POETRYHere There Be Dragonsby Scott C. WellsWriter of the Month
wandering these barren wastes I fear there be dragons
relicts of primordial seas, I hear: there be dragons
behind the ruined walls, before whose gates
the gallant dead hold scorched earth for a bier, there be dragons
asleep in golden barrows lined with spires
and spears of stone, each one an ancient seer there be dragons
now through the round of lesser signs, the stars
again align: it is the twelfth, the year there be dragons
a corral of wild horses, storm clouds gather:
in gusts where thunder sounds and lightning sears there be dragons
eagle-eyed above the grasslands soaring
then comets driving down the artic deer, there be dragons
the molten core and rings of fire, magnetic
fields and monsters from the deep make clear there be dragons
like those who trek the heights of summer snow
sailors on the ocean wind may cheer: “There be dragons!”
as the morning sky upswells with birds
in song and raucous flight, know somewhere near there be dragons
Scott C. Wells is a professor of medieval history at California State University, Los Angeles. His academic writings have been published by Brill, Ashgate, Palgrave, and Cambridge University Press. His chapbook, Persons and Places, is available at Skylight Books in L.A.
with her balding bedsheets,
August’s bitch, strung up on the line
her feet are bleached roots
azalea eyes, blue from the acidic dirt of Panhandle drought
A whole town: armed to the teeth,
arming themselves against my teeth.
She-cat of Bladenboro,
I’m here for your dogs,
your sheep, your sons, your blood.
You know who I am, boys.
your candle burns too brightly
never to find another flame to stoke it:
your kindling is out there.
first of all, let’s talk sweet tea. Yankees joke about the secret being sugar—& it is, partly—but the real secret’s in the baking soda. it takes the bitterness out of the tea & makes the sweet taste sweeter. just like you should be to your husband. neutralize all the bitterness & just be sweet as Southern tea. & don’t squeeze them teabags. you know what I mean, girl.
people care
more about video games
on their cell phones
than cultivating empathy
and the old hatreds
have risen up from under their rocks
where they’ve been hiding
taking a new form
they ooze like stale bile
flowing out of sewers
i can feel your populism from here
in the cool confines of the passenger seat
your window is up too
we both got the a/c blasting, bro
because they sure make america hot these days
caliente or kalinatuh i’d say, much to your chagrin
everywhere i turn
the orange-faced bloviating billionaire
with bad hair and a small penis
tells me that he wants to make america great again
for its dying minority
in his d.c. office cum apartment
three miller lights into it
spit shinning his portrait of reagan for the third time
making the sign of the cross
a chunk of wisconsin cheese in his hand
after a hard day of obstructive legislative work
We caught her
100 Acres from the Woods
wearing white, a cotton dress
with porridge stains, raisins
and honey on her breath,
goose feathers almost disguised
by her long golden locks.
