Marble Icebergs 	 
  	          	                                             
Words engraved on monuments 	      
resound 	 	
from the mouths 
 	of our chosen leaders. 

But these words, 			    
when laden 			          
with deceit—crater, 		          
and our trust descends 		      
   	along with them. 		       
	  		     	        	       
Monuments are more                            
than mere marble       	        
gleaming—buffed by the sun;          
their spirit can be fragile as glaciers   	          
the warmer the earth becomes.           
  						             
When facades of Statecraft	     		    
undermine hope,		         	         	
monuments’ foundations erode;     
statues become like icebergs    			 
that lose their grip			     	
and float away in the fog.		     		

        			
 						    
                                
 

Camp of Dreams

Dreams at dawn fade like voices in the woods
from a gathering of hunters at the end of their trail.
 
There, they huddle in the mist
to trade one last tale of stalking game—
stitching vapor into legends as full of stuffing
as animal heads mounted in a dusty den.
 
Then, as the coals of their fire hiss
and the nest of ashes dies,
the hunters recede into a glen
past the bog of the mind,
just before one’s eyes
open wide.     
 
                                                                                                
                                                                                    
Rural Auction
 
 
The caw and cadence of the auctioneer          
cuts through the din as dust swirls ‘round
farm wives, daughters, cousins, friends.          
Jawbone to ear, they nudge and whisper.  
Their strong arms stretch                             
as they pick through and gauge                             
the hodgepodge of housewares on display:                     
pots and dishes and the many evening hours            
gathered in boxes of hand crochet.
 
Ringed behind them, young farmers listen
as fathers swap gossip, weather and news.      
Their clay-red faces are outcrops of rock                  
jutting under ball caps, atop denim and plaid.   
Afternoon long, they mill and mingle,                         
their ears keenly tuned to the auctioneer’s call.               
They see, but never watch, the objects they want:       
that newly-painted tractor, a tiller, a plow,                
that old sleigh and harness—just for kicks,               
or maybe those bibs lined with woolen fleece.  
 
About the yard, children frolic.       
They weave their families into cloth made whole, 
except for the one kid who sits by the road,     
draws in the dirt and counts the autos
that brake for a look and drive on.                        
 
Under the oaks, the old folks totter
in wooden rockers not yet sold.           
Their faces relax and offload worries.
Humming soothes them, as watches lie  
stopped on their bed stands at home.               
 
Cattle graze in summer pastures.                     
The corn grows fatter as the harvest waits.     
Toil is tempered with patience and tactics     
to outwit markets and partner with nature.     
 
 



These Confounded Desires
 
I felt at ease with my desires undeclared—
I didn’t want their objects all the same.  
 
But they kept lining up like autos
in used car lots,
lies on their meters                                 
and paint layered over                            
their hungry scabs of rust.                               

With so little difference between them,
it took years to see them all.                                  
 
                                                                                  
 

My home on the web is www.johnmiddlebrookpoet.com, and here, you can find the details of my publication history. I live in Bucks County, Pennsylvania, where I manage a consulting firm focused on non-profit organizations. I have been writing poetry since I was a graduate student at the University of Chicago, where I also served on the poetry staff of Chicago Review.