Archive #16
October, 2014
Bethany Rohde's New Poem: From Sight To Insight. Bethany Rohde
Changing Views That maple tree at the front of my lawn is missing pieces by the handful. In June it offered a full bouquet: an overflow of top-down green. I ducked under a lower branch and stood inside its canopy. I let my body's weight fall back against the scruff of bark. Wooden arms reached out toward me, toward my neighbors, toward the street. Yesterday, when the school bus left, I stooped back in my leaved den. Those same branches, ripe with autumn, relaxed their grip on stems. The wind punched out clusters in the nutmeg shag above. Through those holes in my roof, cold air fell all the way down the back of my collar. I peered up through a skeleton of sticks and found shifting windows of liquid blue. In that dome of floating lakes two twig hands kept overlapping and spreading apart again, like someone feeling her way out of the dark. Read the poetry of Bethany Rohde Read a profile of Bethany Rohde Two Lyrics From Poet Sherry Chandler Sherry Chandler
An October Fable The Harvest Moon lights the morning kitchen, silhouettes a spider building in the window like a cheap horror film. Though she’s indifferent to me, she makes me uneasy. In her proper place I count her an ally, but in my space, she’s alien, chilling as the growth in my friend’s lung. What point crying out life isn’t fair? Hummingbirds steal spiders' webs to bind their nests, a fact of life gossamer as once upon a time. Cochineal has charms, but where is the referee to rule evanescence can’t be caught? Storm Front The wind tears at the mind like a beagle that’s found the winded rabbit gone to ground in a rock pile. The killer, determined the chase shall have its proper end and rocks shall not withstand bays lust to find and rend. Read the poetry of Sherry Chandler Read a profile of Sherry Chandler Samantha Campbell Returns With Extra Soul Samantha Campbell
Two Souls
I have a chestful of love A heart beating sighs of lust Lips that speak poetry Eyes that convey hunger Fingers that all other poets envy And a soul on the pulse of the Universe Because I have two heartbeats And for a little while I carry two souls A New Work From The Pen Of Rhonda L. Brockmeyer Rhonda L. Brockmeyer
Of Regret, Love & Forgiveness
I forgot to be soft on the edges of my gravel-run heart & the roads ran silent & the stream of love dried murking & slow swallowed by the hollow ground how can you love me if I am harsh if I am silent if all this love has become a dried bone wasteland... does love have a resurgence? does it taste like the moon wrapped in the crimson light of kisses as it once did? does it bubble hot & warm as scarlet rivers feeding your heart though it had withered & parched for so long you were but a skeleton of a man? Push my Love! Push from the arid ground & find my heart again! for I too, have laid dead in sorrow... find my heart again! feel its love pounding, banging hard at the door, swirling, screaming from beyond, for your hold! in the darkness of the midnight air I feel breathless & dying nothing more than particles, particles of pain & decay will you still hold me if I am particles of this death a dust of decay? can you feed me your love into my parched and constricting throat? will you break open the esophageal lines brittle & rigid? I will scream in pain! I will cry dry tears that will only haunt your mind! I will Gasp! bleed invisibly & die! I will rest weary in a tomb of listless indifference I will... need to be mourned. & then, in the moment of tired agony, in a moment of utter despair finally, I will take a breath, heave a mountain of air into my lungs & back out again I will live, somehow... on this, the sweetness of your love that you lovingly forced down my lost cause throat I will breathe, & return you all the love my soul ever owned Read the poetry of Rhonda L. Brockmeyer Read a profile of Rhonda L. Brockmeyer Poet Juliet Wilson: Two Poems, Two Towns Juliet Wilson
Rain is the Weather of Loss Grey grief skies cry on his papers, lying forgotten in piles I don't think of, reminders of someone I won't see again. I clean grey sad walls and floors and empty myself of hope. This town has a face now without pity, endless silk rain hides simmering hatred and secrets I dare not explore. Home Town It seems smaller now I am taller (as are the trees). But really it is bigger - fields have grown houses and the one remaining horse feeds by a pond beside a motorway. Suburbs stretch to the sea. Read the poetry of Juliet Wilson Read a profile of Juliet Wilson A Short Lyric From Poet Debbie Strange Debbie Strange
Blossoms They leapt into the choking void to flee the voracious fires. (the terror of charred teeth and innocent ash) They flew on unfledged wings into a dusty blue embrace. (singed hair and flailing limbs plummeting) They died with bleeding stems at our helplessly horrified feet. (broken blossoms staining the longest day in September) Read he poetry of Debbie Strange Read a profile of Debbie Strange Two Shorter Poems From Poet Gary Metras Gary Metras
Marooned He fights the weather in the sky, in the heart. Waves crash against the rocks and erode the beach of innocence. The air cracks like pistol shots. There is no refuge, no bullet- proof vest to protect his chest. Blood becomes engaged to darkness. Still his sleep swells with sun and sand and girls who dress like butterflies. Street Musician He leans against the wall that says No Parking. The crowd light tonight. He hugs a guitar, chin fallen to shoulder, eyes trying not to close. The last song evaporated an hour ago. Vocal cords as flighty as night moths. The worn velvet of the case, opened on the sidewalk like a pinned moth, is sprinkled with the few coins he scattered there himself, small silver stars constellating beneath the lamp post. Read the poetry of Gary Metras Read a profile of Gary Metras Alegria Imperial's Metaphorical Light Shines Alegria Imperial
Light as magic The essence of magic is light says the puppeteer to me as I peer through his box of a stage yet but a shell of trash -- limp pieces of strings, sleeping snakes of light cords, tubs of light shades, the puppets mere swaths of rags. Life moves only where there is light, he seems to chant, invoking magic from his words. In the myth of creation, God first bid Light with words and Light burst into rays like wings or so the puppeteer imagines. You can ride on light, the universe does, speeding and crashing on taut streams of translucence. I can transform you into a nymph under these lights, the puppeteer turns to me, sensing my longing. Could I grow into wings if I wish and vanish in the light? I ask. Or like my puppets be born and live if only for a fraction of light, he answers grinning. I hesitate but then, step in to his box of a stage. Among scraps of life, I give in. Read the poetry of Alegria Imperial Read a profile of Alegria Imperial Poet Elizabeth Howard's Latest Poem: An Ode Elizabeth Howard
Ode to Marlon Gibson Marlon, your mama and Jane Fonda and The angels of babies with heart murmurs and Baubo, humor’s goddess, have all gotten together To decide how best to celebrate You. Not with a feast. Not with Dionysian debauchery, or some hallowed String of days in which men carry wives or Gas stoves in competition. Marlon, the women have Gotten together not to carve your Name in some rock or hard place. Instead They have taken your laughter like Stardust and sprinkled it on the Soil. They have sown the crops into Your perseverance and think to wait, wait, Spinning the golden hay of summer in their Dreams while the seed pods Germinate. Marlon, the women press the Clouds into service and wring from them their Sweat. The mill stone wears itself out as miles of Water tumbles away. Then, rest. Under Winter’s cover and Time, slowly passing, Marlon, until some Mythological morning breaks and Eyes squint upon a jade and chartreuse Landscape and you, The season coming, later Than expected, right at the Hour due, and more perfectly Than imagined. Read the poetry of Elizabeth Howard Read a profile of Elizabeth Howard The Latest Verse From Poet Marsailidh Groat Marsailidh Groat
Imperfection I have often looked for a voice other than my own, and used words that leave a bitter aftertaste, thinking mine would not be heard or understood. Often each word would burn itself into my skin, the way a farmer brands its cattle; a list of names and numbers for me to carry. Sometimes I would try to tear them out. And I would dig, and think that maybe when I hit bone, I would feel better. Cleaner. Purer. But here, now, I am as you see me. It has taken years, and miles, for me to learn, and see, and try to love this rough exterior, and see beauty in imperfection. Read the poetry of Marsailidh Groat Read a profile of Marsailidh Groat |
We Welcome VerseWrights' Newest Poet: Dana Rushin Dana Rushin
the acquittal The afternoon O.J. Simpson was ....acquitted we had lunch behind the engine ...house on Ryan road. Ham sandwiches and a loaded potato salad that had sat too long in the sun. Boisterous was the throng assembled, then disassembled. All the blond, slim white girls in tears. Some being carried, like me, for different reasons, to their cars Heat Grandma pried the dogs apart with hot water and probing fingers, through which, the wet grassy smear quietly avoids sentimentality. There's something mutually haunting about a backwards embrace. Dogs enter a dark place before sex. A thorny curved drifting elegance, that above all else, beneath the exchanged secrets of angels, just feels damn good. Read the poetry of Dana Rushin Read a profile of Dana Rushin Steve Green Gives Us HisTake On The Rat Race Steve Green
Maze Nation My little bratty lab rat friends scurry round their desperate mazes All fighting for that scrap of cheese they have been conditioned to believe in Oblivious to the eyes in the sky controlling their walled in lives If only they knew that in the end it matters not what they do For the game is rigged There is no damn cheese There is only the struggle Read the poetry of Steve Green Read a profile of Steve Green Wayne F Burke: Artist-In-Residence, Boston Wayne F Burke
Pseudo-Artists and Gigolos I lived with Steinman and ArturoIn a house in Somerville, outside Boston. Steinman was a poet and Arturo an artist, but neither made much poetry or art, but did make plenty of girls—girls with names like “Bubbles” and “Sunflower”-- in and out the door. I slept on a mattress on the floor and did not make any girls because the girls were not interested in me: I got drunk and high and woke in the mornings by myself and hung over and pulled my unwashed janitor’s uniform on and caught the number 10 bus into the city, stuffed like a toe in a sock; another foot in the race, sweating and feeling bad, ready to puke as I pushed a vacuum cleaner, set up chairs, trashed… I climbed stairs to the roof of the hotel to Read or sleep. I was the only white guy until Frank got hired: I liked the black guys better. Frank had dead eyes, a broad planed face and said he hated “niggers.” One of the blacks, Cooney, hated “honkies,” especially me. He was happy as shit on the day he said that the boss want- ed to see me in the office. I knew what was coming, so did Cooney. Being fired was no big deal: hell, I was an artist not a janitor. Read the poetry of Wayne F Burke Read a profile of Wayne F Burke For Better or for VerseFinnish
If this poem were in Finnish, the pronouns would have no gender; so, I love it Its hair falls and moves Its eyes are opaque as dust in a glass. --Leslie Philibert Two Short Poems from Kendra Ballesteros Kendra Ballesteros
Laundry Day I'm hanging Some feelings Out to dry On the clothesline Out back Neatly placed Clothespin Drip Drip Drip dry Shaking out Fear Hanging it up Snapping Worry Pinning it up high Anger Needs a little shade It's had enough sun Sadness Needs to feel Lovely again It needs full light Now I just stand back Watch the breeze And the sun Cleanse these Feelings mine. Bohemian Sun Bare feet Stomping grass 'Round a circle Of daisies Under a Blazing Orange sun. Read the poetry of Kendra Ballesteros Read a profile of Kendra Ballesteros Laura Madeline Wiseman And The Glass Class Laura Madeline Wiseman
Our Self-Portraits You take one of your drift bottles to the glass arts class at the cat shelter, the place cats will never die and so linger on cat trees, windowsills, couch arms, napping. It’s only ten dollars, you say as we drive, pay to park, walk where no one walks. Ten dollars, you repeat, after we’re seated at a worktable and the cash bar is cheap. You drink from your twisty-top red wine. The owner said I could make a glass charm. Hmm, I said, Maybe. You glue slivers of glass, colors that promise to change with heat, to soften and melt into stars, waves, the body of a woman already gone. What’s your design called? I ask, pointing to the glittery surface. Our self-portrait, you say, turning to break glass into bits by pliers. I study your snug blue jeans, button-down, sneakers, fingertips and hands dusted in glass. Promise you won’t touch me until you wash your hands, I say, glancing at the table dusted with glass. Floor, shelves, tools, wine glasses, all sparkle with fragments. You wiggle your fingers at me, reach out in pretend, but it’s last call and you cry out, Ten dollars! with slightly drunk eyes. I shrug, wander off to stand before cat cages, look into what looks back. Read the poetry of Laura Madeline Wiseman Read a profile of Laura Madeline Wiseman Marie Anzalone's Thoughts Are Magical—And Universal Marie Anzalone
Magical Thinking If only I could stop biting my nails he would notice me, When I lose another 10 pounds I'll get another chance, A new pair of shoes, and they will not overlook me for the position, If I can just look young enough, always, they will stop leaving me for others, if I make my presence less powerful, they'll all stop excluding me, and I prove often enough that I really am a good person, he'll stop believing all of the terrible things he's worked up in his mind, about me. If I learn to believe the correct words God will always provide, If I start the love affair under the auspices of the new moon, he will always be powerless against the charms of the more beautiful than me; if only I could get this job, my mother will believe that all the sacrifice, was worth it, If I practice saying the right positive affirmations I can banish all of my discomfort, God has a reason for everything, especially the punishment for being born in poverty, and if I run far and fast enough, I can pretend it wasn't really rape, all those years ago. If only I had been more accommodating, he would have stopped screaming at me, If I carry this cross on my bosom, nothing can get to me, If I can write beautifully and importantly enough the work will speak for itself- I will not need popularity to get read, If I could only get someone new to love me, I will no longer be vulnerable to old rejection, if I could speak convincingly enough, she would finally believe I tell the truth; When I am smart and talented enough, I will finally be loved, and if only I could learn to walk tall enough, it would all magically stop hurting me. Read the poetry of Marie Anzalone Read a profile of Marie Anzalone "For Jeannette," A New Poem From Jillian Parker Jillian Parker
For Jeannette Pushing the limits of fragile as strength, you endure, an impoverished queen in exile. Waiting for your grandson to finish playing, you quietly hold court in the park. A cormorant spreads its wings to warm itself in your sun-filled voice over the phone. It lulls me back into a stroll through a rose-garden near midnight, and your blessing on my road. You ask me, how are things? I pause, over the translation from sycamore into spruce. During winter, a tide in Cook Inlet is bizarre. The once-grey ocean becomes an ice-factory, conveys it in crackling sheets side-ways, grinding it inexorably into shards by the shore. The biting wind only allows a few moments to stare at the way the ice plays tricks with light, giant pastel lanterns flick shadow-puppets across Sleeping Lady's grandest pinkish-orange peignoir. While your voice, dear friend, is a flock of wax-wings Swooping 'round me, a figure-eight, a sudden ....gathering-in. Read the poetry of Jillian Parker Read a profile of Jillian Parker In Autumn, Poet Diana Matisz Dreams Of Island Summer Diana Matisz
Island Reverie neighbor's early roses heavy with chilled rain punch scented holes in lost memories reveal deja-vu Martha's Vineyard vignettes a man, tall and svelte blue eyes in competition with sea and sky friend of a friend, with a smile only holiday freedom could muster his outstretched hand an invitation to the temptingly new never-ending wildflower days of sun-braised kisses voracious appetites spiked by cozido à portuguesa and home-made wines sunset dives from rocking piers into peach-stained Atlantic silk wide eyes spying James Taylor over breakfast at the Black Dog Tavern a tiny gingerbread cottage, hot and redolent with island musk moonlight through a tinier window observing the dance in time-worn contemplation one week of pleasure this assault on the senses so potent, so momentous and the tall man's name, long-forgotten Read the poetry of Diana Matisz Read a profile of Diana Matisz A Return to Macdonald Street For Poet Mark Gordon Mark Gordon
That Slow Gaze A squirrel slithers across a vine-covered wire, playing a game with me from above, as its eyes ignite, pretends to be afraid, knows it cannot fall. A tiny sparrow hunts for breadcrumbs in an alley behind the bagel shop. And the scent of spring is in the air that takes me back to Macdonald Street, that smell, hard to name, like slate by the ocean, like cabbage weeds in the backyard, like something in the black earth, as I watch the milk truck’s horse clop, clop, up the pot-holed dirt street, in some lost year of the forties. They say when you are young time unwinds slowly, like string being eaten from a spool on a day when the kite hardly tugs, and then when you are old time slows down again, as if the street’s come back with all its smells, and I look up to see this squirrel as I would back then. I grin, just grin at nothing, the gift of that slow gaze in my eyes once more. Read the poetry of Mark Gordon Read a profile of Mark Gordon New Poems From Poet Milenko Županović (English and Croatian) Milenko Županović
Tears Heaven's shadow hid their eyes full of tears melted hope on the candle flame a last prayer. Suze Nebeske sjene sakrile su svoje oči pune suza istopljene nade na plamenu svijeće posljednje molitve. ❧ Mount Lost Worlds of bloody sky resurrection of prayers on the hill where eternal dark watches. Brdo Izgubljeni svjetovi krvavog neba uskrsnuće molitve na brdu gdje vječna tama bdije. Read the poetry of Milenko Read a profile of Milenko Županović |
A Group Of New Poems From Poet Christina Nguyen Christina Nguyen
from A Selection Of Haiku and Senyru outside the cemetery the utility worker digs his own hole ❧ children's museum only one diaper changing station ❧ black boy his Nike t-shirt says “you’ve been owned” ❧ the van touting car wash equipment dirty Read the poetry of Christina Nguyen Read a profile of Christina Nguyen Autumn Becomes Personal For jacob erin-cilberto jacob erin-cilberto
turning the page between am i your autumn? adding color to your life but ephemeral in your affection soon to be fallen love ignited passion, an afterthought--- like illegal burning of leaves in a district of emotion where my heart would be arrested before the first snowflake of lost sentimentality might hit the ground with frozen goodbyes tossing me care less ly into my winter? Read the poetry of jacob-erin cilberto Read a profile of jacob erin-cilberto Daniel Klawitter: From The Plato Series Daniel Klawitter
The Most Shameful Thing
"And now we’ve agreed that injustice, and corruption of soul as a whole, is the most shameful thing." –Socrates, in Plato’s Gorgias. Forgive me father, for I have lived with good intentions. But we all know what the road to hell is paved with. Brick by brick I’ve built my house of horrors. Slowly, over time my deposits gather relevance and my closets contain a graveyard of skeletons. Who am I, an Augustus of injustice to ask for absolution? My sackcloth soul is a waste of windswept ashes-- a hermitage of pollution. As undisputed king of the most shameful thing, the distance between my words and actions grew gradually. An accumulation of small hypocrisies like a Greek tragedy everyone else can see coming except the hero himself. Read the poetry of Daniel Klawitter Read a profile of Daniel Klawitter Imagination Reigns Unchecked In Charlie Brice's Latest Poem Charlie Brice
Daydream
Those cottonwoods were thrilling, they danced like ballerinas, and sometimes went mad throwing their white blazon all over the city like furry confetti. “He daydreams,” my mother read aloud Sister Susanna’s terse and torrid critique. “What’s a daydream?” I asked. “It’s when you look out the window and stop listening in class,” my mother said. But the music I heard/ saw out that window: The Nutcracker Suite-- elephants scattered like leaves across the sky. Jesus jumped from his cross and chased Lazarus to life. Someone picked up the end of a river and found frogs reciting the Baltimore Catechism. Streets rolled up into concrete spirals like the toffee we bought in Jackson Hole. “Don’t daydream,” my mother said. Sister Susanna, so gray, read everything to us third graders out of a black book packed with prayers, pleas, and purposelessness. Out the window she danced like a sailor, wore a parakeet on her shoulder, a patch over one eye—Sister Long Joan Silver yelled, “Ahoy, matey,” and swilled gallons of rum while the St. Mary’s Marching Band played Mussorgsky, “The Great Gate of Kiev.” “Stop daydreaming,” my mother said. Read the poetry of Charlie Brice Read a profile of Charlie Brice Poet Mikels Skele Ponders Aging And Death Mikels Skele
If you live long enough If you live long enough, you will see them die. Longer still, and they fall like spring snow. There are those who say grief is all second-hand, That we grieve for ourselves alone When those too like us prove mortal. I suppose, for the first fierce blow, That’s true: we stumble forward, gut-shot, All death and bewilderment; But after that? After the long parade begins in earnest? True, a kind of acceptance sinks in, A not-quite numbness, a sedation, A shaking of the head, “Why, Just yesterday…” But there are ghosts. They follow us everywhere, And in some unguarded moment, a grief descends Pure and sweet, almost holy, And wholly devoid of self. In these moments We cradle our memories like children, And all we long for Is one more touch. Read the poetry of Mikels Skele Read a profile of Mikels Skele VerseWrights Welcomes Our Newest Poet, Emily Hone Emily Hone
Sin 'n' Tonic Even my body holds me hostage-- Ribcage cell barring manic heart... when walls won't fall-- even fake brick facades cling to well-worn dive bar foundations, 'Tis the bitter finally cuts through-- slices past the evergreen potency of man-made strength-- bellicose, forcing its way in; open up and swallow-- tonic permeating soulless through, anchors to bottom & crumbles youth. Read the poetry of Emily Hone Read a profile of Emily Hone A New Work From Poet Rosa Saba Rosa Saba
sunset i slipped out into the waves of watercolour that broke themselves upon the shore of the horizon and i disappeared as they darkened into black i escaped through the sunset as words were climbing up my legs setting fire to my ears and forcing me to retreat away from the choking letters and sinking ink that tattooed all this sound into my skin at first, the sunset saved me and the waves that gently hit the dock felt like a heartbeat telling me that this was how it would always be but soon, i began to miss the panic just for the simple fact that it was a feeling and the sunset had stolen them all from me leaving me bare, black and stretched high above unable to land on the ground again unable to even blink stars down onto the grass unable to do anything other than wait for the sun to rise again but solstice has already passed and the dark hours grow longer again and i am pulled thin, veiling a world that accepts me as the night and doesn't even miss the stars Read the poetry of Rosa Saba Read a profile of Ross Saba Cheryl And Janet Snell Combine On Cheryl's Poem, "Grief"
Artwork: Janet Snell (Click to enlarge)
Grief
It shrapnels you where you stand, a hard
arrow centering the skull. It multiplies with movement, a series of same a coronation, a halo, a pain writhing the dark and the heat–and at daybreak, while the damaged hide, it explodes in endless incarnation. Read the poetry of Cheryl Snell Read a profile of Cheryl Snell Read a profile of Janet Snell Two Poems From the Pen Of R.H. Mustard R.H. Mustard
Being In Line While I wait to check out, my life slowly passes. Everyone here carries something to pay for somehow, money being the most familiar tender, though pain in any form is accepted. This is the only way to go, without attracting undue attention, being accused of leaving early, without paying anything, at all. Soundings Through the window, I hear voices muffled in rain, first sounding faint, then strong again. I can't make out what they're trying to say, hear what they've decided about me today. Sometimes they're nearer, then fading away, like they sounded only yesterday, or when I heard them, so long ago; they roll now in waves wherever I go, breaking forever on my own private sea, speaking as if they were meant just for me. Read the poetry of R.H.Mustard Read a profile of R.H.Mustard The Latest Offering From Poet Mark MacDonald Mark MacDonald
Pixelated Somewhere in the library is a dictionary for hopelessness—people who have failed and been failed in love; mothers who have lost a child; and the last shot of morphine that could not take the pain away. Again and again and again. Ecstasy. Deflation. Listlessness. And less after less when the tomatoes turn rancid, the rabbits go into hiding, and the band packs away its instruments. I am old enough to remember when photographs were costly, usually filled with people and birthday cakes, and squared with white frames. Only the most important moment was poised and the smallest of fish at the end of a pole was something of a treasure that you shared with the neighbors. Copies were too expensive though, and so the spectacles of canyons and ocean-side people in swimwear sometime in the 30’s meant something. Perhaps it is the death of the personal that bothers me most today. The illusion that people lived differently in Oregon or Maine that I miss. Too much exposure to sunlight and to music. Who plays the sousaphone on Main Street anymore? What is the value of my Grandfather’s last watch beyond what it lists on Ebay? Read the poetry of Mark MacDonald Read a profile of Mark MacDonald Poet Robert King's "Chaco Canyon" Robert King
Chaco Canyon The sun starting down and a mile back to the campground, we returned from another ruin, dry sandstone blocks outlining the old ways gone although enough sacredness remained. Finally back at our tent in a cluster of campers’ thin homes we met other souls leaving, a group of older women burdened with cameras and tripods, laughing among themselves, setting out to fix the light’s last moments. We had to stop to watch them walking toward the enveloping night to see what of that darkness they could save and bring back to their lives. Read the poetry of Robert King Read a profile of Robert King |