Poems: Mark Goad

The Poet Takes His Dog for a Walk

Acolyte of dog shit, irksome little bag-of-plastic
pendulum bumping against his leg, but better
than letting the neighbors down. The terrier
tethered to the other arm is careless, so much
in the world that she knows anything that can be done
is rightful. The world is generous. The poet,
who finds the world puzzling, sniffs the air as she
noses the ground, he searching for verse, she,
any good thing. He keeps the dog
from running into the killing traffic. The dog
keeps him from falling off the earth. They are a homely
and necessary couple.


Runners hit the beach, flatten, spread,
hissing foam tongues the shameless sand.

Pebbles scramble and collide,
shells flipped like cards, plovers

dancing with the tide. Gulls scream.
A seal arches, dives. Thunder thrown

to the wind. Titanic the engine
that drives the world.

Mark Goad is a poet now living in the Boston metro area. He has lived and studied in Chicago, Geneva, Switzerland and Boston (with sojourns in Connecticut and rural Nebraska). His work has been published or is forthcoming in Corvus, Assisi, Decanto, Ayris, and other literary journals.  His interest in working in poetic form comes after years of writing and publishing short fiction and non-fiction.  What can be said in one hundred words, he’d like to say in ten (perfect words, of course).  Looking for those words has been a pleasure.  Favored poets include Dickinson, Rilke, Kenyon, Milosz.

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