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Chris Crittenden
I live in the easternmost town in the U.S., a fishing village that is transforming into a playground for rich people at an alarming rate. I myself am impecunious yet find poetry to be my solace and catharsis in a weary world. I’ve been published in over a hundred journals. Some of my recent acceptances are from Poetry Magazine, Off Course, and
Arabesques.
sea and sky mingle
on a glistening egg,
procreative primal blue,
from the Persian lazhuward—
“heaven”—
a miniature Gaia
sparkled golden by pyrite,
speckled by calcite,
hints of foam and cloud.
Vermeer
pestled this treasure into pigment,
stroked it onto canvas.
Egyptians laid cabochons in coffers
bound for Annubis in royal tombs.
for six thousand years
cerulean has flowed
from the mines of Sar-e-Sang,
a diffusion like slow rain,
ancient yet gleaming droplets
praised in the Epic
of Gilgamesh.
