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Archive #17
November, 2014


Paul Sands Offers Up A Rather Macabre "Masterwork"

PicturePaul Sands



(ˈmɑːstəˌwɜːk)

she was a work of art
her hydrogen tanned hide
toasted and stretched over a
Belsen frame
dragon ridged through a vitiligous
spinal crook

such a masterwork of cubist devotion
the puked architecture
of a thousand regurgitated meals
could have engendered revulsion
and yet she was beautiful
and begged my bone cracking
embrace

Read the poetry of Paul Sands
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Wally Swist: The Pleasure and Pain Of Youth

PictureWally Swist






            Marquee

My mother had just died, and as I recollect
I had somehow circumnavigated
 
my strict father for an afternoon to buddy up
with Dennis from parochial school. 
 
My father didn't approve of much, and
as he would say before he took off his belt,
 
after I returned home, Sonny, this is going
to hurt me more than it hurts you, and would lay
 
strokes of leather across my skin
that left purple welts that would last for days.
 
The cinema marquee with the red
capital letters announced not only the title
 
of the film but also the news:
Hemingway dies at 60.  I remember
 
being stopped cold having read those
words, with my inner boy-voice prescient
 
of my wanting to become a writer,
and nothing to base it on. 
 
Then I was transmuted by the Technicolor
I saw on the silver screen amid the crisp
 
wash of the waves and the fluid beauty
of Hayley Mills, whom I was absolutely
 
convinced all girls should choose
to look like when they began to be old enough. 

 
Read the poetry of Wally Swist
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VerseWrights Welcomes Haiku Poet Angelee Deodhar 

PictureAngelee Deodhar


A Selection of Haiku...

        the golden koi
        nudge blossom rafts 
        further downstream

                 ❧

nail art-
the guitarist's fingers flash
autumnal colors

                 ❧

                                  New Year’s Eve
                                  fireworks lighten the sky-
                                  fireflies, the ground

                 ❧

bonfire sparks...
fill the camp with shadows
black against the night

Read the poetry of Angelee Deodhar's poetry
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New Haiku and Tanka From Caroline Skanne

PictureCaroline Skanne


from "A Selection of Tanka and Haiku"



                  inner peace
                  the silence of wings
                  at sundown

                         ❧

daughter lifts
her small arms
wishing …
to be one with
the butterflies

                         ❧

                  in the rain
                  amplified
                  birdsong


                         ❧

i count
my blessings
on the night sky
every star named
after you

Read the poetry of Caroline Skanne
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We Welcome Poet Polly Robinson To VerseWrights

PicturePolly Robinson


First Love  ☊

The piano is in need of tuning
so it can be played in key
music is my first love
rock opera symphony
I love music sheets tucked inside the seat
of piano stool beneath
music soft music loud music beautiful
uplifting and complete
Dissonance: off key
jangles discord—clang clang
the music chaotic bitter sharp
air disturbed—bang bang
Black keys and white keys
wait proud and still
for the piano tuner’s lever
(here he comes up the hill)
He plays sotto voce
presto forte staccato allegro
adagio tosto tutti vivace
tenerezza eco o o o o oh
A tonic in tune once more
affettuoso read the score
pianissimo dolcissimo
come play me piano implores


Read the poetry of Polly Robinson
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Enjoy this reading in the PoetryAloud area

Charles Bane, Jr. Brings Us His  "Bronx Song"

PictureCharles Bane, Jr.





Bronx Song

I wanna be wich you. By the chain
link fence on the corner we
walked past (where I kissed
u when u stopped and looked at me
and went, Dude) There was a street lamp
shining through the fence
onto a skip of oil
and something turned around.
Then I came home,
now thinking about u.
U stepping into day. On Sunday,
when even the Korean people
are a little nice. When the cooking
smells are horns. Hey, you know
that red like the truck outside
Schwartz’s on flower day? That’s
the red I wanna see u in and you
know and hey, that smell
when we were close, you buy
that at the store?
I saw your Mom there
and I go, Miz Hernandez , lemme
carry those and we walked
to your place and I look up
and your Mom goes,
love, it’s like guava


Read the poetry of Charles Bane, Jr.
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A Poem By J Matthew Waters With A Reading By Reka Jellema

PictureJ Matthew Waters







New Moon Rising
 ☊

we walked between the lake
and the rail yards
smoking cigarettes
and spitting on
century old ties
wondering if the midnight train
would arrive on time

it was a year ago tonight marshall
died on these very tracks
attempting to escape
his own restlessness
his dream of starting a
new life
in st louis or kansas city or santa fe
seemingly interrupted

we made a fire
like we always do
and sat in a circle
our voices as quiet as
stones skipping on water
our karma just a little off kilter
one of us asking rhetorically
why there is no moon

Read the poetry of J Matthew Waters
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Read the poetry of Reka Jellema
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"Sound," A New Poem From Poet Robert Nied

PictureRobert Nied






Sound

In a car park in Bermondsey
near the dirty river Thames,
her patent leather court shoes
flashed in the lights like gems.
 
I listened to her footsteps
as they echoed from the walls,
and drank in each one like whiskey,
trying not to stumble or fall.
 
She stepped from behind a buttress
and stood with her legs apart.
I imagined all the indiscretions,
And wondered where we would start.
 
She strode the stairs to the sidewalk,
and the street drowned out her sound
I turned instead to Southwick
alone on the quiet London ground.

Read the poetry of Robert Nied
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Eusebeia Philos Finds A New Home In Shorter Verse

PictureEusebeia Philos







A Selection of Tanka and Shorter Poems...

gravestones line up
in endless rows
so much time
on my hands
to order my life


                    neither day
                    nor night
                    between two worlds
                    the descent
                    the rise
                    deciding in the pause


                                        in waking moment
                                        of a guilty dream
                                        I form a defense
                                        to walk away
                                        a free man


Read the poetry of Eusebeia Philos
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Two Poems From The Pen Of Poet L.L. Barkat

PictureL.L. Barkat

Moleskine, 3-D

In my book
we can be
red.

I, a bus, with double layers.

You, a booth, perpendicular
to the sky.

As I drive by, we will peer
into each other’s
small revealing
windows.



Untitled

At the end of the Sound,
where the pines have been pushed back
by an unrelenting salt wind,
you will find that jingle-shell beach--
where little cups of pearly lemon peach
stretch out endlessly. Put your hands
to them and you will not know
where to stop. 
 
                So much beauty,
so much unrelenting jingle-chiming
 
        beauty.


Read the poetry of L.L. Barkat
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Addiction Drives This Poem By Dennis McHale

PictureDennis McHale

Chemical Indifference

Those were the lost years
when my days were bathed in
the hazy, soft glow of fentanyl
and tomorrow never came.

Those were the stacked hours
of feeling nothing and floating lazily
down the opium river.
I neither belonged there, or here,
for more than one lucid moment
between applied patches –

on with the new,
(hungrily chewing the old!)
 

I was then a woken mummy,
wrapped in the tattered and dirty layers

of chemical indifference,
stepping haltingly from light into shadow.

In those years my world spun on a shaky spindle,
my North, my South, my East and West

tossed into a dark, bottomless hole.

Saturdays were spent in sweat stained sheets;
clothed in smoke and asphalt
as the withdrawals descended;
counting the seconds and praying
for Death to gather me into her dark bosom.

Every four weeks, the pharmacist
would call my name

and I would lather, rinse, and repeat

Read the poetry of Dennis McHale
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Roseville Nidea Urges Us To Sea, Not Seaside

PictureRoseville Nidea

Starvation

I looked closely at the waves
Moving forward to the shore -- ....continuous
Replacing one after the other.
I listened. Beneath
My microscopic senses
Were surges, solid sounds
Not distinct from the previous.
All the seven seas have one and the same.
I meditated.  If I push
Kamote to the soil
That is on the surface of the earth,
To a significant extent,
Tomorrow, in the coming days--certain--
I Would have enough to rub 
My hungry hallow stomach, yet,
Yet I must feed the starvation
Of my mind, of my heart
Of my soul, fathom
The depth of the sea, grasp
Every truth of its billows
Even if they mean dying every day. 
 
To die--better die striving
Strive to elevate
transfigure the repeated pattern
Of the sounds of the surges,
Of the movements of the waves
Before they reach the shore, than 
Walk on the seaboard like a monk.

Read the poetry of Roseville Nidea
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All New Tanka And Haiku From Chen-ou Liu

PictureChen-ou liu
   
   A Selection...

   winter twilight
   an old man and his dog
   share the shadow

                                           ❧
I raise
my husky voice,
I'm a poet ...
the word useless like a moth
flying around my heart

                       ❧

                              winter mist
                              fat phobia weighing
                              on her mind

                       ❧

in the depth
of a winter night
I peer
into the mirror:
Death with half-closed eyes

Read the poetry of Chen-ou Liu
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Two New Poems From Poet Liam Porter

PictureLiam Porter
November

November came with its usual 
temper tantrum that screamed 
and swirled until its wrecking digits 
swiped leaves from the trees, 
flung them to the ground in a rage 
then stamped its feet so hard 
it cracked the evenings open. 
Seizing its sudden opportunity, 
darkness stole through, poured in 
like ink in water, twisting tightly 
its furious fingers around the day 
until it gasped and fiercely fought 
for just a few hours of light.



Learning to Dance

Behind those inner walls 
of sheer self-doubt 
and inhibitions, 
lies the rhythm 
that sneaks sometimes 
from head to tapping fingers, 
drumming out time 
as they dance on a table top, 
beating out words 
on a keyboard. 
Beyond that though, 
everything is measured. 
The trick is to try 
to free the tempo 
that for so long 
had been beaten down, 
then rolled into nothing more 
than taps of a toe. 
The journey from head to feet 
is one that is fraught, 
with mistimed movements 
and always counted steps. 
Even when walked first, 
hand-held slowly, 
through every single motion, 
they manage to bemuse. 
Trying the patience, 
it is time to shift the weight 
of expectation, to repeat 
and rehearse, 
until there is something; 
like freedom 
of movement. 
Until it looks at last 
like a dance.


Read the poetry of Liam Porter
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Luke Prater's "Melanie Brown," With His Reading

PictureLuke Prater
Melanie Brown  ☊

Where did you go to Melanie Brown?
Did you ever return?
Did your hands get burned?
Nice to know you, Melanie Brown
nice to show you round.

Took your wanting wan nightgown
pills, and rock CDs
Ridgie, Ruth and me
friends you made that term in town
friends, they let you down?

Left on sullied mid-heeled ground
your looks, and college books.
Travestied; too many cooks.
That stinging, scuppered blue-eyed frown 
shakysmileme down.

Do they still try it on, come round
lank-haired, rock n' roll boys
surreptitious ploys
lifting that sorry blue-eyed frown,
like they did that term in town?

Not a place of great renown -
fast-dance saloon -
cried, like Syd, for the moon
we tried not to let you drown
in pools of Melanie Brown.

Were you flipped like half-a-crown
hung up on highs and whys
fed up being fed mud-pies?
Was there any joy that term in town
before you went on down?

Where did you go to Melanie Brown?
Did you ever return?
Did your tongue get burned?
Nice to know you, Melanie Brown
nice to show you round.

Read the poetry of Luke Prater
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Simon Kindt Celebrates Simplicity, Seaside. 

PictureSimon Kindt






We, such stuff as dreams are made

it’s true sometimes,
a day     will end like this:

the river swelling as the tide
                    comes in,
the sun slouching down
           below the ridgeline,
light unstitching the horizon.

the shadow of a hunting hawk
spiralling a thread of air
          above the headland,
waves singing quiet through the water,
      golden light    washing your hands.

your daughter carrying
a bucket full of shells she plucked
         from the low tide line,
     she’ll spill like jewels
across your palm,

and you,     for once with no desire
to weight these things with any
       meaning but their own,
for once with nothing 
                 in your head but
                         thank you.


Read the poetry of Simon Kindt
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Samantha Reynolds' Newest Poem, With A Hint For Poets...

PictureSamantha Reynolds



My four-year-old poetry teacher


My brain is jammed
with the noise of errands
and the poem knows it

half-done
hiding away
in the quiet
of my ribcage
waiting
for a way
back in

which is how I came to see
how the noticing
pours out of you
blunt and new

like the colour of the girl’s hair
in your drawing
that is neither brown nor blonde
and you tell me
it is like a paper bag
which of course it is

and how you describe
grandpa’s face
as mushy
and that a frog
would feel like a bird
if you held it tight
in your hand

and how nuns
look like Red Riding Hood
in black and white
and how library books
smell like closets

so I kept asking
and the answers dropped out of you
obvious as stones
each one a lesson
in what it takes
to be a poet.

Read the poetry of Samantha Reynolds
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Ellen Conserva's Newest Poem Is On The Verge

PictureEllen Conserva


Cupped Hands

The verge is where I lived today.
That precipice where the salty liquid
Begs to be allowed release
Down my cheeks
Off my chin
Onto my chest.

Looking through watery glasses 
Crawling along my familiar road
Becoming vapor in my own heat
Melting away the me I am
In my soul
Off my feet
Onto the brittle grass.

The verge is where I will stay
Until I find a safety place
In my every day space
I hold my tears back
As I am unsure 
Where they will fall.

Will you hold your hands out to me?
Will you catch my tears in your cup?
Will you take them to your lips and kiss them?
Will you taste them with your tongue 
And let my sorrow into your own body?

Or will they drop to the dry ground
One after the other
And be stepped on, and twisted
Into the earth
By the ball of your foot, as you pivot and turn away
Making a small circle of mud there between us?


Read the poetry of Ellen Conserva
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The "Extraction Poetry" of Shloka Shankar

PictureShloka Shankar

Note: To create extraction poems, poets select certain words from previously published poems or passages, keeping the original format of that printed page. The idea is to have the form reflect the message. It is harder than it looks.

Life
Picture
Extracted from e e cummings' poem, "if"
                                 Life
                                    i s
                                              now



                                      here


Read the poetry of Shloka Shankar
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We Welcome Poet Stefanie Bennett To VerseWrights

PictureStefanie Bennett


   Shine, The Gulf
            ~for Tim


   Because happenstance
   Likes
   To play truant,

       The colour
       Of the smoke-house
       Is indigo

       ... Twirling much
       As a prayer-wheel
       Does before

       The river wild
       Sucks it on
       Back up

       A full throated
       February
       Gullet

       Quieting the Sandpiper.


Seen From Above

I take it, the crust
Of the moment,
One word
At a time:

... Move it
Cross country
Past the livery
Stable, the train's

Box-cars —, all
'A-hoot'
On the half hour
Siding

Where —, just like
Great-Grandma,
I put it in
A pipe

And smoke it.


Read the poetry of Stefanie Bennett
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Paul Mortimer: A Poem About Habit (And Irony)

PicturePaul Mortimer

Habit

Every morning, regular as   ....clockwork.
He marches past my sash window.
Determination in every step.
Full head of grey hair, eyes fixed four paces in front.
Every morning, whatever the weather.
Today it just sits there,
waiting for the conductor to wave her baton,
drumming up wind, sun, rain
or whatever else is written
on the meteorological score.
For now the iron black branches
just beyond St Andrews house are still.
And here he is. Marching back again.
The Guardian tucked hard under his right arm.
The same paper each day.
The same navy blue jumper.
Eyes front.
Four paces.
Regular as clockwork.
I watch him.


Read the poetry of Paul Mortimer
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Go to Archive Index

Leslie Philibert: Two Poems, Two Women, Two Settings

PictureLeslie Philibert


  The Moor Girl

  Feral as leather
  Sculptured as a scarab
  Curved as a burnt twig.

Asleep beyond the punishment,
Each tress solid with peat;
Flaxen as old corn.

Perhaps you softly breathe water
Under the door of the moon
Still as the night is rain.



Table Dance

softporn saxophone;
botox for the soul,
strained faces only

held together by skin,
gluteal muscles for
nylonhearts and sweaty collars,

porcine, popeyed
each mouth fallen open
like a gallow`s trapdoor

the delight at a
big dame battleship,
built in stereo

that makes aftershave
boil under matching ties;
littlemen reduced to red.


Read the poetry of Leslie Philibert
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Kim Talon Celebrates Nature, But Not The Unnatural

PictureKim Talon

November Lights

October’s radiant colors weep
into November’s grey oblivion

November is unguarded--
secrets held dear on summer nights
debris furtively swept under starry rugs
November reveals through gossipy winds

A mist of memory remains
caught in the boughs of the crooked pine


The Crafting

These creatures we gentle
tame
so they might abide by rules
created by us, their captors,
and leave their wanderlust at the gate
have shaped us
as much as we shaped their destiny
as we manipulate genetic codes
unraveling all that someone else created
their version of perfection
tainted
as we celebrate our own cunning


Read the poetry of Kim Talon
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Two New Poems From A Series By Janet Aalfs

What the Dead Want Me to Know
PictureJanet Aalfs

and light finds us
with the other loves
dawn sunders
to define.
               —Eavan Boland

1. John's Poem Cards

Happier than I had ever seen, my father
showed me his poem cards.
Not to regret the black and white
rabbit or the open door.
Not to make up for
sunshine mocking
long-eared shadows
that fled. And not
that he wished he could stay
more hopeful, less afraid.
Then he laughed because
each drawing, and the words
that went with it, meant
everything. How we only had
this table, our heads bent over
the cards, a certain
darkness surrounding, and nothing
felt distant.


16. Ascension

I whispered.
Eyes closed.
I waited.
Neck still limp.
Beak darkly gaping,
the songbird's body grew
light as a shadow in my hands.
I had no face but the wind.
And though my prayer
enveloped me
I never thought
it would fly
huge and sudden
into the trees.
Between us
such daring.

Read the poetry of Janet Aalfs
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Eleanor Swanson's Latest, A Sensual "Tracing The Light"

PictureEleanor Swanson







Tracing the Light

At dawn, the bare trees are glazed with ghostly copper

light, light that changes with the click of the second ....hand. 
If I could be an inanimate object, I would be a clock,
and finally understand my essential nature.
A shadow ascends and descends.
Your sleep sounds are light as mere
breath, mere murmuring in dreams.
 
            Passion
                        Passion is
Who’s asking?  Love
            What love is…
 
Even while running I close my eyes
to the strong midday sun and forget
to look for my totem—the kestrel.
 
            I dream of you
                        in my arms again.
 
I am tracing the light as bird
shadow ascends and descends
outside my window, blinds closed.
 
            I think of holding you
                        in my arms again.
 
In late afternoon, I see matter sweeping
across the sky, through the light.
 
I trace the paths of this cosmic dust,
through the light.
 
Sound moves through the light.
 
            Soon, I will hold
                        you in my arms again.
                        Corporeal.
 
Our dying neighbor sings inside her house,
but we can hear that clear, pure voice from
the street as it moves through the light,
into space where it will never dissipate.    
 
            Passion is…
            Love is.
 
As night falls, trace the light with me.
Don’t stop, love.

Read the poetry of Eleanor Swanson
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The Latest Poem From Poet Michelle Sho

PictureMichelle Sho






from the land

there was a cave
full of glowworms
shaping the
darkness
with their beauty.
this is where
i want to be,
in visible
coast to cloud.
drinking
silence 
from notes of wind
a touch of hairy
spine, silky moss
crumbling in gaps

i am calm to dying
the way a chrysalis
divides itself-then
metamorphisis.
it is the body 
of science and soul
the sun 
in your hands
cupping the moon of my earth
i can
hear native stories
unbroken streams
lovers lost for
each other

in a field of bones
and twilight weeds
where your scars 
feel like stones on the
landscape, as immoveable
mountains and gods
i tie your arms
around me
press my heart to
poetry in single
moments
and hope they
shine
with my belief
in you

Read the poetry of Michelle Sho
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Two New Lyrical Poems From Poet Marianne Paul

PictureMarianne Paul






wisdom

sprouted communities
with ironic names that mimic nature
misplaced sentimentality
harkening of woods, meadows, wetlands
the deep, the dark, the moist
poetic street signs
epitaphs to past place, past earth
ghost flora, ghost fauna
forests that shimmer like shadow
just beyond touch  
replaced in the here and now
with park-ettes
splash pads instead of ponds
mulch and day-lilies and saplings
perfectly placed
un-sown by root and wind nor carried
as seed by fur or feather
to set down home in unexpected places
propagate with wild, untamed efficiency
and inexplicable wisdom


desert winds

poetry women tell women
in those places of trust and gatherings
where the moon moves through cycles
full as a mother's breast and then as empty
where wild poppies sway white as virgin, pink as pout
crimson-bruised as first sex
where mountains rise and fall like breath
catch with the sharp clear edges of pain and childbirth
the rugged beauty too
where words and sorrows are communal
without tags of authorship, ownership, copyright
for who owns the desert winds and the sandstorms
escapes the fighting season
hasn't held a broken body in her arms
and wailed


Read the poetry of Marianne Paul
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Poet Rowan Taw Contemplates The Foldings

PictureRowan Taw






Existential Origami

Every morning I make these folds.
Gentle creases encourage
   initial shaping,
blank paper expanse
   transforming,
as valley folds take hold.

Every morning I make these folds.
Manipulating fingers
   push and merge
swallow wings
  along imaginary
…………………………dotted lines.

Every morning I make these folds.
Through fragile, temporary
   structures
my mountain folds
   summon up existence.

Every morning I make these folds.
Finally flight path ready,
   my plane of existence soars.
But how many flights?
And how many planes and paths?
For every day I make these folds.

Read the poetry of Rowan Taw
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Kathleen Rogers Brings Us A Dark Poem, With Color.

PictureKathleen Rogers






color


The wind is changing. 
Cloth awnings flutter
their skirts like 
an Indian raindance

Maybe she'll make it home
before the clouds are 
overcome by moodiness

Can she avoid the grey eyes? 
She was cruel before she left
Steel grey. Still grey
And she's so foggy anyway

A life held together by duct tape
Sometimes a sticky thread gets caught 
He is pulled, lightly
Turns his head, slightly

A few feel her gray cashmere heart
with the kind of heat that starts out 
fuzzywarm and ends up
draining like a hot tub

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A New Lyrical Poem From Dunstan Carter

PictureDunstan Carter


   The Lemon Tree

   The sun whispered
   In the garden
   As nature throbbed,

A single hummingbird
Fluttered
Frenetic,

Flies buzzed all fussy
And the wind
Tickled leaves,

As we wandered
All dazed.

A warm blooded sky,

Hot light flickering,
The weird
Clicking crickets

And their hypnotic
Racket

Flowing and growing
Like an orchestra
Thrumming,

A dizzying oddness
Pausing our thoughts.

We held hands
And stared straight at

A single fruit sitting
At the heart
Of a lemon tree
Singing,

Simple and high pitched,
An odd waspish whistle
Of witch giggles
And wonder,

A strange treasure plundered,
A sour delight;

It was wondrous,
Peaceful,
A beautiful sight,

God knows how we got there
But this drink
Now tastes right.


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