Archive #37
July, 2016
Emily Strauss Composes A Letter
|
Emily Strauss
|
Dear Reader If I could tie the world up in strings make a manageable bundle that you can carry neatly in your pocket with its name on the label so you can identify yourself then I will have solved your problem and I can let the words go again to tumble around the bottom of the jar like swill in a dank hold, and you, dear reader, can afford to ignore them-- the words I have hoarded so long will wash out to sea with the tide leaving you untouched and dry as you watch the dregs run past your feet without understanding. Read the poetry of Emily Strauss Read a profile of Emily Strauss |
Lynn White
|
Lynn White Reimagines Alice
|
Through the Glass
A long time ago, Alice saw herself
in her looking glass and walked through
into a topsy turvy world
where everything was back to front and inside out.
She drifted into a dreamscape
of madness and unreality,
without breaking the glass.
She wasn’t cut by the shards of her mirror
or the place she entered into.
She had only to wake from her dream
to make things the right way round again.
But with a clear glass,
a transparent window to the world,
things would have been different.
She would look towards a place
where everything seems the right way round,
where everything makes sense
and adds up sweet with reason.
There seems no madness in this place
which looks easy for her to enter
and welcomes her without sharp edges.
But the clear glass is an invisible barrier
to the life on the other side
that seduces and entices her.
And to step inside she has to break the glass
whose sharp edges cut her, really cut her.
And then propel her crazily on.
Unable to wake, she finds herself in
a jagged, topsy turvy place
where things are spinning round wildly.
Where caricatures of humanity scream out,
distorted, trying to make sense of it.
Front to back and outside in
Everything is the wrong way round again.
Read the poetry of Lynn White
Read a profile of Lynn White
A long time ago, Alice saw herself
in her looking glass and walked through
into a topsy turvy world
where everything was back to front and inside out.
She drifted into a dreamscape
of madness and unreality,
without breaking the glass.
She wasn’t cut by the shards of her mirror
or the place she entered into.
She had only to wake from her dream
to make things the right way round again.
But with a clear glass,
a transparent window to the world,
things would have been different.
She would look towards a place
where everything seems the right way round,
where everything makes sense
and adds up sweet with reason.
There seems no madness in this place
which looks easy for her to enter
and welcomes her without sharp edges.
But the clear glass is an invisible barrier
to the life on the other side
that seduces and entices her.
And to step inside she has to break the glass
whose sharp edges cut her, really cut her.
And then propel her crazily on.
Unable to wake, she finds herself in
a jagged, topsy turvy place
where things are spinning round wildly.
Where caricatures of humanity scream out,
distorted, trying to make sense of it.
Front to back and outside in
Everything is the wrong way round again.
Read the poetry of Lynn White
Read a profile of Lynn White
Rivka Zorea: The Fierceness of
Infancy Calmed
Rivka Zorea
|
New Grandchild Her cries become a palpable Sharp summoning to every fiber of my maternal being In her infant rage she manages to draw me into her echoing tiny protests Her entire small body is involved in her fury baby fists clenched her froggy legs now stretched out fully soul piercing outrage make me catch my breath I briefly wonder at her intensity this amazing elf like creature wielding so much power so much magnetic response Her power is complete Just as suddenly appeasement comes with a brief frantic searching and powerful attachment to the offered breast Read the poetry of Rivka Zorea Read a profile of Rivka Zorea |
Brendan Bonsack
|
Brendan Bonsack: Hearsay, Or Truth, Taken To The Grave |
Grandpa
It just could be we inherited
The spaces into which you stared
Palpable, like clay,
Thumbed without touch into everyday
Objects: the cheap ceramic statuettes
Of English setters and other creatures
Frames yellowed by mists of tobacco
And all your various pipes
Arranged in parade beside
Paperback westerns and other pulp fictions
All glistened in the bathe
Of noon television or late night test pattern glare.
Under foreign trees, it was said,
You killed seven men
And buried your friends
In the mud,
By a creased and unknown
Uniformed man
In a chapel of empty chairs.
These things you take with you,
Conveyed to flame by automation
And polite sliding door
Tread the poetry of Brendan Bonsack
Read a profile of Brendan Bonsack
It just could be we inherited
The spaces into which you stared
Palpable, like clay,
Thumbed without touch into everyday
Objects: the cheap ceramic statuettes
Of English setters and other creatures
Frames yellowed by mists of tobacco
And all your various pipes
Arranged in parade beside
Paperback westerns and other pulp fictions
All glistened in the bathe
Of noon television or late night test pattern glare.
Under foreign trees, it was said,
You killed seven men
And buried your friends
In the mud,
By a creased and unknown
Uniformed man
In a chapel of empty chairs.
These things you take with you,
Conveyed to flame by automation
And polite sliding door
Tread the poetry of Brendan Bonsack
Read a profile of Brendan Bonsack
jacob erin-cilberto
|
jacob erin-cilberto's Fairy Tale Has A Personal Twist |
slipping past midnight
i spilled my dreams
all over your blue dress,
and you became Cinderella
wondering why your prince
was so clumsy,
and full of shortcomings
and why the clock ticked toward midnight
and you couldn't wait for the carriage to turn back into a
pumpkin
and the horses heads to lean toward eternity
because you felt being with me was an eternity
on earth,
and then you picked up your broom
to sweep me away,
not realizing you had swept me
totally off of my feet
and that you had left my glass heart
in the carriage,
so that i could never retrieve it
in this fairy tale life
that has no ending.
Read the poetry of jacob erin-cilberto
Read a profile of jacob erin-cilberto
i spilled my dreams
all over your blue dress,
and you became Cinderella
wondering why your prince
was so clumsy,
and full of shortcomings
and why the clock ticked toward midnight
and you couldn't wait for the carriage to turn back into a
pumpkin
and the horses heads to lean toward eternity
because you felt being with me was an eternity
on earth,
and then you picked up your broom
to sweep me away,
not realizing you had swept me
totally off of my feet
and that you had left my glass heart
in the carriage,
so that i could never retrieve it
in this fairy tale life
that has no ending.
Read the poetry of jacob erin-cilberto
Read a profile of jacob erin-cilberto
Anara Guard
|
Anara Guard Returns With A
|
Reconciliation
You, who blocks my way--
the bump in the road,
snarl in my hair,
the stutter, limp, stone in my shoe.
The stumble, the hobble, the turnstile--
the crumbs in the sheet,
grit in my eye,
lump in my throat,
my club foot.
You, who impedes me--
stalls,
brakes me,
radio static,
muscle cramp.
You—the rim,
the rail,
the holding edge,
the hem, the belt,
the safety strap.
Sunshade, net, sieve.
My trigger lock.
The filter, reins,
the parachute creating drag--
slowing my fall.
You, who catches me--
cushions,
the hand on my heart--
the full stop--
there.
Read the poetry of Anara Guard
Read a profile of Anara Guard
You, who blocks my way--
the bump in the road,
snarl in my hair,
the stutter, limp, stone in my shoe.
The stumble, the hobble, the turnstile--
the crumbs in the sheet,
grit in my eye,
lump in my throat,
my club foot.
You, who impedes me--
stalls,
brakes me,
radio static,
muscle cramp.
You—the rim,
the rail,
the holding edge,
the hem, the belt,
the safety strap.
Sunshade, net, sieve.
My trigger lock.
The filter, reins,
the parachute creating drag--
slowing my fall.
You, who catches me--
cushions,
the hand on my heart--
the full stop--
there.
Read the poetry of Anara Guard
Read a profile of Anara Guard
Grace Pasco
|
We Warmly Welcome Poet
|
Bubble Boy
I see him packing up without me,
Getting ready to slip out the house while I sleep.
He’ll be careful so the locks won’t click too loud
Or the floors creak too much.
He is worried that the car should
Surreptitiously tell me of his departure,
Which would rupture the bubble he’s blowing,
The one he’ll ride like the Good Witch of the North.
Like the one in Wizard of Oz.
So I fold
And crisscross my arms over my chest
And act according to plan.
Awake, I sleep.
Then, click go the locks and
Creak goes the floor.
And the car? Is a narc.
I look to the gusts of wind and pray
That his bubble only bursts when he is ready
To land with hands open,
Unclenched and at peace.
Read the poetry of Grace Pasco
Read a profile of Grace Pasco
I see him packing up without me,
Getting ready to slip out the house while I sleep.
He’ll be careful so the locks won’t click too loud
Or the floors creak too much.
He is worried that the car should
Surreptitiously tell me of his departure,
Which would rupture the bubble he’s blowing,
The one he’ll ride like the Good Witch of the North.
Like the one in Wizard of Oz.
So I fold
And crisscross my arms over my chest
And act according to plan.
Awake, I sleep.
Then, click go the locks and
Creak goes the floor.
And the car? Is a narc.
I look to the gusts of wind and pray
That his bubble only bursts when he is ready
To land with hands open,
Unclenched and at peace.
Read the poetry of Grace Pasco
Read a profile of Grace Pasco
Ray Sharp Celebrates The New Season
With New Poems
Ray Sharp
|
Midsummer (Two Tanka) Deer in the hayfield – the dogs watch from a distance, underneath the pines, ears cocked, knowing their own minds with the sureness of old hills. A midsummer night breathes strangely erotic dreams through open windows clairvoying eleven does wandering in the shadows. Summer Sonnet Say you are the tomato plant in the container on the flagstone patio of her garden. She waters you when you droop, and snips away the superfluous yellow flowers. You are not the tomato plant in its entirety, in her eyes, you are one green tomato swelling to unlikely proportions. Ants trace the irregular canyons between artfully cut stone slabs. Now say you are an ant in a tent in the rain. She sleeps beside you. You both are dreaming of peonies. Read the poetry of Ray Sharp Read a profile of Ray Sharp |
J T Milford
|
J T Milford Probes Time
|
Blue Jays
“Once you have been there,
you’re there forever”
~Mary Oliver
Have you ever heard the sound of Blue Jays
just before a spring thunderstorm?
their loud raucous cawing tells me
a storm is near
falling pressure and the far off sound
of a train whistle confirms the
the impending rain
a low distant whistle that signals
be careful something is coming
In this May moment from another time
the day stands still, yet time does not
I am in the first grade classroom
looking out the big windows
an instant, though it happened
over seventy years ago
and the Jays have long been sleeping
their remains reclaimed by the earth
this sound and image come
in least expected times
and as always, I am there
Read the poetry of J T Milford
Read a profile of J T Milford
Dave Read
|
Dave Read Returns With All New Haiku And Tanka |
Selections from New Haiku and Tanka
cold snap
I turn my collar to
her feedback
pecking
at something
dead
the roadside crow
I swerve to miss
work shirt
I button down
my imagination
tracing a "V"
in the sand
the stick
he hit me
with
Read the poetry of Dave Read
Read a profile of Dave Read
cold snap
I turn my collar to
her feedback
pecking
at something
dead
the roadside crow
I swerve to miss
work shirt
I button down
my imagination
tracing a "V"
in the sand
the stick
he hit me
with
Read the poetry of Dave Read
Read a profile of Dave Read
Brian Mosher
|
Brian Mosher: Crime, Punishment And Love |
It was not a dark and stormy night
It was not a dark and stormy night.
No shots rang out in the humid August air.
No maid screamed, and no body fell to the floor.
No blood pooled, sticky and warm, across the linoleum.
But that doesn’t mean there was no tragedy
no crime
no heartache.
Because there was.
An 11 year old girl shouldn’t have to watch Daddy leave
with all his clothes shoved in black plastic trash bags.
That’s too young for that kind of loss.
A man who would do that deserves to be punished.
Incarcerated and berated and flagellated.
Not loved and admired.
Not told dumb jokes and secret hopes.
He shouldn’t be allowed to see the happy smiles, or get the glad-to-see-you hugs.
But she gives them, and he takes them,
because to not take them would be like leaving all over again.
Read the poetry of Brian Mosher
Read a profile of Brian Mosher
It was not a dark and stormy night.
No shots rang out in the humid August air.
No maid screamed, and no body fell to the floor.
No blood pooled, sticky and warm, across the linoleum.
But that doesn’t mean there was no tragedy
no crime
no heartache.
Because there was.
An 11 year old girl shouldn’t have to watch Daddy leave
with all his clothes shoved in black plastic trash bags.
That’s too young for that kind of loss.
A man who would do that deserves to be punished.
Incarcerated and berated and flagellated.
Not loved and admired.
Not told dumb jokes and secret hopes.
He shouldn’t be allowed to see the happy smiles, or get the glad-to-see-you hugs.
But she gives them, and he takes them,
because to not take them would be like leaving all over again.
Read the poetry of Brian Mosher
Read a profile of Brian Mosher
Amauri Solon Gives Us A
New Group Of Poems
Amauri Solon
|
Small Things: A Haiku Collection two ladybugs in an old match box - I miss my past a forgotten overcoat - in the pockets I find dried forget-me-nots rusty fishhooks - I still carry with me dad's wooden box buttons and needles - to my surprise grandaughter shows her treasure she blinks her left eye fast as a humming-bird I blink back - our flirtation a purse collapses open - miriad of beauty-gadgets spread on the floor pocketknife and a mini-flashlight - the boy's trade happens in a second Read the poetry of Amauri Solon Read a profile of Amauri Solon |
Robert Walicki: Snow, Laundry,
And A Moment Captured
Robert Walicki
|
Snow We don’t talk about inevitabilities, but when the meteorologist talks about lake effects and the cold front push I fold the laundry and watch affected counties slide across the screen my hand caught, skin’s rough palm on your soft shirt. There are those details anyone might cling to: The sounds of the roads, impassable slush at 3am. They say it may fall all night like this. So hard to predict these cold and warm fronts coming together. I’ve left your slip, your dresses in the basket-- velvet arms folded across its chest. You are sleeping and outside a neighbor somewhere is trying to start a car. Trees hang glimmering like old fashioned chandeliers. The branches, so full of snow almost touch the ground. Read the poetry of Robert Walicki Read a profile of Robert Walicki |
Clarence Wolfshohl
|
Clarence Wolfshohl Catches A Character...And Us With A Final Simile |
The Sign-Painter
He’s one of those cantankerous Missourians,
like the old man down at Jerome
with his Trail of Tears memorial,
said voices told him to build it,
voices of Cherokee who crossed
that way to Oklahoma, so he did.
Concrete statues, wishing wells,
A white buffalo. Jesse’s Howard’s shrine
was of words painted on signs.
No voices, just his begrudged self.
The town now calls the hill
Sign-Painter. He called it
Sorehead Hill. Covered it
with signs and wonderers--
windmills and crude wooden planes,
spinning and catching uplifts
among outlaw words.
The black and red words
of Biblical import, of outraged
justice, of municipal resistance.
The pointed fingers punctuating
the text like the thump
of hallelujah.
Read the poetry of Clarence Wolfshohl
Read a profile of Clarence Wolfshohl
He’s one of those cantankerous Missourians,
like the old man down at Jerome
with his Trail of Tears memorial,
said voices told him to build it,
voices of Cherokee who crossed
that way to Oklahoma, so he did.
Concrete statues, wishing wells,
A white buffalo. Jesse’s Howard’s shrine
was of words painted on signs.
No voices, just his begrudged self.
The town now calls the hill
Sign-Painter. He called it
Sorehead Hill. Covered it
with signs and wonderers--
windmills and crude wooden planes,
spinning and catching uplifts
among outlaw words.
The black and red words
of Biblical import, of outraged
justice, of municipal resistance.
The pointed fingers punctuating
the text like the thump
of hallelujah.
Read the poetry of Clarence Wolfshohl
Read a profile of Clarence Wolfshohl
Mark Dennis Anderson: Questions, Confession, Solution
Mark Dennis Anderson
|
The Changeover Déjà vu is just tired neurons firing into that part of the brain obsessed with the past. Would any of us be surprised if astronomers discover that the universe is sealed, shaped like a manila envelope? Dusk is a minor second resolving to a minor third, dissonance to sadness but relief nevertheless. I am obsessed with headphone jacks, deadbolts, and sterile nail clippers. What if what we fear isn’t that we’ll never change but that we keep missing it? Blinking sometimes skips scenes, sometimes entire chapters. They say human mouth cells replace themselves every twenty-four hours, so kiss me every morning as if for the first time. Read the poetry of Mark Dennis Anderson Read a profile of Mark Dennis Anderson |
For Dane Cobain, All Politics Is Personal
Dane Cobain
|
Keep the Faith Everything is terrible, and I’m dreading the inevitable tension when I mention condescension, the lack of respect and the disdain I collect for the men we elect as representatives, senseless centres of excellence rendered helpless. The footnotes of history books were made for men like me, who were born early and blessed with a blend of graft and greatness, but I hate this life at times, and we all do. I don’t mean to be a Debbie Downer, or to clown around with a Glasgow frown, causing trouble in smoking bubbles like the struggles we face on a daily basis, but you’ve gotta keep the faith if you want to win this race, and I hate the fates that make me late, the mistakes I made along the way, and the way I changed and stayed the same. Read the poetry of Dane Cobain Read a profile of Dane Cobain |
JD DeHart
|
JD DeHart Can Bearly Believe His Eyes... |
There is a Bear on the Front Porch
Of course, I check and see
him standing there, dressed as a bear.
Should not have left the trash out
this time, I suppose.
Should have cleaned up the yard
maybe a little better.
I flick the porch light on and he is gone,
replaced by a stack of boxes I place
there earlier, a creature disappearing
into lamination, conjured then into
a household set of objects, a common
jumble of cardboard and trepidation.
Read the poetry of JD DeHart
Read a profile of JD DeHart
Of course, I check and see
him standing there, dressed as a bear.
Should not have left the trash out
this time, I suppose.
Should have cleaned up the yard
maybe a little better.
I flick the porch light on and he is gone,
replaced by a stack of boxes I place
there earlier, a creature disappearing
into lamination, conjured then into
a household set of objects, a common
jumble of cardboard and trepidation.
Read the poetry of JD DeHart
Read a profile of JD DeHart
Angelee Deodhar
|
Angelee Deodhar's Haibun Calls On The Rhythms Of The Natural World |
Refrain
right away
a second winter rainfall...
mountain home
~Issa
The fire fills the room with a warm glow. In the distance, the outdoor wind chimes tinkle and I am reminded of other hurricane lamp lit nights, when, as a child I sat in bed, listening to the drumming on the tin overhangs of the verandah, the occasional flash of lightning, growl of thunder, crash of branches as they fell or the thump of snow.
Now the wind is gentle, the chimes just tinkle softly…and through the night the rain taps out a hypnotic rhythm outside my window.
with a gentle whine
the dog begs to get
into my bed
Read the poetry of Angelee Deodhar
Read a profile of Angelee Deodhar
right away
a second winter rainfall...
mountain home
~Issa
The fire fills the room with a warm glow. In the distance, the outdoor wind chimes tinkle and I am reminded of other hurricane lamp lit nights, when, as a child I sat in bed, listening to the drumming on the tin overhangs of the verandah, the occasional flash of lightning, growl of thunder, crash of branches as they fell or the thump of snow.
Now the wind is gentle, the chimes just tinkle softly…and through the night the rain taps out a hypnotic rhythm outside my window.
with a gentle whine
the dog begs to get
into my bed
Read the poetry of Angelee Deodhar
Read a profile of Angelee Deodhar
Sarah Hina's Latest Poem Provokes With Disquieting Imagery
Sara Hina
|
Elevation The church bells rang and the cardinals flew An altar of blood keeping the two Safe across the city's walls Until their final dying fall. When later, the violin player starts and fails to make a woman from gut and hair, of air and longing but I'll give him points for trying. For Love, what is deeper than Death but You? And how weak the word that wants Your flesh but bends before such broken bread. Read the poetry of Sarah Hina Read a profile of Sarah Hina |
James Croal Jackson
|
James Croal Jackson And A Convergence Of Then And Now |
Franklin Avenue in 2015
Two years ago, we would drink tall beers
hidden in black, plastic bags 'til we passed
from laughter, fluttered to fill
our glasses with more.
There would have been more pages
to turn, but none of us spoke our
human language anymore.
Now, a browned frond slumps
between parked cars.
Two teenagers flirt
underneath a palm. Whispered leaves
are fragile– each movement
a link to the next
until it is not.
Their laughs reverberate
when they, too, part. Uncork
those swan bottles–
let them go, graceful
into night.
Read the poetry of James Croal Jackson
Read a profile of James Croal Jackson
Ramon Loyola And A Conundrum
With Hands
Ramon Loyola
|
Familiar your hands feel familiar they are renegade tanks of warmth charging through layers of hair shooting pinpricks of invisible blood through epidermis and veins (i only meant to say hello to wish you well on your way but) your hands feel familiar i can’t make up my mind now if i should make them go away or make them want to stay or let my own go astray Read the poetry of Ramon Loyola Read a profile of Ramon Loyola |
ayaz daryl nielsen With A Memory Of
Winter And...Love
ayaz daryl nielsen
|
The days so cold The days, so cold The nights, so long Another tundra wind from above timberline Wild geese and blue heron gone months ago, black bear, deep asleep Mule deer and elk hiding among pine and leafless aspen The clock ticks toward midnight The year ends Here, beside this glowing hearth you gently place your lips on mine Read the poetry of ayaz daryl nielsen Read a profile of ayaz daryl nielsen |
Michele Riedel
|
VerseWrights Warmly Welcomes Poet Michele Riedel To Our Pages |
It Rained That Day
Between thought and page there was rain
all around the valleys and hills of my heart
and settled down around the depths of my hips
as I struggled to find the words.
Fog and light shadows of grey formed on the iced windowpane
where beyond lay the stillness of the lonely river James.
In writing I find no companion
-even here
Maybe if I close my eyes I could ease down below
and my words would find the page of river thought.
Stealthily and sleekly- sliding and gliding over stone
locked in muddy depths- rolling and rollicking through turns and bends
and racing down where river birds glide and icy stemmed bulbs of spring
find the sun just once…
But between thought and page there was rain.
A long rain of icy stark windowpane.
Where are the words –
when my soul has already traveled downstream?
Read the poetry of Michele Riedel
Read a profile of Michele Riedel
Between thought and page there was rain
all around the valleys and hills of my heart
and settled down around the depths of my hips
as I struggled to find the words.
Fog and light shadows of grey formed on the iced windowpane
where beyond lay the stillness of the lonely river James.
In writing I find no companion
-even here
Maybe if I close my eyes I could ease down below
and my words would find the page of river thought.
Stealthily and sleekly- sliding and gliding over stone
locked in muddy depths- rolling and rollicking through turns and bends
and racing down where river birds glide and icy stemmed bulbs of spring
find the sun just once…
But between thought and page there was rain.
A long rain of icy stark windowpane.
Where are the words –
when my soul has already traveled downstream?
Read the poetry of Michele Riedel
Read a profile of Michele Riedel
Cheryl Snell
|
Cheryl Snell And An Unsettling Vision For Our Times |
Another Name for Fire
Mourners fill the church where a boy's broken
mother lights a candle. Its glow ignites,
halting as first steps, radiant as a halo.
The flame stammers above the mother's hands
as she cups heat that will never warm her
again. When sparks fly, they throw shadows
against the walls. They gutter, and the shapes
slump to the floor. The mother tries to call back
the light, to pinch it into being. It's exactly
the wrong thing to do, and the church goes dark,
erasing the ghosts of young men who once
sprawled in the pews, their startled faces lit
in the flicker that just moments before
they hoped they'd never have to see again.
Read the poetry of Cheryl Snell
Read a profile of Cheryl Snell
Mourners fill the church where a boy's broken
mother lights a candle. Its glow ignites,
halting as first steps, radiant as a halo.
The flame stammers above the mother's hands
as she cups heat that will never warm her
again. When sparks fly, they throw shadows
against the walls. They gutter, and the shapes
slump to the floor. The mother tries to call back
the light, to pinch it into being. It's exactly
the wrong thing to do, and the church goes dark,
erasing the ghosts of young men who once
sprawled in the pews, their startled faces lit
in the flicker that just moments before
they hoped they'd never have to see again.
Read the poetry of Cheryl Snell
Read a profile of Cheryl Snell
LA Lorena Confronts Her "Greedy Lover"
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 he poetry of LA Lorena Read a profile of LA Lorena |
Mary Jo Balistreri Lets Nature Prompt A Universal Question
Mary Jo Balistreri
|
At a Writers Retreat in the North Woods of Wisconsin A heron braided in reeds and cattails scans the lake bides his time A school of minnows swims south in the pond aware too late of the heron’s spearsharp beak Hunger quenched the blue-shaped flight disappears in a gunmetal sky An intracloud flash brightens night like day Thunder crashes—too close And yet a ruby-throated hummer darts untroubled even as a rush of wind swings the feeder in a wide-wider arc on the porch Rain begins to ping then pelt the windows In our log cabin screen door left open we lie content on quilted beds inhale fresh air and pine the busyness we carried here erased by the green fuse of incipient summer-- receptive to woods and water fire and air our bodymind fills with a buoyancy that almost makes us giddy Your arm across my belly you turn and ask, What in the heck have we been doing with our time? Read the poetry of Mary Jo Balistreri Read a profile of Mary Jo Balistreri |
Ana Caballero's Latest Poem: This Hectic
But Observed Life
Ana Caballero
|
Timing Sunday taxi from the airport To the house An hour passed amongst Children Things set down in a place Reserved Electric clouds to yoga The intentioned drive A practice repeated endeavored Offered /Over The sushi chef mentions the score because I am there Tomorrow he will prepare My broth The sky drizzles headlights flaunt The rain /Again There are no brief moments that pass Us by Read the poetry of Ana Caballero Read a profile of Ana Caballero |
Donal Mahoney With Two Poems Inspired By The Local Habitat
Donal Mahoney
|
Trickle-Down Economics
It’s war plain and simple when I fill the feeder out in the sycamore with millet and niger and sunflower seed. Back in the house I stare out the window and watch juncos and chickadees bicker on the perch, spilling more than they eat. Cardinals and jays drive them away, argue and spill even more. Then starlings take over, and like rice at a wedding, seed fills the air pleasing the doves below. They walk like old nuns and peck at the manna. Read the poetry of Donal Mahoney Read a profile of Donal Mahoney |
This Dark Morning
If I were a possum
with a tail that long
I too would hang
from a tree limb
this dark morning
and hiss to frighten
the cats off the deck
away from the food
and water, and then
I'd drop from the limb
and eat as soon as
that fat raccoon
climbing the steps
with the lurching sway
of a hungry Grizzly
washes his food
gobbles his fill
and rumbles away.
If I were a possum
with a tail that long
I too would hang
from a tree limb
this dark morning
and hiss to frighten
the cats off the deck
away from the food
and water, and then
I'd drop from the limb
and eat as soon as
that fat raccoon
climbing the steps
with the lurching sway
of a hungry Grizzly
washes his food
gobbles his fill
and rumbles away.
Leslie Philibert
|
Three New, Short Poems From Leslie Philibert |
The North Cape
a wind of old nails
broken stones
the sky a guilt of rain
all these stunted trees
grasp over wet moss
seagulls are unborn children
that cry over the tundra
this is the end of a measured world
this is the e nd ofa mea sured world
Grey in One Line
Looking over the pale fields
and old woods, I recognise
this can not be the
consequence of birth,
more a late push under winter mud,
as if I am as thin as cardboard,
one of no depth,
desolate as sleet.
Goodbye
Alone in a crowded room
she whispers through
her sharp cat`s teeth
Count the rest of your life
in days you do the same.
Imagine a space in the air
where I will never be.
Read the poetry of Leslie Philibert
Read a profile of Leslie Philibert
a wind of old nails
broken stones
the sky a guilt of rain
all these stunted trees
grasp over wet moss
seagulls are unborn children
that cry over the tundra
this is the end of a measured world
this is the e nd ofa mea sured world
Grey in One Line
Looking over the pale fields
and old woods, I recognise
this can not be the
consequence of birth,
more a late push under winter mud,
as if I am as thin as cardboard,
one of no depth,
desolate as sleet.
Goodbye
Alone in a crowded room
she whispers through
her sharp cat`s teeth
Count the rest of your life
in days you do the same.
Imagine a space in the air
where I will never be.
Read the poetry of Leslie Philibert
Read a profile of Leslie Philibert
Ken Slaughter
|
All New Tanka And Senyru From
|
from Selected Tanka and Senyru
an orange moon
rises over the beach…
holding hands
we see our shadows
in a new light
grey day
the solar farm
gets a day off
shivering together
we search among the clouds
for the moon...
those clear summer nights
I never even looked
workplace art
maybe I could paint
after all
Read the poetry of Ken Slaughter
Read a profile of Ken Slaughter
an orange moon
rises over the beach…
holding hands
we see our shadows
in a new light
grey day
the solar farm
gets a day off
shivering together
we search among the clouds
for the moon...
those clear summer nights
I never even looked
workplace art
maybe I could paint
after all
Read the poetry of Ken Slaughter
Read a profile of Ken Slaughter
Michael Lee Johnson
|
Michael Lee Johnson Mixes Social Commentary With A Personal Rant |
No One Cares
No one cares
I sit in my 2001 Chevy S10 truck drunk on smoked salmon vodka,
writing this poem on Subway sandwich napkins.
No one cares my life insurance policy is a carburetor
full of fumes, worn out filters, filled casket.
No one cares Nikki my cat; 19-year-old veteran, no bills, no veterinarian
visits.
Jesus is a stray cat and a life of His own.
No one cares no one has adequate health care, deductibles clauses, debt.
No one cares Mr. Skunk travels nightly tail up passing
steam by my balcony window 3 A.M. farting both sides of his glands, anal
release.
No one cares I still have microcassette recorders, obsolete,
old mini cassettes not found any more Wal-Mart, Target stores.
No one cares poetry-writing compounds saints, sinners, nightmares,
thoughts, twists insanity inward a lonely bitch curls.
No one cares lines of life too long, house of David too short.
Vampire is history drunk on blood, innocent-
shacks overload detail, house of horrors-
antique images, draft dodgers, war hero memories passed out.
I clutch Niles high school 1965 Memory Book $25 paid
between years past, many hearts gone-
I face thrombosis bulging encore in my right leg.
I failed English class. I slept through business class next to Tommy
James.
Rock star to be he slept, my head down desk, I looked back up
cheerleaders legs.
No one cares I nearly flunked high school,
rode 35 mph in John Hibbard's candy apple red Mercury Cougar.
Even in high school, there were stoplights, cheap gas.
No one cares John's parents, both, hated me.
I see shadows, days as old memories, unjust wars, antique Studebaker
Larks.
Life is a worn out tread tire, rusted rims, steel now in junkyards.
Niles High School, August 15 2015, 50th reunion
sees you all there-memories, faces most forgotten.
Revising this poem backward confused with tenses,
no one cares, I sit in my 2001 Chevy S10 truck
drunk again smoked salmon vodka.
I have always hated the rules.
Little penis travels in the dark.
Read the poetry of Michael Lee Johnson
Read a profile of Michael Lee Johnson
No one cares
I sit in my 2001 Chevy S10 truck drunk on smoked salmon vodka,
writing this poem on Subway sandwich napkins.
No one cares my life insurance policy is a carburetor
full of fumes, worn out filters, filled casket.
No one cares Nikki my cat; 19-year-old veteran, no bills, no veterinarian
visits.
Jesus is a stray cat and a life of His own.
No one cares no one has adequate health care, deductibles clauses, debt.
No one cares Mr. Skunk travels nightly tail up passing
steam by my balcony window 3 A.M. farting both sides of his glands, anal
release.
No one cares I still have microcassette recorders, obsolete,
old mini cassettes not found any more Wal-Mart, Target stores.
No one cares poetry-writing compounds saints, sinners, nightmares,
thoughts, twists insanity inward a lonely bitch curls.
No one cares lines of life too long, house of David too short.
Vampire is history drunk on blood, innocent-
shacks overload detail, house of horrors-
antique images, draft dodgers, war hero memories passed out.
I clutch Niles high school 1965 Memory Book $25 paid
between years past, many hearts gone-
I face thrombosis bulging encore in my right leg.
I failed English class. I slept through business class next to Tommy
James.
Rock star to be he slept, my head down desk, I looked back up
cheerleaders legs.
No one cares I nearly flunked high school,
rode 35 mph in John Hibbard's candy apple red Mercury Cougar.
Even in high school, there were stoplights, cheap gas.
No one cares John's parents, both, hated me.
I see shadows, days as old memories, unjust wars, antique Studebaker
Larks.
Life is a worn out tread tire, rusted rims, steel now in junkyards.
Niles High School, August 15 2015, 50th reunion
sees you all there-memories, faces most forgotten.
Revising this poem backward confused with tenses,
no one cares, I sit in my 2001 Chevy S10 truck
drunk again smoked salmon vodka.
I have always hated the rules.
Little penis travels in the dark.
Read the poetry of Michael Lee Johnson
Read a profile of Michael Lee Johnson