Archive #32
February, 2016
VerseWrights Warmly Welcomes Poet
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Diana Matisz
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New Poem And Photo Art From
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Photo art by Diana Matisz (Click photo for enlarged view)
The river feels old today
skin and bones old
old, like memories pressed between ice
Enjoy the poetry and photo art of Diana Matisz
Read a profile of Diana Matisz
skin and bones old
old, like memories pressed between ice
Enjoy the poetry and photo art of Diana Matisz
Read a profile of Diana Matisz
VerseWrights Warmly Welcome Poet
Paulie Lipman
Paulie Lipman
Schematics
Colorado
does not hold the patent
on tragedy, but
we understand its machinery
The rest of the country
can complain about
the casting of Ben Affleck
as the new Dark Knight
but Batman
means something different
in Aurora, Colorado
Everyone else
can debate about bullying
but we’ve already seen
one version of the end game
in Littleton
It is a first person shooter
Y’all can watch Kobe
get off a jumper while
we have seen him foul,
get off, and then get off for it
Ours is a place
still recoiling from a time
when the Klan used to march
so deep down Broadway you’d think
the White Tide was in and everyone
leapt in for a baptism
We are haunted
and see the same phantoms
behind the eyes of
Boston
Sandy Hook
Oklahoma City
All of us
praying for exorcism
and that one day the spirits
will finally
stop howling
Read the poetry of Paulie Lipman
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Two Short Poems From Poet
David Klawitter
Daniel Klawitter
Talk About the Weather
“Weather forecast for tonight: dark.”
~George Carlin
When the fingers of winter
Claw their cold way
Through the stark bark
Of brittle trees-
Your figurative heart is still
At home by the hearth,
Curled up little and tight
As the paw of a worn-out kitten-
Clutching a wisp of warmth
Among the fuzz and fizz
Of dying embers.
Such Strange Pageantry
Remembrance of things past
is not necessarily the remembrance of things
as they were. –Marcel Proust
It is a strange alchemy-
To make the past present
Through an act of will
And remembrance.
To make it real
Though intangible,
While never leaving
The mind’s labyrinths.
Such strange pageantry-
At times unpleasant
With regretful lament.
Time travel as penance
Is impractical-but still
We honor the Sabbath.
We keep it holy-and we will
Unpack our baggage.
Read the poetry of Daniel Klawitter
Read a profile of Dan ill Klawitter
Donal Mahoney
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Donal Mahoney: Sisters And The Sound Of Music... |
Twin Sisters, 1948
Beth was always different
marching as she did
to an armless drummer.
Her sister Kate marched
to another drummer,
one with arms on certain days
but never with a drum
that caught the sticks Kate
kept in the air flailing.
When the girls were young
their mom and dad took them out
for walks on Sunday
afternoons in summer.
The girls waved to butterflies
but never to anyone else.
It was hard for other kids
peering from porches
to understand the problem.
When the twins were small
they didn't call it autism.
It had no name on my block.
Now the illness has a name
and different medications
that sometimes temper
but never cure.
The girls are women now
old and living in a big home
with others in a small band
some still playing instruments
no one else can see.
Read the poetry of Donal Mahoney
Read a profile of Donal Mahoney
Beth was always different
marching as she did
to an armless drummer.
Her sister Kate marched
to another drummer,
one with arms on certain days
but never with a drum
that caught the sticks Kate
kept in the air flailing.
When the girls were young
their mom and dad took them out
for walks on Sunday
afternoons in summer.
The girls waved to butterflies
but never to anyone else.
It was hard for other kids
peering from porches
to understand the problem.
When the twins were small
they didn't call it autism.
It had no name on my block.
Now the illness has a name
and different medications
that sometimes temper
but never cure.
The girls are women now
old and living in a big home
with others in a small band
some still playing instruments
no one else can see.
Read the poetry of Donal Mahoney
Read a profile of Donal Mahoney
VerseWrights Warmly Welcomes Poet Marianne Szlyk
Marianne Szlyk
Maryville Park in July
The pond at the park clouds over.
Flies and fish kiss the water’s surface.
Three birds dart through the air above.
Everywhere there is life – in the water,
the reeds, the islands of brown-gray mud,
the flowers that crowd around the pond
as it shrinks and grows opaque. But
I cannot find the turtle I saw
last night. Squinting, holding my breath, I
glimpse it. But it does not move.
It is a turtle-shaped rock, mineral, not animal.
Bronze diamond, it will stay there forever.
I listen to the cicadas’ twisting percussion,
look for flowering milkweed, and watch fireflies
like beads of sweat on hot nights.
Soon they too will die. Only sky,
earth, and water
will remain.
Medical Center Underground
The high ceiling, a concrete ribcage,
swells with air-conditioned breath.
Commuters in white and red mill around.
Like blood cells, they are ready to travel
through the queen’s earthen body
from liver to lung to spleen.
Read the poetry of Marianne Szlyk
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Poet Roslyn Ross On The Nature
Of Memory
Roslyn Ross
Shapes
The day carries its own load,
forgotten moments, buried,
repressed, denied, dismissed;
like packages tied neatly and
then packed carefully into
a space, which can be then
covered over, as if it had
never been, and yet, it was
and still is, and remains in
its own dark truth, despite
the fact that it cannot be
easily seen, unless time is
taken to uncover, unwrap,
release, and make real and
raw, that which was once
consigned to the grave of
painful, non-being, as if
in the removing from the
now, it could be taken out
of existence, and cut from
the cloth of being, which
remained; but of course,
the shape was always seen
and as the edges frayed,
even then, its form could
not be denied, cast eternal
in those marks which called
forever true and always
known, even though, the
eye and mind could discern
no fixed shape - still, it
lives and surely grieves.
Read the poetry of Roslyn Ross
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We Warmly Welcome Poet Peter V. Dugan
To VerseWrights
Peter V. Dugan
Catholic School Dance
In 8th grade,
Sister Regina proclaimed:
“'MAD' magazine is Communist propaganda;
reading it could damn your soul!”
She also said:
“All babies that die unbaptized go to limbo;
they have the stain of original sin on their souls.
But, all aborted babies are innocent martyrs
and go directly to heaven.”
I asked if we would be better off,
if we all had been aborted.
I failed religion that year.
Sister Regina told my parents
I was reading ‘MAD’ magazine.
Later, in high school,
Brother Larry joked,
“The church only recognizes limbo
as a dance, everyone is innocent
until they reach knowledge and awareness
of their actions.”
But, who sets the bar?
Are we still unaware or are we all stuck
in limbo, doing a dance, seeing
just how low we can go?
Read the poetry of Peter V. Dugan
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Two New Poems From Poet L.L. Barkat
L.L. Barkat
Byway
I have never seen one,
he said,
speaking of the mulberry tree.
They are large, I told him.
It is hard to reach the berries,
though some branches weep down,
and in the weeping
your chance is granted.
Dark, dark purple, I told him. Indigo maybe.
The stain goes deep.
It will ruin your clothes, I told him--
even as you can't stop yourself
from taking more
and more and more.
(Untitled)
Do the shells still hear the sea,
though they are in pieces;
how deep does the hearing of the sea
enter into bone.
Read the poetry of L.L. Barkat
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Richard Levine And A Teacher's Trials
Richard Levine
Lost and Found Poetry
After watching the documentary about a poetry festival,
a student noticed the book on my desk, bearing the same title.
“Are all the poets from the movie, in it?” she asked, picking it up.
“More,” I said. “Would you like to read it? Take it.”
Quick as those two words, her eyes widened. She placed one hand
on top of the book, as if swearing an oath. Her smile broadened
to her eyes, until I finished my thought. “Give it back to me
after the holiday.”
If the shades had been suddenly drawn and the lights turned off,
the room could not be more absent light than her face,
and I felt I was holding something broken
when she handed the book back.
Read the poetry of Richard Levine
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Joanna Suzanne Lee: The Colors Of A Relationship
Joanna Suzanne Lee
Color Theory
my head turns to follow
the camaro as it blurs
gleaming in June sunlight;
There is no color as candy blue
you say, & it is just another
round with the heavy bag
as we cruise swerving
riverward a hot back road,
windows down, my skin
glistening like metal. i smile
and duck is so, i say, & you
bob and grin and i wish
every Sunday were like this:
fistless not-at-your-face fights
where you just brush my cheek
and we ride, river-
wound and sticky sweet, instead
of sitting like regrets, side-by side
plucking apologetic petals
that fade. love
is not pink.
Read the poetry of Joanna Suzanne Lee
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Jacqueline Czel: From Battle-Axe to Totem, And Much In Between
Jacqueline Czel
When I Grow Up
I am going to become
an emblazoned battle-axe,
a busy-body biddy,
and a foul-mouthed fishwife,
who speaks her mind.
I am going to become,
a fate, a fury, and a fussbudget,
who doesn't waste any time.
When I grow up,
I am going to become a venemous virago,
a gorgon, and an old war-horse too.
And I'll make sure I'm a crotchety pain in the ass.
That's just what I'll do.
And I am going to boldly,
just tell it like it is
because when I grow up,
I won't be wasting time,
trying to figure out, how to live.
I'm going to become,
a white-haired witch,
perhaps a scholarly sage.
A reader of the seasons,
and moving tides,
and certainly more than a digital page.
I am going to become,
a beldam, a grand-mom, a dowager, hag or an old bag,
I am going to be - as stubborn as a mule,
and - Oh, the best of nags.
I am going to criticize
quick fix cooking,
and the ways of the waist whittling world,
and predict if children in still flat bellies,
are indeed - a boy or a girl.
When I grow up,
I am going to become,
a most discerning crone.
And I am going to be able to hear
brewing tempests and my children's sorrows
in that distance on the phone.
I will be somewhat weathered,
and withered - but very, very wise,
and I will detect the follies of youth,
with my laugh-lined eyes.
When I grow up,
I will become a crazy old bat, a cantankerous crab, or an eccentric old bird,
and I will no longer worry about purpose, or gold.
I will become the Totem - blessing the family fold.
Read the poetry of Jacqueline Czel
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VerseWrights Warmly Welcomes Poet
Shannon P. Laws
Shannon P. Laws
Lining of My Mind
The future comes to me
quickly
Premonition stands outside the window, framed to be seen,
stands politely ‘til the door opens
the right door
at the right time
Tea or coffee?
A blanket for your lap?
It’s cold outside where time weathers
as a pacific swirl over the peninsula
hooked on peaks
cold. still.
It rains in my house.
The fire is out.
Wet paper see-throughs to wooden table.
Drips creep across the low areas, finds them all
--both the dark and the hidden.
I’m swept up into this ungraspable moment Future comes to visit.
Somewhere close by
another turns the channel,
a person adds soap to the wash,
a cat sighs in the window--
all in silent exclamation.
What we desire more than seasons or weather
is the comfort of being a stranger, more so with ourselves.
It is better not to know.
So I wait.
Wait for something that vanishes as soon as it arrives.
It’s appearance not unlike mowed lawn
--the stalk of the dandelion snapped.
It’s there. We know it.
Whether we walk on it or not.
The merciless motor hums in the distance and every so often
a breeze from the south carries the leaky-green odor of grass.
Read the poetry of Shannon P. Laws
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Poet Emily Strauss And A Tale Of
Two "Cities"
Emily Strauss
Inertia
In the city of restless souls
in the stone-paved square
next to gelato vendors dozing
in the late afternoon heat
thick-set women shuffle out
of the cathedral where they go
at 3 PM after washing the sidewalks,
passing dusty sleeping dogs.
They pause a few moments
to tally their onyx rosary beads
with moving lips. Around the side
of the church yard, behind a crumbling
wall splashed red with lichen lies
the city of the dead, comforted
by a fountain of Saint Francis
holding his urn, surrounded by tidy
borders of ancient Eglantine roses
in profusion. Swallows swoop from
beneath the thick beams, just graze
the granite grave stones lying askew.
How close these two cities lie.
Their sidewalk smells and leafy humus
both alive with death-defying
fecundity counter all the inertia that
roots us firmly to the ground on either
side of the wall, staring at the other half.
Read the poetry of Emily Strauss
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Charlie Brice
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Charlie Brice: When Caterwauling Rises To The Level Of Poetry |
Put Them All Together (with stage directions)
(sing to the melody of the soppy Irish song M-O-T-H-E-R)
M stands for the murderous feelings you had for my father,
wishing him dead the day before
he died from a heart attack.
O stands for the ostracism you endured when, after you attacked
me with a broom, I didn’t speak to you for a year in the eighties.
T is for the trial you put me through when I brought Judy, my Jewish
girlfriend,
home to meet you and you bragged how you had “Jewed-down”
Mexican merchants on a trip to Tijuana.
H is for the humiliation I felt as you boasted to your friends
that I wore “Husky” pants when I weighed 164 pounds
in sixth grade and you didn’t think I was fat.
E stands for the psychotic envy you displayed when, in your seventies,
you proclaimed that you were “prettier” than me.
R is for your favorite name for my father: “Rotten Son-of-a-Bitch,”
which you called him when he was drunk and didn’t care.
(stop singing)
Put them all together and they spell … regret.
They spell … I loved you anyway.
They spell … I’m glad you’re out of your misery.
They spell … it couldn’t have been otherwise.
(sing to the melody of the soppy Irish song M-O-T-H-E-R)
M stands for the murderous feelings you had for my father,
wishing him dead the day before
he died from a heart attack.
O stands for the ostracism you endured when, after you attacked
me with a broom, I didn’t speak to you for a year in the eighties.
T is for the trial you put me through when I brought Judy, my Jewish
girlfriend,
home to meet you and you bragged how you had “Jewed-down”
Mexican merchants on a trip to Tijuana.
H is for the humiliation I felt as you boasted to your friends
that I wore “Husky” pants when I weighed 164 pounds
in sixth grade and you didn’t think I was fat.
E stands for the psychotic envy you displayed when, in your seventies,
you proclaimed that you were “prettier” than me.
R is for your favorite name for my father: “Rotten Son-of-a-Bitch,”
which you called him when he was drunk and didn’t care.
(stop singing)
Put them all together and they spell … regret.
They spell … I loved you anyway.
They spell … I’m glad you’re out of your misery.
They spell … it couldn’t have been otherwise.
Enjoy this performance in the PoetryAloud area
Read the poetry of Charlie Brice
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Read the poetry of Charlie Brice
Read a profile of Charlie Brice
Poet Matthew Quinn: In Or Out Of Control
Matthew Quinn
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All in Perspective Earth rolls through the tidal pull of the moon; ocean rises to and eases from the sway of her lunar love. The planet plows into the mirror seasons of its hemispheres on a tipsy, spinning, elliptical path. We forever fall as an autumn leaf past the sun, all of us twirling and arcing unawares, or with equal truth each holds a central point hidden within, around which the universe dances at our whim. Read the poetry of Matthew Quinn Read a profile of Matthew Quinn |
A New Poem From Poet Dana Rushin
Dana Rushin
when i fell in love i pulled the front of the house off
because I was scared, again, of being injured; of the sound.
In that way you fear pulling too hard on the zipper
of the sweater a dead aunt embroidered. Or looking
at the sun too long as if the eyes could kill themselves without your
skull being aware.
Because this time, I want more workmanship
which is the same as demanding excessive delicacy.
Before I went to all places slow since a lonely person goes
everywhere slowed down.
Before the demons of self-doubt come from behind
the dresser where the top of the Jergens lotion still rests
on it's side like the hull of a shipwreck. Or from behind
freeway signs, to wag their fingers in my face
and say how silly you are to think it was love in the first place
and not just the house being spun on the fingertips of a Sinbad
dragon
interminably homesick for the sea.
Read the poetry of Dana Rushin
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We Welcome Poet And Musician Brendan Bonsack To VerseWrights
Brendan Bonsack
Without Possession
All along the bended mesh
A severance of swallows
Gathered
Gathered here
Gathered here today
You arrive
Without possession
The rusty click
Of gate
Rejoining its place
Among the pickets
Squinting through a fly screen door
Peeling at the corners
I must to you
Seem as much a shadow
As you to me
A vivid apparition
Even as our shoes
Pestle the powdery drive
And we collide
Silent as the seam
Of adjacent days
Forehead to forehead
And a gathering
Of hands
Read the poetry of Brendan Bonsack
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Clarence Wolfshohl Captures An Essence
During Surgery
Clarence Wolfshohl
The Woman Who Took Everything to Heart ☊
When the surgeons opened her heart
while keeping theirs closed, heads
in control, they found kitchen appliances
from 1935 on, refrigerators and blenders
she had set hers on as a bride,
ten foot high Nebraska snowdrifts
that never melted, one thousand miles
of dirt and gravel road crammed
in a 1915 Model-T sedan,
packing crates of grapefruits--
Ruby Reds from the Rio Grande Valley--
several men in various stages
of tenderness, one with a ring,
children in snapshots wearing cowboy
boots and poodle skirts, bouquets
of faded camellias and tables
of card games, grudges with salt
at the temples, some completely gray
or bald, sensible nursing shoes
sticking out tongues, missed
opportunities and occasions,
stale sentiments and promises,
cross words and gentle joshing.
The doctors sutured everything back in,
intricate needlework across her chest,
knew if they cleaned it out,
she would float away.
Enjoy this poem in the PoetryAloud area
Read the poetry of Clarence Wolfshohl
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Read the poetry of Clarence Wolfshohl
Read a profile of Clarence Wolfshohl
Robert Nied
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Poet Robert Nied And The Guilt From A Careless Conclusion |
Judged ☊
Tattooed breasts and the smell of cigarettes
You put your fruit punch and hot dogs on the checkout belt
I sized you up and assigned you a place in my mind and a place in
the world
It was easy, so many things to assure me
Tank top, yellow-black bruise and a food stamp card
Behind you I pushed my cart to the parking lot
You talked on the phone, stopped and began to weep
Then you started to shake, dropping your head like a bag of stones, tears on the pavement
I could hear it all. You were losing your child.
Unfit, unfit.
I thought of my son and wanted to hold him
I thought of you and wanted to say I was sorry
I thought of everything I did not know about you
And I was heartbroken.
Tattooed breasts and the smell of cigarettes
You put your fruit punch and hot dogs on the checkout belt
I sized you up and assigned you a place in my mind and a place in
the world
It was easy, so many things to assure me
Tank top, yellow-black bruise and a food stamp card
Behind you I pushed my cart to the parking lot
You talked on the phone, stopped and began to weep
Then you started to shake, dropping your head like a bag of stones, tears on the pavement
I could hear it all. You were losing your child.
Unfit, unfit.
I thought of my son and wanted to hold him
I thought of you and wanted to say I was sorry
I thought of everything I did not know about you
And I was heartbroken.
Enjoy this poem in the PoetryAloud area
Read the poetry of Robert Nied
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Read the poetry of Robert Nied
Read a profile of Robert Nied
Karla Linn Merrifield
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Poet Karla Linn Merrifield And A
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Backyard
This grandmother cottonwood
is ideal for the tree house
I am reconstructing in its limbs.
The old native welcomes one
from the past, c. 1969,
one that stood on stilts.
You climbed a ladder, clumsy;
I followed you, fumbling,
to where bunk beds had been used
by Ann’s older brother, and Jean’s--
boys-to-men’s beer spilled sperm.
Knees hugged to abdomen,
we sat on bare plank flooring
and kept each other’s secrets.
Who knows? You. Me.
And now the old witness tree.
Read the poetry of Karla Linn Merrifield
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Lucy Logsdon Captures How It Was--
And How It Is
Lucy Logsdon
Days of 1979
When we slid into her dad’s four by four,
we were smart as anything. Slim,
long-limbed, we oiled our bodies
as much as the truck—hands lingering
over each curve, fender, each slender hip.
Camels, unfiltered, were the only things
we’d smoke, flicking the ashes, then our hair,
blown the color of hay dried and raked
all summer. She shifted gears,
grinding from first to fourth,
pushing the polished red Ford forward,
an eight horse engine out of the gate,
revving past the Bar-B-Que, the Sunoco,
and onto the two-lane highway, running
from town. In those days of 1979,
we were racing toward the lives we knew
existed somewhere beyond the cornfield’s horizon,
beyond the dust, beyond our town’s dimming lights.
At night, we would ignite with whiskey,
rock n’ roll, and boys on the seat.
She always said, the faster we drove,
the better it got, until the familiar oaks,
wheat, corn, bluebells and sweet williams finally dropped
away. Her lips red, her nails pale enameled pink,
she talked of skyscrapers, elevators, neon signs,
of the way the nights stayed bright in a city—-
as if we could see cities, as if we knew
what lives those cities might hold.
We hardly knew of death or the absences
that solidify into endless presences.
Our lives were all flux, rapid as a wild fire--
lost in the illumination, we never guessed
that those days of beginnings were also
days of endings; and I never dreamed
that her lips, her cat-green eyes, ponytailed hair,
her hands tapping the vinyl steering wheel,
would be the loss that sleeps
beside me nightly.
Read the poetry of Lucy Logsdon
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Jocelyn Mosman
|
Jocelyn Mosman, Cheese, Fruit, And Romance |
Organic Musings
You say I am really cheesy,
and I ask you,
what kind?
Am I holy like Swiss,
or sharp-witted like Cheddar,
or do I grate on your nerves
like Mozzarella?
You cringe.
I laugh.
I say you are fruitful,
and you ask me,
what kind?
Are you fresh like a strawberry,
or sour like a lemon,
or tart like a blueberry?
We both laugh,
and cringe.
You are a blueberry, I say.
and I picked you.
Your eyes match the night sky,
just as it reaches dusk,
if I were an artist
I would paint your eyes
and the sky
with blueberries.
But you know I’m not.
Instead, I write poems,
and you decide
I am a little more
Mozzarella than Swiss.
We both fall asleep,
laughing.
Read the poetry of Jocelyn Mosman
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You say I am really cheesy,
and I ask you,
what kind?
Am I holy like Swiss,
or sharp-witted like Cheddar,
or do I grate on your nerves
like Mozzarella?
You cringe.
I laugh.
I say you are fruitful,
and you ask me,
what kind?
Are you fresh like a strawberry,
or sour like a lemon,
or tart like a blueberry?
We both laugh,
and cringe.
You are a blueberry, I say.
and I picked you.
Your eyes match the night sky,
just as it reaches dusk,
if I were an artist
I would paint your eyes
and the sky
with blueberries.
But you know I’m not.
Instead, I write poems,
and you decide
I am a little more
Mozzarella than Swiss.
We both fall asleep,
laughing.
Read the poetry of Jocelyn Mosman
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Poet Scott Thomas Outlar Makes
His Decision
Scott Thomas Outlar
Prioritizing the Itinerary
I saw God
descending downward
in a golden halo cloud
from Heaven’s precipice,
radiating pure source energy
with electrical sparks
which illuminated space
in all directions.
I saw the sky rip open.
I saw the New Age birthed.
I saw the world rejoicing
in outbursts of uncontrollable weeping.
I saw people falling to their knees
in praise and adulation,
worshipping the miracle,
singing with angelic voices
in a chorus of perfect harmony and rhythm
about the blessings
being bestowed upon the Earth
through the grace of a second coming.
I saw it all transpire
in a Big Bang flash
of terrible awesomeness.
I saw the unfolding
of a glorious affirmation
as peace flowed over the land
and rippled in cascades through the blood
beating in the veins of a billion newly opened hearts.
I came…I saw…
I turned my back
and walked away…
I had other things
that needed to be done.
Read the poetry of Scott Thomas Outlar
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Leslie Philibert
|
Two New Poems From Poet Leslie Philibert |
Dark Church
angular,
behind black,
a suggestion of brick;
the spire moon
shadows the roots
under stars,
slight warmth
of sandstone
and ticking birds,
small movements
between gravestones
and curled brass ;
a dark box
of stone waiting
for the edge of light.
Black Dog
A black dog has
chewed the string of my heels,
followed my eyes,
heavy with dark corners,
pushed me over the fence,
down the path,
broken with stones,
cruel with gravel
and follwed me into the shallows
where I hit the tide
with the flat of my hand.
Read the poetry of Leslie Philibert
Read a profile of Leslie Philibert
angular,
behind black,
a suggestion of brick;
the spire moon
shadows the roots
under stars,
slight warmth
of sandstone
and ticking birds,
small movements
between gravestones
and curled brass ;
a dark box
of stone waiting
for the edge of light.
Black Dog
A black dog has
chewed the string of my heels,
followed my eyes,
heavy with dark corners,
pushed me over the fence,
down the path,
broken with stones,
cruel with gravel
and follwed me into the shallows
where I hit the tide
with the flat of my hand.
Read the poetry of Leslie Philibert
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Poet David Adès And A Shared Experience
David Adès
To You, Reader of This Poem ☊
Now that you are here,
now that you have turned aside
for a moment
from all the other parts of your life
(their keening, their calling)
and given this page your eyes,
whilst elsewhere the endless ritual
of activity goes on --
lovers tender in each other's arms,
students at their books, cooks at their kitchens,
patients drowsy in their hospital beds --
ask yourself what you have gained
and what you have lost,
how your memories and your thoughts
have changed
since you began reading these lines,
how different you are now
from whom you were before,
as I am different at the end of this poem
to the man who began with an empty page.
New Haiga From Poet And Artist
Caroline Skanne
Caroline Skanne
flowering rush
the parallel world
of a damselfly
Artwork by Caroline Skanne (click to enlarge)
Two Prose Poems From Poet Ana Caballero
Ana Caballero
Soft Landings and Quick Bites
Rotting is a gradual process. It starts while the fruit is still ripe and hanging lightly from the tree. Once it falls, the process is in full, and the fruit must be thrown away or eaten quickly.
I have picked mangoes off the floor of warm places because they taste good when they are about to turn bad. They are also delicious before they become ripe. Mangoes are an exception.
But, this is not about exceptions. This is about the gradual process of rotting, even while hanging lightly from the tree. Even while young and pleasant, with clean clothes and comfortable heels. Being mindful of the ground does not mean being ready for the fall.
The Clothes Maker
My clothes come from places that are not immediately obvious: A forty-day South American Christmas, an attempt at youth in College, a place of blessing turned hard.
Embroidering is slow, so I mix patience with excess and comfort. Embroidering can be silent or loud, and it is inside and out; but it remains the single piece of cloth I choose.
At unexpected sounds, my thread sheers a right breast pocket to gently cinch the waist. A set of green grapes spilled from the cup of an already full Caravaggio.
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Rowena Carenen Unpacks Her Baggage
Rowena Carenen
Place on Thyme
Books on shelves
paintings on walls
clothes in drawers and closets.
Plates commingle
wine glasses kiss
and matching scissors
sit atop the counter.
A new home and all
the boxes are empty
and my shampoo
sits in the shower.
Even my reading nook
nestles just so
by the window.
Sylvia sleeps schooched
into my knee pit, snoring
and sneezing.
Bea and I are up
past my bedtime
with hot toddies and giggles
and I am home.
But sometimes, when I first
wake before the sun
shines through coffee colored
curtains, I forget
that I sleep alone
and my rings are packed away.
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