Bio of B.E. Stock

BIO OF B. E. STOCK B. E. Stock has been writing poetry since the age of eight, and has lived in New York City since age 16. She studied...

Hi friends! I want to report that my new book, Further Collected Poems, is already out from Xlibris. It is available from Amazon and B&N. I will be going to an international book fair in Miami in November to promote the book, and my website should open on November 1. I am also in the process of learning to drive for the first time ever. Very exciting!

I want to share a few poems I wrote this year so far.


On the other side of death
She still plots the ruin
Of the hated one, whose crimes
She rehearses now without sleep.
The beauty, the confounding luck,
The mellow tone of voice
That persuades any male –
And worst of all, the failure
To notice the other crouching
Nearby, longing for a few crumbs
Of attention and sympathy.

And when she finally comes,
Limping, wrinkled, unable to speak
At all, will it really matter?
Something will urge her forward,
And she will embrace her warmly,
Gazing into her face, and laughing.


No one liked me where I came from
And then I found a friend called gun
I bought it and carried it out in the woods
I practiced until I could shoot big birds
Then little birds and then just a dot
On a target I placed in a distant spot
And there the faces of sneering kids
And teachers who flunked me no longer hid.

I went to a fair and found me the kind
Of weapon that really blew my mind
And saved up my money and bought a few
With all the bullets I wanted to do.
And just where achievement’s flags unfurl
I’m going to go in and blow up my world,
Then turn the gun on myself so they never
Can touch me before my miseries sever.

And after that for years and years
People will speak of me with tears
For the infamous day when I was a star,
As none of those genius nerds ever are.
All the nice children to heaven are sent,
And I’m more important than the President.


A man walks slowly on grass
With a heavy rod in hand,
Awaiting the tug on his wrist,
The moment his blood will thrill.
He is sad, for the day is sunny,
The thrush tweedles in the bush,
And children squeal with excitement
By the seesaw and the side,
But he goes on, devoted
To his quest – it is all he does,
Now that he is retired,
The wife and children gone.
Occasionally he stops
To rest on a bench and drink
The soda he brought in a bag;
Then he resumes, dreaming
That one discovery.

And if he were to find
The gold he searches for,
More troubles would ensue
Than he can now imagine,
As he makes his harmless way
On grass along the curb
In the City, where every inch
Was claimed so long ago.


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