Archive #21
March, 2015
Simon Kindt's Newest Poem: A Lyric Of Gentle Power Simon Kindt
How to know that there is a thing called holy and it is small and close and sleeping You will still feel her fingers in your palm; the knuckled memory of her heart will hum and echo slow as you make plans to build a shrine to her in the spaces where she pressed her cheek against your neck, stitched her fingers to your chest and with an ocean calling through the window, ebbed herself to sleep. Now, the house at rest, her breathing, steady as a pulse, comes humming through the wall and carried on a vein of air now threading down the hall to where you find yourself waiting for the earth to turn beneath you. In a minute, a single breath will stall inside her throat, will gather itself, swelling as a wave to break and exhale itself as song and it will take a feat of will to not sing back and wake her. You’ll tell yourself to sit instead and sift through your agnostic language for some vague approximation of the note now spinning prayer wheels in your throat. Read the poetry of Simon Kindt Read a profile of Simon kindt Man Vs. Machine in Steve Green's Latest Poem Steve Green
The Age of Click Pounding the keys again Peck..Peck..Peck Letting life's frustrations fly off my fingertips onto the serene screen Tonight my thoughts exceed the speed of my compromised connection The horror of being frozen out Locked up by heartless tech Words now bottle necking inside my clogged hour glass Oh to have a paper and pen! but stolen office supplies long ago were all utilized and never replenished No need for such relics Or so I thought when I purchased this pricey device I shake rattle and roll my accursed hardware Bad idea Skull and crossbones appear on my solid blue screen Fatal error This is the final proclamation The red power eye grows dim Signaling the end of our relationship All my brain wave residue I had deposited on a chip the size of a gnat now terminally dead Gone to that place in the clouds where data angels reside Time to start over again as I scour my existence for parchment and quill pen Read the poetry of Steve Green Read a profile of Steve Green Daniel Klawitter: Plato and Lifeguards Daniel Klawitter
The Philosopher's Resentment of Male.Lifeguards Socrates: Well, my excellent fellow, do you think that expertise in swimming is a grand thing? Callicles: No, by Zeus, I don’t. –Plato, Gorgias. Perhaps they protect us from way up there on their lofty perches. Well-oiled and eagle-eyed in red shorts, dark shades no shirts. Who are they trying to impress? They scan the horizon in search of danger or distress- looking for signs of panic or maybe an undertow or eddy. But a drowning is as infrequent as a shark attack. Still, their whistles are always at the ready. Who needs them really? It’s strictly a summer job for the young and muscular- who in spite of the windy conditions have immaculate hair and a superior cardiovascular system. It’s not a competition. (Though my physique could use some slimming). I just want to enjoy the beach and think on all the things more excellent than swimming. Read the poetry of Daniel Klawitter Read a profile of Daniel Klawitter Mark MacDonald And The Joy Of Cooking Mark MacDonald
Table for Two—for Kim I love to write poetry watching you cook: which piece of meat, chicken or beef, will know your small hand rubbing it gently with garlic and oil? Which frantic vegetable—a laughing noggin of lettuce, a flaming hat of celery, the pernicious onion, the prodigal tomato—will leap from the bin, all them shouting, “Pick me! Pick me! Put us all together dancing in a bowl!” I love to write poetry watching you cook. The climax arrives when you reach into the spice drawer: tarragon or chives parsley or paprika? Which powdered and flaky minstrels will sing to us tonight at the dining room table, where a candle is lit, and a glass of red wine waits for the each of us? Read the poetry of Mark MacDonald Read a profile of Mark MacDonald New From Poet Jillian Parker: "Alpen Glow" Jillian Parker
Alpen Glow A breadth of frosty fastnesses slashed my sight today, Milk-glass skies, swirling shades of translucent amber Deepening unto dusk, bleeding teal and myrtle-- These clipped nouns crumble to dust before them. Above a winding road, Orion tightened his belt, Dreaming a city of no fears in jeweled strands: Topaz, lapiz and pearls, throbbing, trembling-- Even tears fail to gain a purchase on this vision. Once, in a small plane above the Wrangell mountains, We swooped over the edge, a sudden drop-off, A thousand chances to be swallowed in icy chasms-- Balanced by a preposterous antidote: lucid joy. Read the poetry of Jillian Parker Read a profile of Jillian Parker Two Poets, Two Drops... Amauri Solon
"Drops," by Amauri Solon Rain drops falling through the roofs and ceiling into your room drippings The long cold night left small diamonds on the rose buds of your garden dew drops Moisture in your eyes tears running down your face our goodbye Read the poetry of Amauri Solon Read a profile of Amauri Solon  Ali Znaidi
"Drops," by Ali Znaidi 
A New Work From Poet Rosa Saba Rosa Saba
i cannot shy stutter of a thought scurrying across rough rock and diving headfirst into cold white water so as not to be heard, unlike the wilted sigh from pinched lips that draws eye contact then breaks it like waves upon those stones syllables soft and jumping through valleys, over jagged mountains just to reach ears clouded with assumptions and a failing effort to tune it all out skinny fingers gripping a skull through wild, upset hair hands coming to rest uneasily within each other, still shaking from the strain or maybe it's the cold that cuts edges into my shoulders, ties the laces tighter across my back pinching me into place as i twist inside looking away a thousand times, and trying but i cannot unwind, i cannot open myself to you Read the poetry of Rosa Saba Read a profile of Rosa Saba "Braided," A New Poem From Gail Thomas Gail Thomas
Braided When he called her high-strung, I imagined a horse rearing up white-eyed, not the woman who dusted down walls every week and sprawled on the floor braiding strips of wool into a rug. When I answered the pay phone in the hall, he stumbled with the news -- break-down. I saw thin wires snapping, her still body in a white room. Because you moved away. When I moved further, she offered the rug and wrote a letter, because you were a cold child. Now I change her diaper, trim chin hair, bring a cactus with one yellow flower. She calls me angel, my angel. Read the poetry of Gail Thomas Read a profile of Gail Thomas Above And Below: Bethany Rohde's Newest Poem Bethany Rohde
What's Buried and What's Not I’m balancing on the curvature of roots mossed over in unreal green. They carry a familiar bone structure: these rough-skinned, working hands That even now nourish tree flesh in the bluing dark of Monday. I trace one root, it skims grass-shallows and delves below my sight-- to extract its choice elixir: It sips chilled rain from saturated earth, leaving mineral tang on the forest’s breath. Even what goes underground can sift, can lift, can weave the elements– into next spring’s leaf-fabric. Read the poetry of Bethany Rohde Read a profile of Bethany Rohde Mark Gordon's Newest Poem, A Delightful "Ducks" Mark Gordon
Ducks Ducks. Ducks everywhere. Quacking ducks in Kensington Market on a Saturday, in their cages, smelling of too many ducks together. She arrives, this woman with her friends, a business woman from Shanghai, modestly dressed, a Buddhist. Want forty, the owner asks? Yeah, I’ve got forty. If you have the money I’ve got the ducks. Much easier this way than selling them three at a time to struggling restaurants. And yes, the modest woman, who has practiced the smoothness of the Buddha no ruffles in her feathers, quiet, detached, hands the owner the money and her friends gather the ducks as if they are picking up kids from daycare, pile them into the backs of vans, cages and all. Sunset Lake, next stop. They hover with cameras to record the event, their first symbolic act in this land, each one breathing the present not looking back to China, nor forward five years in Canada, but clasping this moment. They slide open the cages one by one, and the ducks spring up, then soar, calling to each other, as they cut through the leaf-scented, September air. Read the poetry of Mark Gordon Read a profile of Mark Gordon |
A Slow Awakening and Discovery, From Allison Grayhurst Allison Grayhurst
Seepage Weeks arrive to lay bare the corpse of a wasted dream – my ideals unfounded, measured with a spoon. I loved and I’ve had to kill that love purposefully, stepping over into a territory of arctic severity and separation. It is natural for me, a citizenship I owned hanging out in churches, on church benches, shushed from yawning. I knew God more in the forest, quickening my pace on paths edging cliffs. Swallows circling as I did a flawless land. I knew God best in my bed, talking, never repeating phrases learned, but earnestly in conversation. I know God still sometimes when I am close enough, able to smell our rudimentary .....union, brush the locks and flares of your deep and fierce sun as it rotates within a galaxy riddled rich with stars and .....asteroids, when I am in your radar-stream, pulverized by the intensity of your purity - porous, cracking, becoming more, many, smaller and such unexpected immediacy. Giving birth. Giving up my hard-won understanding. To fail for you is a victory that arrives like an ultimatum, and I am singing – this is new. It is an embrace, a personal annihilation to be honored, swallowed as I am, utterly into your glow. Read the poetry of Allison Grayhurst Read a profile of Allison Grayhurst Robert King: Master and Mastery In His Latest Poem Robert King
Master Robert The letter from grandfather at my birth was addressed to Master Robert King which no one ever called me again and the letter is as absent as he is. Words of wisdom inside? I imagine, but I can’t imagine them. Difficult to say, as such words are or might have been. Once he showed me how to make a whistle out of a squash stalk, not really whistling but a rasping squawk, enough of a sound for that one day, although never again. Grandchildren, great, if you’re ever around a squash plant, cut a two-inch section, then slice a notch toward one fuzzy end. With practice you’ll get a raucous buzz that will thrill the summer you’re standing in and the stalk’s bristles will only slightly sting your lips and you’ll never do it again. You masters of all things I‘ll never know. Read the poetry of Robert King Read a profile of Robert King A New Poem From Poet Kristin Maffei Kristin Maffei
This is the Last Time I Will Ever See You and everything smells like patchouli. Someone is playing a twelve-string guitar and none of us are dancing, though I wish I was. You’ve already gotten into the trouble. Our Spanish teacher has seen you sneak off to meet your secret boyfriend in the plaza. You’ve already bought me the giraffe mug, a gift to celebrate our graduation. Hooria, it’s still in my cupboard. When you told me you’d been caught, I laughed it off. Looking across to Morocco, you didn’t laugh at all. The air was hot and dry, even in the dark. You’d known .....deserts before. All year, I’d mailed packages for you, love notes to the UK. As soon as we were home, you were gone. Or maybe you are always here, your hair a dark spiral, .....your eyes lined in kohl. Maybe we are always here, spinning to a song we will never hear again. Read the poetry of Kristin Maffei Read a profile of Kristin Maffei Charles Bane, Jr.: World War And Personal Crisis Charles Bane, Jr.
Anzio Oh they were alive and playing cards in an eight foot trench that was covered like Eve and I had point alone on our Italian beach. The Germans had artillery so reaching that grunts robbed of rest - all of them- might disappear unclaimed for weeks. I caught a private and brought him back at dawn. The captain said, take him there behind those trees and hurry back. To kill like that. I marched behind the bastard and he knew and wept. I was seeing things from lack of sleep. I saw my father standing on the platform by my returning train, the haunted question of him; I saw stars on collars finally unpinned and the manual of arms above our barn filled with grain. The German knelt and light specked him unfed and leather hooved. There were leaves and I was dappled too. Read the poetry of Charles Bane, Jr. Read a profile Charles Bane, Jr. David Adès Plies The Figurative In Two New Poems David Adès
Interloper Here comes regret, wheeled in on its gurney, all banged up and feeling sorry for itself, though not at all contrite. I turn away, expressing my disinterest, thinking I have no time for this, but regret isn’t interested in my disinterest, or in any prescription for a remedy, any suggestion to get over it or to move on, any prescribed diet. No, regret is settling in, installing itself for the long haul, fully intending to gorge on every other remnant emotion, to swell and swell until nothing else is left. Metta Nun Darkness shall never vanquish her: her chin cleaves the waters she sails through, the beacon of her face illuminating her way. Read the poetry of David Adès Read a profile of David Adès Robert Nied's Latest Poem Talks The Talk Robert Nied
Talking Let me tell you kid, just how great I was Every bell and whistle, every glorious clang and buzz I had nothing but good ideas only brilliant thoughts ....and schemes I know every answer and what every mystery means I stood for everything sacred and fought for ....everything right I proudly hand the world to you, behold it in the light There is no pain and suffering because of the work ....I’ve done No illness, flood or famine because of the wars I’ve won There is no cruelty or hatred, no torment or deceit Because I gave no quarter, never bowed in defeat Where you are going, I haven’t told you all Oh, what the hell do you know? It’s like talking to a wall. Read the poetry of Robert Nied Read a profile of Robert Nied Dana Rushin Takes On The Mystery Of Fruit Dana Rushin
in season, peaches And soon, the peach season will be over where we will only get the unrealistic ones, the ones you put in paper bags, for that incredible few .....days, to soften. Though this process is as highly improbable a supposition as landing softly in a hot air balloon. What Grandma called voodoo, ancestor worship, the chemical action of bones. Can you imagine the hot talk? The panicked crematoria chatter? What if, it is true, what the others have said about going quietly? Is a pit the same as a heart? As kids, with bricks, we would crack them open to see what the center of the universe held, and each time, there was nothing there. Just disappointment; the burden of centuries of evolution, voltaic white, folds of coil. Bewitched, one could surmise, is the hardest thing for fruit to understand. Read the poetry of Dana Rushin Read a profile of Dana Rushin Mikels Skele Challenges The Sensei Mikels Skele
The Word Fire “The word fire,” says Sensei, “does not burn your lips.” But say, Sensei, that the word fire Burns your heart, the heat rising Through your neck, and, yes, Singeing your tongue on the way out? What if the word eagle Makes you feel like soaring, All the while tethered to your Earth-born dreams, that seem only to rise Slowly? Or the word dying, though it seems a lie, Still feels dark and wet, not exactly cold, But too thick for that? I think, Sensei, that even your Ancient schemes cannot touch These depths. Your finger points only to a place Where the moon might have been Read the poetry of Mikels Skele Read a profile of Mikels Skele We Welcome Poet Lidy Wilks To The Pages Of VerseWrights Lidy Wilks
Tell It to the Bogeyman He slouches down our street, his thin, shagging hair swaying to and fro on his haggard face. The street lights flicker in fear before him as he pauses, sniffs the air, and he looks for squirming, naughty Little Things. But they don’t hear him as his nose leads him to our yard. The moon above shrinks behind the clouds as he adjusts the sack on his back, waiting impatiently to sate himself with squirming, naughty Little Things, but they don’t hear him as he makes his way to our porch. My prior warnings to be good little boys have been met with lopped ears and the house continues to quake with their war cries ringing through the air. The family room, now their playground, Is littered with carcasses of their toys, Clothes and books rotting on the carpet. Dinner had been laid to waste, waiting to be saved as tomorrow’s breakfast. And now they’re vowing to blind themselves standing before the TV, watching their cartoon favorites instead of going to bed. But it’s already too late, because there’s someone knocking on the door. He has come to fetch his dinner. He’s come for my squirming, naughty Little Things. Read the poetry of Lidy Wilks Read a profile of Lidy Wilks jacob erin-cilberto Shines Light On The Poet's Soul jacob erin-cilberto
Used Lanterns sure i bathe in moonlight when the mood suits me but darkened patches of life are my corner luxury that cool feeling of black frost i can almost lick with fervent tongue as i silently mouth words i could never write down on star pads, too much grandiose suffering made public as other lovers kiss under those same tablets with my words breeching their contract and blame ricocheting off the blank walls of my heart sure i'll strip down to just the bare letters and pour myself into an ocean of comforting glow but that will only assuage your bulbous pain--- i instead, must burn in the rays of an unkind orb seeking to unclad me of my own sorrow make my poems run naked and embarrassed in front of people i don't know who only want to use me to see into themselves. Read the poetry of jacob erin-cilberto Read a profile of jacob erin-cilberto |
Poet R. H. Mustard, And A Road Test Metaphor R. H. Mustard
Driver's Ed When I first taught you how to drive, we both slipped in behind the wheel, hoping to learn quickly, but our bodies held us hostage, making unreasonable demands in a language we did not yet understand. We drove in this foreign land, without signs for Slow, Yield, and Stop, going way outside the lines, off-road, unlicensed, heavily under the influence, desperate to learn the driving art for the first big test in a driven world. How will I pass, you said. if we keep going like this? You will pass because you have mastered the difficult and subtle part, I said. The man will see the strength in your eyes, the miles in your heart, the knowing way you hold the wheel. Read the poetry of R. H. Mustard Read a profile of R. H. Mustard We Welcome Our Newest Poet To VerseWrights, Evie Ivy Evie Ivy
The Old Drum The good drummer knows the ancient sound. Sacred instrument, ceremonial beat of life, universal resounding. The energy flows with primitive break through time. The sound, the rhythm flows with life’s vibration. Let this be not war, but good, we need the good drummer, the call to life – think of the birds, the sky, the trees and the drum that brings you from one day to the next—the pounding heart. The drum leads with the festive call, diverse, whether in the hand, the lap or the floor, it sways the body, the feet respond. Its rhythms bring the mind into ecstatic places. It sets the tone, the call this striking beat punctuates living, it will resound in space, primordial heart—the beat of the good drummer. Read the poetry of Evie Ivy Read a profile of Evie Ivy We Warmly Welcome Poet Amy Billone To VerseWrights Amy Billone
First Words ☊ The same way at five I stared from the tub into my father’s terrified eyes after he broke the bathroom door to save me because I hadn’t heard his calls and as he shook my body to bring me back to life I laughed and told him I didn’t drown, the soap bubbles only filled my ears-- The same way at eight I looked into his gasping face after he leapt from a moving car because I lay sprawled on the grass by an upside-down bicycle and as he lifted me with shaking arms I said I hadn’t fallen but was writing a poem about how the clouds were really cotton candy—The same way at sixteen I crashed my car into a street light and fainted on the hardware store floor, then woke to see him gazing blankly at me from the doorway too frightened to remember the name of my hospital so I said it for him—The same way in my twenties I regained consciousness after a six and a half day coma because I jumped in front of a train I was so surprised to recognize my pale-cheeked father waiting like a marble statue by my side when we rarely talked and he lived in a distant city that I spoke my first words even though doctors had said if I survived I would never recover language: Hi Dad. Victor Perrotti: The Poetry Of Social Protest Victor Perrotti
choking on public safety "I can't breathe!" Eric Garner's .final 33 words, 7/17/14 as long as the police, are permitted to police the police a grand slurry district attorney – makes with police much like family the police – the enforcement arm of the power structure the golden arm, the arm that can do no wrong the strong arm the confiscating arm the escalating arm the arm in search of a loosy in the sky the arm that chokes the arm that snatches, institutional murder from the scales of lady justice lead and brutality for the black man lead and brutality for the black man violent state secret proceedings from the sham jury the state’s enabler – the district attorney ; renders unaccountable blue sleeve homicide of the golden arm Read the poetry of Victor Perrotti Read a profile of Victor Perrotti Kelli Russell Agodon: What Else Is There To Know? Kelli Russell Agodon
With a Dream Psychic Expect a sort of heaven to appear in your living room by Friday. This may mean you will die soon or that life will be easy for a while. It depends on the angels. Bleeding and begging angels are never a good sign. If they were singing gospel and wearing halos, then expect answers to circle you. But if you wore their wings, be cautious of bulldozers, unicycles, anything with wheels. Yes, even cars. Good question. Don’t borrow from visitors this week. Try to talk to the angels when they appear, especially the one with a machete. He has your secret. Be lucid. Soar with him. You don’t need his wings to fly. Trust me on this. You’re not the first to dream of angels with weapons. I’ve known presidents with that same type of guilt. No, not every dream has to do with sex, only the good ones. And that white picket fence you observed, it signifies peace of mind. You’ll soon be free from anxiety. Unless it was in ruins. You may now offer my soul fifty dollars. Your lucky number is eight. Your power color is white. Your psychic insect is the mirror beetle. Read the poetry of Kelli Russell Agodon Read a profile of Kelli Russell Agodon New Poem And Photo Art From Diana Matisz
Photo art by Diana Matisz......Click for larger view.
"It is in the pitch-dark hours..." Diana Matisz
it is in the pitch-dark hours
when no one else can see us that our broken hearts bleed out and blossom in chrysanthemums of ache Enjoy the poetry and art of Diana Matisz Read a profile of Diana Matisz We Extend A Warm Welcome To Poet Scott Thomas Outlar Scott Thomas Outlar
My Niece and the Dream Catcher
She asked me: Has this thing been working? And I said: Yeah. And she said: Well, how do you know? And I said: Because I was able to write them down in the morning. And she said: How? And I said: It’s magic. And she said: That’s not real. And I said: You have to believe – It’s energy – It’s consciousness – And she said: I know it’s real. I’m just angry because I’m tired. And I said: It better not catch your dreams or I’ll have to give them back to you. And she shut the door as she went to join her sister in the other room. And I went back to drinking and thinking about the next poem I could write to imitate Bukowski. Read the poetry of Scott Thomas Outlar Read a profile of Scott Thomas Outlar Paul Mortimer: Sunset, Birds, And...Dragons Paul Mortimer
Chasing the sunset Two shotguns let go and echo through woods. A thunderclap of crows explode from the trees, flecks of soot swirling on the breeze. Gathering their wits they flap slowly over fields, drifting low as if flying is not worth the energy. and gradually this flock morphs into dragon smoke. It catches an air current, writhes down river, chasing the day to its flare-out point. This sinuous darkening cloud, breathing stretching reforming as it smokes downstream. Heat draws it on to the setting sun. As it reaches the estuary a glow beats in its heart. Turns into a flicker, quickens. Flames swallow smoke. Dragon fire blazes, scorches, then flares apart. And a flock of fire birds heads out to sea. Read the poetry of Paul Mortimer Read a profile of Paul Mortimer We Welcome Poet Ramesh Dohan to VerseWrights Ramesh Dohan
At the Movies At the ticket window, I won’t follow the body of the usher as she leans to break a twenty with a press of cash register and chest. She’ll tear my ticket and pass twelve-fifty beneath the glass, steering me past the snack bar where two rows of candies in loud yellow boxes will glow like lines on a highway and lead me to my seat. The previews will warn R for restricted, S for sex and V for violence, and I’ll remember the V-neck of the usher’s sweater and the fainter V drawn by her breasts. Attention Reader Baudelaire considers you his brother and Fielding calls out to you every few paragraphs as if to make sure you have not closed the book, and now I am summoning you up again, attentive ghost, dark silent figure standing in the doorway of these words. Read the poetry of Ramesh Dohan Read a profile of Ramesh Dohan The Latest Poem From Reka Jellema Reka Jellema
She Died of Death Her ears twanged with the twee-twee-twee- twee-twee-twee-twee of chilled chickadees Her body lost its breath Her spirit left The doctor said she died of death The sea moved mountainous and overhead nimbus and stratus danced Black and white weather the painter said, taking The photograph of a bleak coast A boy took bark in his teeth and tore strips from the tree his mouth bloodied with grief the birds fled still a nest still a knot of beach grass fish twine and smooth green glass This is not the end the Sister said, her beads circling in the embroidery of her hands Read the poetry of Reka Jellema Read a profile of Reka Jellema |