This is just poetry. It won't save you, but it may locate you so that a rescue party can be sent out. — Dean Blehert

Tuesday, May 12, 2009


We stop walking, stuck in silence.
Instantly a cloud of flies descends,
lured by the stench of
what we didn't finish saying.

[Note for a poem about vampires:

Do the eerie undead
Speak our words left unsaid?]

I was busy saying nothing
when your silence
interrupted me.

[Note: Ever been holding forth to someone at great length, when you notice the other person's silence (and unresponsiveness) and are brought up short by it?]

I savor snow and silence.
Over the hill buzzes a helicopter,
behind it the giant shadow of my hand
clutching a fly-swatter...

[Another reason why we don't let our wishes come true! Too many squished helicopters.]

Dean Blehert
Blogs: (short poems) (essays and longer poems)
New book (Deanotations, Volume 1) available at

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