than a beautiful guy, especially the marble one
on the pedestal on the porch
among the royal ferns, parlor palms, and peace lilies?

He, barefoot, slouches
to a pebble shore, walking stick
in one hand, ceramic jug
in the other— a bulky fishing net draped
on his shoulder, a devious magic net
to catch, by chance, your naked, innocent heart.

Oh, how it thrashes, tangled inextricably
in the lines of your avid desire.

He stops, eyes down, you think, in modesty.

Then you see what piercing eyes
they are, mesmeric falcon dares forcing you
to your knees, turning you, in a spell, to a docile slave,
a devout lover looking up at him, crowned
with a big straw hat.

Soft curls flare
from under it like a flickering nimbus
or the way your fiery passion flares
at the sight of him nude
except for those flimsy shorts— his flat groin destined
for an expert tongue like yours,
a glistening, curious flame igniting all
of those sensitive spots so pleasing
to a fine young man sharing his youth
with the world.

THOSE BLEAK PICTURES FROM MARS

We sat
on the edge
of the porch, sipped a smoky Scotch, and watched a world
of amorous fireflies floating
in the big magnolia’s silhouette
across the street.

Inside, the TV set had flashed its desolate discovery line
by line
until, full-blown, the rocky planet prompted you
to say, robotic, dead, “Gymnastic skill
in bed, a stimulus-response, an overdose
for those
who think
it’s more.”

“But that’s enough,” I countered. “Love’s
for nothing else
if not
for need.”

There, on the porch, I slipped my hand
into yours
and thought myself
inside you, not the lover
but the loved. Both worked
as well
just then.

A few yards off, dozens
of little phosphorus beacons
blinked the night away.

THE TROUBLE WITH GOD

Truth is— aliens have abducted
what it’s all about, the top-drawer secret
we young suspect, but can’t prove.

Friends have tried to console me
with newspaper clippings. Foes, lube.

Finally, I struck out
on a pilgrimage
to a famed hermaphrodite.

I must make a new set
of keys. I must read up
on caves. I must sit
in the press box
at the next major event.

But when the mayor opened the cornerstone,
out hopped a frog.

So I invented love, a clever marital aid.
It reeled in suitors
like trout, and hope’s white flash
ignited all that gloom.

Red Ogre Press (L.A.) just released Ken Anderson’s The Goose Liver Anthology, Mother Goose meets Edgar Lee Masters’ The Spoon River Anthology. Recently, Coffin Bell Journal nominated his poem “Blood Quartet” for the 2024 Best of the Net anthology. He was a finalist in the 2021 Saints and Sinners poetry contest.