Archive #23
May, 2015
From Poet Reka Jellema, "Isaiah Sings"
Photo art by Reka Jellema
 Reka Jellema
Isaiah Sings Father, here, I lay these at your stone I plucked that purple beech of every leaf, A yield of aubergine to cull and shuck And sew into a royal robe: We tucked you in. And now I make my peace With your patch of green Now I lay me down, the prayer begins And if I die before I wake? O mercy May we pass unscathed Before you any more souls take. Father, from that old beech I brought for you a rich Autumnal plunder Or would you favor yellowed maples? For here they come, gentle from these trees To circle the grave yard To quilt its lawn Your boy, the one you lost, sleeps on Though the scripture promised He will run again He will be young and strong Upon a limb of pine an eagle Looks down. I kneel Beside your bones, I tell my little one, Isaiah sings us home. Read the poetry of Reka Jellema Read a profile of Reka Jellema Robert Nied: Sensual Memory and Dreams Robert Nied
Dusty Old Rug There is a tom cat that lives with us, like me, he is old. On winter nights he sleeps by the fire alone, his paws twitching in summer dreams. I sleep, but do not dream. When the sun signals the afternoon, he joins me for a nap. He presses his achy bones against my warm face, and we both doze. His fur smalls like a dusty old rug. That is the time when the dreams begin, In an antique shop in Painswick. There are gilded picture frames and delicate ladies’ hats. I am drawn to the hanging carpet with faded burgundy stars, as soft as orchids to the touch. I select an enameled heart and a carved ebony cat. Before I leave I stand near the carpet, close enough that it touches my cheek. I inhale the musty sweetness, as the dream ends with the sound of purring. Read the poetry of Robert Nied Read a profile of Robert Nied LA Lorena And The Struggle Against Temptation LA Lorena
My greedy Lover you you are like my greedy lover seducer of my mornings you would make me your slave! given your chance, you would selfishly keep me to yourself today ensconced in cool, tangled sheets and plumped within the confines of soft pillows enveloped in darkness embraced in your velvet warmth unabashedly undressed hair freshly tousled from dawn to dusk to satisfy your innate need to control me body and soul no words, no sounds no need for sustenance just a lover's greed you'll lick at me, teasing me softly beckoning me to join you for another go round how you tempt me! Oh, Depression you'll not have your wicked way with me today Read the poetry of LA Lorena Read a profile of LA Lorena Control Is The Subject Of Rosa Saba's Latest Poem Rosa Saba
in control the wind has lessened its grip on this house, and now with the air settling 'round the eaves and twirling the leaves from the trees lazily down to the ground, i have been released, hair pulled back from my face and eyes closed as i stretch across the furniture and breathing steady, i am in control the sun has kickstarted summer with a sudden shower of light, followed by wayward, anxious raindrops that.refuse to hit hard instead burying themselves in my collarbone and sinking into my skin like grey patches that melt away the sun's warmth, and today i was nothing but cold, and yet warm when i smiled at the sky and brought out my umbrella, knowing i am in control your hand has lengthened the lines that extend from my eyes, those pathways of expired smiles that left their mark as your fingers wipe rain from my cheeks as if it mattered to you (ever so much) that they stayed dry, and your palm may be damp with honesty now but you press it to mine and it's shared, and the knowledge that the seasons no longer matter is there, because warm and cold don't mean anything with this kind of control Read the poetry of Rosa Saba Read a profile of Rosa Saba We Warmly Welcome Poet Bruce McRae to VerseWrights Bruce McRae
The List of Shadows “The shadow of your sorrow hath destroy’d the shadow of your face.” The shadow of a wheel coming back around on itself. The shadow turned inside-out, then back-to-front, then upside-down. The shadow in league with cupidity, grown stout and cat-lazy. The one where you can hear rain falling and angels mewling and doubting voices. Shadows comprised of nothing but frost. The moon’s shadow, walking across the Earth, Sol’s silent partner in intrigue. The shadow as dangling black fruit and whomsoever eats of it forever corrupted. Shadow-puppets, their dioramas in flames. The hand-shadow, now a stork, now a silhouette of a timberwolf’s jaw. The sun, with its cast of shadows. Mobs darkening by the hour. Whole navies driven under a black water. And finally, the shadow of the Self, life’s ghost a shade rummaging in the roses. The other you nobody talks about. Not worth a mention. Read the poetry of Bruce McRae Read a profile of Bruce McRae Poet Lidy Wilks' New Poem An Homage And Lament Lidy Wilks
Hip Hop I hunt through the beats for any remnants of your legacy and still I can’t find you. My heart thumps in tune to the heavy bass, dredging up the past: me scoffing at your tales of ‘he’s just my baby daddy,’ ‘he’s just a friend,’ your crazy Uncle Ricky’s children’s story and your 99 problems, Only to miss your teachings to walk this way. And how your swagger and roll broke down barriers, swigging back some gin and juice, and declaring yourself as a one man army Ason, screaming, if I ruled the world! Now who’s gonna show me how to make some noise or boogie to the rhythm of the boogie, the beat? Must I believe that everything was all a dream? Even now, your beat and melody whispers across the grave, telling me keep your head up. Yet sometimes I wonder if my hopes, in the splintered version of you, is enough. I aint mad at you. It wasn't your fault. But Hip Hop, why did you leave so soon? Read the poetry of Lidy Wilks Read a profile of Lidy Wilks Katherine Gallagher Shares Two New Poems Katherine Gallagher
The Magic of Hands Put your hands into fire The magic of hands is rarely celebrated Test your hands on the heart’s edge The music of hands is born in flame the instinctive touchstone reaching finally beyond fire beyond sign-language to shore each blending unique as a leap into light Kandinsky Journey black and white etc all the colours close as birthdays in retrospect you can join in become a yellow line on a red blurred-patch or a ship skidding down sea-less follow the curves let them take you over the skyline when you arrive at a state of shock the paradox of colour will balance you Read the poetry of Katherine Gallagher Read a profile of Katherine Gallagher Poet Ana Caballero: Two Meals, Two Poems Ana Caballero
Morning Feed You are a great round thing in my arms Each morning I unwrap you to make you cold And warm you myself Eat child drink only the good While you still can Unknowing small pale and perfect We become As you take from me the only self I have to give Lunchtime When I don’t go out to talk lunch talk I stay home and we eat lunch We don’t talk but we make delicious food noise I let you play with foods that stain Touch my whites with your berry chin You drop the silver and I pick it up To watch your face hear it crash A wet bill, a torn book, a cracked phone Proof in my hands that your new body leaves a mark Again I offer you the tiny shoe you love to chew Together we prepare For a time when things might not be as good Read the poetry of Ana Caballero Read a profile of Ana Caballero Cristina Umpfenbach's Poem Of Sultry Heat And Pain Cristina Umpfenbach
Uptown Summer Night Ten years, his gestures still unfamiliar, the way he holds his cup, his laugh, needs, wants. He gives me flowers, red carnations, I like yellow roses. At night he reaches for me, his arm around my waist, draws me close. falls into a deep contended sleep. I huddle on the fire escape. Oppressive heat, uptown summer night sticks to my skin. A pockmarked moon melts into a water tower. Across the alley a television strobes blue. Sirens repeat themselves. Stink rides on heavy air. Music drifts, seeps into me, makes me rock, I want a cigarette, a drink, a fuck. A woman screams below. I feel the sound. Stomach rises into my throat. The scar across my face burns hot. Familiar pain rises. I crawl back, close the window, draw the drapes. The fan labors against stagnant air. I slide into bed, into safety, still unfamiliar. Read the poetry of Cristina Umpfenbach Read a profile of Cristina Umpfenbach Rowan Taw Deals With The Peering And Leering... Rowan Taw
Office Boy From the moment he joined the office he stared. I thought it was a phase that would pass he’d give it up once I was familiar, but it’s been nine months, and still he stares. Every time I pass the floor from water cooler to desk his eyes peer – fixed on me from underneath his Lego haircut. I’ve tried smiling, I’ve tried ignoring, I’ve tried warning: “It’s rude to stare!” “There’s such a thing as work place harassment, .....you know!” Still he stares. It’s got so bad, I’m tempted to nut him, (as I walk, unavoidably, pass his station.) I probably would have done it already, but one thing deters me: the lawsuit from the James Wallace Trust for destroying their portrait. Read the poetry of Rowan Taw Read a profile of Rowan Taw |
Two Short, Lyrical Poems From Edie Ivy Evie Ivy
Some Don't Spare I sought to move cautious with love. I didn't want to wound someone I thought possessed too many selves. I only wanted one, and because of this, there was no pull of love. I wished to spare a heart, allow some time to move on by. He'll be just fine. So, I didn't answer my love's question. Soon, everything in its time, my thought. How quick he gave in to another! He cut as lightning in the darkened sky . . . he revealed himself like Newton's apple racing toward the earth. The Movements And he holds my life only to let it go then catch it again. I breathe in the tango. Somewhere we dance. It is just a dance—a dance, but a dance is more than a dance. I then almost slip, it is the music that caught me. And then we move on; he holds my life to let it go, then catch it again. Read the poetry of Evie Ivy Read a profile of Evie Ivy Charles Bane, Jr. And Two Poems Of The Masai Charles Bane, Jr.
Hunting With Masai Dawn is spear and shield and gun recklessly left behind. We move in a single line. Last night they chased away a missionary and we lay. Mine is the god of the Hebrews I explained, mountain born like N'gai. He is not desirous of you and only one of mine has seen his face. His mountain had boiled gravely and he built a vessel of lava rock for a climber overcome to voyage fire home. When Masai Raise Their Spearheads When Masai raise spearheads to Ngai at his falling wordless leave, they mirror unsheathed swords of city heights, wavering in the breath of the unseen. All mystery is powerless before the respiratory fate of light as you wash your face, your back to me. It is time to admit, as I brush sand from your feet, the odds that a universe dimmed will draw you in again for release. You will be lost as four hundred planets at first count are waterless, or put in safekeeping of molecular cloud. Somewhere distant, I will be noble gas or fleeting charge. We will meet, but incorporeal as gods. Read the poetry of Charles Bane, Jr. Read a profile of Charles Bane, Jr. Scott Thomas Outlar Takes A Look At "Recycling" Scott Thomas Outlar
Enter the Rose The shit is where it’s at – that is where the new life resides, waiting on its opportunity to flourish; yet modern civilization flushes it away into tubes and pipes that settle into swamps of sewage. All the wasted nutrients of the good waste are shipped away, kept at bay, sent off for the purposes of clean and squeaky sanitization. But all it’s done is turned civilization into a sanatorium, a cell full of fools separated from the natural cycle. But like all rhythms in life, this Empire will fall, decay, and eventually crumble back into the soil, while meanwhile, a new society will emerge from the wastelands and the junkyards and the septic tanks. Read the poetry of Scott Thomas Outlar Read a profile of Scott Thomas Outlar Victor Perrotti's "two faces," With A Recording By The Poet Victor Perrotti
two faces ☊ two faces facing east and west two faces looking front to back two faces coming and going knowing where you’ve been knowing where you’re going unsure of where you are one head, facing opposite directions two faces competing for a mind two faces with eyes that never meet two faces denying existence of the other concealed behind countenance hidden from the present moment one face hiding behind the other one head, of tragedy and comedy two faces facing north and south two faces looking up and down two faces coming and going knowing a tether to the ground knowing an infinity in space unsure of where you place birth to grave, with no middle two faces to go the distance two faces is all you get two faces and just one neck Hear this poem in the PoetryAloud area
Read the poetry of Victor Perrotti Read a profile of Victor Perrotti Three Shorter Poems From Poet Kim Talon Kim Talon
Residue Shadows neath the sumac are blood red soaking the autumn grasses from frost-pale to a shade macabre I sit awhile picking leaves stripping them to the bone Luminance We light candles purely white against press of dark pearlescent face of the Long Night Moon peers over oak branches keeping watch neither candle nor moon shed light but hold radiance close... the still dark gently tamed Crepuscular They ring the bell at dusk dinng…donnnng…dinnnnnng…donnnnnng sonorous notes stretching across the valley swallows in the bell tower wing against the dusk skygraceful v's swooping against an aubergine backdrop a dog lifts his head to utter a desolate howl muzzle burnished orange in the light of a setting sun howl and bell become one Read the poetry of Kim Talon Read a profile of Kim Talon Shan Ellis Writes Of Disturbing Silence Shan Ellis
Silenced I am discontent like the calling of twilight when it illuminates the dark cross of stone on the Cnicht. Some lowly animal howls its last in desperation below on cold crags. Alone, without a heartbeat to soothe longing, not a single touch to reassure, an invisible hand to cup a breast, only waxing moonlight, a cold companion on restless nights. Somewhere in the wilderness a kite screams, in the dark her cries are lost in translation, forgotten in the trickle of stream down to sea, brushed aside as wind tickles read, ink runs dry in the pen. All warmth radiated away, life sucked from barren marsh yet I hear our language breathe in silence. Read the poetry of Shan Ellis Read a profile of Shan Ellis Emily Hone Finds Inspiration In Virginia City Emily Hone
Light Yours are the secrets I’ll keep locked beneath Virginia City ruins; deep within the mines. May they find a way to sparkle- really shine some multi-faceted light, compared to my fools gold notion, they will beam their way back to me so easily… but have mounds, hills, of Earth to uncover- shovel from these eyes, before the clear-cut night, when granted Clarity. Read the poetry of Emily Hone Read a profile of Emily Hone Phillip Carriere Ponders Clouds, Children, Us Phillip Carriere
Sky Lines
(lines written in honor Of the outlandish language That so colors the clouds of children) How can the clouds be So un-pretentious As to represent everything, Swimming, at times, along Like a gangly monster fish? In a pre-pubescent sky The flurry of clouds And an occasional sun Make a stew of the heavens Unrecognized by wisdom. We all dance in potato sacks Until we fall before we finish Under the undulations of the atmosphere Where all possibility is counted. So we have that first encounter At some undefinable point That begins a heady fermentation That becomes some other world, And our last sip of wind. Read the poetry of Phillip Carriere Read a profile of Phillip Carriere Mark Gordon's Newest Poem Ocean Inspired Mark Gordon
Lolling Above the Ocean As we sit in the hodgepodge lunch space atop Loblaws, with its flowered plastic tablecloths, its fake wicker chairs, I look out the giant windows, imagine that we are lolling above the ocean in some faraway magic land. The boats nod on the waves. Someone reaches for a bottle of champagne. And the sun burrows into every shadow eagerly. I realize that the vision is not a wish, but a picture of what is really going on, here in this strange place, where meals are swallowed hurriedly. The ocean is not miles away, but in the way you turn your head, in the way I grin at things you say. The boats are the easy breaths we take, and the sun is a god above us who searches for something we possess. Read the poetry of Mark Gordon Read a profile of Mark Gordon Poet Marie Anzalone: The "Blasphemy" Against Childhood Marie Anazlone
That thing that they never taught us ~for Tara Someone informed us once, we could only ever stand so tall. Naive children, we believed it- held yardsticks against our own potential ensuring we grew not one inch more of height than our allotted presence; to have more was, we believed, to rob from others. And that damned always unspoken, always present more deserving after "others," like a threatening afterthought. What blasphemy against a childhood ruled by tape measures would I speak if I tell you what I know now: you were always permitted to grow to hold galaxies in the palm of your hand if you so desire; more if you do, others are also freed from small-heartedness? Only one small thing- the fertilizer for growth is only found by throwing your self blindfolded off a cliff. That thing they never taught us? Flying feels a hell of a lot like falling... until you know better. Read the poetry of Marie Anzalone Read a profile of Marie Anzalone A Look Back With Poet David Thornbrugh David Thornbrugh
Hating the Sixties Those days there wasn't nothing we wouldn't tie dye: the Magna Carta Heidi's goats and her grandfather's beard vapor trails our mothers' wedding gowns draft cards before we burned them grand jury subpoenas investigating bad taste. You can't say we didn't know any better because we'd been born inside the kaleidoscope and knew the twist of changing times. The rainbow was our grandmother and our parents fed us fireworks. What we thought we couldn't do we had no words for. Mama wet nursed us out to Captain Kangaroo while she watched Liberace dazzle the heavens with candlestick rockets. Color was a kindness we slapped the blind with. How were we to know the dye of our delusions wasn't color fast and would bleed to a single muddy disappointment in the economic rain? Read the poetry of David Thornbrugh Read a profile of David Thornbrugh |
From Mark MacDonald, A Different View...Perhaps Mark MacDonald
The Baker's Dozen Perhaps in a parallel universe the truth is neither a journey nor a paycheck, the Pythagorean Theorem, a collection of precepts in a medieval manuscript, a forest, a clearing, a slogan on a t-shirt, or a steep granite cliff from which a couple must leap. It could be that in nothern New Mexico what the philosophers call oblivion is merely a lizard—or a rock and a lizard-- anything gone blank or motionless and that can sit beneath the sun for hours at a time. There may be some options in Syria the President may wish to consider, and perhaps when we are dead, the abyss is no longer the throat of a panther, a cup of cold coffee or joblessness; the wind ends its search and its longing; and the fires we once called love will have collapsed into smolder. Read the poetry of Mark MacDonald Read a profile of Mark MacDonald New Poem and Photo Art From Diana Matisz Photo art by Diana Matisz
"we've always been so near..." we’ve always been so near of this, I’m certain you, steps ahead your mad fey light the genius loci of my enthrallment and me, the perfect archetype of our unfettered passion, fingertips enfolded in the pith of you coattails flying in a race to skew our parallel for one chance alignment Enjoy the poetry and art of Diana Matisz Read a profile of Diana Matisz From Mikels Skele, A Vision Of The End Mikels Skele
Just before the final extinction Just before the final extinction There were strange and wonderful creatures Elusive slabs of silver Darting through the water Among shape-shifting bulbs Trailing fierce limbs And some barely-there whisps Still deadly with near visible Strands of poison And the stone-clasping tendrils Living dually beneath and above The frothing rock wacked about By unseen surrounds Miniscule bits buzzing through the air But strong enough to pierce the Thick outards of others To suck their vital fluids Long bendy tails with no body Slinking among roots and shoots A mouth at one end and nothing at the other Lumbering bellowing lumps With long tusks That dazzled white in the pristine sunlight Oddest of all, a bipartite creature Split nearly symmetrical Nearly similar but cruelly not Moving by alternating stilts Spindly and unbecoming The two halves bound in eternal embrace Clutching each other’s throat Desperate to let go But trapped, trapped by fear of succeeding Read the poetry of Mikels Skele Read a profile of Mikels Skele Amauri Solon: Whores As Metaphors Amauri Solon
The Whores There are seven painted whores plus one who is not painted I first met the blue whore who kept me alive when I was born There was a green whore who kept me growing when I had to grow up The yellow whore told me how to be a man when the time came To love I learned from the red whore when my sorrows began There came then the purple whore and to hate I was taught when love was not enough I got old and to be old was difficult but the grey whore told me how to be old One certain day there were thunders and a storm announced to me that I should hold the black whore's hand and die a white whore told me this story Read the poetry of Amauri Solon Read a profile of Amauri Solon jacob erin-cilberto And The Poet's Conundrum jacob erin-cilberto
In the Temple of Template
semantic stilettos do some fancy walking jabbering then wobbling patent leather lethal words hobbling into the memory bank to withdraw a stratagem of dreamy theme but the shine is clouded by the stares of the bare minded poet a punctuation punk confronts his creativity but to fashion a formidable reply to impress the muse the poet steals the polished pantheon writes a few preachy words and then curls up in his coffin conundrum suddenly realizing he isn't even in dead form yet. Read the poetry of jacob erin-cilberto Read a profile of jacob erin-cilberto Tim Buck's Instructive Fantasy On A Grandfather Clock Tim Buck
the secret life of a .grandfather clock
3 AM can strike through many nights without a sound but a ruffling into dreams. Enough to bring pause, retreat, waking. There's something long ago that's taken on breathing. Of course! A dead uncle's grandfather clock, now gone to abstract seizures of time's aching dim memories, a brute nostalgia for that house now gone to others. Where did the clock go? It's no longer making those children shiver in perfect terror of its presence ticking in a hallway. It's gone away lost to think. Old, it struggles through its moments of standing with a broken mustache on its face, standing in some purgatory it sends odd hours to troubled sleeping. That tall clock once alert and sentient now droops in a somewhere nowhere. The flight of seeds is random myriad. One sinks down growing generations of patient oaks harvested for clocks imprisoning eccentric grandfathers. Where is that great clock, is it living, or did its governor shrug, go to ruin? I think it's still thinking, breathing... In my grain and my dark knots, distant rivers still flow their poems, hillside gnomes and fairies murmur tales long sunken to my substance. In my gears and ingenious spring, mysteries of minerals turn and coil around psychosis of my old dæmon orphaned by the absconded gods. If my chronic and nightly musing on paradox and fate comes calling as a dream inside your dreaming, let it strengthen your imagination. I never meant to frighten children as if a specter in assembled form. I only meant to tell you children about duration's freakish presence. Even in senility and my far ruin, I'll come a-tocking your 3 AM. Read the poetry of Tim Buck Read a profile of Tim Buck Richard Biddle's Latest Poem, "Hermitage" Richard Biddle
Hermitage I left my name at the wood's edge and entered its tree-green shade a stranger to myself. I found a clearing, a quiet space and in this peaceful glade bound together branches with vines. I sit beneath this weave of hazel and breath. Behind my eyes I find my heart - a bruised apple. I hold it gently in my mind. Occasionally a black dog rises up and barks a memory at me. I play fetch with the ruined fruit. Always the beast gives chase and always brings back not the over-ripe taste of rot but a cracked, white eggshell. I place this empty casing in the cradle of my ribs. And here, almost imperceptibly, it pulses and throbs pulses and throbs. Read the poetry of Richard Biddle Read a profile of Richard Biddle J. Matthew Waters And An "Unlucky Kind Of Girl" J Matthew Waters
keeping the peace she was an unlucky kind of girl and though she wasn’t sure what that meant she loved to say it nonetheless born scorpio with pisces rising she always wondered why there wasn’t a thirteenth house one in which she could run and hide from a world spinning inwards safely tucked inside her mysteriously secretive mind she only assumes a peacekeeping role after extinguishing all other options Read the poetry of J Matthew Waters Read a profile of J. Matthew Waters Poet Debbie Strange With A New Tanka/Tanshi
how the mountain's breath
caught and held us in a shower of meteors beneath earth's blue umbrella we danced in puddles of light Read the poetry of Debbie Strange Read a profile of Debbie Strange Two Short Poems From Poet Marsailidh Groat Marsailidh Groat
Bones Every time, before pen meets paper, A crushing paralysis seeps through every muscle, Until the physicality of the act becomes impossible. New words come and sink artlessly beneath skin, Through veins, hit bone, Like a surgeon holding a knife, and cutting, Not with the motive to cure, but dissect, To feel the separation of tendons, Not to liberate, but inspect, Until every layer is cut, Each specimen reduced to its most basic form. Skulls don’t speak languages. Bones don’t paint pictures. The Palace Such an eye for detail; the colours red, gold, green, Intricate portraits and fine embroidery, meticulously .....placed, By someone with a keen eye, And impeccable taste. Metal, glass, crystal, gold, Twisted in on themselves, Cut, carved, manipulated, By hands that couldn’t afford them. I wonder how much it costs to have them cleaned? And if these padded floors, Could provide much more comfort, Than the cold, hard concrete outside. Whether my feet were cleansed on my entrance, From the dirt I carry from the tube. Somehow, I feel dirtier than before. Read the poetry of Marsailidh Groat Read a profile of Marsailidh Groat 
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