Poets and Painters

November 2011

2011-09-08T16:37:00.004-05:00

(Artists: Over 35 poems are listed on this site for the November 2011 Poets and Painters. There are ten poems per page for easier loading times. Scroll down to read them. Then click, Older Posts, to continue through the list. Or click, Home, if you wish to start over, or click Newer Posts to go back. You have reached the November list's end when you read the words, "End of November 2011 poems.") Also contained at this site are three other Poets and Painters events.

Morning Song

for Robert’s mother

The loft of leaf joined to limb, the green heat

of noon tucked in the hems of tree, air slow,

its swelter and flow an unwavering clock

of light sifted twig to twig to dull cast

of dusk. And voices say to eat. The moon

is halved. Voices say to rest. Waxing

must wait for the wane. For the barren box, slight

only in earth’s dirt heart. Pinpricks of night wither

at the heron’s rasp. Shapes havoc sullen screens.

Don’t wake me from this wide sea tiding out

to ocean. I follow the whale’s great tail.

I follow in wake the small boy who grips

firm the fin. I will follow him to water’s

deepest night, when from sight lost, form lingers,

then crests the current home, and I too rise.

Lisa Higgs

2011-07-20T11:20:00.001-05:00

Memories

Fall and school has started up again with our actions of

throwing, laughing, jumping and sounds…

wait! Wait! “Give him back his ball,” I am yelling;

backing a junior across the grounds.

He is a freshman and he is still just beautiful,

And he is mine. My little brother.

The three years class difference is paramount as

I see him the target- Not now, not ever.

Memories.

When we hear the stories and relive the stories from parents,

Do we even know their truths?

Standing by, at 2 ½ as he is born.

Suppose? Just suppose I admit, I don’t recall?

I towered him forever, to that day

I watched over him for always, has never gone away

So many tales and a little one followed too – so I had double duty

And was the task of love, true.

Memories

Mamma was nearing 19 when Bill was born

She was an old one, 21 with the baby surprise

Stories of begging Daddy for me, as she was full 16

Nearly. Dearly.

Brother Bill, 70 last month, my mind smiles to him

He grew 6 ft and gave me five kin, left the Air Force after the defend

On to Langley he helped America strong

Now, his decisions in moving along.

He leaves comfort of satellites and secrets

He enjoys his baby as he does year 12 of school

My brother, my friend, music and words we share

Nothing like joy of having him here.

Memories

The boy backed across the yard, probably only a couple strides

Was always loved and we both take pride of being friends-we never set aside.

The days still moving and memories glow

As Brother announces, “I am going to go”.

If everyone has a brother with these times shared

You are blessed beyond

I have not one, but two and this is the old one I share with you.

Happy retirement, October 31, Brother Bill.

Barbara McDonald

2011-07-09T14:33:00.005-05:00

Already Gone

She hasn’t forgotten – entirely –

his insouciant manner, the indifference

he displayed for the finality of

their condition. The transformation

did not occur overnight, but slowly,

at times with the patience needed to thread

a needle in the dark. She remembers

claustrophobia, grasping at straws –

that out-of-reach hand-hold that would keep her

from free-falling off of an alpine peak.

His voice, silky smooth, whispered of wanting

her happiness; foretold of her fortune –

all with words she did not notice as his

good-bye until he was already gone.

Siobhan

2011-07-09T14:32:00.003-05:00

The Value of Memories

Breeze sifts through open windows, stirs the curtains.

Scents hidden in the folds of memory

fill the space, push against it, invade.

An image of what once was finds it way

out of that place holding all her secrets,

exposes lost dreams and forgotten hopes.

Of all she values, it is those she holds

within her darkest desire that she relives.

She recalls the lingering sensations …

a trail of fingertips across belly and breasts;

the scratch of nails along her spine.

She no longer lies to herself – or others –

memories are to be cherished

for what they gave us – what they give us.

Siobhan

2011-07-09T14:29:00.003-05:00

Afternoon Poem

I tend to the mundane tasks

of talking books and phone calls
listening to the monotonous conversations
children and ailments

activities planned

not mine

I wish to be outside

under the clear blue sky calling

from the window while I toil
how I can last til the end of the day?

Wait, I’ve got mail

A poem arrives
words filled with magic

take me far beyond the clouds

far beyond the mundane

the day’s end is not so far

K.A.T. Corrigan

2011-07-06T14:07:00.012-05:00

Brave New World

I-80 leads nowhere

she wants to be elsewhere

this warm spring night

she should be sprawled across some flowered sheet,

sweet scents

wafting through windows newly screened.

Instead, pinned behind the wheel

she clutches her last nerve

steers between behemoth trucks and constructions

rebar wrought by satanic one-lane satirists.

Tires slap black

pavement’s white lines

define this second

then the next

beat becomes hypnotic

Shit! She almost falls asleep,

is saved by her daughter’s voice,

“I’ll read to you, if you want me to.”

They’d lost the trucks a few miles back;

the small car glides

with an ease not felt before.

A huge full moon is on the rise

but the girl opens the glove box door

for light, and begins to read in a steady voice

a book she’s surprised she likes,

not being what her mother calls “a reader” —

always followed by the silently implied “like me.”

“Brave New World” by Aldous Huxley.

“That’s Al-du-ous” her mother hums.

“Whatever. Chapter One.”

Despite her mother’s claim to know the way

the author says his name,

this is a book she hasn’t read.

“I never liked science fiction,” she says.

Her daughter excels in science and math

a consolation for mother-mapped paths

that will not be tread.

Their exit looms near the end of Chapter Three.

The tedious journeys’ longed for escape

seems less important now

than the fate of fictional eggs.

The daughter puts the book away

and the mother marks the place

where something brave and new has hatched.

Corrine Frisch

2011-07-06T14:06:00.004-05:00

A Poem for Jane

Dead calm August 6 a.m.

Cape Cod colored canvas

boats bob

through mists of coffee steam.

Gulls circle and cry,

but this is a Midwestern sky

ample enough cover

to harbor inland seas of green

tassels flag across the masts

in my picture window scene.

But you say

"write a poem for me."

So I inventory the fleet,

harvest one

and christen her "The Jane,"

a seaworthy name.

Like you, not the flashiest craft.

She wears the patina of a storm or two.

Yet when the wind comes up,

she's the one

who'll see you home.

She has good bones.

New England bred

prairie transplant

sails across my page,

"The Jane."

Corrine Frisch

2011-07-04T11:18:00.006-05:00

PAINTING THE MUSE

Is it the shadows behind that make your eyes
glow this way, an inner chiaroscuro
weave of golden beam and ebon shadow
shining through, rife with love, cerulean—
or is that lazuline?—rich blue, open
invitation, inclusive magnetic
center of my gravity—just as is
that silver-grey silence behind your voice,

between your words . . . rare, violet and silken
nebulous of geometry—curves sans
cubes, corners, hard angles. This against skies
somehow familiar in their alien
vistas. As though emitted by your gaze;
All which hint untold stories, poems unpenned.

David Pitchford

2011-07-03T10:21:00.003-05:00

anxious

her soul feels

weak like

early-morning fog

bullied away

by the afternoon.

bruised by fits

of obsession,

her mind incessantly

hums of insanity

nestled softly

between once-

coherent thoughts

and

a lingering passion,

still hoping

that one day

she will get

better.

Nikkie Lynn Prosperini

2011-07-02T16:11:00.012-05:00

Anniversary

It was six months before her twenty-second birthday.

I was nearly forty. So long ago.

She was here for a job interview and I was a visitor. Encounters escalated into conversation, coke and popcorn. We were in free flow, So long ago.

Ah, the reflection of disco dying in eighty-one, while getting to know you, getting to care.

A cactus transplant, celebrating joint-ownership of a 5 quart pitcher and balancing the mind.

Meeting the families-meeting the families and street tours of Lewisburg. Papaw’s wide smile and arms opened to visits, arms opened to aging. My heart still presses on his image. Thank you West Virginia as you house the root of my being, the connection to my heart.

Learning, Growing, Knowing…

Moving. Your undergrad assembled as I moved the corporate stick around the State. We broke into University – Illinois on schedule and took a pass at acceptance to Vet school. Had a bigger school to attend- as again, the corporation took us to the banks of the Ohio, where Pete Rose was still famed and chili had given Cincinnati prominence.

Another new house and water enough to wind surf and sail. Two small beaches as there was sand and gravel. Friends forever branded on our being and we settled in for the Vet school scene, back to Illini.

She, so skilled found time to sew, stencil and bake. She so kind, finding time to love and read and such differences she would make.

I give up the Corporation and take up the University, along with my new business birth.

Gardens planted, flowers bloom and life moves to visits of Paris and Piccadilly and our parent’s places.

We graduate Wisconsin and have flourished in this scene.

Throwing a family and friend party without spare and soon after pack for out there…

A month-long externship gave call to the place and spending that first job here was not to be replaced. Grand Junction, CO lacks glamour and elite but it has open spaces and outdoor life with weather not beat.

Back to Illinois and open our own – aw, you never know a business partner until you have one and selling back our piece of that pie; No regrets, no regrets - given a decade, BIG city goodbye.

We looked at Santa Fe, Austin, Asheville and Prescott and Seattle too. Oh, we looked it all over and knew what to do- for the need of simplicity; City life has pluses but farm life has our pulses.

That first year, she was their Kennel gal and now – she is their Boarded internist. Home, included working again at that first Vet clinic. That first place, so long ago.

I believe I will continue to look out at the pasture, cut some fresh flowers and say that having now caressed my mind, I believe it has only been a few days. Not so long ago. Each hour is mine, ours and I will remain blessed with my life for I have you.

Happy Anniversary

Barbara McDonald

2011-07-02T12:25:00.005-05:00

If They Only Knew

If only they knew how the wind blows in the trees

and a soft whisper of ecstasy blows In the air.

If only they knew how to be surreal.

To open their minds and dream dreams of yearning and love.

If only they would listen to the soft drumming of hope which beats in their insides, longing for one thing, more powerful than the strength of any muscle well built.

If only they could feel the power which intimidates the body and soul and scares the laughs of liberty from the lungs leaving no breath left to spare.

If only they could feel what it’s like to have an aura of emptiness thrashing your insides.

To free itself of an eternity of isolation.

If only they could live a meaningful life,

taking pre-cautious steps, but allowing enough leverage to break and be free.

Free of madness and undeserving persons, shifting themselves into the world

without common sense, but with pride, and prejudice against others.

If only they knew that helping others is not something to be punished

but rather, rewarded and reprieved.

If only they knew that happiness is not something that comes and stays.

If only they knew that happiness is likely to take it’s bags,

quickly escape the depths of despair which removes it,

and go away; far away.

So far, that only a miracle could bring it back.

If only they knew that miracles do not go to the non-believers.

If only they knew that miracles travel to the persons less fortunate and less desirable. The ones who truly need that gracious blessing.

And, if only people could understand the importance of letting such miracles escape their bare burdened hands to go to the needy.

Then the world could know a little better how I feel

and how those like me feel.

How that imperativeness could be unchained and unraveled.

But for now,

All that’s left to say are words of wisdom, which will be withered by the time they are understood.

Withered like the hands of a woman with the life closing behind her.

If only they knew how the wind blows in the trees

and a soft whisper of ecstasy blows in the air under a tree as I write away my soul until the very end of time.

Elizabeth Choat

2011-07-02T12:23:00.003-05:00

Perhaps

I, intrinsic daughter, cry into the nightless night and so

Discreetly a tear falls from my cheek.

A reflection catches itself

In a spinet of webs and

Alone in anguish,

A spider sits.

I ache at the thought of resounding pain and

Forced into happiness among the trees,

Grins of masked eyes stare at me and

Wait to smile.

Perhaps the Earth moves slowly without a

Thought of despair and

Perhaps we make of it, unintentionally, a horrific

Time warp of shattering volts.

I can make of my life

A happy swamp filled with flora for a thousand.

But my bones,

A barren wasteland of hope,

Are left to quake the earth for billions of centuries to come.

Elizabeth Choat

2011-07-02T12:20:00.002-05:00

It Was a Younger Town

Memories of street corners depress him.
Where the Walgreens department pharmacy stands --
southeast corner, 5^th at South Grand --
a used car lot thrived for decades in earlier days.
Then a Top’s Big Boy Restaurant sprouted and grew.
It became a favorite rendezvous for almost 30 years.
His dear hearts and pals came for the salad bar, Slim Jim platters and milk shakes

after movies. The joint hummed!
And from downtown it was a breeze, a straight shot south on 5th to connect again

with friends for the breakfast buffet
after Sunday school and second services.
He had the makings of a responsible adult at the time.
Before the dance studio – South Grand at Glenwood --
thrived a second-hand store before
the office supply store before
the Avenue Food Shop before
the Sugar Bowl,
hangout of his older sister.
Sometimes he tagged along once with her
and her boyfriend, Mom and Dad insisted.
What a jukebox they had!

Today’s lifeless, dusty, pot-holed asphalt and dirt --
southeast corner, 4^th at South Grand --
was home to a Ponderosa Steak House in the 70s
turned computer store
turned another charity second-hand store
that suffered before moving waaaaaay out to
the west side and thriving.

The airport past the southwest fringe of the city --
nudged to oblivion by encroaching residential developers --
was sold by airport owners for handsome profit
They banked their riches and moved out of town and why the hell not?
They hadn’t prospered, really prospered,
since the new airport opened north of the city back in 1947.

Grocery stores were once close-in to the south side --
Piggly Wiggly and later Eisner at MacArthur at Ash,
Jansens’ I.G.A. near 1^st at Outer Park
National on Jefferson near Walnut,
Kroger – 2^nd at South Grand,
A&P – 7^th at South Grand across from Stuart School --
all gone broke or relocated west, leaving less and less
of a central city that glistened and sang in mercantile plenty.
Today it's abandoned by gutless wonders who grew queasy at the sight of brown,

who left behind residents trapped
by modest means and citizens proud of the city and unwilling to migrate away

from loyal neighbors who sneak peeks from cracks in curtains drawn closed and

watch sullen
malcontents in baggy pants and scowling faces
shuffling down the center of the streets; never on the sidewalks past empty lots

gutted of homes and squealing children
and left to rot in festering puddles.

The northwest corner, Pasfield at South Grand
was a Watt Bros. pharmacy with a soda fountain
that served cherry phosphates and chocolate Cokes and
sundaes any day of the week.
He rode there on his bike from home.
Later it was a King Harvest Food Coop, then
a gift boutique, then a fitness training club,
and today empty of life, but not of memories.

The northeast corner, Whittier and Ash, five lots north of
his childhood home on Whittier, two and a half blocks
from the duplex he owns today, the home he is afraid to see
NOT because he is afraid the experience will kill him but
because he is afraid the experience will not kill him;
He yearns to walk south to gaze like a thief,
on walls and grass that were his, his,
to see what was once a meticulously gardened yard
with the maple tree he purchased as a sapling
at a Lawrence grade school Arbor Day sale,
the house, the only safe harbor he would know down deep!

He didn’t love it for the 21 years he lived there,
didn’t praise his parents for their sacrifice.
One day he will summon the courage
to walk two and a half blocks almost straight south
and tour the alley he roamed regularly until
he was 10 years old or so and grew up a little past that phase.
Today as he lives, the grown man he hears the echoes of his childhood neighbors,

so close, so far away, friendly.
He holds in his nostrils traces of the fragrances
of his friends’ homes, Jay Bruninga, Phil Daykin,
the Wilsons, Wendy Booth, Marcia Blizek, Paul Tack,
Tom Keeslar, Charlie Allen, Nancy Gibson, Karen Gernenz,
Don Arenz, Greg Pease, every trace loved as gold
and everyone moved away.
In his dreams he looks into the yard from the alley,
reaches out from his heart and steals more happy memories,
sees the back door and one last time, savors
remains of molecules he shared with brother Bill,
sister Dorothy, Mom and Dad until
everybody moved out of town but him,
and the world changed;
and the world grew up around him . . .
and the world grew on without him . . .
and he remained
the same.

Job Conger

2011-07-02T12:15:00.003-05:00

PICASSOng

Red pretauge on canvas white,
Streaks of saffron center right,
From left corner sprouts a plem
Floral postiquodiem.
Kladar races neck and neck
With the banye bisolek.
Orange disks in motion glurge;
Toward the fading dree converge.

(chorus)
Lend your ears and voices true
To the mellow illusdrew
We shall cloy mo talikong
Celebrate an abstract song

Hut in shadow on a rise --
Fuscia nordank misty fies --
Over deep cerulean blue
Stolden pax kalam pocue
Creatures dance hodaigren lape
While the natives flir kanape
Vopan is the chanter king
Harvest green and bresaling

Lend your ears and voices true
To the mellow illusdrew
We shall cloy mo talikong
Celebrate an abstract song

Framed in sweet melodic hues
Catholicspro te stant sjews
Recognize with warm delight
Wonders of the shenegite
We’ll connect to what we can
From the palette’s laudigan
Symbol scanbee what yewill
Cata pondewin dasill

Lend your ears and voices true
To the mellow illusdrew
We shall cloy mo talikong
Celebrate an abstract song

Job Conger

2011-07-01T23:42:00.004-05:00

Desert Isle

Millions tend to this populace isle

And factories fill its water-bound ’scape.

Countless capital clerks its deeds they do file,

Countless criminals its maids they do rape.

A thousand machines belch pois’nous black smoke.

A thousand breadless souls swallow only hope.

Yet for me ’tis a desert isle alone

In an empty sea, a solitary home.

Like Crusoe, mine is infinite labour

And not for escape to equal barrens,

But merely to be alive and no more.

My wilds are Eden-not—but fetid fens.

Blooms are not parti-colour’d roses gay;

All ashen soot of black and dungeon grey.

I both long for and fear finding one morn

An alien footprint on the beach alone.

Would Friday the slayer of blackness be,

A white-white knight of Arthurian lore,

Or dread cannibal sent to consume me?

His chain-mail’d mount trampling me the more.

Best then to avoid that long stretch of beach

And stay in my cave void of sun and leech.

For hope is the labour most infinite—

Golden love the treasure most beyond my sight.

Ted Morrissey (in the persona of fictional 19^th-century
British author Margaret T. Haeley)

2011-07-01T23:37:00.004-05:00

senectitude’s memento

cobwebs cluster in arid daybright corners
gauzy sunskein threads
driftsome and tender as nape-sung flesh-whispers
fluxsome as shadow’s slip
          senility’s silken grit sifted and diffuse
          recalling affairs unsettled
          errands unfinished
          matters accumulated
                    confected corollaries yet to pass
                    sunset wrinkles
eventide’s glow
velveting the advance of twilight
eclipsing the incomplete
     dusking evanescent the trappings undusted
spiderwebs stretch across humid moonhazed dreams
gossamer nighttide constellations
lissome and elusive as fossa vein-wisps
fleeting as hoarfrost’s lace
          youth’s shimmering mesh latticed and lambent
          recalling dew undisturbed
          earth-breath unharmed
          dampness refulgent
               dawnsoft droplets yet to last
               sunsquint tears
horizon’s flush
mourning the passage of moonshade
illuminating the intangible
     trapping fugitive the dustings undusked

Joanna Beth Tweedy

2011-07-01T23:31:00.003-05:00

First Glance

The onion seems to be an underrated vegetable

its appearance is deceiving

remove the nondescript first layer

revealing a soft and tender fragrant body

that can only be seen if one searches

it can be sliced, chopped or diced

be used as a condiment, ingredient or side dish

rarely is it an entrée

even in its translucency its flavor is not mistaken

though it often is overlooked

taken for granted

it is always in the vegetable bin

ready to serve

ready to add that extra something

quietly murmuring

peel me

K.A.T. Corrigan

2011-07-01T23:30:00.005-05:00

Caught out of Time

(A Portrait in Words)

A diverse collection of poets and writers, some

with talent, and those whose talent is to listen.

They both reach for idealistic heights of artistry.

1960’s too-cool daddies and way-too-cool momma’s

with floppy leather hats, like Dylan wore, returns

for another encore. Except now, its dread-locks being

sported by hot young men, only sure of one thing,

the girl hanging out next to them.

Our hopes and dreams of flower-power, peace and love,

though faded out, echoes and glints on young faces,

still trapped in cocoons of naiveté.

The smell of fear, its strong and wet, and it

lurks at the back of their minds. The fear of

self-loss suffocates, they keep their eyes tightly

shut against the daylight of reality. They long for

more of those experiences not yet lived. Hunger.

Defiant symbols sewn on leather jackets,

the yin and the yang, worn like a charm against evil.

As if it will straighten out the crazy upside down

times that we live in today. Recollections of peace

signs that we thought would save the world.

Like the next generation of Woody Guthries,

they sing about the down-and-out, the lost and

forgotten. Maybe they'll find their way, if

they can just sing them home.

A chess game being played at the next table.

The man’s long, thin braid courses down the side

of his face. He calculates his next move.

He checks out his mate.

Philosophical heart beats of writers who dare

to express thoughts that only their pen has seen.

Poets with profound statements.

Smoke hangs thick; inhalation of oxygen limited

to shallow breaths, at the coffee-house

Caught Out of Time.

The crowd thins out, bound for other places.

Searching for the next stop, Daddy,

Where they can just be cool.

Janice J. Robinson

2011-07-01T23:27:00.001-05:00

Hearty Spirit of Maine

The wood pile reflected preparation

as smoke curled from chimneys,

relaying forced hibernation

under snow piled to the window sill.

Captured towering firs

witnessed winter beating against panes

and obliterated the long road,

disconnecting the neighbors in Maine.

Undermined by nature’s elements,

the people down under yielded,

and with Grandma and napping babies

envisioned a bountiful summer.

Amid friends seated round,

where covered dishes abound,

a bright-eyed toddler

giggled through Irish complexion.

Mud squishing between impish toes,

when her kitty is flung to the wind,

she discerns how it lands on its feet

and climbs back into her lap again.

Pam Miller

2011-07-01T23:25:00.002-05:00

Love Note

Diamonds dance

on moonstruck Pacific,

like ecstasy,

now reflected in your eyes.

Pam Miller

2011-07-01T23:23:00.001-05:00

Middle-Aged Madness:
What Happened When A Middle-Aged
Woman (With Osteoporosis) Lost Her
Mind And Tried To Learn To Roller Skate
In The Driveway

Wearing protection
Left wrist splint from last winter
Right wrist splint from the car accident last spring
Roller skates from a yard sale

Borrowed protection:
Husband’s bicycle helmet
Sister’s volleyball knee pads
Friend’s elbow pads

Supportive friends on each side
Worried husband, interested neighbor
Momentary distraction
Comedy action: flying feet,
Bruised bottom, hurting head.

Supportive friends on each side,
Worried husband, interested neighbor
Removing useless splints
Knee pads, elbow pads, helmet.

Sitting in cushioned comfort
Fiction favorites, origami and Audubon
More distraction
From the result of comedy action.

Sanity returns, limping.

Vicki Bamman

2011-07-01T23:15:00.004-05:00

Sand and Snow

I am buffeted by alternating winds from either side

of my sparsely forested path along a slender ridge of mountain,

struggling to remain upright with wind, birdsong, call of distant gulls

and rhythmically pounding breakers ringing in my ears, stinging my eyes, filling my lungs with
gasping breath the scent of pine and salt from the sea.

My surrealistic dream scape expands before me on either side

as I traverse along this needled spine of mountain ridge,

catching sight through trees of dancing dunes of sand on my left,

while on my right wind whips swirling drifts of blowing snow.

To where I walk or from where I've come I do not or cannot recall.

My attention is riveted upon remaining upright

as I walk between blowing dunes of sand and drifts of snow.

Nancy Ganguli

2011-07-01T23:13:00.001-05:00

In the Deep Blue Sea

For years I have proclaimed

I want to come back in my next life

as an organized woman,

preferably a thin one who doesn’t sweat,

but the main requirement is:

ORGANIZATION.

But if denied my human form,

I wish to come back as a

dolphin ...

a female dolphin, a popular

female dolphin, clicking and whistling

and singing my loquacious dolphin-self

through the deep blue sea,

gossiping, eating,

playing, frolicking,

fucking with reckless abandon,

soaring ...

up, left, right

down,

AND ... there would be no clutter ..

NO NEED FOR ALL THAT ORGANIZED

HUMAN CRAP!

No toilets to clean,

no papers to sort

no bills to pay,

no dishes to wash!

Did someone say thin?

HELL with thin!

I am Nancy, the dolphin,

plump, blubbery, beautiful,

swimming and joyful,

naked and free,

far away

in the deep blue sea

up, up,

down, down

left, right ...

Nancy Ganguli

2011-07-01T23:10:00.002-05:00

Seeds

Fall trees...are spitting

seeds...twirling

leaves...and I...

sit on a branch my mind,

fall asleep and breathe...

as fall trees...spit more

leaves...eating sky...and I...

twirl, breathe...

and leave...a seed.

Anita Stienstra

2011-07-01T22:06:00.002-05:00

The Wrist Watch

You are the hands I watched turn

day after day, year after year

as if the movement of my being

relied on their rotation, and I was

nothing without you to tell me I existed

in this point in time, at this place

performing any particular job or task.

I despise you. I keep you

in my coffin of a jewelry box

to remind me not to care so much

about things that look alive

and helpful, hold me captivated,

but really only clasp

around my wrist like a hand cuff.

Anita Stienstra

2011-07-01T21:47:00.003-05:00

Familiar

Just before bedtime I let Max,

my Benjy terrier, slip past me.

Before I could stop him, he fled

across the porch, down the snow-

packed stairs and vanished. Hours

later, he still hadn’t reappeared

so I got in the car and crept down

sepulchral streets and alleys

seeking a glimpse of his golden fur.

Pulling back into my driveway

I caught sight of a dog standing

on the glistening gravel as if waiting

for me. A first I thought it might be

my prodigal, but this dog was immense,

white as the full moon and regal,

an ermine-clad Wenceslas.

He gazed as if he knew me,

eyes emanating an unearthly power.

Beside me up the steps he glided

and would have followed me inside

but I turned and said No.

With trembling fingers I closed

the door and secured the bolt,

hoping he’d just go away.

The rest of the night I shivered

on the daybed beneath a moonlit

window, listening for familiar footfalls.

Pat Martin

2011-07-01T21:46:00.001-05:00

Homeless in Arkansas

From the very beginning I was in love with

the natural world. My nursery rhymes were

wind blowing through treetops, gurgling

streams, the croaking

of bull frogs from pond-side. I sucked

on silky stems of wild mint and crawled

through fragrant fields of strawberries.

Once in awhile I’d help Mother fill a bag

with blackberries or red raspberries

sagging on a fence row. Often we slept

on a blanket under one of the dippers

so close I thought I could touch it

if only my arm were longer. I’d fall

asleep listening to crickets and tree frogs and

an occasional hoot-owl. Others

who had homes sometimes fed us.

We’d trek over the foothills from one

to another, I a toddler nestled

between Mother’s warm breasts,

not knowing I was poor.

Pat Martin

2011-07-01T21:33:00.002-05:00

Flirt of Flickering Fireflies

on the Sangamon

hundreds
of male

fireflies

wink in unison

through navy

august night

across the

riverbank

hundreds

of female

fireflies

return

the splendid

unison winks

the flirt of

flickering

fireflies

pulsing against a

blanket of dark

excites

voyeurs

like me

Jean Staff

2011-07-01T21:28:00.001-05:00

Summer Midday on the Pond

Lulled by lap, silk upon her bank,

still lies morning pond

—senses vagabond.

By noon her sandy ass winces rosy,

winces randy and sore

with sun’s spank.

Swaddled Bobolink, so nest cozy,

chirp chirps a snore.

In waddled grass,

duck royal does nap

with nary a thought that dog, cat

and brat…do not.

Maiden flowers, manifold,

winking, they tease

the frantic showers

of bold bachelor bees

aswirl, atwirl

the red, gold, the please,

and stink, of the girl musky curl.

To nimbus cloud,

pink nippled thru white chiffon,

moppet willows bawl for a drink,

as old granny breeze, cognac tippled,

stifles a salty yawn.

Then see them crawl,

their green skin rippled,

the jump high crowd

with mump-eye faces that stare

and plump-thigh legs that sprawl

lily pad pillows.

Beware! By blink unseen,

shadows slink serpentine

thru the foxtail tall and blonde,

thru the rosette veil of steam.

While far beyond

the pale of pole and net,

fishes sink into unfathomed wet

Dream—Summer Midday on the Pond.

Jean Staff

2011-07-01T20:58:00.001-05:00

Survival

“Can’t you read?” snapped the monkey. It waved

a threatening baton over the yellow tape; I stepped back

in surprise. “It says, police line, do not

cross,” the monkey said. “This means

you.” “Who put you in charge?” I snapped

back. No simian with a badge makes

a monkey out of me. “Evolution is running

backwards,” it said. “Darwin died and made me

god.” “Not mine,” I answered. “What’s the crime here?”

“Building a better mousetrap, with malice

aforethought.” It raised a paw, pushed

the uniform cap back and scratched

its head. “What do you know

about this?” “Nothing,” I said. “I never

fore thought in my life.” “None of you

did. That’s the crime.” “You’re contradicting

yourself,” I pointed out smugly. “That’s my

prerogative,” it answered, “now you move

on, there’s nothing to see here.” “I want

to see the mousetrap.” “You can’t, it’s been

impounded, expounded, and re-

pounded. Also classified, eyes only.” “Whose eyes?”

I asked. It answered, “That’s

the question, isn’t it?”

Liz Huck

2011-07-01T20:57:00.002-05:00

October Sestina

My year turns over in the fall

When the maple, fierce red heart,

Pulses fire in sprawling lines

Of redded gold. Each leaf

A separate painting, its own story,

Detaches, rides the wind to the ground.

We sit in a circle on the ground

Feeding the fire as shadows fall,

Toast marshmallows, tell ghost stories –

The Horseman, the Raven, the Telltale Heart

Written in the crackling of the leaves.

Red embers in ash sketch runic lines.

Geese on gray sky waver into line,

Rabbits and badgers going to ground.

All things bright and fragile take leave,

Only the hard, the strong, the fell,

Dig in, settle down, stretch roots to the heart

Of the earth, to the riches stored.

In the last pages of the story,

The trivial falls away, the line

Of action runs clear. The heart

Of fire in the west lights up the ground,

Every blade clear and golden, as it fell

From the anvil, every vein in the leaf.

Before the light goes, I will take my leave

Walking into the sky. The ancient stories

Promise that glory comes before the fall.

I'll backtrack the geese, follow the twisting line

The rabbit's footprints make across the ground,

Into the winter's heart.

The sigh that stills the heart,

That empties flesh, like a curling leaf

Fading, crumbling into fallow ground,

Bears a vibrant word, reweaves the story

In smoldering scarlet curls and golden lines,

Unfolding in the winds while cities fall.

Learn this by heart, six times the story tell:

In every leaf, the web of lines reveals

Our struggle from the ground, our glorious fall.

Liz Huck

2011-07-01T20:56:00.002-05:00

Cream Tea at Miss Aimee B’s

Before there was tea there were teats,

The milk of human kindness flowing

Without silver tongs or lumps

Of sugar, breasts dispensing life.

We smile over our cups,

Ladies who lunch, the tearoom

Cozy, the cheesecake sweet,

And Earl Gray the only male.

Lola Lucas

2011-07-01T20:49:00.001-05:00

Blue Sky

The snapshots remain:

In one, the sky above a train station

Is a blue that aches, so perfect

so nothing but itself

Years fade the photograph;

The real sky, meanwhile,

Dark to light to dark each day, clouded

Or star-filled or sometimes, perhaps,

Even the same startling blue…

The wood of the train station

Older, benches inside more worn

—as we are—

Tracks that lead, that will always lead,

Across the river and home again.

Lola Lucas

2011-07-01T20:45:00.002-05:00

Tangier Samadhi

Golden crabs of Tangier
float in bubbles of gold
above the golf carts on their single tongue of road.

Their claws are castanets!
Their voices fire!
Dancing over backyard graves of fishermen
lost in the rocking bay.

Impenetrable, wisdom-diamond-eyed,
gods of the Chesapeake,
up in your Chinese clouds—
HELLO!!

Hugh Moore

(Established in 1686, Tangier Island was discovered by Captain John Smith. It is three miles long and one mile wide and lies off the coast of Virginia.)

2011-07-01T20:42:00.002-05:00

ANGELS OF THE MAID-RITE

They illuminate the sky above the lunchroom
all winged immortal, bristling with light.
Sometimes sinking through the roof,
their golden feet make sparks along the ceiling.
That toothless guy has seen them.

Those young professionals
dropping in for a ‘taste of the city’—
hell, they don’t even see me.

Above the Maid-Rite’s wooden roof,
homeless golden dogs of heaven.
They are anyone’s, everyone’s, nobody knows.
The crip who works the grill,
who sneaks free burgers to cops and crooks alike—
maybe they are his.

Hugh Moore

2011-07-01T20:40:00.004-05:00

Reason Took Me

Reason played a game with imagination

A singles tennis match of

Fascination

Imagination stayed on love

Until reason reached

Forty

And reason took the final

Serve

Imagination slowly dying

With age reason begins

To win as imagination

Stays on love, nothing, nothing, nothing

If two imaginations play

They stay in love forever

But reason took me by the hand

And killed my nothing

My Passion

Lindsey Buis

2011-07-01T20:40:00.002-05:00

Bird Boy

Bird boy, scared of steel cages

Needs freedom to love life

And to feel the air. He hops

Away again leaving

Her with a bloody beak.

But that’s not what she loves

About him. He’s brief— a

Mystery. She sees

Towers of gold in his eyes,

Towers he’s still discovering,

Upturning soil, digging for

Worms— while Robin girl

Bleeds—waiting for her lover

Man to catch up to her.

But he just might not, and she’ll

Follow eagles, sparrows, and

Be up in the trees. While her

Bird boy digs ditches

And hops from one hole to another,

Dirty, bleeding onto another

Robin girl that will learn to fly

Above him also.

Lindsey Buis

2011-07-01T20:32:00.001-05:00

assimilating the experience of you (for Bill)

we shook hands when we met
          three fingers fanned and arched like palmfronds shading
          thumb and forefinger that grasp the drinkingtab
          of your carryout coffeecup, steamcurlicues
          around them just like morningfog around tall buildings in The City

          two fingers extract one cigarette from freshpack,
          your cupped windbreak hand a shadowy vaulted secretchamber
          until illumined by the lighter's quickflame just like sudden
          transbaytunnel thirdrail electricity or
          inspiration with desire

your hands just once held mine; we danced
          four thoughtful fingers lounge against your cheek and jaw
          in individual attitudes like streetpeople posturing for sparechange
          as you listen to me, chin on palm

          five fingers bask like sunning sealions on the promontory of your knee

          one finger emphasizes salient points about which you feel strongly

i wish i wish i wish that it would point the way to me

          i can't even
      begin
                                 to contemplate your
                                            eyes

                                                    and
                                                               smile

Thea Chesley

2011-07-01T20:27:00.000-05:00

rendezvous, Rue de Ursulines

yellow crescent moon
tumescent
over Crescent City,
waxing, like my wanting

more potential voodoo than a full moon could have conjured
crawls out of the spreading shadows on Orleans Street
like a monster cockroach from your worst apocalyptic dream
as sun sets over clean, suburban Metairie
where they have no idea what is happening here

saturated air, as close as personal history
carries ominous, mysterious portents
that inspire objectless anticipation
like an itch i can't quite reach --
unfulfilled old longings recollected suddenly;
desire long sublimated rising in me like a primal moan

i walk the cobbled cracked uneven sidewalks of the Vieux Carré
too tempestuous inside to sleep;
a crucial thing is missing, i am negatively charged
my shadow catches up with me, then reaches for the unknown
that's ahead
but aren't you afraid to go out walking there at night?
no; especially not tonight.
i am invulnerable, somehow:
i walk and others step aside to let me pass --
bleached blond gay in leather chaps and little else and
shoeshine boy on Bourbon Street

who'll bet a buck that he can tell me where I got my shoes
and whores of all kinds
understand that i'm not buying --
what i'm looking for is no thing that they've ever even had
to sell
and maybe isn't of their Earth

i want to see your forehead and your cheekbones pink
with sunburn and the neon of a beer sign;
your jaw and straight, strong nose
like burnished bronze in candleglow
your eyes darkened by passion, deep and black as interstellar space
glittering with constellations of reflected flame
and possibilities of travel to new,
unimaginable worlds

like any thing of quality
the journey just requires time

time with you is what i haven't had

time without you telescopes, distorts: i want it to be over
i want to start Time over now with you, expanding,
just until the universe we know will fill
a second-storey room-and-bath with balcony French doors thrown wide
to admit the heavy salty humid air,
laden with the fragrance of fresh-baked D'Or croissants
the clip-clop of the tired carriage horses on the paving bricks,
the murmuring of tourists much too self-absorbed to hear their driver telling them
that where I would lie touching you, this sanctuary thirty feet above them
was, once, long ago, a convent

i believe this passion is divine
as any that inspired this room's historical inhabitants
in the deepest reaches of their souls

being in this room alone feels wrong, discordant, incomplete; yet
i've no faith or reasonable hope
that i will find you here
that you will give me
Time

i stand before a storefront on Decatur Street
the sun has risen over herons, hermit crabs and egrets,
bayou grasses, damselflies and water striders
i have walked, but now am motionless and
contemplating severed snake and alligator heads, Mardi Gras masks,
colorful cheap trinkets, Catholic icons, mudbug t-shirts:
do ya eat da tails? do ya suck da heads?
don't be shy about extremes here

and i'm not

afraid to think, or say, or do
whatever it takes, either
to effect desired destinies

did Ruthie rollerskate behind me just then on the sidewalk?
did you just walk into Café DuMonde -- alone?
we perceive -- believe -- what we most want
and Love Potion Number Nine will work on you
if you can be persuaded

powders, potions, poultices and leathers, metal,
fur and feathers, wands and stones,
chalices and amulets -- the ju-ju of old cultures
and the newest: virtual cyberpunk playrooms,
batteried, electric and inflatable devices,
latex products in the shapes and colors of all fantasies

you can get them here

but that isn't how i want you
-- not compelled by magicks
of the supernatural or supermarket --
you will come to me
when you want me

so i won't stroll toward Café DuMonde now
if you won't tell me yes
right now
i will forego the answer
until later
you know i am staying at the convent -- alone

Thea Chesley

2011-07-01T20:16:00.003-05:00

At Break of Day

clear morning

emerald line

emerging discreetly

cuts a boundary at lake’s edge to melody of crashing waves

upward climbing clouds

varied in shape and size

appear along azure skyline

as horizontal city across the void

outstretched beams

emanating from the place

where the great sun will first appear

rise into an oceanic sky

enter ignition

subtle as a candle

marking the window

from a temple in a celestial metropolis

gradual and mysterious

enveloping light

streams across the void

through windows in the city

then the shore awakens

with faint dim glow

as wet lustrous sand

reflects majesty of solar projection

as the building shake loose

their imaginary bindings

floating freely into the sky

nervous scurrying of gulls and terns on the shore

affirms that the day has officially begun

Mark Russillo

2011-07-01T20:12:00.007-05:00

North Texas Evening

as forceful breeze

unsettles tenacious

sanded tufts

of spare prairie grass

two-lane highway

slashes defiantly

through acres

of mesquite trees

amidst myriad cacti

abundant scrub brush

burying its unclear end

in ubiquitous horizon

lone mesquite bug

searching relentlessly

for that one, brief sexual encounter

of its meager existence

poking his head out

from rotting tree stump

after lifetime of sleep

and mechanized consumption

with tornado, flood and drought

where uncertainty prevails

as ringmaster beneath the tent

of the vast starry sky

where life begins and ends

where the semblance of what is

may vanish in mere moments

where metamorphosis is expected

Mark Russillo

End of November 2011 poems

2011-07-01T20:11:00.014-05:00

Screaming & Falling, Chris Martin

Come back soon to read Aaron Wayne's poem from the June 30 reading.

June 2011

2011-07-01T20:11:00.013-05:00

Ashyr's Summer 2, Bernie White Hatcher

Come back soon to read Ethan Lewis' poem from the June 30 reading.

2011-07-01T20:10:00.006-05:00

Lakeview 2, Joan Beeman

LAKESIDE

Sitting on the lakeside

imagination takes a journey

beyond the horizon

to the river in Southern Illinois

a time long ago

A break from learning

escape from responsibilities

letting the water splash all

worries

Water draws peace within

a time of reflection

allowing two lovers time

to themselves

Leaving this lakeside meditation

we go back to our daily life

refreshed and inspired

K.A.T. Corrigan

2011-07-01T20:09:00.006-05:00

Storm Clouds Rolling In, Roland Folse

storm clouds rolling in

it's a late afternoon,

between April and June,

prime time for dramatic weather.

the prairie's vastness is

overshadowed, dwarfed,

by storm clouds

rolling in

inexorably,

on powerful winds.

the green fields are supernaturally luminous in the

frightful sallow light

of the impending thunderstorm;

cumulonimbus clouds move slowly but

arrive too fast --

great gray angry giants shouldering each other,

vying for the sinister pleasure

of raining destruction.

in an inside room away from windows

I huddle with The Dog

(absent proof that hell may soon be loosed, the fearless cats still snooze on window sills).

my painstakingly crafted agenda

is suspended in negative ions.

I can only wait

for mesocyclone and tornado watch --

or warning --

until the squall line passes

and I'm sure again I have a safe place

in which to pursue my

urgent

yet ultimately insignificant tasks.

Thea Chesley

2011-07-01T20:08:00.029-05:00

Bridge between Worlds

Classic By Nature, Tracy Maras

She stands in soft shadows, just out of reach,

sheltered by the golden branches – waiting.

Beyond the rushes and worn wooden planks,

shallows, running cold and clear, entice;

sunlight reflects, warming the rocks and stones,

slippery green moss welcomes the water,

cools the peaceful setting soaked in daydreams.

She can’t see past the edge, lost in tall grass.

Imagination chooses a meadow;

a soft blanket of clover and flowers

on which to rest. Logic chooses a path

much steeper, treacherous to maneuver.

Both hope and curiosity move her

forward when caution brings hesitation.

The bridge between these worlds crosses a stream

neither is able to negotiate.

Words no longer suffice to close the gap.

Siobhan

2011-07-01T20:08:00.027-05:00

Munchers, Bernie White Hatcher

Working Girl

If I stood by the fence,

called your name, “Bessie, come!”

Would you trot across the pasture like a horse,

eager for an apple? I think not.

You are no Eve, tempted by what you do not know.

Steady as the rain you stand

and go right on, mouth to ground,

munching sweet leaves of grass

while the world spins

and strangers like me pass.

Oh, you may lift your head as if to say,

“Can’t you see I’m working here? Move on.”

At dawn the farmer’s boy comes,

Leans his sleepy head against your steaming flank.

His fingers deft relieve your heaviness;

then he smacks on your rump.

Now you trot — the working girl —down the hill to your favorite spot.

Corrine Frisch

2011-07-01T20:08:00.026-05:00

Mary, Felicia Olin

Come back soon to read Joanna Beth Tweedy's poem from the June 30 reading.

2011-07-01T20:08:00.017-05:00

A Deliberate Presence
(A Beautiful Woman)

Peppers, Pat Kreppert

The harvested fruit
will enter my world
riding my tongue
with the grace
of Genghis Khan,
with the subtle nuances
of a ball peen hammer.
And I am a man
preparing to be
assaulted by peppers.

Arisen from siesta
in Ciudad de Springfield
I have wandered, drowsy in the fog,
to the warm veranda
to revive for the rest of the day.
I shall ingest a right hook to the senses
from this deceptive, deliberate fruit
whose bright hues
invite with a lie,
a plain-spoken patina
over darkest intentions,
riding the sunny serape-topped table
through the serenity of the day until I arrived.

And I am a man
who delights in
toying with tempests,
wallowing in the virility
of my capacity for self-abuse.

I will eat the peppers
and I shall prevail, eventually,
and I will stagger out of the maelstrom
of the senses alive,
revived, ready for what comes next.
It is not for the overwhelming heat
that I engage the kaleidoscope of terrors on green stems.

They are the aphrodisiac,
the catalyst to mellow mirth
fulfillment and redemption
when I conclude my little pre-amble
cut with a knife.
-- I am a man --
And they are not the whole
but the way to the whole,
to the complete cosmic interface
I shall savor
when I drink the pitcher
of tequila that will lift my soul,
and ride the magic carpet
of the sunny serape
that will take me home!

Job Conger

2011-07-01T20:07:00.006-05:00

What Lies Beneath, Tracy Maras

Within

truculent spirit

zest of being

pouring briskly

into its endeavors

there lies

true measure

hard essence

of pure substance

force and drive

expansion and contraction

never letting go

seeking its own path

as it is with the vast sea

formidable, unrelenting

carrying complex elements

swirling and plunging

boundless yet focused

deep and true

rising to challenges

maintaining stride

countenance evolves

on its surface

forming only a glimpse

of what lies beneath

Mark Russillo

2011-07-01T19:40:00.006-05:00

Vachel Lindsay’s ENTRANCE

Vachel Lindsay Entrance, Tracey Maras

Suppose – Just suppose from my position on Fifth Street at Edwards, I am looking inward.

The writer’s mind sees both this geometrically – this eye to the time of Hughes aircraft – almost stalls.
Almost stalls at her own poetic image – delivered by the artist’s hand.

Do I know the artist’s heart as I grin within? Neighboring nearby, 40 years ago, this poet lived in the shadow of the Vachel vacancy. Who knew?

A twenty year old in discovery.

She never saw me, a pane. Please, a quick reflection of the Mansion shenanigans – this was feeding a small- town girl. Instant stimulation that limits inspiration.

Non-musingly.

Eyeing the scenes that would have been. Vachel, offering a shared path as this poet would trek with him across America to touch the common man. Buffooning in prophet form for hope and prosperity that stimulates each individuals “lion to roar.”

Why are we here now? To boast of my body’s reclamation. Yes, my structure, this entry door, this house holds me as I hold the painting, pining, and penning of the Lindsey’s.

The ages stages changes.

I am celebrating this eccentric troubadour of tree bells, lotus, Congo – ah, you have given me permission to share my findings as I have found him later, but not too late. Sharing him now seems to be my fate.

The hand that chose to share this eye –

Rushed memories,

Rushed to pen,

Begs the question, is it Lois Lane again?

Barbara McDonald

2011-07-01T19:26:00.003-05:00

BARRED OWL RHAPSODY

“The Owl, the Night’s Herald” ~Shakespeare

Night Sounds, Tracy Maras

Seeing best at night, desire outraces the wind

perches your smell on branch and limb

stretches before me the way darkness presses

against the naked day—as my wings

once did upon you in twilight.

You prepared for death—I slept not—

trying to stop the moonlight

as it crossed the sky—attempting to hold it

and you a little longer.

But all living things merge into shadow.

The past plays in my brain now—

how your lips fit in my lips—

how your eyes fit in my eyes

how you showed me the way to soar

between my good and lesser self

how you taught me to bend my head

into the mantle of time.

Memory is a nest, best used for rest, then left in treetops.

Desire, a current to sail, an echo to answer,

a direction to point toward.

Love’s a perfectly pitched song, once heard never gone.

You prepared for death—I sleep not.

On my own—awake, listening through the foliage

I adjust my face, dig claws into wood.

Alone—but for the world, and this need

to grasp each moment’s sacred soliloquy—

smiling—as you would have it—

I cry and cut open life.

Anita Stienstra

2011-07-01T19:22:00.002-05:00

Red Dancer, Richard Taylor

Exercise in Freedom

Don’t let the false power overpower thee

Among the eye of day

She floats loving life on the edge of fantasy

Oh Merci Monsieur me

Power is generated when others want what they see

you have

It takes the brave to believe in all the energy

Electricity of years and centuries

Compassionate love and energy

And oh the joy of living the---at---ri---cally

Like a stop sign to others souls

A sun shining or moons or stars unfold,

Possessing connectivity

A match head flicks a fire dance

On the wall shadows unite to join

The ancient rite of human souls

to touch and breath and bailamos

In the bigger sense, it’s all a dance

A touch, a swim, a strum, a run

Throw freedom’s hands up toward el rojo sun

Highways of human souls will elevate

and pulsate fluidity

in the blood vessels of earth’s atmosphere

Rudhira, Shanti, metta y amor

Let’s tap, tap, tap

A drum, a circle,

it’s rhythm, it’s wild.

It’s electricity, it’s nature’s sensuality.

As we stick our noses in tiny tomes

Of robot intellectuality

That give us the perception

Of reality and interconnectivity

Strong Darlings, now I call to thee

sizzle real red hot creativity.

Lindsey Buis

2011-07-01T19:16:00.002-05:00


Waiting for Spring, Debbie Megginson

Sonnet for Debbie’s Waiting

Sunlit window framed soggy yards of green.

Pithy iris reclaimed her promised ground.

Vernal breeze so quickly deceived the scene,

slammed the shutters, pulled my sweater around.

In fizzy heat half past the month of May,

purple passion hung o’er petals of white.

My hair uncurled and limped around all day,

for lilac’s sweet had barely stayed the night.

Freon cooling poured out with much disdain.

Then came a tweet and twit outside my door!

Hardy lily-of-the-valley remained.

Had lilt of life returned to me once more?

Pious gardens bespoke such loyalty.

Now sounds again this symphony for thee!

Pam Miller

2011-07-01T19:09:00.002-05:00

Tiny, Little, Felicia Olin

Anima

Phase I

Azurean birds copulate in the feathery

Trees of Paradise while leanly long-limbed

Eve licks the juice that runs across crimson

Skin, one deep and delicious bite filling her throat.

Phase II

Cobalt birds tweet tempting tunes to rival

Even the temptress Helen, whose queenly

Persona keeps the ship of state afloat while

The crews of a thousand ships perish on alien soil.

Phase III

A sky of bird blue covers nests of mothers and

Their babes, free of fathers, as Mary caresses

Her own swelling belly, a fertile womb never sown

With lust and desire, foreign to paternal pleasure.

Phase IV

Clear-headed Sophia, in her belle-shaped gown,

Tarnished and a poor fit besides, leads her

Exaggerated happiness to avian gallows—blue,

Yes, but capable of contentment after all.

Ted Morrissey

2011-07-01T19:01:00.004-05:00

Gloaming, Bernie White Hatcher

Gloaming

rainbow hues lengthen

as the sun nears

its horizon bluing

the trees the roof

of the distant sheds lavender clouds

preside over evening

vespers a candle-lit moment soft

malleable

when I first moved

in the ground was nearly bereft of life

my gnarled hands carried water reviving green foliage every sprout painstakingly tended but today’s

rows diverge ragged

as my wheezing

though I can’t see

the vanishing point

from where I sit,

I hear the nighthawk

murmur its benediction between the falling light

and rising darkness

its wings bending time calling me to fly

beyond porous bones

Pat Martin

2011-07-01T18:58:00.002-05:00

Raven

Deep in the ancient redwood forest
Deep in the heart of the Redwood forest,
Voice of the morning wind in the treetops:
“Raven made you, Raven made you
Foolish men with Gods of marble,
Proud, vain men in stone cathedrals,
Raven made you, Raven made you,
Stole your voice from the cry of the eagle,
Stole this sky from the wings of the eagle,
Counting moon from the eye of the eagle,
Raven, Raven,
Stole the sun!
Stole the sun from the heart of the eagle!

Trickster rent the Manitou’s darkness,
Rolled out men on the tongue of the water,
Made us a world he stole from the eagle—
This is a trickster’s world!”

That’s what the winds in the redwood chant,
Cloaked in false dawn just at dawning:
“Strive or fail, win or love,
This is a trickster’s world!
First men freed from the Manitou’s prison,
Timid, cunning, weak and frightened,
Tore down the forests, poisoned the waters,
Forgot they were born of a trickster, trickster—
Turned their fear into man-shaped Gods.”

Raven trickster
Raven con-man
Carnival barker, fortune teller
Did not intend to make a world.
Did not make us in his image,
But in the image of his boredom.

Only meant to cheat the eagle,
Fool the eagle,
Mock the eagle! So raven stole the sun!
Stole the eagle’s prized possession!
Raven, Raven, Raven, stole the sun!

Hugh Moore

2011-06-19T12:51:00.007-05:00

Wildflowers, Tracy Maras

A Hidden Place in My Heart

The little, hidden cove by the way
Covered in cool greens.... Sprinkled with yellow surprises
The blue pond where I dreamed up dreams
Balancing on rocks submerged, there I stood
Asking questions of all the "Whys" of childhood
The way things worked...or I thought they should
Hey...is that "Mopsey, Flopsey...or CottonTrail?"
I can still see my toy boats sporting their sails
Snuggled down in the satin grasses
Watching the ants traipse back and forth in endless passes
At least they know where they're going
Little songbirds flutter against the leaves above my head
Singing songs that only they know
But it's still pretty...though I wish I could sing along
Then I whistle...and they cock their heads to listen
Trying to interpret...I wonder.... Do they wish the same?
I look intently at the gnarly wood next to my face
Wow...this tree must be a thousand years old
Was this the first one that god planted?
As time rolls back in my memories
I hear the faint remembrance of trilling over the meadow
"Come on home...it's dinner time!"
The mother's voice is calling a new child playing in these woods,
But Gee Whiz...it surely was just getting good!

Janice J. Robinson

October 2010

2010-11-01T20:06:00.009-05:00

How the City Is

Life in the Big City, Delinda Chapman

providing shelter for all

ceding harbor to no one

reaches far and yet

gives up nothing of value

damp and pallid night

permits barely discernible

streetlight shimmer

eked out by hard pavement

its dingy reflection

tenuously glowing

within inky sea of ambiguity

offers only dull, shadowy outcome

this is how the city is

making no promises

it exists for its own end

leaving you to make your way

when the sun cautiously rises

incinerating vague reflections

of another night gone by

the city appears changeless

individual agents persevere

attempting to bring modest refinement

driven by incendiary desire

through stiff, worn soles on ebony asphalt

Mark Russillo

2010-11-01T20:04:00.012-05:00

Let the Circle Be Broken

A Few Non-Closures, Gary Grove

You say, “Just close it now, and let it go.”

Your eyes, two windows shuttered on the night.

How will the flower find a way to grow

And struggle upwards into morning’s glow,

Torn from the depths that hold both dark and light?

You say, “Just close it now, and let it go

“Into the past, don’t hold on to the woe,

Don’t let old shadows dim tomorrow’s sight.”

How will the flower find a way to grow?

This closing interrupts the lifeblood’s flow

And stops the heart. By what imperious right

You say, “Just close it now and let it go,”

I cannot fathom. What is it you know

Of sorrow’s secret workings, and its might?

How will the flower find a way to grow?

Stone walls rise up around me, row on row,

The echo comes more faintly from the height.

You say, “Just close it now and let it go.”

How will the flower find a way to grow?

Liz Huck

2010-10-18T22:10:00.003-05:00

Blue Blooded, Felicia Olin

El Silencio de Sangre Azul

(Blue-Blooded Silence)

The thought of breathing in this life

without you, makes me sigh so deeply

I swallow the morning sky.

Blue seeps into my veins, my heart explodes

toward my head, and all that’s left is naught

y mi sangre azul, this blue blood and trails of sadness.

Your disease poisoned my mind enough that I grieve

all stages of you: driving your car, limping across the floor

the wall, the walker, the wheelchair…

…now as you snore beside me, back from the hospital.

With one eye in heaven, cielo

and the other in a book, su libro

my feet rest between purgatory and

where you once tried to stand and write out your pain.

Without you, I am constantly within me, the wound

coated with pages of poems y mi amor.

Words– my only crown, lasting amigos

they surround me like dust in sunlight

or I honor them on paper

though I’m a blind man painting rain.

I remain a laconic muchacha, a bird out of formation

suffocating with the ink before it fully dries.

Sigo invicto pero en silencio.

I remain unconquered but silent. Silent in the hum of poetry.

I am not afraid of silence, only of not feeling.

Te amo como una pluma ama del viento.

I love you like a feather loves the wind.

Anita Stienstra

2010-10-18T22:06:00.000-05:00

Mirrors

Hold ancient Greeks on pedestals

That believed in concepts we reject

Through Plato's iris

Socrates comes off arrogant sometimes

In his glory of thinkatude

Sagas all reflect through generations

Mozart a Justin Timberlake

A lesson in history

Kernel hard candy

Burst forth crunchy delicacy in a POP of culture

Pop culture can become our classics

Quips, status updates, mirrors

Profile pic prison

How can one struggle to skip rocks?

Ripple water in this time?

Have we become lions in this

Harvard elite made coliseum

Ripping fleshy dreams from

Boxes of matrices

This shouldn't really offend you

Because it's not status updated

Who really paid for Hester Prynn's sins?

And that's the question

She's running somewhere

Tall prairie grass

Concrete scraped knee

With a chunk of flesh torn out.

Lindsey Buis

2010-10-18T13:13:00.032-05:00

Jazz Cat Scat

Blues Jazz Cat, Linda Post-Lucas

I only left a minute,

Suky sauntered sad, alone.

I only left a minute,

and now that I’m back home

there’s something sparklin’ in the dark place,

where I used to find my throne.

Skit, scat,

movin’ on,

mee-oow!

Blue paisley was your fav’rite,

softly patterned up my tail.

Blue paisley in the moonlight

‘neath your widow I will wail

‘til the blues bewitch this hour,

and I discard my jezebel.

Now, green and glitz and glitter

push the red notes high.

But green and glitz and glitter

won’t warm your feet this nigh.

Sing the blues alone now lady;

you’ll miss your Suky bye and bye.

Skit, scat,

pretty pitty,

pro—o-owl!

Pam Miller

2010-10-18T13:10:00.008-05:00

Black and White Pose, David Cain

Captured in Black and White

Imagination captured with his lens,

washes out flaws, hides the imperfection

she sees in each strand of hair, arch of brow.

Black and white beautiful scares and enthralls;

she watches herself look at you watch her.

A show of confidence hidden behind

the shadows of color and shades of grey

pierce the subconscious until you can see

everything she does; hinting at a smile,

lowering her gaze before looking straight

into your eyes, stating the obvious –

I am more than you see in Black and White.

Siobhan

2010-10-18T13:07:00.029-05:00

October Country, Jennifer

October Country:

The Photograph

Pumpkins, no less than oranges,

Hold the rain of spring,

The sunshine of summer

In their flesh.

Entwined, the vines

Tangle, the dirt

Presses into the rind.

The overcast sky

Reminds that winter

Will arrive, yes,

“The frost is on the pumpkin,”

Not today, but soon.

In the October country

Of middle age

It dawns on us that we, too,

Are ripening toward a harvest.

Lola Lucas

2010-10-18T13:02:00.008-05:00

Sugar Creek Covered Bridge

Hovering green angel wings fan

Sugar Creek covered bridge

as it stands hot, red in the sky.

Feathers peek from behind a pylon-

Kickapoo Chief’s weeping eyes

Sugar Creek Covered Bridge, Roland Folse

meet mine, he disappears in time,

I pass through a hexagonal door.

Inside, ear presses sugar maple

wall: livestock’s snort/moo,

horses’ clipity-clop,

storytelling by weary settlers,

dogs barking at heels and hooves.

Squeaks of buggy wheels wearing ruts

into wood plank floor.

Squeals of children peering through

spaces between, daring brown

Sugar Creek to rise and tickle their toes

- and mine.

Comes a dark silhouette:

astride galloping stallion, Parson,

flat wide-brimmed hat pulled over

ears, jacket tails flapping in wind. Late

for churchy or dinner.

“Dodge or be trampled!”

Hard I rub my hands over rough-hewn

architecture/artistry - arches, trusses;

wood beams with lovers initials carved

like jagged lace by pocket knife.

A .L. plus M. T. Could it be?

Gladly shall I wear

sweet blood-splinters of 1880

in my soft 2010 palms.

Jean Staff

2010-10-18T12:58:00.006-05:00

Lizard

Flicks his tongue to learn about this world.

Pot Heat w/ Lizard, Kathy Adams

Small eye—onyx bead that just reflects my curiosity.

Not tooled for contemplation but for reaction.

Can re-grow a tail without pride, shame, joy,

Or awareness of death.

A quick colorful automaton—

Possesses nothing, knows nothing.

Chumash say when the gods

Were designing men to inhabit the earth,

Sky-Coyote insisted their hands be like his.

But silent and watchful Lizard leapt quickly to the sacred stone

And pressed his hand into it.

So we have fingers now, not paws.

Maharashtra

Tells of the great battle of Sinh A Gad

Where Maratha warriors of Tanaji

Scale the forbidding walls of a mighty fortress

By aid of the giant lizard Yesh Wanti

With a rope tied round his waist.

Flicks his tongue to learn about this world,

Yet informs no personal history.

He is most like this jar upon which he sits,

If that jar has a beating heart.

We lend him our voice, our myths, our fears—

To make him less unknowable.

In the book of Exodus God speaks to Moses

And says, “I Am that I Am.”

Perfect Lizard declaration!

Hugh Moore

2010-10-18T12:55:00.007-05:00

Black Rocket

Black Rocket, Michael Berk

My father owned a '56

Bel Aire Sports Sedan --

a Chevy for the kid in him and for a family man.

Chrome polished mercury bright,

fenders shiny as wet jet,

a sleek machine with white walls Clorox clean,

a dash that screamed I'm goin' places -- fast.

If he could he would have slept in her;

instead we saw the U.S.A.

round hairpin curves, and up Pikes Peak,

and once a week

he hosed her down

and buffed her till she gleamed.

Somewhere in the nether world

on that highway in the sky,

he has that V-8 opened up

and speeds right by the exit sign --

the one marked Paradise.

His heaven was and is to drive.

Corrine Frisch

2010-10-18T12:50:00.003-05:00

In the Beginning, god said...

Let there be light. Through light alone

the solid world earns every shape

without which we'd hone no earthly line.

Piercing, from above, the darkest drenching

drape like liquid god, its fingering beams,

once deemed divine, flow out and down,

manipulating for our humble eyes

commandments gleaned of its realities;

or forged by human hands to focused forms

for tousled masses heaving in their storms

to lead who follows from the foaming seas

like rays of hope once sought in deities.

SamBdavis

June 2010

2010-08-15T23:02:00.004-05:00

Silk Scarf, Joan Gardner

Simple Silk

Silk road — mighty worm trail twisting back

From Venice to Cathay —

Worms hoarded like gold,

Medieval wizards spinning their dream brocades.

Not the spider’s hunting silk that lures its victims into a lacy matrix,

But lace itself, adorning the throat

Of kings,

Witches,

Playwrights,

Poets,

The human spiders.

Beloved of Kali.

Thugee tightening his silent, silken line

Around the surprised throat of an unbeliever.

One taut, well placed snap between infidel eyes,

Cutting the silver cord, evicting the spirit.

Isadora Duncan, haunted, Raphaelesque Cherub,

Brought her dance to a headline close

With one flowing, organic moment

Of scarf wound in screaming tire.

D-Day parachutes

Surprising Norman skies like corn popping overhead,

An elegant, murderous flak above Arcady.

Cool as,

Warm as,

Soft as,

Sexy as,

Smooth as silk.

Love sheets, lightly pulled across naked skin bring goose bumps.

Ultimately, a friend of Peace,

Of Joy brilliant, enveloping, and serpentine.

Remember, when confronted with Man’s terrible power,

Gandhi chose the spinning wheel.

Hugh Moore

2010-08-13T09:25:00.002-05:00

Girl With Blue Hair, Felicia Olin

Girl With Blue Hair

Illuminated by pure white aura, she pauses.
Straight back, stiff neck, buttoned up gown,
face- a mask of painted perfection,
she closes her lids. Watching through third eye
she contemplates, contemplates, soon
shifting from this world of illusion,
to follow the blue light.

Traveling Hu’s winged spectrum
she basks in rays of astral plane’s orange
bouncing-ball suns and casual plane’s
silver sliver dancing moons, in turquoise skies.

Previous lives bob along her inner vision like
ghosts dangled by a Master puppeteer:
merchant, virgin, warrior, peasant, dictator, saint,
hundreds, thousands more she cannot grasp.

Nestled in cumulus shine Golden Temples, she skips
along their halls hearing parables, stories, chants,
allegories, songs of joy echoing walls and - mind.

As she soars the universe and reluctantly
returns to the physical body,
all shades of sapphire, aqua, cobalt
are absorbed through chakras...
Blue fire course her cells and radiate
out the top of her head. Girl with blue hair.

Jean Staff

2010-08-04T13:55:00.014-05:00

Painting the Bunny

Pampered, Lorraine Pilc

Whoever first painted the bunny

Couldn’t have imagined what a gorgeous burrow

They were entering,

With what tactile frenzy--

At what extreme depths

They would bury

Your soft, mollusk heart

Like a hand in its muff.

At first the brush tried to paint you

Sleek, if not prehensile

As a cat, sober as a dog.

But the hands felt way too good--

They just couldn’t stop caressing

Your soft cheek, your plump haunch:

Petting, painting…

Finally it was revealed

That what the hands were seeking

Was their own indulgence.

What they were making

Was history’s first perfectly innocent,

Perfectly imperious and impotent little

Household god.

Well, O.K...

There are a couple of things

For which we must apologize.

After getting to the fem-extremity of soft,

How could we, how could we

Balance our art

On the phall-atrocity of those ears?

No wonder you are sometimes ill-tempered,

Skittish, that you live

To be pampered, oh little Cleopatra of rabbits

Sometimes, there is no insult

Like love.

Sandy Baksys

2010-08-03T08:34:00.000-05:00

Heirloom Tomatoes, Pam Miller

Heirloom Recipe

Pick the fruit
ripe and firm,
red as a sailor's sunset,
shiny as a new convertible.
With a sharp knife
slice into wedges,
toss in hot olive oil
until the skin begins to soften.
Salt and pepper to taste.
Feed to your lover.
Remember how her cheeks color,
the translucent seeds
studding her tongue like pearls,
Remember the taste of her kiss
like the summer sea,
tomatoes like they're supposed to be.

Corrine Frisch

2010-08-01T11:11:00.000-05:00

On the Tide

arduous journeys
traveling tributaries
feeding rivers of indifference

I negotiate surging flows
slipping into familiar channels
bringing me ever closer home

my heart is yours
I long to hold you fast
nestling into your arms’ comfort

loop current tugs at the helm
I am pulled into eddies
plunged into conflicted waters

I turn against current
bringing myself back
on that familiar path to you

for it is the course I chart
each day, with you in mind
through fair weather and storm

bring me home to you again
where we share love and life
cruising on even tide

Mark Russillo

2010-07-31T21:40:00.003-05:00

Come and Get It On, Christopher Martin

Fireworks

it’s like this
touch   come   here
and I wonder if
you or I
or we would like
this   fireworks
for you? fireworks for me!
inconsistency
disconnecting       by myself
by yourself   together
in a brilliant moment
touch   hands   fire   love?
breath   laughter   iris   reflection
spurts of fire   breath
panting       fear, fear, fear
an   tic   i   pa   tion
come & get it all the
way   on    over   here, lover boy
lips, hands, feet, souls
bouncing    off each   other
hallelujah! chorus
wonderful, brilliant fiery you
like art thrusting forward
chat   chat   chat   chat   text
phone call   together   together together   entwined
hands   lips   tongues   more fire
more freedom   more color   more brilliance
spark   spark   spark   spark
fire   lips   hands   tongues   hands
until it’s overwhelming
fear   fear of   fear of        fear of rejection?
no fear of love
and then I lose you

Lindsey Buis

2010-07-31T21:35:00.004-05:00


Breaking Free, Morgan Elser

Breaking Free

So many of your branches have been cut
from your toes to your heart, that the scars sit
like dead carnations on your skin.
As if you, the jilted groom at a funeral each year
could never remove the plumes from your bark.

It is a chore to die slowly. Most work at dying
fast enough to barely feel. Here
in our once fertile forest, you try to hide the hollows
behind your smile, but disease invades the leaf.
We see the color of it first. It is in your face.

We are tonsured trees who live half in dirt
and half in air and drown, though there is no water.
We are not the fresh seedlings in damp sod
we once were. Our wood’s worn gray.
We wonder if our phoenix can survive on cut nerves.

You contemplate if any part of you is still alive.
I question what parts of you have already died.
I remember roots, they seemed steadfast and deep.
I remember leaning back into reality
my torso bent to the sky as if each breast

a bloom searching for light. I
remember a dove whistling Ode to Joy, a squirrel
clicking at a playful dog, a spray of moon glow, someone
telling me to place a stick in the earth to tell time.
Tell me something now about time.

Tell me when I will outgrow the sorrow of you. Tell me
about the best of sun and the best of shade. Embracing
being human is hard, as the need to turn from nymph
to person presses in me. My hand vines for life.
Another day flows open, raw and exposed.

Anita Stienstra (photo by Job Conger)

2010-07-31T21:26:00.001-05:00

Cats Roses, Shirley Coville

Homebound

To create a home she knows
It takes more than furniture
her personality-her creativity
must come into play

This house was once shared
now she must make it her own
her art expressed for the most part by words
Spill over in the pictures, statues and
Plant life strategically placed

Each splash of color, each object, each floral arrangement represents the beauty
within her she hopes she everyone will see

Far more than than that
She just wants to open the door and
know she is home

K.A.T. Corrigan

2010-07-31T21:15:00.002-05:00

Street Scene Inspiration from David Sumner

Just then, as the darkness
muted all the roof tops,
a canopy of red
billowed over bright shops.

Pit.
Pat.
Drip, drop.
Darting steps
scurry amid l’autobus.

Pitter on umbrellas!
Pop, red, yellow! Poof, blue!
Patter in the puddles—
Kaleidoscope l’rue !

’Neath soggy paper shield
and dripping lamplight-blurry,
I turn to look again.
Why is it that you hurry?

Pam Miller

2010-07-31T21:13:00.000-05:00

Passion Crucible
(on Debbie Megginson’s painting “Fall Color Explosion”)

This is my memory, Love; this is my life
without you, caught between Milton and Dante,
yes and no . . . I recall now, as I fled
our life together, my imagination
lettered this omen above your lintel:
Abandon hope all who leave me. And I
left you, fields ablaze and bridges burning . . .

now I retreat, back against an angel
who bears a flaming sword, against this verge
of paradisal garden lavish in
rich violets and flora, while behind and
closing fast all around, this too-lovely
inferno invites me to burn in those
memories—to burn with those memories . . .

and God help me but I cannot deny
my passion, my crimson longing to suffer
for you, my Love, I would walk out there now,
into this explosion of autumn blaze,
among this tumult of blazing passions,
flames consuming heart and flesh alike, Love,
and dance on the prairies of the sun itself.

David M Pitchford

2010-07-31T21:10:00.005-05:00

Heroine, Felicia Olin

Heroine

Her boots skidded perilously as she leaped across ice floes
Pursued by the villain; she recalls squirming against ropes
While tied to the tracks, a train screaming toward her.
She can almost smell the wood shavings in her hair
As the buzz saw whined closer, rescued --as always--
By the hero in the nick of time.

She preferred the stage to the silver screen:
The boards she trod became cherry orchards,
Greek temples, a doll’s house, the castle at Elsinore.
She was Ophelia but grew into Queen Gertrude;
As Juliet she turned a dagger on herself;
Now as Lady Macbeth she wrings her red, red hands.
Her swan’s neck is still perfect for Desdemona,
Strangled several nights a week and twice for matinees.

Time has nicked and nibbled her, leaving crow’s feet,
Furrows, dark hollows for the greasepaint to cover.
A ‘woman of a certain age’ quirks an eyebrow in her mirror.
Ingénue, leading lady, character actress—
She is content to be the sum of her parts.

Lola Lucas

2010-07-31T21:09:00.000-05:00

Hawaiian Sunset

Summer Solstice, sunset at Ka'ena Point,
named for 'the heat' but cooling into evening now,
this place from which they say souls leave the world
is also, thanks to us, a refuge for the nene, the Hawaiian Goose,
who's lived here half a million years, no thanks to us.

You can't drive to this Point; you must use the form of locomotion that your ancestors were only learning
while the nene confidently flew to these newborn volcanic isles.
To walk here, you must learn anew to walk, in sand, through crashing surf,
and on basaltic rocks both slippery and rough.
No rescue vehicle can drive here either.
Step with care, and don't become a soul leaving the world.

A five dollar serape on the sand amid the scrub,
a two-quart Mai Tai mixed by Bobby at The Shack in Mililani, in a plastic Coleman jug,
fat ham sandwiches that we hold high in a salute to Captain Cook and to his sponsor, Montagu, the Earl.

The sun's about to dive into the ocean, a shimmering reflection of the rainbow sky.
As evening breezes rustle palms and darkness creeps upon us from behind, I hear nene bidding us good night,
and I remember:
even on these most isolated islands of the Earth,
we aren't islands.

Somewhere pelicans are in much graver danger than these geese.
A nene in a refuge can, I've heard, live more than thirty years.
Hatchling pelicans in Gulf shore wetlands might not see as many days before they leave their oily world.

Starry skies and surf, and sighing windswept grasses induce sleep
(aided and abetted by the beverage Bobby brewed);
sleepy thoughts ensue.

Sleeping here one night is one night we're not driving, using a derivative of oil.
Honolulu is an hour away by car the short way – two to three days walking, based on Naismith's Rule.
How many days to row to San Diego in a wa 'a outrigger canoe, the perfect island souvenir?
And then a hike for eighty days or more from there to home;
we'd see many sunsets, passing places where so many pioneering people left the world.

Do we have enough vacation time to take only pictures and leave only footprints free of carbon's karma?

Maybe next time.

Thea Chesley

2010-07-31T20:59:00.001-05:00

As Sky-God Ascends Through Mist

They say you are the grandest
in girth and omniscience and thunder.
Today the lesser gods have disappeared,
consumed by your fire; the light of your truth.
Only you remain: triumphant mono-deity rising above humanity.

You seem so insubstantial in our midst.
Our horizon of grand expectations of life,
firmament of certainty, plummets in the new dawn
to make way for you, so small, so indistinct, unspeaking
unmoving as we move. You are, we know. What do you DO?

Beyond the sturdy pin oaks,
the distant cliff awash in blood of aspiring sacrifice,
the silence no tune penetrates with hope and harmony,
you witness worlds in motion toward what end?
What goal of yours guides us to redeem our ilk?

What salvation waits beyond the hill
beyond the hill beyond the hill? Divine perpetuity
is not the arena for the human race. We count the days.
What power would you reveal through morning mist
To show us life's elusive WHY, ascendant God of Sky?

Job Conger

2010-07-31T20:50:00.001-05:00

New Orleans, 1926, Morgan Elser

Survivor, New Orleans, 1926

At the cafe table, drenched
in afternoon gold, she sits. The shell
of bonnet gleams like brass. A long
and wild requiem unwinds itself
from the helix of the trombone
up on the balcony over the way, it slinks
across the dozing street to find
her ear under the shell. Fragile fingers
curl round the sweating glass. The music stirs
the flimsy linen of her dress, sole bandage
left her after the shell exploded
into fragments, tore the membrane, threw her
out, alone, bare-armed, bare-legged, toes
naked and restless as the long
fingers on the glass, uncurling
now, and the gold ring
clinks, a tiny chime, as she rises. The red silk
flower on the bonnet catches
the light, flares like a rocket
that beckons and warns, as she steps
out into the long silence, following
the requiem, into the evening, bound
for the fire on teh other side
of the night.

Liz Huck