Archive #38
August, 2016
God in the Silence I worship the holiness in the simplest of things. Like the whisper of broken old hurricanes’ frail bodies through the trees, or the scent of rain burying dust in the ground. Like the relentless turbine heart of the hummingbird, the hard pulse of feet against the busy dirt, and the first cries of a newborn child, all asking ceaselessly—Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? I see god in the bullet that knows only its potential energy, in the knife that has yet to taste blood, in the pills that go unswallowed. I hear god in the silence that answers them. In the silence that follows all things. Read the poetry of Torrin Greathouse Read a profile of Torrin Greathouse For Neil Fulwood, It's Setting And Contrast
Tracey Gunne Probes A Protection
|
Tracey Gunne
|
Single Mother She offered us the sweetest intentions inanimate smiles painted on with dark blue frosting filling our days with empty homecomings and a fear of being left behind We learned the same needs for the binding touch of a chaotic love where celibate nights cradled us from the free fall of unforeseen winds She wanted us to consider the happiness found in a sequestered heart but all we longed for was to be cherished like the photograph hidden instead of prayers she listed all of our goodbyes Read the poetry of Tracey Gunne Read a profile of Tracey Gunne |
Marsailidh Groat
|
Marsailidh Groat on Growth, And Inevitable Separation |
Far, Far Away
The child that craves fairy tales
and believes the stories she is told
has no reason to be sceptic.
She feeds the fairies in her schoolbag
and makes an enchanted forest from a few trees,
a dragon’s nest from a pile of leaves.
She questions everything, hides nothing,
and does not want for truth or honesty;
they are assumed, with no reason to doubt.
Is it strange that my goal should be to regress?
She seems very inspiring.
She seems far, far away.
Read the poetry of Marsailidh Groat
Read a profile of Marsailidh Groat
The child that craves fairy tales
and believes the stories she is told
has no reason to be sceptic.
She feeds the fairies in her schoolbag
and makes an enchanted forest from a few trees,
a dragon’s nest from a pile of leaves.
She questions everything, hides nothing,
and does not want for truth or honesty;
they are assumed, with no reason to doubt.
Is it strange that my goal should be to regress?
She seems very inspiring.
She seems far, far away.
Read the poetry of Marsailidh Groat
Read a profile of Marsailidh Groat
John Grey
|
John Grey Considers The Frame And The Fallout |
Looks Looks Looks
I have respect for these bones
I wrap my odious flesh around;
they're like an audience who won't leave
no matter how bad the jokes;
they're serious, inflexible, solid, stolid;
have to love that in a skeleton.
My priest always warns against
the "sins of the flesh" but he never
shames the tibia from his pulpit.
I'm willing to believe that God
made the bones and the rest was left
to the devil and fashion magazines,
and of course the odd dermatologist
and plastic surgeon, at our instructions of course;
so I have to admire the quiet assuredness
that seats me in a chair, lays me flat out
in a bed, and sure the muscles do the
hard work, but fingers without bone
would drop the planet on my foot,
likewise bone-less legs would have me toppling,
and thigh-less thighs would see my head dangling
like a limp flag from my knee,
except I wouldn't have a knee;
but then another woman comes along
to test my frail sincerity:
she runs her fingers down my cheeks,
says she likes my face.
My skull deserves the compliment
but it's my tan that quells the blush.
Read the poetry of John Grey
Read a profile of John Grey
I have respect for these bones
I wrap my odious flesh around;
they're like an audience who won't leave
no matter how bad the jokes;
they're serious, inflexible, solid, stolid;
have to love that in a skeleton.
My priest always warns against
the "sins of the flesh" but he never
shames the tibia from his pulpit.
I'm willing to believe that God
made the bones and the rest was left
to the devil and fashion magazines,
and of course the odd dermatologist
and plastic surgeon, at our instructions of course;
so I have to admire the quiet assuredness
that seats me in a chair, lays me flat out
in a bed, and sure the muscles do the
hard work, but fingers without bone
would drop the planet on my foot,
likewise bone-less legs would have me toppling,
and thigh-less thighs would see my head dangling
like a limp flag from my knee,
except I wouldn't have a knee;
but then another woman comes along
to test my frail sincerity:
she runs her fingers down my cheeks,
says she likes my face.
My skull deserves the compliment
but it's my tan that quells the blush.
Read the poetry of John Grey
Read a profile of John Grey
Robert Nied
|
Robert Nied Makes A Commitment—After Stating His Case |
Resolution
Whereas, we rode giant yellow bicycles
across a cobbled promenade in Gloucestershire
and sang in our best falsetto and;
Whereas, crowds of curious cats and gobsmacked waiters
meowed and danced and;
Whereas, our corduroy shorts whooshed and our laughter percussed,
Be it is resolved that I shall eat pungent Stilton Cheese with mint tea
every night before bed.
Whereas, we rode giant yellow bicycles
across a cobbled promenade in Gloucestershire
and sang in our best falsetto and;
Whereas, crowds of curious cats and gobsmacked waiters
meowed and danced and;
Whereas, our corduroy shorts whooshed and our laughter percussed,
Be it is resolved that I shall eat pungent Stilton Cheese with mint tea
every night before bed.
J T Milford
|
J T Milford Finds A Sensual Mix...And A Proustian Moment |
This Moment
It was noon and as I walked through
the door home from work
the sweet smell of cape jasmine
followed me inside
Outside everything was bright with bloom
crepe myrtle, roses and hibiscus
for time was near the solstice
The light was ablaze not like
the July white hot glare
but a more serene light
On the radio an orchestra was playing
bright summer music in ¾ time
Today at noon as from nowhere
a play of light and flowers brings back
this forgotten moment from another era
For what is unseen and long out of touch
now suddenly presents itself to me
I wonder why this scene
returned so late in my life?
For soon it will be night and if possible
I will fly out beyond the deep stars
to explore a place not remembered
and will bring with me this moment
from the earth’s library of flowers,
music and light as my connection
Tread the poetry of J T Milford
Read a profile of J T Milford
It was noon and as I walked through
the door home from work
the sweet smell of cape jasmine
followed me inside
Outside everything was bright with bloom
crepe myrtle, roses and hibiscus
for time was near the solstice
The light was ablaze not like
the July white hot glare
but a more serene light
On the radio an orchestra was playing
bright summer music in ¾ time
Today at noon as from nowhere
a play of light and flowers brings back
this forgotten moment from another era
For what is unseen and long out of touch
now suddenly presents itself to me
I wonder why this scene
returned so late in my life?
For soon it will be night and if possible
I will fly out beyond the deep stars
to explore a place not remembered
and will bring with me this moment
from the earth’s library of flowers,
music and light as my connection
Tread the poetry of J T Milford
Read a profile of J T Milford
Sarah Frances Moran
|
Sarah Frances Moran Has A Chat With Holden |
If I Were Jane Gallagher
The answer would be yes.
I still keep all of my kings
on the back row
even though I’ve spent decades
determining where to move them.
Thank you for asking about me but
Stepdads are Stepdads.
Phonies are phonies.
Morons are morons
and my kings, remain safe.
In my fantasy
I go back to that time when
checkers strategy was the looming decision,
not whether the way you’re going to touch me might set
off a series of dominoes
and consequences
that never end.
But Holden, you can move your kings.
Just pick up the phone
and call me.
Read the poetry of Sarah Frances Moran
Read a profile of Sarah Frances Moran
The answer would be yes.
I still keep all of my kings
on the back row
even though I’ve spent decades
determining where to move them.
Thank you for asking about me but
Stepdads are Stepdads.
Phonies are phonies.
Morons are morons
and my kings, remain safe.
In my fantasy
I go back to that time when
checkers strategy was the looming decision,
not whether the way you’re going to touch me might set
off a series of dominoes
and consequences
that never end.
But Holden, you can move your kings.
Just pick up the phone
and call me.
Read the poetry of Sarah Frances Moran
Read a profile of Sarah Frances Moran
Samantha Reynolds Deals With
Her Daughter's "Guest"
Samantha Reynolds
|
The Balloon You should have been asleep an hour ago but you were hungry and then thirsty and you kept playing with the balloon you got at the party putting my sunglasses on it and my hat and dad’s headphones which did make me laugh and now you insist you’ll only sleep if balloon goes to sleep too so you make a bed for it on the floor out of towels which keep falling off and at first I play along tucking balloon in and kissing his blue head but the seventh time you tell me the covers on top of balloon aren’t working I yell it’s just a stupid balloon and I know right away the night has won so when an hour later your tears now dry balloon cuddled between us in your bed you ask me to tell you both another story I kiss balloon again and whisper this one’s for you. Read the poetry of Samantha Reynolds Read a profile of Samantha Reynolds |
Rosa Saba
|
Rosa Saba Returns With A Memorable Metaphor, Conceit |
the choice
snow hardens,
bones snap
under our feet as we struggle
through the white, packed streets
it falls softly, but with a sort of insistence
like a misplaced love, an overbearing figure
blanketing the ground
as if to say
this is what is best
trust me
and the softness becomes hardness
becomes difficulty
as cars spin and stick
skin freezes and visibility shrinks
perhaps the damage is unseen,
not recognizable
in each snowflake, but
i wish you could see the final effect
as a city is shut down by this well-meaning powder
and we are split open
by this well-meaning love of yours,
misplaced, misdirected
this is not your puzzle to finish
not your picture to paint
not your city to burden
not your choice to make
Read the poetry of Rosa Saba
Read a profile of Rosa Saba
Gareth Spark
|
Gareth Spark In The Driver's Seat, And Driven |
Driving as a form of prayer
To be allowed to drive forever, through the burns
Of August, pregnant with a dreaming,
Set upon another life.
To drive and not climb from the car, with every
Window wound back into its shell, to not
Think ever of heaven, and never to tell
Pedestrians of the driving.
To be in transit: to be a wing, awake
In smaller shelves of air; to live
As though each moment were its own movie
Screen
And never to regret the faces standing still,
The roadside eyes, the strangers fleeting;
Each foretells a story.
To touch potential that reminds
And shout "Never mind!" as one drives.
To bring beneath the hot blue
A mode of being mindful
Of the lachrimae rerum, and to feel
The sorrow and the thrill of speed.
To never feel the need of feet,
And to watch
Clouds through tinted glass and country turn to run
As you blink against the sun and throw
Your glasses from the car.
To find a country lane, and race
So close to bracken that the dew
Can wash your face, and then slow,
By the heated science fiction of a petrol station
In the grip of yellow weather.
To press the horn and be at last born
Into the endlessness of sky.
To cherish evening as time when seeing nothing
Dies;
To exceed day and to say
"Hello," to women at the roadside.
To see the world as something flying,
Something outshining the hazy study walking
Teaches.
To know you drive beyond the reaches
And to give it everything you've got
As you lean into the wheel and feel
A sainthood in your suntan,
A miracle in the mileage.
To ignore maps, and head for places
Beyond the slightest traces of your former life,
Abandoning self in the process of speed
And accept adventures and sudden brakes
Because you feel the car
outwaiting patience by the road,
And you are owed some living, damn it!
To never check the rear-view mirror
and to slow down as the sun collapses
Worn out on the hills,
Because you never will exhaust
The depths and wonders of this prayer.
To never care about direction, and to drive
Into the night
With headlights blessing every pebble;
To smell the fuel and feel the wheel and
Drive throughout forever.
Read the poetry of Gareth Spark
Read a profile of Gareth Spark
To be allowed to drive forever, through the burns
Of August, pregnant with a dreaming,
Set upon another life.
To drive and not climb from the car, with every
Window wound back into its shell, to not
Think ever of heaven, and never to tell
Pedestrians of the driving.
To be in transit: to be a wing, awake
In smaller shelves of air; to live
As though each moment were its own movie
Screen
And never to regret the faces standing still,
The roadside eyes, the strangers fleeting;
Each foretells a story.
To touch potential that reminds
And shout "Never mind!" as one drives.
To bring beneath the hot blue
A mode of being mindful
Of the lachrimae rerum, and to feel
The sorrow and the thrill of speed.
To never feel the need of feet,
And to watch
Clouds through tinted glass and country turn to run
As you blink against the sun and throw
Your glasses from the car.
To find a country lane, and race
So close to bracken that the dew
Can wash your face, and then slow,
By the heated science fiction of a petrol station
In the grip of yellow weather.
To press the horn and be at last born
Into the endlessness of sky.
To cherish evening as time when seeing nothing
Dies;
To exceed day and to say
"Hello," to women at the roadside.
To see the world as something flying,
Something outshining the hazy study walking
Teaches.
To know you drive beyond the reaches
And to give it everything you've got
As you lean into the wheel and feel
A sainthood in your suntan,
A miracle in the mileage.
To ignore maps, and head for places
Beyond the slightest traces of your former life,
Abandoning self in the process of speed
And accept adventures and sudden brakes
Because you feel the car
outwaiting patience by the road,
And you are owed some living, damn it!
To never check the rear-view mirror
and to slow down as the sun collapses
Worn out on the hills,
Because you never will exhaust
The depths and wonders of this prayer.
To never care about direction, and to drive
Into the night
With headlights blessing every pebble;
To smell the fuel and feel the wheel and
Drive throughout forever.
Read the poetry of Gareth Spark
Read a profile of Gareth Spark
Lee Kisling
|
Lee Kisling Investigates Existential Clothing. Yes, That's Right. |
Let Me Have a Look at You
Existential clothing, always worn where you
never go. Never worn where you always go.
Jean Paul Sartre’s girlfriend’s sister’s dress—buoyant
yet concrete, colorful yet transparent, ingenious
but stupid, drab but poofy.
A complicated outfit—hooks, snaps, and buckles,
a quantum harness, comes with instructions
written in every language except your own,
made by unhappy rumplestiltskins at sewing machines
in abandoned shoe stores.
In a certain light, my dear, you are completely invisible.
A gift, celebrating who you may or may not be,
a statement of the shimmering uncertainty between us.
I could help you put it on. I could bring my tools--
my wedges and flashlights, my torque wrench and shoehorns.
I could zip it up, tighten the straps, turn on the electric
lights. I could follow along behind, picking up any parts
which fall to the sidewalk. And later, if you insist, I’ll help you
take it off, but I can’t stay because, as you may suspect,
at midnight I turn into a blackbird.
Read the poetry of Lee Kisling
Read a profile of Lee Kisling
Existential clothing, always worn where you
never go. Never worn where you always go.
Jean Paul Sartre’s girlfriend’s sister’s dress—buoyant
yet concrete, colorful yet transparent, ingenious
but stupid, drab but poofy.
A complicated outfit—hooks, snaps, and buckles,
a quantum harness, comes with instructions
written in every language except your own,
made by unhappy rumplestiltskins at sewing machines
in abandoned shoe stores.
In a certain light, my dear, you are completely invisible.
A gift, celebrating who you may or may not be,
a statement of the shimmering uncertainty between us.
I could help you put it on. I could bring my tools--
my wedges and flashlights, my torque wrench and shoehorns.
I could zip it up, tighten the straps, turn on the electric
lights. I could follow along behind, picking up any parts
which fall to the sidewalk. And later, if you insist, I’ll help you
take it off, but I can’t stay because, as you may suspect,
at midnight I turn into a blackbird.
Read the poetry of Lee Kisling
Read a profile of Lee Kisling
Wayne F. Burke
|
Wayne F. Burke: One Man's Journey As Social
|
A Lark Up the Nose of Time
We left Kansas after
the bars closed,
Ron and Steve and me
in a station wagon
that I passed-out
in the back of
and woke
below a huge steel arch
high above
like a gate to heaven,
but it was Saint Louis
which we bombed through
all the way to Daytona
and got a motel room
on the beach
and sat indoors for three days
as
hurricane winds drove white sea horses
to shore and
branches of palm trees whirled
like broken helicopter blades...
On day four we got sun burned
and drunk
and I was so hungry
I punched-out the Plexi-glass
of a candy machine
and tried to eat a candy bar
older than Methuselah
and in the morning I woke
wet
from piss
in my bed
and
covered up the spot
and we drove back
out of money
out of smokes
and Ron got ugly
without his fix
and Steve
a born-again liar
told one whopper after
another
all the way to Ottawa.
Read the poetry of Wayne F. Burke
Read a profile of Wayne F. Burke
We left Kansas after
the bars closed,
Ron and Steve and me
in a station wagon
that I passed-out
in the back of
and woke
below a huge steel arch
high above
like a gate to heaven,
but it was Saint Louis
which we bombed through
all the way to Daytona
and got a motel room
on the beach
and sat indoors for three days
as
hurricane winds drove white sea horses
to shore and
branches of palm trees whirled
like broken helicopter blades...
On day four we got sun burned
and drunk
and I was so hungry
I punched-out the Plexi-glass
of a candy machine
and tried to eat a candy bar
older than Methuselah
and in the morning I woke
wet
from piss
in my bed
and
covered up the spot
and we drove back
out of money
out of smokes
and Ron got ugly
without his fix
and Steve
a born-again liar
told one whopper after
another
all the way to Ottawa.
Read the poetry of Wayne F. Burke
Read a profile of Wayne F. Burke
Katherine Gallagher
|
Katherine Gallagher: A First, And Indelible Moment |
Firstborn
For years I dreamt you
my lost child, a face unpromised.
I gathered you in, gambling,
making maps over your head.
You were the beginning of a wish
and when I finally held you,
like some mother-cat I looked you over -
my dozy lone-traveller set down at last.
So much for maps,
I tried to etch you in, little stranger
wrapped like a Japanese doll.
You opened your fish-eyes and stared,
slowly your bunched fists
bracing on air.
Read the poetry of Katherine Gallagher
Read a profile of Katherine Gallagher
Kat Lehmann
|
Kat Lehmann's Poem Offers A Path To A Soulful Restoration |
Healing
It’s been said before:
deep wounds are slow to heal,
if they heal at all.
But what if we owned the wounds,
the ones that became part of our ecology?
What if we stopped pushing them away,
even the boxed-up ones
that we tried to keep from our food-chains,
and in so doing, found a way to heal
in wholeness?
Maybe we could swim beneath the scars,
clear the dark corners of the mind,
hold close the tender center of our center
like a precious baby,
feel the measured weight of it,
heavy in hand,
and let all of it breathe, finally breathe,
let the air come in and open it up,
and feel the strength of willingly becoming weak.
We could let the hurt rise up slowly,
billowing its mourning like incense rising,
decompress its darkness
like a leaky balloon:
releasing the nothing
that it once held to stretching.
The space that remained
could be a monument to those days –
days that are gone forever.
If we held it close,
we could listen to its sad song,
place flowers at its feet as we wrote it down,
then kill it like an enemy: with love, with love,
a dark sheep finally brought back to the fold.
And then we could dance, dance, dance…
just because we can.
Read the poetry of Kat Lehmann
Read a profile of Kat Lehmann
It’s been said before:
deep wounds are slow to heal,
if they heal at all.
But what if we owned the wounds,
the ones that became part of our ecology?
What if we stopped pushing them away,
even the boxed-up ones
that we tried to keep from our food-chains,
and in so doing, found a way to heal
in wholeness?
Maybe we could swim beneath the scars,
clear the dark corners of the mind,
hold close the tender center of our center
like a precious baby,
feel the measured weight of it,
heavy in hand,
and let all of it breathe, finally breathe,
let the air come in and open it up,
and feel the strength of willingly becoming weak.
We could let the hurt rise up slowly,
billowing its mourning like incense rising,
decompress its darkness
like a leaky balloon:
releasing the nothing
that it once held to stretching.
The space that remained
could be a monument to those days –
days that are gone forever.
If we held it close,
we could listen to its sad song,
place flowers at its feet as we wrote it down,
then kill it like an enemy: with love, with love,
a dark sheep finally brought back to the fold.
And then we could dance, dance, dance…
just because we can.
Read the poetry of Kat Lehmann
Read a profile of Kat Lehmann
VerseWrights Warmly Welcomes Poet Phil Boiarski To Its Pages
Phil Boiarski
|
Bloom Pirate I be the rose thief and bloom pirate. Heed the prize in me bleeding fist. I be the wild rose cherisher; Capturing blood-buds, thorns and All with just me bare hands. No blade against the sharp green claws. Cool molten folds comfort me flesh. Petals heal the torn cups of me palms. I brew wine from rose hips and sing of Red raids. Cuts gush smiling from me Fingers. I laugh and suck me blood For sustenance. I be the rose ravager, Feeding the thorns and swinging from trellises. Dirt on the doormat. A bushel of roses Torn out by the roots. Me blood on the Basket-wood, on rusted wire handles. I leave it at your door now and knock. O, terror so becomes a rose. Read the poetry of Phil Boiarski Read a profile of Phil Boiarski |
Reka Jellema
|
A Collaborative Poem From Reka Jellema And
|
Littoral
Cliché tinge of mauve
this dusk’s longing is all whisper
and no wolf.
A dusk mothering golden,
hanging on bowed sunflowers,
quieting the buzz of dandelion seeds with cloying love.
And how can we, the patina-tongued, sly the hush and
cast our libretto past the slimming horizon’s bare blue lip;
a chorus in a complete otherness...
How can we hymn — accompanying the end of day
we have no right to live
we sing as foreigners
at odds with light-play on dappled saplings and
the whiskers of beach grass quivering the last green
The sea’s brine and our eyes to match,
our ballad unknowable in the biting foretime pale,
as we become numb—yet still coupled; mutable wounds in the weather’s touch.
Cliché tinge of mauve
this dusk’s longing is all whisper
and no wolf.
A dusk mothering golden,
hanging on bowed sunflowers,
quieting the buzz of dandelion seeds with cloying love.
And how can we, the patina-tongued, sly the hush and
cast our libretto past the slimming horizon’s bare blue lip;
a chorus in a complete otherness...
How can we hymn — accompanying the end of day
we have no right to live
we sing as foreigners
at odds with light-play on dappled saplings and
the whiskers of beach grass quivering the last green
The sea’s brine and our eyes to match,
our ballad unknowable in the biting foretime pale,
as we become numb—yet still coupled; mutable wounds in the weather’s touch.
Read the poetry of Reka Jellema
Read a profile of Reka Jellema
Visit the website of John Carroll Walls
Read a profile of Reka Jellema
Visit the website of John Carroll Walls
Rachel Schmieder-Gropen
|
Rachel Schmieder-Gropen Ponders A Reckless, Humane Time |
Intervention
At Moose Hill Camp,
catching dragonflies was
the thing to do.
I was an expert,
holding my breath and tip-
toeing through yellow grasses
on old-sneaker feet,
careful not to bend a stalk,
careful not to stir the air.
I caught the dragonflies
with two fingers, pinning
their crackle-glass wings
between index and middle,
lifting their bright bodies
like stained glass to the sun.
All the while, their tails
curled, uncurled, recurled,
their sticky legs scrambled
for footholds in the air.
Only their wings were still,
pressed between my skin.
I didn’t yet know that doctors
weren’t supposed to create
their own patients.
As it was, I saved them all.
I always found a missing leg,
a bent antenna, a crumpled
patch of wing -- something
I could fix with a peeled twig,
a driblet of leaf-juice, a finger.
These were summer’s
marrow-bones, how I sucked
them dry:
I caught small things
and tried to save them,
hoping years later that I hadn’t
killed them.
Read the poetry of Rachel Schmieder-Gropen
Read a profile of Rachel Schmieder-Gropen
At Moose Hill Camp,
catching dragonflies was
the thing to do.
I was an expert,
holding my breath and tip-
toeing through yellow grasses
on old-sneaker feet,
careful not to bend a stalk,
careful not to stir the air.
I caught the dragonflies
with two fingers, pinning
their crackle-glass wings
between index and middle,
lifting their bright bodies
like stained glass to the sun.
All the while, their tails
curled, uncurled, recurled,
their sticky legs scrambled
for footholds in the air.
Only their wings were still,
pressed between my skin.
I didn’t yet know that doctors
weren’t supposed to create
their own patients.
As it was, I saved them all.
I always found a missing leg,
a bent antenna, a crumpled
patch of wing -- something
I could fix with a peeled twig,
a driblet of leaf-juice, a finger.
These were summer’s
marrow-bones, how I sucked
them dry:
I caught small things
and tried to save them,
hoping years later that I hadn’t
killed them.
Read the poetry of Rachel Schmieder-Gropen
Read a profile of Rachel Schmieder-Gropen
Judy Melchiorre
|
We Warmly Welcome Judy Melchiorre To The Pages Of VerseWrights |
Umbrarium*
Today at the cemetery,
worn stones, smudged engravings,
in harmony with the fall
of leaves, yellow and brown,
the grass surrenders the last
of its dun, all is muted
as the summer declines.
Demeter in despair, ashen,
the gray of weathered sails.
Darkness stretches to its full length,
Spirits shake off the dirt and speak
in a language only heard by those
who dare to press their ears to the veil.
*Latin, of the shades
Counting Backwards
~Inspired by Seymour Krim
Multi-task 24/7,
get a new gadget every six months,
a job once a year,
a career every five,
a partner every seven.
Yesterday is history, 2day is all.
Compressed poetry for readers
with an 8.25 second attention span.
Haiku: three lines, five, seven, five,
American sentence: seventeen syllables,
The newest form: one hundred forty characters,
sorry, Ginsberg, tweet, man, tweet...
Read the poetry of Judy Melchiorre
Read a profile of Judy Melchiorre
Today at the cemetery,
worn stones, smudged engravings,
in harmony with the fall
of leaves, yellow and brown,
the grass surrenders the last
of its dun, all is muted
as the summer declines.
Demeter in despair, ashen,
the gray of weathered sails.
Darkness stretches to its full length,
Spirits shake off the dirt and speak
in a language only heard by those
who dare to press their ears to the veil.
*Latin, of the shades
Counting Backwards
~Inspired by Seymour Krim
Multi-task 24/7,
get a new gadget every six months,
a job once a year,
a career every five,
a partner every seven.
Yesterday is history, 2day is all.
Compressed poetry for readers
with an 8.25 second attention span.
Haiku: three lines, five, seven, five,
American sentence: seventeen syllables,
The newest form: one hundred forty characters,
sorry, Ginsberg, tweet, man, tweet...
Read the poetry of Judy Melchiorre
Read a profile of Judy Melchiorre
Grant Tarbard
|
Grant Tarbard With An Unsettling, Grave Vision |
My Feet Point Downward
1.
Exterior: oblivion buttressed,
a pierced honeycomb of cogs.
A delicatessen of identities
with less substance than
a bird in the bell jar, suffocating,
the tracery of the crumbling skeleton
beckoning towards the dark earth
that springs from the thunder.
2.
Foliage carving of my skull
a melody of rose widow eyes
beneath the receiver tree
with a circling root of gravestones,
death is the only way to discover
what is beyond the fence
perched on the brow
of the hill of insomnia.
Chance has made this
my second hand burial place,
my mouth agape,
my feet point downward.
3.
The walls of my grave are my canvas
I paint with my opium coloured distal phalanx
in the gallery of white harts.
I water the daisies with my balance
on the crushed artery of the harvest
and the making of the dark.
I am witness to the birth of impregnated night,
armed to the teeth with stars.
A new fledged blackbird,
the moon hides behind smoke
and evening is at a right angle to midday.
Underneath, the black lake was lit by candles.
Read the poetry of Grant Tarbard
Read a profile of Grant Tarbard
Mikels Skele
|
Mikels Skele With A Moving, Lyrical Then and Now |
Days lost
"...and the sad gypsy sang for his bottle of wine,
and I sang along for mine." ~Jose Feliciano
Those days, we were dangerously close to dying,
To the end of all the longing we mistook
For grand poesie, lost on the road to anywhere.
We stepped toward no paradise,
Discarded all loving touch
But for human companionship,
Asking too much of the world, unable to grasp
The small treasures.
If there’s something missed, something lost,
It’s only the wide-open sky we saw
Through vinegar eyes,
Our salted wounds as yet unburied.
Come back to me, my own true self,
Come back, and we’ll slip away
To some long, true corner
And watch the setting sun.
Read the poetry of Mikels Skele
Read a profile of Mikels Skele
"...and the sad gypsy sang for his bottle of wine,
and I sang along for mine." ~Jose Feliciano
Those days, we were dangerously close to dying,
To the end of all the longing we mistook
For grand poesie, lost on the road to anywhere.
We stepped toward no paradise,
Discarded all loving touch
But for human companionship,
Asking too much of the world, unable to grasp
The small treasures.
If there’s something missed, something lost,
It’s only the wide-open sky we saw
Through vinegar eyes,
Our salted wounds as yet unburied.
Come back to me, my own true self,
Come back, and we’ll slip away
To some long, true corner
And watch the setting sun.
Read the poetry of Mikels Skele
Read a profile of Mikels Skele
Marianne Szlyk
|
Marianne Szlyk Visits California's Salton Sea... |
We Disaster Tourists Travel to
the Salton Sea
Last year’s flowers stand,
sun-bleached kindling for the fire
about to happen here.
Blue sky flames, a torch
in the earth’s hands. The sun is
the white-hot center.
No one smokes. Engines
do not idle. Air effaces
smells of life and death.
All that remains in
the sea’s heart will never quench
the flames we wait for.
We wait, take small sips
of bottled water, then wait
some more. We tourists
Fly from disaster
to disaster, our quick flights
adding fuel to the flames.
Read the poetry of Marianne Szlyk
Read a profile of Marianne Szlyk
the Salton Sea
Last year’s flowers stand,
sun-bleached kindling for the fire
about to happen here.
Blue sky flames, a torch
in the earth’s hands. The sun is
the white-hot center.
No one smokes. Engines
do not idle. Air effaces
smells of life and death.
All that remains in
the sea’s heart will never quench
the flames we wait for.
We wait, take small sips
of bottled water, then wait
some more. We tourists
Fly from disaster
to disaster, our quick flights
adding fuel to the flames.
Read the poetry of Marianne Szlyk
Read a profile of Marianne Szlyk
David Chorlton
|
David Chorlton With A Poem Sequence From The American Southwest |
Lightning Flashes
By the fencepost where a path long dry
meets the road, a coachwhip
hung on the talons with which
a Red-tailed hawk had pulled it
from the grass, holding to stormlight
with wings spread wide
as the snake writhed
free and slid down against the sky.
~
At summer’s easy latitude
a stream across a meadow ran
bright and quickly
when the dipper left its rock
to dive beneath the surface
and returned to air
the color of a storm.
~
The heaviest clouds were sinking
between two peaks
and the grasslands fell silent.
All that moved
were the moth’s black wings
as it flew at the speed of a shadow
escaping the object
that cast it.
~
Red earth slid beneath water
that flashed directly from the sky
and ran across the desert. A lily
floated at the center
of a pond surrounded
by Spadefoot toads.
~
The midnight broadcast from the border
lit up the radio
beside a slightly opened window
whose curtains leapt away
from the wall as a sheet metal wind
rattled the sky.
~
The black half of the sky
collapsed into a canyon.
Ensuing rain washed away the trails
that wound through the forest
whose tallest trees
rose to meet the lightning.
~
It was impossible to see
from among the pines and oaks
the advent of a storm
above the canyon
and the trail reached an end
where sheets of light
blanched the seconds
as time and water ran into
the mouth of a long abandoned mine
to disappear behind the columbines.
~
A single bolt above the bajada
illuminated the canyon
all the way from where the oaks begin,
past the smooth rocks and the grasses
woven between them, the sycamores
along the stream coming down
from the saddle, and for seconds
even the bats flowing faster than water
turned white inside an echo.
~
Warm thunder rolled along the ridge
behind the orchard in a high clearing
whose trees were painted white
and vanished for a second
when a sudden flash
seared the boughs
with a hundred years of moonlight
compressed inside.
Read the poetry of David Chorlton
Read a profile of David Chorlton
Matthew Henningsen's Latest Is
About The "Long Goodbye"
Matthew Henningsen
|
Goodbye to All That Sudden on silent nights I Think of the long farewell… The wave – The sweet smile hidden Beneath a fading sun… All this Is lost somewhere, this Day of shadows and rain and Whispers said to calm storms That call out on Foreign, frozen sands. Like A petal I picked up once and Stored once in my pocket for The longest time. I Couldn’t let it go. Then, Once on days by cascading Trees once that hung With gray, smiling moss I Found it once again and saw that It had turned once into an Old coin I lost once, long ago, falling Down a well I threw it in For the best of luck. This The farewell, the long goodbye that I had but can’t remember on starry Nights by quiet streams that told Of storms and tables and shouts too Far to be heard, but seen… Always to be seen. Read the poetry of Matthew Henningsen Read a profile of Matthew Henningsen |
Charlie Brice
|
Charlie Brice's Poem Is About Advice And Wisdom |
Confucius
1.
He was a small man
and very old,
old even at birth.
He had many wise sayings,
but he never cautioned
to look both ways before crossing,
or to not trust everyone
you meet, or believe
everything you read.
He never taught a child
to keep his hands off a flaming burner,
or not to stare at someone
who was crying,
or not to ask a waitress
to bring a glass of water,
after she brought the juice you ordered,
after she brought the side
of blue cheese
for your wings,
after she took back
the ranch dressing that came
with the wings,
after you changed your order to
wings from stuffed mushrooms,
after you cancelled the surf and turf
to order the Dover sole without capers
in the white wine sauce.
And he never said,
“Baseball wrong: Man
with four balls cannot walk.”
But he did say,
“Wherever you go,
go with all your heart.”
2.
Robin Williams, as Armand,
told his gay lover Albert
(Nathan Lane) in the Birdcage
that he’d have to buy a grave plot
next to Albert’s so
he’d never miss the laughs.
That was Armand’s way
of talking Albert out of
killing himself.
I wonder where Robin Williams
is buried.
Confucius said, “The funniest people
are the saddest once.”
Read the poetry of Charlie Brice
Read a profile of Charlie Brice
1.
He was a small man
and very old,
old even at birth.
He had many wise sayings,
but he never cautioned
to look both ways before crossing,
or to not trust everyone
you meet, or believe
everything you read.
He never taught a child
to keep his hands off a flaming burner,
or not to stare at someone
who was crying,
or not to ask a waitress
to bring a glass of water,
after she brought the juice you ordered,
after she brought the side
of blue cheese
for your wings,
after she took back
the ranch dressing that came
with the wings,
after you changed your order to
wings from stuffed mushrooms,
after you cancelled the surf and turf
to order the Dover sole without capers
in the white wine sauce.
And he never said,
“Baseball wrong: Man
with four balls cannot walk.”
But he did say,
“Wherever you go,
go with all your heart.”
2.
Robin Williams, as Armand,
told his gay lover Albert
(Nathan Lane) in the Birdcage
that he’d have to buy a grave plot
next to Albert’s so
he’d never miss the laughs.
That was Armand’s way
of talking Albert out of
killing himself.
I wonder where Robin Williams
is buried.
Confucius said, “The funniest people
are the saddest once.”
Read the poetry of Charlie Brice
Read a profile of Charlie Brice
Debbie Strange
|
A New Tanka/Tanshi From
|
Photo art by Debbie Strange (Click for larger view)
in kettled-tidepool
purple sea stars cling
to ungranted wishes
we scatter the dust of ourselves
into the drowning sea
Read the poetry of Debbie Strange
Read a profile of Debbie Strange
purple sea stars cling
to ungranted wishes
we scatter the dust of ourselves
into the drowning sea
Read the poetry of Debbie Strange
Read a profile of Debbie Strange
Daniel Klawitter
|
Daniel Klawitter's Latest: When Worlds Collide |
Bad First Date
Sensations that are not likely to be understood
are best kept to ourselves. To be sure, a
sunset is highly poetic, but what is more
ridiculous than a woman describing it in long words
for the benefit of matter-of-fact people? –Balzac.
She used the word “luminous”
to describe the setting sun,
but the banker was unimpressed--
he thought it was ludicrous
and so he confessed his preference
for profits over sunsets.
When the moon came out,
she exclaimed: “It is the eye of a
silvery lunatic!” The banker,
(a little nervous now, truth be told),
explained that he was more
into arithmetic than metaphors.
With a sigh, she replied:
“Forgive me for being bold,
but I’m fairly certain you are
a matter-of-fact person.
There’s nothing wrong with that.
There are worse ones to be.
But you see, poetry is my thing.
Why don't we call it a night?”
“Alright” said the banker.
“May your words bring you warmth.
I mean that with all sincerity.”
To which she responded:
“Warm or hot, words can't be bought,
go home and count your currency.”
Read the poetry of Daniel Klawitter
Read a profile of Daniel Klawitter
Sensations that are not likely to be understood
are best kept to ourselves. To be sure, a
sunset is highly poetic, but what is more
ridiculous than a woman describing it in long words
for the benefit of matter-of-fact people? –Balzac.
She used the word “luminous”
to describe the setting sun,
but the banker was unimpressed--
he thought it was ludicrous
and so he confessed his preference
for profits over sunsets.
When the moon came out,
she exclaimed: “It is the eye of a
silvery lunatic!” The banker,
(a little nervous now, truth be told),
explained that he was more
into arithmetic than metaphors.
With a sigh, she replied:
“Forgive me for being bold,
but I’m fairly certain you are
a matter-of-fact person.
There’s nothing wrong with that.
There are worse ones to be.
But you see, poetry is my thing.
Why don't we call it a night?”
“Alright” said the banker.
“May your words bring you warmth.
I mean that with all sincerity.”
To which she responded:
“Warm or hot, words can't be bought,
go home and count your currency.”
Read the poetry of Daniel Klawitter
Read a profile of Daniel Klawitter
Shirani Rajapakse
|
Shirani Rajapakse Writes With Passion On
|
Mali
Sad eyes stare at the world outside,
iron bars lock you in. Four thick walls
mark your space. This is all you
have and nothing more. Proud strong
woman from my homeland you live
imprisoned in a web of lies they
churn out for money from crowds
that come to ogle as you stare
out of your cell with lonely gaze.
Your feet hold scars of neglect yet
the pain in your heart
can never be seen by those that claim
you are well. There’s no one in that space
that can share your grief. You hide it inside
as you have all these years. Can you
still speak oh woman of my land?
Do you understand the words
your ancestors spoke, recall the stories they
whispered to you as a child? Do you yearn
to walk across the lands they owned,
feel the breeze on your skin
once more as it blew warm and free?
Remember your life long ago dear friend,
in that far away place divided by earth
and sea. You roamed with your
family, played in the woods,
picked up trunkfuls of earth that you
smeared on yourself, bathed in rivers deep
and narrow as the fish swam below between
your feet. Remember the days, you walked
with the herd across vast tracts,
brown and green and azure up above.
They promised you happiness
the day you were sent as a gift yet all
you got was this prison lonely
and sad. Solitary confinement yet you
committed no crime. How long will this last?
Every day you die
a little and every day the lies grow strong.
Read the poetry of Shirani Rajapakse
Read a profile of Shirani Rajapakse
Sad eyes stare at the world outside,
iron bars lock you in. Four thick walls
mark your space. This is all you
have and nothing more. Proud strong
woman from my homeland you live
imprisoned in a web of lies they
churn out for money from crowds
that come to ogle as you stare
out of your cell with lonely gaze.
Your feet hold scars of neglect yet
the pain in your heart
can never be seen by those that claim
you are well. There’s no one in that space
that can share your grief. You hide it inside
as you have all these years. Can you
still speak oh woman of my land?
Do you understand the words
your ancestors spoke, recall the stories they
whispered to you as a child? Do you yearn
to walk across the lands they owned,
feel the breeze on your skin
once more as it blew warm and free?
Remember your life long ago dear friend,
in that far away place divided by earth
and sea. You roamed with your
family, played in the woods,
picked up trunkfuls of earth that you
smeared on yourself, bathed in rivers deep
and narrow as the fish swam below between
your feet. Remember the days, you walked
with the herd across vast tracts,
brown and green and azure up above.
They promised you happiness
the day you were sent as a gift yet all
you got was this prison lonely
and sad. Solitary confinement yet you
committed no crime. How long will this last?
Every day you die
a little and every day the lies grow strong.
Read the poetry of Shirani Rajapakse
Read a profile of Shirani Rajapakse
Roslyn Ross: Laud And Longing
For The Homeland
Roslyn Ross
|
Hiraeth Source of soul and senses, place of mind and heart, so the land dispenses, no matter if apart. Smell of acrid eucalypt, smoke of burning bush, liquid crystal carolling, magpies on the roof. Cerulean the shining sky, light bursts in a drench, sunshine screams intensely; so the day is spread. Creep of morning calmness, drift of evening sighs, so the earth stays breathing; ancient, worn and wise. Read the poetry of Roslyn Ross Read a profile of Roslyn Ross |
Dana Rushin
|
Dana Rushin's Newest Poem, Right There, Just Like That |
Select and Audience
Nope. no more love poems from me.
Not a single one pearl shaped and pinned,
ankle length like quick impressions made the
pedal-pushers hold inside of me.
It's my shibboleth I will say to
you, my truism; how I felt
when you want to mean a painful
thing which floats as a myth
like pushing a large stone in front of the garage.
Like having to go to work
knowing that a huge rock is there;
Right there.
Like tearing up stuck with the
motor running and your
cigarettes. Like first
feeling hungry, then going
to a sudden sleep
Like Sexton in her mother's finest mink coat.
Yeah, just like that.
Embodying beauty and translucence
just like that.
Read the poetry of Dana Rushin
Read a profile of Dana Rushin
Miriam Sagan
|
Miriam Sagan: When Touch Is
|
Do Not Touch
Is what the sign says
In the Montreal Art Museum
Next to the gilded statue
Of a cross-legged long haired anorexic girl
Called "Along the Path to Enlightenment"
Like an ancient emaciated Buddha before the tree and
morning star
Her ribs show breastless
As a vine winds up her torso
A passing woman pauses, then fervently touches
Our Lady of Starvation
And an elderly Japanese lady
Actually caresses the statue's hands with her own
Then sits down, and imitates the mudra.
I catch the eyes of two friends
Pleasant looking, speaking French.
We're shocked by these caresses. Don't know
What to think.
Read the poetry of Miriam Sagan
Read a profile of Miriam Sagan
Is what the sign says
In the Montreal Art Museum
Next to the gilded statue
Of a cross-legged long haired anorexic girl
Called "Along the Path to Enlightenment"
Like an ancient emaciated Buddha before the tree and
morning star
Her ribs show breastless
As a vine winds up her torso
A passing woman pauses, then fervently touches
Our Lady of Starvation
And an elderly Japanese lady
Actually caresses the statue's hands with her own
Then sits down, and imitates the mudra.
I catch the eyes of two friends
Pleasant looking, speaking French.
We're shocked by these caresses. Don't know
What to think.
Read the poetry of Miriam Sagan
Read a profile of Miriam Sagan
|