Poet's Lane
Poems
A word is dead when it is said, some
say. I say it just begins to live that day.
Emily Dickinson
Poets please be advised: Our copyright is to the
presentation only. All other rights remain the property of the author and
any reuse of the material must have the written permission of the copyright
holder.
PoetsLane@comcast.net
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
DREAMS
We go through
life with dreams in our head
Hoping to
share, without them being tread.
Dreams are as
individual as each magic weaver
Some grab your
heart like a 100 degree fever.
Many will
change in the expanse of your time
Don’t be
dismayed, as this is no crime.
For without
new dreams taking shape in your head
There’s no
goal to shoot for and hope would be dead.
My dreams are
my own, but this I will share
Dream big,
dream large, dream as high as you dare
For you are
the only one libel to care.
Deborah Bernal
Based on W.B. Yeats: I spread
my dreams at your feet. Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.
Vinyl
It was
more than notes and scales or numbers on a dial
Ideas and
memories would be born
lovers
found and lovers lost
all the
while the needle rides the groove
Resonating
through us
a tuning
fork made of muscle and bone
mood
changing
the spark
that could burn a nation
Art with
no canvas
carried
on the air until we breathe it in
familiar,
setting us free
Inhibited
no more
where we
were no longer mattered
surrounded by the smoke we call music
Altering
our minds and no longer aware
we move
when it does and stand still when it leaves
Generations called out by a singular note
reliving
spaces of time
brought
to life by a beating heart or a glance from across the room
Surrender
to the vibration that cannot be controlled
spinning
never the same
a new
place in time as the needle rides the groove
Jim Curcuro
Livermore, CA
Broadcasting
Station...
It was like he was running
a small broadcasting station,
where the CEO, janitor, cleaning lady, and 4 Indian Chiefs
were all out out to lunch or on vacation...he didn’t much care what he put into
the air,
or if the ACLU, FCC, PLO, Dept. of Agriculture, EPA, GPO, or KGO really gave a
damn,
he was having fun, it was sort of like
a pumpkin toss from a cannon in his own front yard:
“Load one pumpkin: Fire!”
“Load 14 free-verse pumpkins: Fire!”
“Load 2 semi-rhyming couplets, way too long, but Fire!”
“Load a handful of unfinished song lyrics and Fire!”
This went on for days and weeks, all seasons of the year, for years on end but
soon the haze began to clear...in the Spring a whole new forest of pumpkins were
sprouting up in the alleyways and lawns across the land and his poetry was a
vine of entanglements from here to there and back again, as messy on the ground
as it had been in the air...the Ozone & Aquarius layer looked like a
high-orbiting cardboard box that had been attacked by knives or rats...
He won two prizes from the Love Pumpkins Poetry Contest at the Camel and
Pumpkins Historical Barn Museum, one in 2008, and the Ina Coolbrith Poetry and
Pumpkin Tossing Circle in 2011, and he was on a roll he figured, if not a
bagel...and a pile of very hot Honorable Mentions too...AND, Hey, what a way to
make pumpkin pies the hard way, without Betty Crocker pie shells, and NO dental
fillings either...
©Peter Bray, 11/20/11 All rights reserved
A WINTER TRANSLATION
We walk in wilderness woods,
wonder how rough trees can comfort
or what we can offer dripping
limbs
that they could possibly need. We
quake.
Fog and brush obscure our passage,
mistletoe chokes branches,
mushrooms glare, toads gloat,
no birds call, yet...look
ferns filigree over our boots.
The foggy wall crumbles. We take
a path that leads toward light.
We have wonderful journeys to
plan,
lyrics near our hands and feet,
music to extract from wilderness,
from stone, a winter landscape
we can live with, live within,
translating into language of our
own.
Claire J. Baker
Pinole, California
(read recently at Poet's Picnic in
Benicia)
When Poets Take Over the World...
Maya
Angelou will be our Secretary of State;
Bob
Dylan, Secretary of Our Greater Fates;
Chuck
Bukowski, Secretary of Wars That'll Wait;
when
poets take over the world...
Billy
Collins, our CEO;
Walt
Whitman, Emeritus, our CFO;
Robert
Frost, himself, will sing, "Ho, Ho, Ho..."
when
poets take over the world...
Jack,
be nimble! Jack, be quick!
Emily
Dickinson will be
a
Hot-Mama chick
when
poets take over the world...
The
Pentagon will become a very small rectangle,
poetic
architects inspecting every angle;
the
three that we will know the most,
the
Father, Son, and Holy Ghost,
will
commute to concerts from coast to coast;
communions will be given with organic toast;
Utah
Phillips will be Saturday Night Live's host
when
poets take over the world...
Solar
power will open doors,
we’ll
pledge allegiance to our metaphors,
onomatopoeia will be sold in stores
when
poets take over the world...
I’ve
seen it coming, I know it’s true,
a
better day is way overdue,
our
similes’ breeze will speak to you,
hunger
and poverty will be no more
when
poets take over the world...
Liberal ducks will flap their wings,
noontime choruses will begin to sing,
“dysfunctional,” “bureaucratic,” and “politicians”
will
be useless words, dropped
from
our vocabularies...
Hang
on, gang, it may be scary,
but
poets will take over the world...
Poets
will take over the world...
Look
at the mess the oppressive SOBs,
financial crooks, schmucks,
and
useless politicians
have
created to date
before
poets took over the world...
Before
poets took over the world...
We’ve
got a mission on this planet,
improving conditions for each Joe and Janet;
mediocrity will slip away
when
poets take over the world...
When
poets take over the world...
When
poets take over the world...
©Peter
Bray, 7/21/11. All rights reserved...
P.O.
Box 234, Benicia, CA 94510
www.peterbray.org/pedro
www.handymanservicespeterbray.com
PetrBray@AOL.com
AMAZEMENT
We
arrive at a meadow
made myrical by finches
and wild canaries
In
blades of grass we see
seven shades of green
growing even greener
Surely we have admired
this one stem before
yet never before
and
could find it
again and again
among waves of grass.
Claire J. Baker
Pinole, CA
Canary in a Coal Mine
I.
New Year’s Day 2011
Riverbanks of flotsam fish
dark feathered rain of diving birds
Japan
Tsunami, earthquake and a nuclear
meltdown
Joplin, Missouri
Tornado destroys an entire city
Leaving behind a blood bath, dismembered corpses
and a list of lost loved ones
Mississippi Floods
It’s time to decide whose property is more important
Sand bag your resistance and watch the water flow
II.
The rapture isn’t coming, Harold
These people aren’t dead because of homosexuals or AIDS, Mr. Phelps
and those birds aren’t flying because of toxic reactions;
nor are those fish dead in a natural migration
There’s a certain tension in the air
coming down on everyone, like a
tuning fork sending turbulent vibrations,
giving off the sound of a would be siren
if we
could only listen to the truth and open our eyes to the lies
we digest nightly
on the news, read with inked fingers
in the morning
while sipping coffee before we sit in the traffic, idling in exhaustion
parking in the manmade structure where bits of grass still climb out, begging
for freedom from the tar of the blacktop we keep repairing right before
we punch that old time clock, hours and hours lost and for what?
We live our lives in ransom
for our cars, our houses, extended lines of credit
We sign up for all the bulk card memberships
piling wasted plastic up in the blue bin;
We rinse the glass bottles and place them on the porch
So someone else can deal with them later,
-
and later is
getting shorter, in the distance
it is hauling ass like semi on the
highway to reach its destination;
later is coming earlier than we
expected, and yet
we’ll still be shocked when it shows up
uninvited to the present moment
it is so clearly interrupting, all those
things we could have done,
should have if we’d only had the time,
later, gone!
What will we do when the signs aren’t so
clear?
III.
Better find a pet store, we’re going to
need some canaries soon.
Lola Nation
L.A. California
SPRING RITUALS
.
Close apartment door
trudge up walkway
someone set out a
round tin of duck food
.
Come back for break
step around path
the ducks are splashing
in the morning sun
.
Finished with lunch
peer over railing
duck family squats
at pond's edge
.
Return as dinner awaits
take a look down
watch ducks climbing
man made rock
.
Every evening I
carry trash bags
mama duck fatly
covers babies
.
Draw drapes
search from window
water's dark
can't see duck
Drifting
My tanned legs stride past bleached trees
tiny crab carcasses littering Salmon Creek’s
coarse gray sand as I search the debris
for luminous beach glass or a perfect sand dollar.
My mind drifts–-to teeming Rockaway Beach
half a century ago when I was a small girl
emptying my sand pail filled with treasures
at my father’s feet.
Later as I huddle in my hooded sweat shirt
against the rising wind, his gap-toothed smile
is vivid as the tang of salt on my lips.
---------
Arlene L. Mandell often finds treasures in her childhood memories.
THE FARMER
The farmer offered his hand,
but two crippled fingers
curled over his palm
locked the gate. We tried,
yet could not fully greet
our new neighbor...
Eager for company, he had
forgotten an old infirmity.
When windows of his eyes
shadowed as for night,
as gently as moonlight
we shook his other hand,
lingered there,
then wandered home
through silver cornfields.
Claire J. Baker
SF-Bay Area, Ca
The Question Never Answered
We cling to the walls
cheeks to smooth stone
hands above heads
fingers extended
flattened to surface
as to attach to its safety
Overhead birds of peace
circle slowly
in bright blue sky of morning light
fly into great scrapers of sky
unsettled tears turn to dust
blood runs
dries in our mouths
In the city below
a child moans inconsolable
begs to know why what did we do
battered adults
swollen with revenge
focused
packing off sons and daughters
laden with bombs
the question still lingers
Cynthia Bryant (C)2004
Migration
the tip of a
waterfall
tumbles through
air
on its way back to
vapor
a shelf of
limestone
stumbles into worn
walls
on their way back
to sand
the crust and
crumble
of earth –
dust to
dust
–
refashions itself
through the ages
until it emerges
reclaimed
into a gathering
vista:
a new
constellation
of unmarked land
hunkered in space
–
some other god’s
idea of everlasting
Maril Crabtree
From Dancing with
Elvis (Top Hat & Tails Press, 2005)
Prairie Winds
The air here is uncertain
unrestrained by mountain barriers
not the same as the place where I grew
to tempest maturity
This rough and tumble land of my birth
where shrill wind raises hairs on native skin
unwritten history circulates through
expiration of ancestors who whisper
welcome home
©2008 Cynthia L. Bryant
Good with Numbers (PiRsquared)...
They said I was good with
numbers
and maybe I should be
and engineer or something
but it never occurred to me
that building rockets for Viet
Nam
would ever set me free...
But I did it,Yes, I did it...
My artwork exploded
in the coming Environmental Age
and my recycled chicken manure
drawings
jumped from many a page,
but my “Compost News Blues,”
vented the thistles from my
cage...
And, I did it, Yes, I did it...
The layoffs came and went and I
survived everyone,
corporate life was a zoo but
the animals all were fun...
God spoke to me in wonder as I
leaned against his door
peeking through the cracks with
my ear against the floor:
How does this all work? How
does this all work?
Now my bottom line I have to
hit every day,
the cost of living increases
whether you’re sleeping
or on your way, out the door,
avoiding chaos
at each and every turn,
PiR(squared) remembered,
but your textbooks...Never
Burn!...
©Peter Bray, 4/8/11 All rights
reserved...
FLOWER BUD WISHES
This vase holds buds
yet to bloom.
We put them there; they
keep their own atmosphere,
commune together at night
when we sleep, or days when
we dream. We can't explain
why this chosen gathering.
Strangers and friends, pass
your hands over this vase,
please don't think it empty:
take one, believe in a wish.
Claire J. Baker
(SF Bay Area)
My first wife couldn't bear children
even my poems feel less-than,
spit they didn't ask to be born
Tommy gun word bullets of doubt
pock valentine day bricks in my soul
chipping chunks, my very spirit
wife number two couldn't bear adults
all my donuts fell into my coffee
many wells fallen arches later
i thank intellect for uncertainty
that overview which ranks me
below babies, fossils, icebergs, and me...
..I could not bear the mere thought that
the light at the end of the donut hole
was doubt's ass kissed in Macy's window
then all holy shits rolled into one
came you bearing gifts of me to me
and I am borne above the inner din
Nick Bono
````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````
Alone, 5
A.M.
Shivering on the back deck in my red flannel nightgown
I stare at Venus, still present in the predawn sky.
The dogs roam the yard, sniffing for clues of night visitors.
A slight rustling. They lunge toward the sound.
Fear catches my breath. I force it away.
A coyote howls.
Beneath tangled vines the winter creek rushes down
into the Valley of the Moon.
Arlene
L. Mandell-Santa Rosa, CA
Springtide
Something in the breeze
quickens the heart
we respond to the excitement
like small cornered animals
preening
preparation
up to the
primal task
wintered
libidos rise
with
springtide
once more
Cynthia Bryant-Lenexa,Kansas
MAGICIANS OF BEGINNING AGAIN
We revel in each evening's
initial stars,
its only moon,
in budded shoots on trees,
ocean roses on our cheeks.
We watch sunshine sketch
shade into christening light
for emerging butterflies,
for a baby's brow.
As magicians, we unlock
imagination with a glance,
make energy and surprise
our middle names...We pull
fresh starts out of our hats
like pulling white rabbits.
(c) Claire J. Baker
California
CONSEQUENTIAL
(for Linda)
1.
I envision you gazing
deep into a flower
you planted
knowing you are
eye-to-eye with God.
2.
On your polished
dining table
white petals reflect
3.
A cocooned butterfly
flexes wings once, twice --
unseen calligraphy.
(c) Claire J. Baker
Pinole,
California
WILDERNESS
Outside, the redbird knows
there will be seeds in
the feeder.
Perhaps it watches from
a distance,
like the squirrels,
like the neighborhood
cat.
All scurry away,
fly to safe tree limbs
upon my arrival.
Perhaps they have seen
the empty
bird cage inside;
the
cat who waits for every
door to open;
the
feral woman who peeks
out the window
at every car door
opened
and closed...
Diana Butler, Kansas
City, MO
Here
I am,
Come look at me.
This lovely,
Icy field in green.
That from a forest
In one night,
I make a wilderness
Of white.
By snowy, Icy
Crystals made.
Breath...I vanish instantly.
Donny Stuteville
Kansas City
http://definitionofone.blogspot.com
HOSTILE ACRES
I help till the soil at Hostile Acres.
Almost everyone carries a gun except me.
Tried to learn once.
Almost shot my big toe off.
Some people came looking for work the other day.
Didn't take long until the hired hands began talking:
"They're taking our jobs."
"How do you know whether or not they're American?"
"Make them carry IDs."
"What about injecting digitized guest-worker chips under their skin?"
"Let's just tattoo a citizenship barcode on their forearms."
And so on and so forth.
Then a few shots rang out.
This is what I heard a few minutes later:
"It was a lone nutcase with a gun."
"The nut's still alive."
"No, he's dead for sure."
"Thank God we can carry guns in public for protection.
The maniac got dropped
and we just let him bleed out."
"There was a little boy caught in the crossfire.
Don't know who shot him.
Don't know how he got hit."
Next day, we heard the President
on the field radio
saying that, at the very least,
automatic weapons should be banned
from use by the general public.
A chorus of disapproval:
DON'T TAKE OUR GUNS AWAY!!
NO GUNS, NO SAFETY!!!!
WE'LL BE KILLED FOR SURE!!
HE'S NOT OUR PRESIDENT!!
And so on and so forth.
Then I heard a round of gunfire.
The radio was destroyed immediately.
The overseer yelled:
PUT AWAY YOUR GUNS!
And we went back to work
tilling the soil at Hostile Acres--
happy to hear nothing
except the sounds of our own voices
voicing the beliefs
we don't need education for
because we know how right we are in our guts.
Sincerely,
Terry McCarty
Los
Angeles, CA
Old Wolves’ Cafe...
He said, Old Wolves’ Cafe
and I tried to imagine
a coffee shop dimly lit where
Jack London's relatives
and/or readers might still sit,
gnawing on pieces of bone,
gristled members hardly alone,
Batcave artwork for rent or loan,
heiroglyphics spoken into a microphone,
Museum of Vertebrate Zoology all my own...
Peet's Coffee or Starbucks with a twist of
irony, elation, and/or cinnamon on Wednesdays...
Pastry of course, pine needles on the floor,
shoulda studied Interior Design,
I've still got more...
time on my hands like an artisan with a watch,
my cell phone's got a clock
AND a calculator too! And my Blue Tooth,
well of course it's Blue with shades of black,
but radiation's always suspected, HoneyBees will
eventually tell us what the deal was all about...
©Peter Bray, 10/7/10 All rights reserved...
You Are The Poem
Your eyes are the poem
they sparkle and glow all
alight like fire cool like ice
I sit in them and I'm home
Your lips are the poem
they curl and caress open
to give close to receive
I smile and meet them with mine
Your legs are the poem
they slither and slide then
push pull me inside deep
I walk hot yet slow to Heaven
Your breasts are
the poem
they rise and fall with your breath
an ocean of bliss and yes
I lose myself
salty and wet
Your heart is the poem
it beats and it churns with
a passion not common and
I give thanks for my acre inside
Your mind is the poem
it stretches for miles through
river and field night and day
I know it can ramble with mine
You are the poem
the way you move so sexy
the way you feel so inviting
the way you touch so tender
You are the poem
and I will rise to write you
kiss your thighs to ignite you
open my heart and invite you
Come, spill out from my passionate pen
Dylan Barmmer-California
Stars
brilliant in the cold
night
remind me with their burning
light
what makes our being just
right
James Downs-Yosemite, CA
I AM LEAF
glow green all day
powered by sun
after gusts or rain
fall brown and flat
stuck to surface but
through wind and feet
and mouths I move
into ground as before
provide inspiration
for those who live
I will circle back
around food chain
again of use as always
like my sisters and
brothers
Don Kingfisher
Campbell-CA.
Days I feel cool
night moon light still
dripping
her silky-ful breast
all-nipply milk
on my high and why and
puckered up lips
and I wax philosophical,
wane crater-free
blessing her shoe-shine I
see all beyonds
breathless being all still
at light-speed
and dining in, now getting
our bread
I feel feted and full
days I feel twitch-
tangled
burping lactose intolerant
memories
shitty coffee dry black
toast intolerant days
pulling on my coat in some
knot your daddy ways
days when I want to be
mean to children
who whine to take up the
time i'm needing
to write nice things to
greenpeace
and I think I feel
i've seen enough\\
and days I feel warm
sun all-feeling me up then
easing my sighs between
her thighs
to her sweet smelling
roselips has me
skipping like stones over
ruts in the river
I feel I feel I feel soft
inside her nectar fur
wear my world as a window
with a waterview
I feel I feel ifeel who
needs these things called words
I think i'm feeling me oh
my
Nick Bono
Downloading
6:21 a.m. Staring at the computer screen.
Open Office unloading into its memory. Something else refuses to function.
Gatsby has fallen asleep in the space between screen and keyboard.
Maybe I’ll toast an “everything” bagel.
Wonder if there’s any smoked salmon left.
Must buy more cat food.
36 seconds to go.
Forgot what I wanted to download in the first place.
Tiny green squares fill the narrow tube of time.
---------
Arlene L. Mandell tries to find the poetic in the prosaic.
Where Are You, Merle Oberon?
Your name eluded me
just as you eluded poor Olivier,
made him chase your skirts across the moors.
I ran after, wresting images from Wuthering Heights,
of heather and smoky hearths,
but not your name. I saw you so clearly,
your impossibly smooth skin,
your oh-so-genteel accent,
your brown eyes tilted slightly at the edges.
But your name evaded me, a vexing specter
treading shallows, diving then surfacing,
showing a tempting syllable of arm, a suffix of shoulder.
Did Heathcliff, standing at the edge
of a fog-cloaked loch, tire of Cathy’s teasing,
of her hidden motives,
as I tired of trying to recover your name?
“Don’t torture me,” he cried to her as she lay dying.
“Don’t torture me,” I whisper to words
that dissolve into mist as I reach for them.
Simpler in spirit and mind than Heathcliff,
I end my torment, turn to a woman
whose memory is greener than mine,
and try not to wince as she effortlessly
remembers your name.
Tina Hacker- Kansas City, MO
(previously published in I-70 Review, Volume 3, No. 1, 2006, p.61.
A few years ago, the great poet, Victor Smith and I were waiting our turn at an open mike in mid-town when a pretty young woman approached and ask if we were rappers. I don’t remember what I said at the time but when I thought of it later it was the inspiration for this poem.
THE WRAPPER
“Your damn right I’m a wrapper” I told her.
I’ve been wrapping since
the tender age of sixteen years.
You see, I had a Candy-Striper girlfriend
who introduced me to the art.
It seems she’d volunteered me
without asking and of course I succumbed
to the persuasion of a woman
as a young man will do.
It was at old Children’s Mercy Hospital
on the north side of the city.
That’s where I got my start wrapping.
I was wrapping presents for the children
who were poor and sick at Christmas time.
I’ve been a wrapper ever since.
I’ve wrapped them in gift stock.
I’ve wrapped them in foil,
in paper with Santas or birthday balloons.
Wrapped them in brown bags or news print
with big old colored bows.
I’ve wrapped them in buses,
wrapped them in cars.
I’ve wrapped them in the light of sunny days
and with flashlights in the dark.
I’ve wrapped them with laughter
and wrapped them in tears,
in bus stations and fire stations
and in the tiniest hours
of cold Christmas mornings.
“Oh yeah, I’m a wrapper Baby,
I can wrap anything you’ve got.”
David Arnold Hughes-Kansas City, MO
Does Gold Tarnish?
Do unto others
Aren’t there others
In places like France, Canada, Mexico,
Iraq, Afghanistan, Ireland, England
And the United States?
As they would do unto you
Doesn’t you include
Liberals, Conservatives
Buddhists, Jews
Christians and Muslims
All men are created equal
I asked mommy if women
Were created equal, too?
She said that men stood for
Mankind, which means everybody
Not just in our
Country not only
Our race
But all mankind
Men, women, and children everywhere
Mom taught me tolerance, respect and mercy
Not, generalistic, judgmental, prejudices
Aren’t we all people?
God blessed America
Maybe, so
But, that does not preclude
His blessings on others
Others
Do unto others
I wonder, does gold tarnish?
What about the golden rule?
Joyce Down-Yosemite, CA
WINTER MOON
The moon flowers
into full bloom.
We cradle hands
for mystical light.
We have waited years
for such a night.
Soundless
splendor slips
into cupped hands
like a prayer
we were born to
whisper...whisper.
(c Claire J. Baker
For Love & Peace, 2010
"Claire"
Ways to Bundle Hay
Autumn is the season of survivors.
Lost lamb in the cotton gin‘s row.
Last fruits culled in the farm worker’s bolsa.
Late litter of kitten to shelter born.
The disheveled season sees separation
as its fateful link to dry river beds;
summer swimmers disappeared.
Everything watching these last long suns.
There is a method for bundling hay,
many uses to put it to. Scythes sharpen
on sheaves of light as we bring
the message that everything’s done.
I hear the click click click: fall’s final harvest,
feel the salve on roughened
torn skin, burr of memory
so soon forgotten.
Jannie M. Dresser, Crockett, California ã2010
Healing poetry...
I've tried all the other overt remedies,
Western Medicine with their explosive antibiotics,
that no one tells you to supplement the good bacteria
after you've been strip-mined of the old,
the hieroglyphics of Internet listings
of what "has no cure", and like why not?
We can bomb the crap out of other countries,
ring up colossal debts and undermine an entire economy
with financial greed and hocus-pocus "derivatives,"
and all the financial moguls can walk away scott-free
without cookie-crumble greed labelled on their lapels,
but we can't cure two-dozen major human ailments
except with bogus pills, placebo PR/BS and
walrus-advancing pharmaceutical
profits? That's just crap!
I prefer to waltz the depths
of what comes to mind
from the subterranean caverns of consciousness
and broadcast it into the winds unsolicited...
It can't be any worse than the dandelion seeds
that blow and tumble across the yard
and maybe some root and some don't
and some grow and provide seed food
for all the other song birds of the air.
©Peter Bray, 11/29/10 All rights reserved
Sunshine’s smell I once had a word for and
The ocean rolls like a fat lady’s laugh
And my heart chuckles with her and
The Small naked brown boy bowlegging by
All shovel - sand headed and shimmery light
In a summertime silver of seaside delight
There’s dark jack the rippler all flexing and hot
And the well-oiled french girlie too cool for maybes
And Paco, with Carmen, who foresees babies
I’m pulled on along by the hippie earth mother
grooming mom earth with monkey-lice fingers
hot dog wrappers be her reason to be her
And old man me all sunglazed and loving
the water, her rhythm, her come in me shimmy
I amuse her, my knowing my posing and all
I love this world, am big enough for it
I hold her love closely my belly-truth Sadie
My last dance promised only to her
My fat ocean lady and I laugh til we cry
Nick Bono-Northport, NY
Music Box
Outside morning frost
dusts barren limbs
Grandchildren waken early
spirits bright
like the star
atop Grandmother’s tree
Soft giggles heard
behind the attic door
Old mahogany box
German crafted
before World War II
fitted with fine works
polished to high sheen
lovingly positioned
just inside
Grandparent’s front door
A hand crank on the side
brought it to life
The drawer at the bottom
houses huge metal discs
Cutouts determine
which notes
the box will play
Every Christmas
with grandchildren
tucked neatly away in their attic beds
Grandfather placed a disc
gingerly into the box
cranked the handle several revolutions
Filled Christmas morning
with sweet melodic sounds
Our long held anticipation ended
with the signal
that Santa
had come and gone
Cynthia Bryant-Lenexa, KS
Wide Open Spaces
I came here to get away.
The cabin was solid in mesa winds.
The cottonwoods dusted
the doorstop each spring with abandoned skirts
of fluff.
One streambed was enough
to carve silence with rills
but still the earth tricked me:
what seemed empty was dense,
more full than a Victorian mansion.
Even an afternoon thunderstorm
surrounded my dream of quiet sleep
with its heavy black drape
its shatter of light on the roofbeams.
Jannie M. Dresser, Crockett, California ã2010
The Lynch Family Blues
After Lynch Family by Joseph Hirsch 1946
Went out swingin’ last night, baby,
Hope you didn’t wait up for me.
Said I was swingin’ all night, baby
Did you stay up late for me?
I wasn’t swingin’ in no joint, baby
I was out on the limb of a tree.
Now I’m walkin’ on air, darlin’,
Feels almost like I’m free.
My feet steady kickin’ the wind
Yeah, I’m close to bein’ free.
For the first time in my life
White folks is lookin’ up to me.
Hear me, son, your daddy loves you
Don’t ever give up hope.
Yes, son, your daddy loves you
Keep hangin’ on to hope.
Daddy won’t be coming home no more
I reached the end of my rope.
by Glenn North-Kansas City, MO
IN MEMORY OF DON KINGFISHER CAMPBELL
He lived to play basketball
wore a uniform one year
He loved to watch light
reflect on man-made surfaces
He basked in old movies
especially ones with femme fatales
He enjoyed dreaming of flying
in his dreams
He adored his wives
for a while then needed someone new
He sometimes didn't have enough
and suffered for it
He gulped in art
making some best of all
He was once a skinny guy
back in the 80's thanks to sex
His birthday was Halloween
and he always had fun one way or another
He held poetry readings
just to share his addiction
He thought cellphone photos
could also be poetic
He had great friends
who were poets as well
He didn't believe in Santa Claus
or the creation stories
He soared on the music of Yes
He was happy for his children
even if they were a coast away
He smiled easily most of the time
unless there was an injustice
He heard The Beatles
and learned the concept of artistry
He gorged himself on Jawlensky
paintings which made him feel alive
He was myopic
that didn't stop him from seeking
He remembered his relatives
mostly for their judgments
He knew that 1984
came to pass in 2001
He masturbated his way
through lonely times
He lingered in Joshua Tree
every natural place
He endured small hands
but boy could they write
Don Kingfisher Campbell- California
Uncle Dave’s House
Thanksgivings were always spent at Uncle Dave’s house
The only annual gathering of my father’s entire family
Aunts and Uncles crowded the main table
While cousins that span two decades in age
Spilled out into the yard
Taking turns at the handle on the ice cream freezer
I remember most
The last thanksgiving spent at Uncle Dave’s house
Uncle Dave home on a special holiday pass
As if traditions still mattered
My parents and grandparents
The only ones to make the drive
This was the first time we all had sat at one table
There were no other Aunts or Uncles
None of my cousins
The weather outside cold and overcast
As if the mood in the house had seeped out
And spread across the valley
Out of that inhospitable chill
A silhouette appeared
Through locked screen door
All I could hear
Was “I’m sorry Daddy”
“Daddy, I’m so sorry”
An icy silence passed
Through boundary between father and daughter
And stung just as surely
As a cold slap across her tear stained face
With hood pulled tight around head held low
She returned to waiting car of court appointed foster parents
It was grandmother who broke the silence
“She has a lot of nerve
Showing up here after what she did to her father”
Aunt Ruth sat speechless like a ghost in the corner
She would still be waiting years later
When Uncle Dave was released from prison
My family sat as silent witness that year
To the end of traditional family gatherings
And the banishment of the daughter
Who told family secrets
I think it was then that my father knew
My sister would never tell
Allen Bryant-Lenexa, KS
MORE INVENTORY
Once I wrote a poem
with the line
"If you know who you are,
don't worry about who you're not."
And sometimes it haunts me
when I'm online
wondering about people I used to know
and see the married couple of doctors
who make me look like
an all-time underachiever.
He taught me how to improve
my snare drum playing
and make me a better competitor
in music contests.
I didn't really know the woman he married--
only that she was the daughter of my optometrist.
Now he's a heart surgeon.
And she's a dermatologist.
And I'm sitting here
late at night
writing a poem
about two people I haven't seen
in at least thirty years.
Tomorrow, I'll wake up
and try to improve on
not worrying about
who I'm not.
Terry McCarty- Canoga Park, California
Walking Away
Yes, I am here with you, and these are my hands,
and yes, this is my heart, but I am also out there,
walking the hard line, half hidden by cold rocks,
and cowering in fields of blood and silent rage.I am the final friend after all, unaccounted for,
without a name or a destination or any luggage,
the final crop when the children are hungry,
the old dog who warned you of the stranger.
Yes, I am here with you, but I am also the breeze
running silky through the young girl’s hair,
and yes, I am the sunlight streaming dusty
through the window, I am laughter, tears.
These days end like steel against steel,
like a tender heartache, or a river of iron.
I am here with you, but I’m also out there,
on the sharp edge, at the bitter end of things.
James Lee Jobe-Davis, CA
A Nature Poem--A Piece of nature
a leaf blows
high on a branch
I am that leaf
as he softly kisses me
on cheeks
neck shoulders
his kisses reach
my breast
a gust causes
the leaf to fall
and float downward
catching a drift
sailing through the air
turning and twisting
moving through the air
entwined between limbs
and lights on the
smooth surface of
a river
now moist and rocking
delicately rocking
floating slowly
until a brisk
breeze takes it further along
swiftly splashing
pounds against rocks
rushing out of control
settles down on smooth
surface
floating, gliding, rocking
further down stream
oscillating
continuing back and forth
from calm to rapid waters
curving and twisting
with the river
until it meets the ocean
as one continuous body
we sail together
outward
becoming the waves
toward the shore
we glide gently on
the sand and slowly
back to the body
then another wave
over and over
then relax and revel together
on the beach
"Fuck Fame"
It’s around five o’ clock AM!
On a morning I woke up all abrupt
An appalling dream dreaming inside my head
But then again maybe it’s just prophecy
I just have to ask the right question
To discern the accurate information
There can’t be any secrets
When I lay my head on that pillow
I can only expect to wake up
All sweated out or enveloped in love
And since your not here tonight
It’s gotta be an individual one of those possessions
That’s bound to make a difference
If I can just disintegrate past the alchemist
Find a way to carry this into the veracity
Of what it takes to be a professional
Without ever having to talk about it
Without ever having to send a publicist to make my point
I’ll push and grindJust like the times I’ve done before
I denied that anything I could perceive
Was imploring me to alter my methodology
I was so hung up then
On what I could get to spin
But now with a few years under my belt
I yell and scream
But that don't do much anymore
Until I get that dream
That brings it all together
Warps it all up like feathered metal
I just fling that fame
Like shit the dog left on the front porch
I don’t need anyone telling me I’m in sync
In fact I’d rather think
Mother fucker!
Don’t even ask my name
And I won’t have to lie
When you go to print that story
That you tried to connive
About some interview
That we never had
I don’t publicize
Any push and shove that’s going on
At any given moment
I never locked into her
She just didn't know itI just grind like my groin is tight
Like that kick in the balls
Is about too come
About to bring me down
To the level that I respond adeptly at
I don’t go getting ahead of myself
Anytime I get a head full of my own shit
My dreams wake me up sweating profusely
They say hey mother-fucker wake it up
This ain’t about you
Now don’t go losing that creativity
To a bunch of lies
About how much of a legacy
You think you're gonna leave behind
[gcs/2006 – Dallas Tx]
Glen Still- Oklahoma City, Oklahoma
My Death-mime walls stand
speechless and clueless
I rented this roomness
where crooks and nannies
spit dinosaur bones
onto the too-real floor
while palming for proof
to slowly dissolve them
-and trust me-they do
my fear-thirst first curled up
all pube-like and throaty
seeking to drink even me
so I swept the remains
under my floorboards
then shattered my mirrors,
and turned wine into blood.
Drank deftly to death and
to hope of some lowered rope
Nick Bono-Northport, NY
Autumn’s Palette, Yosemite
Bundled in russet fleece, a poet sits on a fallen sequoia, pen scratching thin lines, attempting to draw in words what John Muir cherished, what Ansel Adams boldly captured in black and white.
Wind rustles yellow grasses, trees explode with vivid golds and oranges. In the background, Half Dome reflects paler tints of autumn’s brazen palette.
She puts down her pen to listen to wind streaming through the ancient valley.
-----
Arlene L. Mandell, Santa Rosa, CA
Sacrifice
Yesterday, the poplars filled with starlings.
I dug in the drawer for binoculars
to see their iridescent robes in late autumn light.
To my naked eye, they seemed black motes
in dusty evening foliage, but in the lens,
black opals in the frail arrangement of sky.
Earlier, I returned home from Bible study,
where we were questioning the faith
we build on top of old promises.
I thought I saw a ruby set in grey upon the rug
but it was the gnawed breast of a fledgling bird,
its unuseful feathers stained in blood
I have tried to keep my cats indoors, to keep them
and the yard birds alive, but there was
an obvious failing. I lifted the broken bird
its neck twisted, its body a soft pillow,
delivered it into the garbage can, not knowing
what other thing I could possibly do.
There would be no parent coming to claim
this one who had ventured so far from the nest,
from the flock and the tree, to fly
into our open window, our home,
the place where I have made an uneasy peace
with the nature of life, with wildness.
Jannie M. Dresser, Crockett, California ã2010
####
ELITISM-TWO VIEWS
ONE (performance poet)
A few poets started shattering that
camaraderie-
the ones who think they’re at the top
of the bell-curve
and thus have no obligation
to the riff-raff below ‘em?
By doing hit-and-run on venues,
extracting the maximum hype
from the minimum effort,
it hasn’t been the same since….
TWO (literary poet to the author)
The world of poetry is LARGE.
It contains multitudes,
and it contains people who have
already paid their dues hanging out
at coffeehouses and dimly lit
church basements and pass-the-hat
affairs.
But most of those you would consider
elite because they have books or PhDs
are incredibly generous people who are
forever available for benefits, to do
workshops (and get paid what they’re
worth), to critique friends’ manuscripts,
to rally round important causes.
All of us stand on the shoulders of
giants, the generations who have
come before.
When they get successful, they don’t
become “elitist”, they don’t become
“the upper crust of local poetry”,
they become successful.
Why do you resent success?
I don’t resent them.
I consider these poets and
community leaders role models,
people to be emulated for what they
have given to community.
People to be honored and respected.
And people to laugh along with
when they come up with a gimmick
as camp as a fundraising
bathing suit calendar.
I Rent my Life
I rent my life, by the day, nothing more
A space where when conditions are right
The view’s breathgiving-in crystal clear light
all stardusted walls with sun-pulsing core
but On long misty gray days my vision is poor
then my baggage arrives like a gypsy curse
whispers- not mine-it could always be worse
say notes slipped under my paint-chipped door
from an absentee landlord who slips away
jump out the window? its too far to fall
what do I buy for the high price I pay.
then while pacing the dim Inner hall
My reflecting self echoes, revealing much more.
No dialtone on my phone, calls are no-show
hinting everyone knows my number but me
with no ears to hear, where do the lies go?
A lie pile somewhere of cosmic debris
I, the river of me, never will step
However hard i try into the same me, twice
So I slip in deeper and try a mint julep
through a hard world Liquid me will silently flow.
I now know The Rent can never be low;
it’s a sandy shore that shapes my ocean,
As it polishes beach glass smoothed by soft motion
each piece joy, sadness; til I wave from below.
I shoreline smile for the ebb and flow show
then come to Silence…seeing simply my soul
a battle-scarred baby, grown, never quite whole
in a backyard stadium, as sweet spirits cling.
Those fire-escape angels smugly await
Taking numbers, long lunches, busting the late
as through my curtains they see everything
Dropping dimes to my landlord. Cant wait to sing
knowing all of the tenants, do they all know my fate?
And if the deal is renewed, by the grace of which king?
Which me will I be if I am evicted?
uptown or down ? absolved or convicted?
Will the new child go up or down Buddha’s lift?
Will Allah glare “Infidel!’ and shorten my stay?
Will Yahweh count markers and turn me away?
When Jesus bled for me just what did he know?
Buddha smiles side-door- hey bud, can I go?
Am I saved, or will my lease come due
Be, Still. Ask Him…. Or Him…..or Her
Will Jesus stop bleeding, or worse yet not stir?
No doubt to be Evicted as the me I knew,
As though there was one me, yet I hold on so tight
If the glass bag is bulky, being mine makes it light
Or maybe its more like an old photo erased
or wormfood, then birdfood, salted to taste
As back up we go, as recycled waste
while someOne posts ads, “Available Space”
Nick Bono-Northport, NY
------------------------------------------------
Maybe....
If just for once I met
a rabbit
Who in a fierce moment
Of existential dread
Said why the fuck do I,
jack,
Get to be the food
Or better yet
A penguin who,
Debate-team ready and
Ice-floe pensive,
posits opposable thumbs
Are way over-rated
In three quarters water
world
And the very thought
Arrogantly
anthropomyopic
Point is…that
maybe
I would feel grounded
perhaps more rounded
then again... Maybe
not
Nick Bono-Northport, NY
A Series of Naps on H2O...
A series of naps are better than
slaps in the face, a place to call your own,
the eastside marina where you
park in the shade of day
and face the opposite shore,
the tule grass, water, and Strait and wait
to let exhaustion slip away like
a soft breeze pushing surface electrons
and the deeper core further eastward
like minuscule white caps on H2O
that only a seagull can see and believe...
©Peter Bray, 10/5/10 All rights reserved
The Sound of Another Language
I was walking beside a river.
I needed to cross.
There were vines hanging
from tall spirited trees.
Everything was golden-lit, burnished browns,
the dampness and mulch
of late fall afternoons.
Fields to my left with workers bent
speaking in another tongue.
I continued to walk along this dark river
needing to cross, a panther
Like blackest night, like an iron pan,
like Charon in his craft
This panther drew up to me, then stretched himself
long body on a tree's bright limb.
I slipped onto his back, gripped around
felt the round hard smoothness
Panther belly under my fingers.
We swam the river. On the wild cat's back
I rode, my feet bare,
touching coolness of water.
I crossed the river. On the other side
the panther was soaked.
He shook himself, the way cats do,
then sizzled into air
a wisp of smoke
Then silence.
Jannie M. Dresser, Crockett, California ã2010
AMONG REDWOODS
(California Coast)
In this forest cathedral
we miniatures among monoliths
stand still, inhale time's
mighty incense,
consider our own heartwood,
how we commune with the earth
and sky. The sunsets and fogs
we hold along our trunks,
the echoes we send
out into the universe.
We grow tall,
ancient.
Claire J. Baker
Pinole, California
(SF-Bay Area)
War Stories
Wrapped in the familiar smell of coffee,
kerosene and cigarettes,
I lean across a worn-out airport table
watching orange sunset wander the runway.
My father talked about B-17s,
bristling with guns,
and climbing the scratched aluminum ladder,
into a bomber aimed across the Pacific.
Back behind my eyes,
huge props slash the heavy jungle air.
Surrounded by exploding thunder,
cords and cables sway.
Steel, wire, rivets arc in readiness.
An impossible beast
wearing paint and purpose,
strains, shaking,
almost uncertain before
ROARING INTO THE SKY.
Crouched in its cold steel belly
I watch summer storms flash below
and tap out code into the darkness
somewhere east of Manila.
Beneath us,
airstrips freshly torn from the jungle
lay anointed by the blood
of guys who didn't make it.
Faint contrails arc overhead,
the low hum of jet engine
pull me back to that table
in our adopted home town.
This time though
it's me leaving,
climbing into a familiar airplane.
After all these years,
after thousands of air miles,
this old airport brings us to where
I share my fathers heart.
Today I watched him wave up to us
as we stood the little Piper on its wing
turning like a seagull above the beaches.
We have both heard the screaming wind
and looked the great distances
and now,
up here where it's all horizon,
I have come to know
my Father's unforgiving sky
and found peace
in the solitude of her heights.
Scott Waters-Saint Augustine, FL
Relax
Bad things are
going to happen.
Your tomatoes
will grow a fungus
and your cat
will get run over.
Someone will
leave the bag with the ice cream
melting in the
car and throw
your blue
cashmere sweater in the drier.
Your husband
will sleep
with a girl
your daughter's age, her breasts spilling
out of her
blouse. Or your wife
will remember
she's a lesbian
and leave you
for the woman next door. The other cat--
the one you
never really liked--will contract a disease
that requires
you to pry open its feverish mouth
every four
hours for a month.
Your parents
will die.
No matter how
many vitamins you take,
how much
Pilates, you'll lose your keys,
your hair and
your memory. If your daughter
doesn't plug
her heart
into every live
socket she passes,
you'll come
home to find your son has emptied
your
refrigerator, dragged it to the curb,
and called the
used appliance store for a pick up--drug money.
There's a
Buddhist story of a woman chased by a tiger.
When she comes
to a cliff, she sees a sturdy vine
and climbs half
way down. But there's also a tiger below.
And two
mice--one white, one black--scurry out
and begin to
gnaw at the vine. At this point
she notices a
wild strawberry growing from a crevice.
She looks up,
down, at the mice.
Then she eats
the strawberry.
So here's the
view, the breeze, the pulse
in your throat.
Your wallet will be stolen, you'll get fat,
slip on the
bathroom tiles of a foreign hotel
and crack your
hip. You'll be lonely.
Oh taste how
sweet and tart
the red juice
is, how the tiny seeds
crunch between
your teeth.
--Ellen Bass
American Poetry
Review, July/Aug 2010
A YOUNG BOY
walks toward grammar school
sucking his thumb, dragging a
jacket, toe-scuffing the sidewalk.
Our eyes meet.
He yawns as if to show he just
woke up, was hurried off.
Passive rebel,
may someday you take
an active stance
for positive change.
Entering the classroom, he stops
sucking his thumb, smiles
back at me. I wonder, one day
savior of a beleaguered species...
flyer of the rainbow flag...founder
of fresh continents of kindness...?
Claire J Baker- California
|
WORDS ACROSS WATERS, 1852
"Over fifty of the largest towns in Great Britain sent manuscript
letters... to as many different towns in France, disclaiming all
sympathy with the unfriendly sentiments expressed by public journals."
- Elihu Burritt, “Autobiography of the Author”
From Southampton, a two-month mission by steam-
packet and train through France. At each station,
you hope to hammer suspicion into trust:
from Manchester, a friendly greeting
to Marseilles; Birmingham to Bordeaux, Sheffield
to Strasbourg, Bristol to Brest.
Aug. 20, you arrive late in Rouen. Next morning
you call on the English Consul, requesting audience
with the Mayor. While waiting,
you hand-copy the “people-letter” from the good
folk of York – so many signatures! – to the citizens
of Rouen. A copy for each journal of the city.
Who better than the press to broadcast-sow
the words of peace?
Do you have writer’s cramp, when at last
the English Consul’s carriage comes to bear you
to the Hôtel de Ville? Amenities and politesses.
The Mayor presses both your hands to seal
words from across the Channel – that waterway
bloodied by centuries of war.
*
The Consul’s Story:
As he returns you to your hotel,
the Consul confides
his own small history:
French-born, taken English prisoner
in battle. Schooled by his enemy
to diplomatic service, he speaks now
for his captor
in his own birth-land.
Elihu, how happy he is to hear
your message, Peace
on the shores of contested waters,
friends on each side.
From my new book, Walking with Elihu: poems on
Elihu Burritt, the Learned Blacksmith.
Taylor Graham
poetspiper@att.net
Placerville, CA
|
Patchouli
Senses swoon
under spell
of opened amulet
scent of
patchouli oil heavy on the air
I climb
aboard the moment’s magic carpet
transport to
an earlier time
full of
kisses that turned knees to warm butter
virtue to a
forgotten memento
held onto so
long all reason faded
into steamy
wanton need
Left to
simmer all that long summer
when first
love‘s tactile tattoo
marked me
woman
Cynthia L Bryant
Lenexa, KS
poetslane@everestkc.net
CLASHES
May our clashes
become mere dust
like the film
on window panes
fine grit
on an owl's wing
dust like the sour
flakes of our skin
when we bite
our knuckles
trying to hold back
childhood traumas
which surface in
stupid quarrels.
Claire J. Baker
