Archive #42
December, 2016
The Fear of It
They say that resistance to something inevitable makes it seem worse than it is. Maybe the trick is to give in, try to increase the worry, bend like a tree in the storm, give pain its due, find the center of it and look at it plainly, turn it carefully in the palm of your hand, and realize it can own only so much of you, unless you give it more. It is a balloon that can get only so big. Anything more is just the fear of it. Read the poetry of Kat Lehmann Read a profile of Kat Lehmann
Saying Goodbye
Lie down, but not too flat, she said. We blew kisses through the nursing home window, hands flat as flounders. I stepped on one once, buried in sand. It wriggled and I fell in the ice-cold shallows. Ribs lashed like a raft, I wanted to lie there, but not to die. In my undershirt, too smooth for a bra, I walked through the house holding a mirror like a large platter and looked down into it like into a glassy cove so it seemed like I was walking on the ceiling. I had to step over light fixtures and lintels. The mirror was completely flat yet so many sharp things flew out of it. Beyond those walls her favorite tree shook its dark mane, and the sky rounder than a wagon wheel, and the clip-clop of hooves. Through the glass, I could still see her white hair. And I thought, I could lie down in snow-clouds, and open close my limbs, and leave an angel in the field. Read the poetry of Janet Aalfs Read a profile of Jante Aalfs
Losing the Magic
But you will lose her- the day you make her always reach out to you. When you stop believing she has something to contribute to your world; when she cries at night from old fears and new and there is nothing below her to hold on to: you will lose her. When you assume to know all the answers without asking the questions, when you judge her present without knowing her past; when you are afraid that her brilliance makes you shine less, so you tell her she must be less than who was made to be; when you tell her who her God wants her to be, and stop trusting her own voice. When you ask her to give up her world to make yours feel less small. When she carries the world on her shoulders and feels alone doing so; when busyness dictates whether or not you respond the times she needs your hand; when your fear that she could never love someone such as you, makes you stop trying, when excuses outweigh compliments, when you see her only for what she has failed to accomplish, when you think she is weak for no longer holding back the water that fills her longing to be something great, to someone worthy. When her greatness becomes an annoyance, when her feelings stop being heard. The day you stop believing in magic, in love, in her. If she has any self-respect: you, my friend, you will lose. Her. Read the poetry of Marie Anzalone Read a profile of Marie Anzalone
To the Ex-girlfriend in
My Writing Circle Listen. I do not, now, know which classes you are taking or your favorite song or how you spend your Sundays. What I know is the state of your wrist, the beat of your heart. I dig into the hard earth of your last poem, pry up dry slabs of shale and find bone fragments beneath — the fossilized moments that keep you up at night. (And I an archaeologist working late nights at the lab, trying like hell to piece together a skeleton with nothing but the unwieldy, impermanent intimacy of art.) Read the poetry of Rachel Schmieder-Gropen Read a profile of Rachel Schmieder-Gropen
Ellipsis...
We run away now from this world. We pack our black thoughts into suitcases - lock them tight - turn around three times then spit. There is not enough salt over shoulders or red ribbons fastened tight over cribs and sick beds. If we stuffed coins into our socks - curled our toes deep around them - or pulled out a deck of cards - our eyes would bleed from the weight of lost hope. Fear would part our eyelashes with each joker or ace. We can't wave away the ugly truth; swat it away like a lazy summer fly. We kick our sorrow down the street/a dented can of angry shout-y noise. We carry our burdens in our open hearts - marbles into words and handfuls of rain. Read the poetry of Amy Soricelli Read a profile of Amy Soricelli
his own house
a man of age wisdom filtering out of context the wrinkles remember, he doesn't skin tight parables a Jesus recluse at this juncture his eyes on fire, his heart burnt by the torch he lived with for so many years, and the smoldering life that makes him feel trapped, a bonfire of vanity seceding from the union of his mind his pride celebrates another year of existence he only wishes he could recall what year this is and where the other half of his life has moved to still he clenches his fist the emptiness within, blows out the candle or two of regret holds on to a feeling that no longer inhabits his heart but knows better than he it lived there for nearly a century he sheds a tear and it extinguishes the last candle the one he wished upon to see her again. Read the poetry of jacob erin-cilberto Read a profile of jacob erin-cilberto
Why Not to Write Poems
“I’m a poet” makes for awkward social introductions. No one reads poetry anymore. It’s old-fashioned, irrelevant, and adolescent. You don’t see the universe in the heart of a lily. It just spits orange pollen all over your black turtleneck and makes you sneeze. Grammar is confusing. Poems are unnecessary. They make nothing happen.* They don’t even rhyme anymore. You are insufficiently weird. Only goth teens, hippies, queers, suicidal women, and old people write poems. Poets have to read poems. You read a poem once. You hated it. The only famous poets are dead poets. There are no rich poets. You have no talent. You’re the wrong ethnicity. You don’t know enough big words. You’ve got no rhythm. And WTF are “line breaks”? You’ve read that it takes years of study and practice to write even one good poem. The only easy-to-write poems are list poems. And they’re boring. Read the poetry of Sharon Brogab Read a profile of Sharon Brogan
Just One Kiss
Just one kiss, in a world filled up with darkness and disappointment, band aids and barricades, sunspots and insomniacs, virus and vanity in the belly of a world full of pressure and persuasion, angst and admonitions, foothills and phantoms at the edge of a world full of danger and discovery, full of worry and wondering, but just one kiss, lips to lips, eye to eye – just one stolen kiss, and sharing this, the taste of adoration and the breath of confession. Just the whisper of a kiss, in a world so filled up. Only one. Just one kiss. Maybe more. Read the poetry of Lee Kisling Read a profile of Lee Kisling
I Go Toward the Well
I walk to the well To see how much water can fill My eager bucket. The water does not have to quench thirst, For I but come to observe the way liquid plays In the solid wood. But sometimes, I run to the well-- To splash fresh water onto my face. With it, my tears and sweat blend together And I beseech relief to meet me. The water reflects to me a steadiness That was not allowed to me by Distractions and a raced pace. I look into the designated hole on the ground And see the sky above, Bright and dancing. And darkness ceases to be a thing of fear. Instead, it’s a theatre for potential Within the well toward which I run. Today, I sit by the well. And watch as strangers, too, Draw their bucketfuls. I am not ready yet to look again Into the depths of the designated hole on the ground, So I will wait Until I have no choice but to pick up my wooden retriever And let it fall and scoop up What it will. Read the poetry of Grace Pasco Read a profile of Grace Pasco |
The Fourth of July
Sitting together on the porch swing. Sipping Champagne, swallowing bubbles of memory. Ropes creak back and forth. How could we have known—without sparklers, the flap and flutter of tattered twilight, shouts, giggles, commotion of the children—we’d be so lost? Fountains of light cascade from the sky, pinwheels and spiders. Your too cheerful voice offering one more glass. Read the poetry of Mary Jo Balistreri Read a profile of Mary Jo Balistreri
Five Night Haiku
the cry of an owl echoed in our bed my son murmurs - stay here, dad ❦ unable to sleep I amble through the garden - night blooming cestrum ❦ a lazy dog keeps me company - he stops at a street lamp, not me ❦ soon after lights are gone I invite her - Shall we dance Moonlight Serenade? ❦ If I were a humming-bird I would kiss this late blooming flower Read the poetry of Amaurie Solon Read a profile of Amauri Solon
Can You Keep a Secret?
every year, every blessed year since he walked into my life at the age of 19 when I really didn't need or want, a father figure to replace the one who died (or so I thought) he gave me chocolates Ferrero Rocher to be precise proudly selected and wrapped by him and placed in my Christmas stocking every year, without fail countless thousands of milk chocolate and hazlenut enrobed candies later (and many years after his death) I still receive a box or two from well meaning souls who carry on this tradition in his absence Until the day I die, I will never let on... I hate those damn things and always have Just never had the heart to break his heart I will choke them down with the tears over sweet chocolate made bittersweet with good intentions Read the poetry of LA Lorena Read a profile of LA Lorena
Anticipating
Acorns scatter where children used to play, where long-sleeved shirts wrapped around waists by lunch recess. Summer foliage lingers. Shorter days promise, “Just not yet.” Geese honk near dusk. Evening rains portend the earth’s shift. Before any shotgun, before the first frost, deer slip into the field’s darkness. There are no crops to harvest, the land no longer a farm. Brambles conquer the former garden and I am no longer a youngster. Each autumn redeems the past. Memory in oak roots, vibrations of all who pass, drop to the ground again and feed the squirrels. My dog considers each acorn a rose. I long for the forest’s campaign ribbons, yellows, reds, and orange - dress and ceremony before winter. Read the poetry of William Fraker Read a profile of William Fraker
Visiting With Chaos
Spills splattered the walls. Counters filled with clutter, multiple piles creating a new geography in the room. There is a relief to cleaning it all away. Everything in order. Repair and replace. The seduction of a new cycle, sparkling clean. Free from marks of history. What if we could sit with Chaos for just a little minute? Feel the wind in our ears. Hearing her secrets of cleverness. Soaking in the learning of this undone space. Before an opportunity is erased. A past disinfected before she can author her story From which the plot differs from perpetual duplicating. Read the poetry of Ali Grimshaw Read a profile of Ali Grimshaw
How Swiftly Came the Killing Season How swiftly came the killing season swept in from hinterlands just when we had remarked upon the sameness of it all. How soon the must-not-be-named became quotidian. Weren’t we standing there, thinking how sensible not to raise a ruckus, how preferable to simply turn our backs to the foul wind? How did we come to this? Didn’t we say how better we were? What comfort are platitudes now? Read the poetry of Mikels Skele Read a profile of Mikels Skele
If I Were a Butterfly
If I were a butterfly where would I fly? I could grace every home bringing good luck every time. Make sure that my children ate up all the weeds, and recycled the waste without judgement or hate. In a world that’s at peace I’d find my place. Hmm, if I were a butterfly I’d think this must wait. If I were a butterfly where would I fly? If my soul were parochial it would hang in my space, It would look pretty in my garden, propagate where I said, and keep watch with indulgence as my kids ate the rest. If I were a butterfly I’d think this was sad. A life is too short to live in the past. If I were a butterfly where would I fly? Like all souls of dead warriors for justice and peace, I’d fly down the throats of the haters, war mongers, arms traders, parasitic self servers. Yes. They’d choke on my body and ingest my eggs. My children would eat them, feast on them, thrive then fly on to the next. Yes. If I were a butterfly that’s where I’d fly. If I were a butterfly then where would I fly? I would grace every home bringing good luck every time. I would make sure that my children ate up all the weeds, and recycled the waste without judgement or hate. In a world that’s at peace I’d find my place. Read the poetry of Lynn White Read a profile of Lynn White
Heartless Tom the Gangster
He can take or leave the ladies looks good in a hat the brim taking away his eyes when he’s done thinking about whatever lies before him life death an empty glass. An ordinary man like no other impeccable at funerals and wakes undiminished by loss or the slow sweet savoring of his own swagger he leaves us behind to watch the credits rosary in his pocket purgatory in his chest hell in his hands. Read the poetry of E. Michael Desilets Read a profile of E. Michael Desilets
Copper Penny by the River
It lies Silently, as clouds pass by a full born moon, as if covering up the rusty hands upon her breast that have flaunted feminity for thousands of years Yet, of course, the man was obscure, in yellow pain. Why does the sun ignore his sister in such violent pain? Not because rain is due but only from the storms lying along the African coast predicting havoc along its way. Alas, it shines from moonbeams escaping the gaping grasp A penny by the sea is worth what, these desperate days? Picture in a Box I’ll be a picture in a box Under an old, discovered bible in a drawer in disarray. Faded in gray and darkened white. A smile, today, as I think of that time to come When a curious grandchild explores grandpaw’s “things," Days after I’ve have gone astray or wherever. Read the poetry of Dave Borland Read a profile of Dave Borland
postage paid
I am writing to you from this side of life, though I know your answer will only be in birdsong or the autumn breeze in the cedar boughs. Longing for word in faded ink, written in your strong hand or a picture postcard from the other side- ‘Wish you were here.’ I await your reply Going thru your desk, I find the note you wrote on the day I was born and I know the longed for missive has arrived. postage paid Read the poetry of Kathleen Everett Read a profile of Kathleen Everett |
Seasons
if truth be told, there are no real seasons; no plausible connections to the cold. Only that at certain times we push damp towels into the door jam so that boneless mice might not squeeze their bodies into warmth. I wrote a poem last evening about their great migration: the onomatopoeia of it. How the soul of everything searches for that certain buzz that suggests the eternal voice. Then how that voice lays dormant, perhaps slothful until the image of meadows corrals the conspectus of learning. As if Lewis and Clark didn't think twice about having to eat the flesh of uncooked buffaloes while discovering the great Northwest then sat their foil asses on the ground, writhing for Pepto Bismol. This past hot summer burned up my lawn, so I fertilized it in June which burned it up even more. So I stopped doing everything and it became green again. Then the neighbors boy played in it's glade and ran for his ball. Read the poetry of Dana Rushin Read a profile of Dana Rushin
Paco
Last night, I heard Paco de Lucía play the guitar in a theater cut out of a dry rock in the South of Spain. My father could not go because he fell and hit his head and has been in bed for fifteen days and it could be longer. My brothers are not here and do not know. So I went with my mother to see men with faces that look like the first face, the face of the Gypsy and the Jew, the Arab sage and the hanging Christ. Hair around the eyes, a focusing view of enemy foot through rising desert sand. El Farru, the great flamenco dancer, danced in the middle of the music men and lost a dancing heel in the middle of the song. The dead heel lay dumb like a bitten fig while El Farru beat his sounding heel down. Then he bowed and held up his mute heel to make our hands applaud. De Lucía. His nephew-apprentice to the left. The singers with no voice, dry rock slicing their throats. The bass that seized a place and played a role. The flamenco hair whipping Farru’s face like a despot riding his despot horse. I filmed it all to show my father. But the clip will deepen the slip of the heel and the dry rock against the head. So I keep it for my mother for when she’ll need her music men. Read the poetry of Ana Caballero Read a profile of Ana Caballaro
At the Judaica Store
And again Aisles of yarzheit candles: beeswax packs of four kosher candles from Israel decorative metal handmade and painted designs of pomegranate wooden holders Jerusalem scenes on pottery Hebrew script Jewish stars… And again I choose the same small one. Simple glass. Unadorned. Four inches tall a cylinder of sorrow. No birthday candles for a grown son. Just this-- A strike of a match a wick trembles burns in silence for 24 hours. Then, like him, gone. Read the poetry of Valerie Bacharach Read a profile of Valerie Bacharie
Kaiju
Godzilla in pain, wracked with toothache from chewing buildings, bridges, cars. Incisors shattered by lumps of brick and concrete, molars set on edge as metal screeches against enamel. Gums bleed. Dumpsters fur his tongue. The ocean was clean. The city’s anything but. Godzilla retches. Read the poetry of Neil Fulwood Read a profile of Neil Fulwood
The Omen
I was lounging in the hotel’s graveyard when I realized I left my passport in the bathroom of the hotel lobby. When I got there, in its place was a good-sized fish with the following words written on its side: “If you are Carey Grant please take me home with you, and never do another picture with Hitchcock unless he allows you to direct yourself.” Picking up the fish it immediately disintegrated in my hands. “This is a bad omen!” I thought to myself. And when I returned to the graveyard I knew I was right because two dozen black roses had replaced my chair and a huge red hand was sticking out of the earth pointing directly at my wife who had turned into a pig with the face of her father who didn’t like me from the moment that we met. Read the poetry of Jeffrey Zable Read a profile of Jeffrey Zable
A Poem for Tears
Come in out of the cold and cry We'll find a vase for your tears Cry in the warmth of my presence Cry in the calm of my verse, and I'll dry you up with a melody Taught to me be by the winsome wind I learned it all the way through just this morning It's as new and pure as an infant's dream Held by the Madonna, under a Bethlehem sky Autumn Couldn't Have Feigned This Shiver The last shy tree bare; an updated burden, Perpetual risk has been the methodology of this season, Our willful tug-of-flower has mastered the wilted, ‘Tis time to grow and harvest an arcane frost from within, Something austere and winter-bosomed; A crystalized motif, And a rush of skin-veiled blood as its garden. Read the poetry of John Carroll Walls Read a profile of John Carroll Walls
Photo art by Debbie Strange
aurora
lithesome spirit walker shimmering above the taiga rainbow ribbons in her hair Enjoy the poetry and art of Debbie Strange Read a profile of Debbie Strange
Rebecca
She was famous for dancing in the darkness, sexy confident because she knew her body moved the way she wanted. She was beautiful, like a crossword puzzle with the clues filled in, or two thousand books in perfect alphabetical order on the shelves of an independent charity shop. She had a gift for sleepwalking, a sonorous somnambulist in the back of an ambulance, but she didn’t take food into her bedroom. And so she danced about with the lights out, all away with the fairies like the top of a Christmas tree, thrown out with the rubbish and still decorated on a cold, dead pavement, waiting for men to take it away again. She was blue like a summer day; she was blue like a smurf with a black eye. She was mine and that’s the way I liked it. Read the poetry of Dane Cobain Read a profile of Dane Cobain
Crustacean
You had gone out of the state, beyond havens of flowers, Backing a voluptuous sea. Something stayed, —hummingbirds hovered and left, Moon and confections lurked in. Where the sore nose was after you And the hurting knees, Bent down under a bed, listening behind a wall. The watery nose, the woman in bed Reappeared in the water. That is a love scene for one life. More things would remain. The beginning would make it less dark, Or the fate twists. The air would never rise, and then rise, And the hummingbirds sing. The clouds would never be the same gray Lime on the horizon. [And you are lying like a shaman Amid the neat firm night, Your nose near the blue pillow, Which makes our promises real.] Read the poetry of Ann Huang Read a profile of Ann Huang
Landscape from a Window
What comes in at the window is more than the bitter tang of noon grass, the aftertaste of love’s hidden thunder you imagined you heard as you lay, supine, on the single bed the sunlight askance upon your hip and thigh. What drifts through the window is the feather of a bird that fell through sky, its black mass defines the leaf and blade; it is the isolation left behind the corner of a farmhouse where a single garment snaps the line at the bite of a colder breeze. What lifts the edge of curtain lace from the frame is a terrible precision of sight that views the empty field with horse standing in its lonely traces, and sees its own mortality in the landscape of your shadow cast aside in naked sleep. Read the poetry of Kerry O'Connor Read a profile of Kerry O'Connor |
