Poetry by Edward Michael O’Durr Supranowicz

Pages do not turn themselves,
and lovers must have lips in order to kiss.

Really, time did not tick-tock
until someone made a clock.

But let’s ignore the obvious.
Come, listen to the wind.

Listen to the arguments
of what clings to the earth

and what soars across the sky.
To be alive is a paradox,

a sleight-of-hand between
the smoke and mirrors of birth and death.

Every breath is a subtle trick,
and we are all apprentice magicians.

Definite versus Definition

Usually a touch
is comprised of five fingers.
Sure, the one may be called a thumb.

And there is skin stretched
over blood and bone.
Muscles and nerves are there too.

But all definition seems
to lack definition.
True, some touches may be

nebulous as words.
But most are definite,
are actually a touch.

was a strong feeling,
the pain of living,
a vital living thing.

But with time and sadness,
sadness became a habit.
Joy became sad. Love

became sad as death.
Knowledge became sad,
a logical sadness. But then

sadness asked what there was
to be sad about, other than
everything and nothing. Tell

me a sad story, it said. And I
will laugh and laugh. This
may seem perversely

sad, but the universe began
and begins in nothing, with
nothing, begins with laughter.