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Archive #24
June, 2015


Two Short Poems From Poet Laura Lynn Brown

PictureLaura Lynn Brown

  Feeding Time

  The baby doesn’t want strained peas
  or cottage cheese.
  His lips won’t part
  for apple tart.
He can’t be coaxed to eat his fish.
He hurls the dish
against the wall
and starts to squall.
But when the piece of buttered bread
he spurned as dead
has hit the floor--
he points, asks “More?”

[Note: the form of this poem is a “minute,” a 60-syllable poem with a specific syllable-per-line count and rhyme scheme. It was invented by Verna Lee Hinegardner, former Arkansas poet laureate.]

Ship of Tools

Train of spoons,
speedboat of forks,
forklift of knives,
kayak of whisks,
wheelchair of tongs,
toboggan of ladles,
lifeboat of graters,
golf cart of corkscrews,
Conestoga of peelers,
paddlewheeler of mashers,
magic carpet of mortars,
motor home of pestles,
pedal boat of scoops,
school bus of spatulas,
spaceship of basters,
bathysphere of cleavers,
convertible of zesters,

Zamboni of timers.


[First line borrowed from Dana Levin’s poem “My Sentence."]

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Two Short Poems From Poet Ali Znaidi

PictureAli Znaidi

  a drift into the unknown

   black ants 
   scathing my skin

those stings really 
do matter

an anesthesia


similar to touching thistle

a drift into

the pleasures of forgetfulness 



Synopsis of a Ghost Story

In the surging waves 
of the howling wind that bites the flesh 
of the sand
your music will dispel the thick mist.
Did you see how the sunset amazed the ghosts?


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Leslie Philibert And Two Poems Of Absence

PictureLeslie Philibert

   
Widower

   Knowing there are
   many words for night;
   night watch, nightshade, nightfall

but none for the space of
a halved bed, an envelope stretched,
flat with white; unslept in,

and hands devoid of
a trace of perfune or rest warmth,
a slight breath, a gentle curve.

Let him cherish the lost presence

of a drowned moon
of darkness long

of standing time.


After You Left

After you left, I fell asleep
Lost in a web on warm cotton and
Sudden space, stretching in your bed.
Your dream catcher turns in the light,
A trace of Eau-de-Cologne hangs in the air.
I find a poem by Rilke on your pillow,
An open book, almost lost by reading;
Ich finde Dich in allen diesen Dingen.
But then I lose myself again, outside
The traffic has stolen you like a thief.


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Amy Billone's Haunting "Paris to London"

PictureAmy Billone
Paris to London

Before the train
plunges into the sea,
I watch grazing deer
and horses sprinting,
green grape vines
and high corn leaves,
skinny full grown
leaning trees beside
baby saplings cradled
in nets, fields of
wheat, scattered rolls
of hay, an ancient
cathedral tower.
French students
smile, shout. 
They must have lived
for thirteen years--
In their voices,
such wild joy.
I am sad to hear it.
They laugh together,
beautiful, young.
(We pass another
cathedral tower).
The children practice
English: I love you, but...
one day...a boy says
and a girl mimics him,
giggling. Others
repeat: I love you, but...
one day...They laugh
until their bodies shake.
I see no people outside 
for hours. Only a solitary
man, bald-headed
like my father, leans
shirtless over blades
of grass. He must be
far away from home.
Then dancing sheep
and goats and purple
flowers. More youthful
laughter: I love you, but...
one day...My strange
familiar grief,
and still another old
cathedral tower.


Hear this poem in the PoetryAloud area
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We Extend A Warm Welcome to Poet Jocelyn Mosman

PictureJocelyn Mosman
  
 Fragile Woman

  Our slit wrists are 
  severe weather alerts, 
  and we are sounding out 
  unnatural disasters. 
We bleed until our palms 
are clasped together
dripping our prayers 
onto cracked canvases. 
We keep
our hearts like angel wings, 
growing a feather with every 
heartbreak, 
and I know women 
who are flying right now.
They bleed out too many 
days without sunrises
keep tally marks 
on their flesh, 
wait for their chance
to breathe again
without having to bite their tongues, 
and swallow 
bloody saliva 
that tastes like their unspoken self-defenses. 
I know women whose DNA
turned against them, 
created a pallet of brown
and grey and emptiness, 
never satisfied with their 
shade of pretty.
I know women whose
hearts are breaking
without the metaphor. 
They are pleading
without any god
for a new one before 
theirs erupted in the ER…  
2015 has a way of breaking 
women's hearts, 
and teenage girls are bleeding out
broken futures. 
I know women who are performing
exorcisms on their spirits, 
hoping that their unholy ghost
paints their wings white
with every slice of the knife. 
Fragile women, 
bodies made beautiful, 
and self-destructive. 
We aren’t meant to bleed
like martyrs. 
Don't cast down your faces, 
look into the places
of your body 
you've never seen. 
Every hair is a part of your halo, 
every scar is a rose petal
for you to garden 
with self-love. 
Fragile women, 
we are born to be strong, 
ashes being relit 
into the fire 
we started from. 
Let our bruises become candles
guiding our angels with broken wings
and misplaced spirits
home.

Read the poetry of Jocelyn Mosman
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Dana Rushin: Death And The Dark

PictureDana Rushin





  Tornado Watch, 1963

This, is where Grandma pointed:
A spot on the orange butterfly wallpaper
where Papa splattered; his Tip Top
cigarette papers and the tin
of his half full Prince Albert
crimp cut, the last thing he held.
"Their Gods ridiculous and themselves
past shame" Milton wrote. Because
as you grow older
spots on walls can transform themselves
like little children getting over the
measles. Is there any greater
scatter of chickens into their
wire house than wind? Longer this
time than normal but their little
thin asses taking position.

I've grown now to compare the
diaphysis and epiphysis of all things:
The Blackened spirit that brings forth life.
The end of sorrow. How hippie and
with such impractical sadness the explanation
of the locomotive is. "This is where the
kitchen was. And in this spot, right here
next to the overturned cow, was where we
took our meals for 43 years." Even in
the hollow dark, the sadness wore on.


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Wayne F Burke And A Pointed Reminiscence

PictureWayne F Burke
  
   The Maid

     after my grandmother
     went into the hospital
     my grandfather hired Lena,
a maid,
big as a refrigerator
with silver hair parted in the
middle of her skull and
plastered to her head like a shower cap;
she took the nearly empty
catsup bottle and
run water from the faucet
into it
and returned it to the table;
after dinner she encouraged
the four of us kids
to beat each other with pillows
that we were not allowed to touch,
and she roared with laughter
as we slipped and slid
across the linoleum,
the only time
the four of us
ever did something fun together
but the fun ended
when my grandfather
walked in

with a face grave as sin
and hawk-nose pointed at Lena

who laughed at him too:
levity trumping leviticus.

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A Lush New Poem From Poet Witty Fay

VerseWrights Extends A Warm Welcome To Poet Lucy Logsdon

PictureLucy Logsdon

  Twisted  ☊

  The surgeon has straightened
  me out as best he can, my bones
  fused, twined with stainless steel.

Pins harness my skittish vertebrae,
ball bearings support my questionable
spine, my sideways being.

I am myself, but a new construction,
too.  People treat you different
when you are no longer bent.

I see it in their face, the absence
of dismissal.  The lack of quick
and fulsome pity, the small smile.

I fear my spine, leaning, listing,
going slant again.  I fear the return
to what I was.  I have become an expert

on curvature.  I’ve learned a world of new terms,
acquired fluency in deformity’s language.
Kyphosis.  Stenosis.  Scoliosis.

Hunchback.  Call my misshape what you will.  I could say
that’s gone, the titanium rods are all
inside, my crooked’s my secret.

But one can only hide so much.  The defects are always .....there,
like the flaws in a weakened bridge,
the mending plates in a rehabbed house.

Straight’s been way overrated; the cripple lurks
inside.  And she comes out, whenever there’s
something I don’t like.  I tilt,

I stumble, I shuffle down the corridors.  I remind
you of what you’re not.  I shoulder myself
against walls.  I keep the center off.


Hear this poem in the PoetryAloud area
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Two Short Pieces From Poet R. H. Mustard

PictureR.H. Mustard
  River

   You said you'd meet me
   behind the stadium,
   showing up
   in your boyfriend's car,
unlocking the door
to let me in,
holding me closer
than before.
You drove in silence
across the river,
to a secluded place
I'd never been,
pulling me forever
into your dark current,
finally whispering,
you had to get back.
I barely managed
to stumble away
when you dropped me off,
no longer knowing
myself in the mirror.


Prenatal

I crave a deeper silence,
out of earshot
from probing questions,
loud voices.
I've stopped
answering the phone,
listening to voicemail,
silly names,
pointless suggestions 
about my future.
Better the phone rings
on and on, until my being
unavailable becomes
normal.
Kicking in the deep end of the pool,
we swim past one another
lost in thought.
It's quiet with ear plugs
and the bottom
seems a long way down.
Ceaseless talk, pretense, lies
drop away;
all I hear
is the pounding of blood
in my ears.

Read the poetry of R. H. Mustard
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Polly Robinson And The "Glow" Of A Childhood Memory

PicturePolly Robinson

  Candles and Splinters

  Apples stacked
  on racks Father made;
  wooden, tough, splintery, like Mother.
The cellar doors creak,
a cast latch speaks
with a clatter as the doors shut fast.
My hands search for matches–forbidden matches–
and candles–forbidden candles–
a saucer to catch the wax.
The scent of apples, gift-wrapped in old newspaper,
blend with candle cologne.
I breathe the clagging coal dust
in the darkness of the cellar.
A dozen steps down
from the sliver of a frown,
on the brow of a peevish mother,
her ire aimed at me
for climbing the ancient oak tree.
‘Not ladylike,’ she said,
–raised her hand–I ran–
‘Come back!’

I’m caught in a soft candle glow.


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Paul Mortimer's Poem Employs Wall As Metaphor

PicturePaul Mortimer

 



Dry Stone Wall Builder

This one particular stone
has its place.
Weighed in his hands,
turned over,
turned round.
His keen eyes scan surfaces for
notches,
ridges,
flat spots.
Seeking for a point
where it can interlock
with the wall that already
armadillos away
down to a gate.

The day is hostile, cold wind
slicing everything needle rain
hunting for anything.
Ragged moorland sheep,
constantly chewing nothing much,
hunker in the lee of the grey wall.
All the time he carefully adds stones

making sure 

compressional forces alone are binding.
He’s found his place.
Repairing an enclosure
that cannot contain an impulse
to extend the past into future.

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Stefanie Bennett's Paean To A  Polish Poet And Diplomat

PictureStefanie Bennett





The Care Giver
          ~for Czeslaw Milosz

It was justice you saw that day, the tin
Whistle and toy drum
Left near the windowsill.
On side, the candelabra
Wrestled with decay

As you'd done through many
A forgotten year
Composed
Of mild stupor And Warsaw's tilled servitude.

If I could draw a sun-scape margin
Around the hospice hour,
Add a peal
Of Winter bells
Consoling to the ear... call

"Come! All you unseen freedom
Revellers! Come
Play in this
Forensic nursery
                       Of before
                       And after."


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Poet L.L. Barkat Offers A Unique Sonnet

PictureL.L.Barkat





Upon Learning that Fur Was Lost in Translation (and then learning it wasn't, but too late for this sonnet)


What did fine French Cinder elles wear besides
glass, what high class did they hope to flaunt to
the ball, what gall muster towards, "I do"?
Did they eat ash, secret, pretend inside,
ache for privilege to take midnight steed ride
to prince, to price, to prove flamed thoughts, undo
braided tresses, guesses; did they have clues
about the way ever-after collides
 
in fives, in tens, muttered end lines tight shut,
a fight to rise between odd hours ticking,
tripping like a da-dum tapped short, slight cut
into small rooms, I am's that jam, turning
coated slippers towards spondee minutes
spent as splintered moments on silk shorn string?


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For M. D. Friedman, The Inspiration Is All

PictureM. D. Friedman
  
 


Finding My Own Moon

there is
something
in this skinny howl
of coyote
that juliennes
the night
as if it were
a brick
of dark chocolate

something
that chases
its own tail
in wild circles
contagious
with the joy
of a dervish
something
in that slide up 

to the high howl
and in the quivering
sustain that follows
that chills
the blood
and makes me stop
whatever I am doing
to find
my own moon


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We Extend A Warm Welcome To Poet Yuan Changming

PictureYuan Changming

On Another Rainy Day: for Liu Yu

It rains a lot in Vancouver 
Often does this rain remind me of
The days when you sojourned here 
With my family, after Father left all of us

While walking in the rain, you would 
Recall, under my big umbrella
How you once waited in a drizzle 
With me in a broken basket on your back
To cross the widening river, not far
From our village when I was crying hard 
For a large spoonful of flour soup (you were too
Weak and too hungry to produce any milk)

Seeing you do nothing about my hunger 
The ferry man asked, Where is its mom?
I am his mother! You replied, tears rolling down
With the raindrops on your childish face
How old are you then? – Almost 17.

It is raining again in Vancouver, and beyond this rain 
Your voice echoes aloud on the other side of this world


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Neil Fulwood, Victim Of A Repeat Offender

PictureNeil Fulwood


   The Inspiration Thief

    I have been cleaned out:

    that observation
I made on the bus
this morning and filed
for later use – gone;
 
those words overheard
in the staff canteen
that wanted to be
an extended piece
for two voices – gone;
 
the quirky concept
that threaded itself
through the gunmetal
smoking-break tendrils
like a mantra – gone;
 
the idly conjured
fragments dancing like
Disney elephants
around the office,
blowing kisses – gone.
 
No prints, no traces;
just a ghost’s shadow
on CCTV*:
a thief turned blacksmith,
my words shaped as his.

*security cameras


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"Rice Paper," A Poem From Poet Layley Lu

PictureLayley Lu

Rice Paper

There’s a wind 
where comes my Australian boy
through the barley in this place, 
foreign upon foreign
face of mine 
squinting through dust 
that is not mine.

I am a fetish 
and he is a blistering fever blowing 
through my cluttered machiya, 
carnage upon carnage
staining my sheets 
and carpet, 
but walls not mine.

I long to cry. 
I long so much for my honesty
through testaments heaping 
cloud upon useless cloud
in the emptiness 
of this place 
that is not mine.

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Brandy Clark Takes Flight (Almost) in her Newest Poem

PictureBrandy Clark

  Paper Wings

  Back when I was little, 
  I wanted to be a bird. 
  I wanted to fly, to soar
over the earth in the crystalline 
blue skies, soar with the robins 
who taunted cheep cheep
from the trees. 
So I fashioned myself
a pair of paper wings--
construction paper,snow paste, 
feathers drawn on with
brown and black crayon.
Creations clutched 
in tiny, sweaty palms,
I set off to the backyard swingset,
its metal rusty and warped. 
The perfect launching pad
for my ascent, my mission.
Each step carried me
up to the slide. The robins
continued to taunt me 
in a mocking chorus, 
but I ignored their taunts, turned, 
wings outstretched, and jumped. 
Gravity, a cruel parent, 
sent me tumbling down 
to the grass below, 
the green cushion not enough
to protect against skinned knees
and the torrent of liquid embarrassment 
cutting through the dirt
and grime on my cheeks. 
My invention ended up on the ground, 
two sandaled feet stomping
an angry waltz onto a pair of paper wings. 
I didn’t take flight this day
or any day after that. 
The gentle breeze refused 
to keep me aloft, 
it did not urge me toward
the clouds. 


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PictureWitty Fay




Womanly


I stay with the sentence until it is done
Measuring all the silent words
That lurk behind the uttered lips.
I wish they wouldn’t bustle up my throat
To choke me blind and dry
With the smell of old blood.
And then your mother-of-the-pearl smile
Smoothens the flowing of all syllables
Into the face of the world,
And I turn into a wizard of the unspoken,
Throwing troths at the trees that bear no fruit
Until branches, like full breasts, touch the arbor of the .....sky-

I do it blindfolded, on fleshy hips.


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We Warmly Welcome Poet Ken W. Simpson To VerseWrights

PictureKen W. Simpson





 The Heavenly Line

I was a passenger on the Heavenly Line
stopping all stations and running on time
starting early on a lifetime's journey
innocent, guileless and gullible
willingly, but lacking initiative
passive and compliantly pliant
introverted, programmed, unable to think
learning by rote but understanding little
emotionally, socially and sexually repressed
wondering who and why I was
lost to those who had reared me
on my solitary journey
 
Going somewhere on the Heavenly Line.
 
I escaped for a time at Fantasy Station
finding salvation in the imagination
with stories and pictures of distant places
a magic storehouse I could explore and enter
escaping behind a phony facade
eluding imagined jeers and taunts
alienated because I failed to adapt
fleeing from that world and into another
where I was indoctrinated
and taught to believe the unbelievable
naïve  and uncritically accepting
 
The fog which lifted eventually.

Listless, helpless people waited
on the platform at Stillborn Station
vacantly milling, vainly hoping
the demented, the crippled, the unborn
for a hope that would never arrive
when we were leaving someone fled
and frantically attempted to board
hanging on desperately as we picked up speed
flailing wildly backwards, into the past
where the immortal soul awaits its fate
for the grace of eternal life
 
Or damnation in Dante's hell.
 
In a compartment all alone
I learned to discriminate
between the scenes outside
and the thoughts within my mind
to see other faces in distant places
solve problems and deal with doubts
about being born without knowing why
with travellers on the Heavenly Line
trying to understand a creator
to acknowledge and venerate
a loving, forgiving and wrathful figure
linking fatuity with hope
and the means to save the souls

Of travellers on the Heavenly Line.
 
In the darkness of the night
entombed within a speeding monster
dreaming nightmares of the horrific kind
losing my way in some alien city
confused by  changes in every scene
I awakened relieved
jolted free from fantasies
escaping into a silent, private world
of creativity, fulfilment and contentment
free from the wars being waged outside
by disembarking at Serenity Station
some distance from its destination
knowing I was as close as I would ever be
to a place that didn't exist
leaving behind a ghost train
 
Going nowhere on the Heavenly Line.


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We Warmly Welcome Poet Karen O'Leary To VerseWrights

PictureKaren O'Leary

Twilight Splendor

    Autumn’s colorful hues
    have come and gone.

Silver strands replace
    youth’s golden tresses.
Gentle strength flows
    through her wrinkled hands.
Though bones ache,
    a smile lights her face.
Her fragile body encases
    a warm, generous heart.
When she eases into a room,
    others pause in awe.

In the middle of winter,
    her faith flows on.



Simon says

Simon says
take two steps back--
spring layoff


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Samantha Reynolds: Big Questions From The Little One

PictureSamantha Reynolds


The big questions

You used to ask me about death
in the dark
in the whisper voice you use
when you don’t want
your stuffies to hear

but now you are
so cheerful about it
pointing at old people
in grocery stores
asking me with some excitement
if they are almost dead

yesterday you cornered me
and wanted to know
if people ever die
the night before Christmas

I tell you people die every day
in a tone that tries to say

death is not scary
but perhaps don’t bring it up
so loud in public
so you whisper back
with wide eyes

what does Santa do
with their toys?


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E. Michael Desilets: Two Locales, Two Poems

PictureE. Michael Desilets


Broadway & 116th

mounted police
were waiting for him
at the subway exit
 
he wasn’t about to explain
he was headed home
from an old movie

Spencer Tracy
Me and My Gal
Joan Bennett

during demonstrations
cops on horses
discourage explanations
 
and prefer you gallop wordlessly
down the hill toward Riverside Drive
and enjoy the jittery Jersey skyline



Locust, Near 9th

She sat on the hood of his car again
hunched in the dark smoking
her old brand.  She had
her reasons and a key
 
she wouldn’t use.  Four floors up
also in the dark but smoke-free
he gnawed on microwave pizza.
It tasted like her tobacco tongue
 
and made him cry.  He refused
to show himself at the window.
That had been Cool Hand Luke’s
mistake.  She would be out
 
of cigarettes and gone before
the paper hit the stoop
faithful at least
to her punctilious boss.


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Alaskan Poet Rivka Zorea Laments The Warmth

PictureRivka Zorea


 This Year

  it was the year
  Without Winter

No pillow of soft snow
No children leaning
into icy wind

In Eegeegeek
In Shaktuliq and 
Kotzebue

the children did 
not laugh catching 
soft flakes on their 
tongues

Huddled around
the school where 
village elders 
gather

the Raven flies silently
his usual raucous laughter
is now
only a warning 

and the polar bear 
sits facing the sea


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Tracey Gunne's Latest Poem Is A Delicate Balance

PictureTracey Gunne






Growing Up On Our Street

You captivated my lonely days
by painting white lines
we were meant to jump into 
and through
your hair hanging loose and always
longer than mine
you were delicate like
the hand me down socks
your mother kept forgetting 
to mend
she was too busy cooking 
Sunday night dinners
where she'd serve herself last
so I thought it would be you 
who'd need saving but in the end
it was me
my dad outside at 2 am screaming 
at the trees to stop dancing 
as my mother tried to capture him 
like a frightened bird

Your house was safer for sleepovers
we'd spread pillows on the cold floor
the secrets you whispered were stories
I already knew
but I loved how safe it felt
as we tucked ourselves in
and how you pretended to believe
all the lies I wanted to be true
and how you hid a flashlight
in case the darkness made me dizzy
I remember wanting to touch
the soft skin behind your ear
after you fell asleep without me
and wondered 
if anyone else could be willing 
to love you more

We are mothers now to daughters
who we teach to be brave
to walk away from men
who run mad into the dark streets

We remember to tuck them in

We remember to mend


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Two Poems, Two Moods From Jacqueline Czel

PictureJacqueline Czel



   In Green Pastures


Dare the roaming scapegoats live or die?
Dare fat ewes and young lambs bleat or cry;
where carcasses and silver casings are strewn;
and warm pools of crimson slicken shades
of ochre, ecru, marron - ebony and brun?

Corpses into cut grass many mothers lower
while o'er hills, patches of civil rights fade;
A star, a badge, a scythe - a swift mowing blade.



Song for a Sparrow

I took a break
from all social chatter
and the evening news,
I took a break - thinking,
I wouldn't chirp
the same old sorry song,
or trill from my tree,
the same old sad blues;
but at last - at last,
I know I must sing,
for the Sun,
the new morning,
and all the hope it brings.


Read the poetry of Jacqueline Czel
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The Dreams, The Reality in Ana Caballero's Latest Poem

PictureAna Caballero
  






I once thought I could know anything

The death knowledge of the Buddha
The clarifying call of Gabriel
Former lives and abetting suns
That enthrall worlds more able than mine
 
I too never doubted my time supply
To be the daughter of the dying father
Who buries without the blow of love regret
 
But my father is dying an excessive death
With a wounded body that aligns
Rare moments of life
To the faint efforts of his mind
 
And I do
 
I offer my happy baby’s dance
Ask about our mayor and the bad president
So together
We can wave our related heads with a laugh
 
I bring home the foods he likes to eat
Chocolate sugar-free
A bag of sweet yellow tomatoes
That falls when his good hand forgets to grab
 
And when he insists on phoning my mother
Makes a promise that he won’t speak drink
I dial
 
I do I dance
 
Far from the Buddha knowledge of the giving death
Deaf to the recurring chant of Gabriel
Books by my bed and worlds of grace
That I grasp

But lack the good hand with which to grab


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Michele Seminara: No More Meddling...

PictureMichele Seminara
  Stop

  Let's leave everything be.
  Let's just stop fixing.
  Perhaps if we let everyone settle
  clarity will be revealed.

Today I entered the cathedral of the bush
-- 
sought permission to walk the land; felt it granted.
Was buoyed by a chorus of cicadas ululating 
their adulation to the Gaia of this world.
(On Facebook a slowed down recording of cicadas —  
oh my, what exaltation! Beyond the range of men.) 

As I traipse through the bush 
in my rag of a dress,
great slobbery dog loping 
at my side, a dishevelled woman 
with hands clasped behind her back
like some unhinged Confucian scholar
-- 

a brown snake crosses my path. 
It's an intimate moment, as if 
he has been waiting for me.
What does one do in such a moment? 
Acknowledge, pass...

Let's leave everything be. 
Let's just stop fixing.

I want to open like that naked flannel-flower to the sun.


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Allison Grayhurst: Two Poems Of Introspection

PictureAllison Grayhurst


 Liquid Art

 Warm fluid
 reaching my lips, filling my mouth
 and strengthening.
 I am chased and must
drink to survive, to gain a flow
that does not fit amongst all this normalcy.
It plops like an explosive
on my lap and won’t allow me to forget or regret
its pull and command.
Like a ripe peach to the parched throat, it slides down
and radiates relief to all sections of my spine.
It owns me as does the rhythm of my pulse.
It keeps me a part yet binds me as one.
It is my surrender, my glad awakening. It is my freak .....show,
my unhappy necessity:
I bite, I swallow
and then I am brave
once again.


Remembering

Climb on board
where my mystery is sharp
and dangerous. The red light
flashes on the cold embittered face -
a pale grey against a rich tone
of burgundy and black.
On my shoulders, age and history are taken
and every memory is pure, whole, experienced
by the senses, is coming back
like chaos ringing all around.

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Daniel Klawitter And The Trials Of Human Language

PictureDaniel Klawitter

   Speech Pathology

    The most important thing to say
    hasn’t been said yet.  
                         –Plato, The Republic II

They whisper in your ear
But stop just short of what
You hope to hear
And can’t articulate.
 
Your mouth is mush-
The unsaid phrase 
You anticipate 
Becomes: “hush child, hush.”
 
Why so hard to speak
When the garden of words
Is so lush? Why do your eyes
Leak and your heart beat thus?
 
That fearful fluency 
That others trust
In us is non-transparency,
A dam that won’t bust. 
 
But even those who speak
Extemporaneously on their feet
With such seeming ease 
And compelling candor-
 
Cannot exhaust or appease
The desire for language 
To be more than precise.
It wants instead to meander
 
Beyond the limits of grammar
To the unthought-of thought 
That causes one to stammer
In the fraught-filled speaking. 
 
The best has not yet been said;
How hopeful to have overheard-
And silence is no cause for dread,
For it precedes the spoken Word.


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