Archive for the Pris Campbell Category

Heading South by Pris Campbell

Posted in Pris Campbell with tags , on November 23, 2016 by Scot


Polar caps float past the White House.
Men and women leap from the roof
onto rowboats, purloined sailboats,
documents about the myth
of global warning shredded quickly.

Security Guards cling to the top
of the Empire State Building.
They wait for a large piece of debris
to float by before they jump,
hoping to cling, Titanic style,
until the lifeboats come back
to get them.

The Statue of Liberty sighs in sorrow,
takes a deep breath before the tides
overcome her.

At the docks, immigrants, already loaded
for deportation, let loose the dock lines,
pick up floating men and women of all colors,
the elderly, women from rape camps,
Gay couples separated, now united again,
the homeless, lost children.

They add poets and artists to document
this shifting New Age, head south
with a crude map to where word
has spread that Atlantis, long sunk,
has risen again just for this day in history.

Invasions by Pris Campbell

Posted in Pris Campbell with tags , on November 17, 2016 by Scot


Pearl long-legs her way
through her teens in her
la de da, Jesus Saves,
southern hometown.
She doesn’t fit into
the who said what or
who got drunk world
of her classmates,
reads Sartre in her spare time, recites
King’s not yet come true dream
to her bored cats, fingers
the old McGovern pin bought
at a pawn shop. She weeps
over stories of the KKK
emerged again, Muslim
children given fake deportation
papers by school bullies
for a laugh.

She sits on soft pine needles
in the woods behind her house,
inhales silence, wishes
Tonto, (looking like Johnny Depp
would show up with Silver,
dangling the Lone Ranger’s mask
from his beckoning finger,
Silver pawned for Santa’s old sleigh
and his back-up group of reindeer,
lasers stashed in the candy bags in back.

They could flash red across the sky
each night, vaporizing weapons
and rescuing the disenfranchised,
their light so bright people would gaze
in wonder, reporting UFO invasions
or even the second coming.

Advance Notice by Pris Campbell

Posted in Pris Campbell with tags on January 28, 2015 by Scot

Coins in your eyes,
unwritten ‘forgive me’ notes
embedded into your fingertips,
the ladies in black prepare you.

This is your eulogy,
my second ex, writ in advance.

I touch my hand to my breastbone
where blood flowed, staining
the sidewalk, when you left me
for the gal with peter pan hair
and the saucy behind.

My chest is dry now.
The sidewalk is dry.
My eyes are dry.

A flicker of sea air
drifts past, carries away
the  remaining remnants
of sails raised, boat keening,
dolphins tracking our
every maneuver.

Hussy Moon by Pris Campbell

Posted in Pris Campbell with tags on September 25, 2014 by Scot

That hussy moon peeks
into hotel windows,
steamed up cars, locked offices,
snaps photos of adulterous men
touching bared thighs,
speaking of promised roses
and days that will never arrive.

You told me about her.
Said her ass was too big,
when undressed, to appeal,
that her breath smelled of garlic
when you kissed.

You hoped the moon
would entice me to forgive,
make me leap into your arms,
rub salve into disappointment, but

already the moon has my photo, too.

haiku by Pris Campbell

Posted in Pris Campbell with tags on July 8, 2014 by Scot


closing time
old men gulp down
their dreams

Dead Ends by Pris Campbell

Posted in Pris Campbell with tags , on June 3, 2014 by Scot




When the road behind you
is littered with bodies
of those you once loved,
when dead end signs loom
over each hill, when age
pockmarks your morphing skin,
the mermaids swim to shore
and call your name.

Seaweed ’round their necks
they lead you into waters where dolphins
leapt and great whales spewed,
past junk-cluttered reefs, dying
fish and great turtles struggling
in plastic and hooks.

Your tears blend with theirs
as they return you to shore, back
to your road where night shutters
down over pale-eyed scavengers
and lost yellow dogs.

American Sentence by Pris Campbell

Posted in Pris Campbell with tags , on February 4, 2014 by Scot

Late in the long tense night after Vietnam he calls out the bar girl’s name.