|
Factory
of the Mind
by George Anderson
In wide, expansive summers
before the railway
deemed the Digby line uneconomic
we’d meander as far as the peat factory
bucket in arm gathering wild blueberries.
Once, I placed my ear on the track & heard
the turntable like rumble of the Dayliner.
Kneeling on the overhanging foot of the bridge
it HEAVED past, shaking the framework,
grunting savagely in diesel. My courage
flattened like the dime I had placed on the track.
It all jolting past now like the ploughed up carcasses
of the Macintosh apple orchards. The canning factory long
wreathed in tight coils of barbed-wire before it self combusted.
But aye, today we’ve got a divided 4 lane highway &
a French owned tyre plant that spews sludge thru the valley.
Lunch Duty at
Northern Campus
by George Anderson
the hooded walkway shuffles
up to the top school as if to catch a train
a tradesman fishes in his nest of tools
a nailgun coughs in the shadows
hardwood trees sprawl near the library
diced like barked zucchinis
a girl eats pasta on a slatted bench
her head in a thick book
teachers chat about beckett outside the canteen
smiling at students as they pass
boys slap at tennis balls
under a great grey canopy of steel
possums dream of fresh tumbling fruit
in high green boxes
the sand drenched rubbery courtyard
blinks in dumb bewilderment.
Forest At My
Window
by George Anderson
When night puts on her pajamas
And brushes her teeth for the night
My lock is unlatched
My window flung open
When the ghost gums yawn
Their eyes glazed, half open
My curtains are drawn
My lights switched off
And there is nothing between you & I
Only the dim light of the moon to greet us
I have seen you shaken to your core
In ghostly flashes during hot electric storms
Your hair wild tossed into the air like dice
At other times you have watched me while I slept
My head on the pillow filled with odd thoughts
Casually sweeping aside the outer world of facts.
Off Barrier
Highway #32
by George Anderson
The landscape along the highway to Broken Hill
is sparse, ragged—
the knarled, splintered stumps of
stunted mulgoa shrub
poke out of the red dust.
As we pedal our bikes the sky widens
vast blue spaces specked with grand white puffs of cloud
the thin steel belt of the railway
unfolding on our left
into the flat, heat-pulsed distance.
We pass a road sign: KANGAROOS NEXT 195 KM
then another: LAVENDER GARDEN 117 KM
*
Evening approaches and a strange red hue of light bathes the land
Every bush, every pebble, every leaf seems so wonderfully clear—
as if seen for the first time.
We set up our camp & I stumble across a large prickly wattle
and amongst the pegmatite rocks on the gentle slopes above
the bursting purple & gold flowers of Sturt’s nightshade shrubs!
Another Open
Window
by George Anderson
I used to sit
by an open
window and
it flowed out
of me in one
long
uninterrupted
stream
sweet
chaotic
unrestrained
naked
and jagged
like an open
wound
cleansing
*
Now it
flops
spurts
dribbles
splatters
often to
an
un
de
ter
min
able
con
clu
si
o
n
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Pragmatics
of Belief—Absent Inquiry
by Robert Cullen
Scarlet and ruby sumacs
luminesce in the late afternoon
autumn sun,
shimmering, viscous,
sliding from hillock to swale
as upon more distant shores
washing
red tide waves of burnished flame.
Breezes gather, the
sea heaves,
birch-masted schooners billowing
lavender-bellied white fluff sails
lean starboard,
crossing shaled meridians,
medieval grailed husks,
sun pummeled fields of Maya
heaping
life bringing maize in baskets
of green reed woven,
grains on gray metate ground.
A scorching, sun-dust
heat repeals,
crazed the implacable lust-God
of polished jade masks,
gold gloss tribulations,
merciless
the cold stone vacuous eyes
as crimson flows deepen,
crusting
along the jagged edge of night.
Origami Swans
by Robert Cullen
Hungering deep in the wolf howl,
frozen tundra of spindling heartlands,
half-light blight of invisible pangs
pumping blue blood visions through
tempest veins,
groveling wood grubs and Pleistocene
gruel,
scraping with splintered claws
the dark sides of lunar surfaces
for bat wings and mammoth bones . . .
peregrine beaks
|streaking memory banks
to bleak wind shadow bowls
rabbit holes . . .
where I
fashion origami swans to float
on open water dreams.
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Coming
Down From The Mountain Unenlightened
by Doug Draime
We trudged down the mountain path
to the water
like warriors beaten.
Our whiskey bottles empty,
all of our mescaline eaten.
Five days without bathing, we threw
ourselves, filthy
and stinking, clothes and all,
into the ocean.
The two girls stripping down to
their panties and bras.
Thomas claimed he saw
a flying saucer.
Lucy swore she had
a brush with Big Foot
on a rocky ridge above the jade cliffs.
But the rest of us
knew that mescaline
was the cause.
And we mixed our trips
with a few cold beers
to level them out a little.
I laid in a foot of water
staring up at the mountain,
thinking how normal everything appeared.
After five days of
psychedelic musings
and discussions of
astral projection, change shifting and time
travel, nothing in the world
looked any different
We dried ourselves in the sun and
headed down 101 for home, still unenlightened
Watch
Their Castles Tumble
by Doug Draime
Not everyone wants
To hear the truth
Though everyone gives
It enough lip service
“Just be honest with me, “
they’ll say, “tell me the truth.”
Their eyes oozing sincerity
And openness.
So, you tell them the truth
And watch their castles tumble
She
Knits A Perfect Blue-Green Quilt For Me
by Doug Draime
she says
sometimes in my sleep
I dream I’m
falling
falling
falling
down through the cosmos
down past planets, novas, asteroids
down through cloudy skies
down through static gravity
down through deadly smog
as i’m searching for a perfect thread
down through hundreds/
thousands of threads
all blue-green
threads
varying shades
of blue-green
threads
she says
it’s like trying
to discover
to unravel
the mystery
to understand the truth
of the answer to everyone’s question
what ever that question may be
because out in the cosmos
there are billions & billions of them
she says
when I wake up what choice do I have but to knit
this perfect blue-green quilt for you
Nearing
Sunset
by Doug Draime
There is nothing more
powerful and noble than
the chirping
of a little bird of Oregon,
on this late May
afternoon, here in this moment,
with you.
There is only this moment,
with you,
now, and
the chirping
of a little bird of Oregon,
noble, beautiful
and powerful.
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The
Magic Circle
by August Franza
I suppose I
should be doing
something more
useful
than writing mere poems
but
I find everybody else
doing so much less.
This Morning
by August Franza
She raises her dark head against the white pillow
just for a second
against the curve of her hip
which powers her love.
Stimulus
Package
by August Franza
Darling, you must be stimulated, you have no choice.
Why do you resist?
Everything is down there in your economy.
Forget about debts, darling.
This is no time to think of what we owe each other
or the mistakes made in the past, our infidelities.
Stimulus is all, the answer to the cold, unmoving body,
The organ of our situation.
If I Loved You
Never
by August Franza
If
I loved you never
There would be no Christ,
The wind would be a secret
Like closing time.
If I loved you never
Languages would forget
And the century would stop.
What chance would I have of being born?
For Heaven's
Sake
by August Franza
Guy kissing a girl in a parking lot
in Salem, Va.
O, what a kiss.
He wrapped his arms around her for heaven's sake
and she fell in with her prettiness.
Joy jumped out of his head and caught me quick,
for heaven's sake.
I'm a thousand miles away, still being him
for heaven's sake.
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Crimson
Warmth
by Swati Goswami
Log cabins speckle the yawning valley
against the mountain rapture.
Pathways snakes up the range,
gooseberry shrubs colour
the cold stony trail .
Squinting against the dead sun
chilly winds dampen spirits
leaving my hair cold and pallid.
Aching spine dissuades
legs to trek
At a distance
A faction of monks
traces the swirl
gracing like red Zarberas.
Million lines mark serene faces
carrying sparks to praying eyes.
Crimson robes flutter
revealing gleaming heads
on bare swaying shoulders;
oblivious to the plummeting temperature,
naked feet define a destination
As the file draws nearer,
eyes are blinded by untamed winds,
Stillness wraps numb feet
and mind freezes.
As they walk past me
sacred energy overwhelms.
Peace descends
and steadily warms my heart.
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Tied
to a Tree for Safekeeping
by Carol Lynn Grellas
Just once there was a moment
without the wind─
when all trees were cosseted
when chaos wasn’t served
for breakfast
while the sunlight rang in the morning
without pandemonium slipping
through the weathervane
in an eerie silence
unequally divided;
the was outstretched hand
or pointer upon the axis. Bedlam
didn’t wait in the iris of an eye
panning the crowd
for an empty face
entering easy as light
through an expanding pupil.
Just once there was a moment
without the wind
when the cumulus blue
was unmoving
and cymbidiums cried,
for more disorder
to drench their grassy-leaves
until they’d lie upon the soil
like sleeping bodies
without eyes
in a breadth so great
the earth was one solid
shade of weeping.
Honeymoon
Girl
by Carol Lynn Grellas
Ballerina-bloom, as you lie inside my
palm
barely opened, tiny little bud, one baby flower,
your
perfect nudeness
the scent of strawberries
in your hair, as you lean
against me, shifting
soft flesh from left to right clinging to my skin,
tight, a baby sundew, drinking nourishment like soup
I
remember you, deep within
my
belly, calling my name−
announcing your arrival
with long months of hidden
hiccups and tippy-toe-dancing, That night in Venice
a peach Bellini seducing the candlelight to a tawny
glow.
I heard the rain outside
the
window’s veil,
a cadenced strum, one thousand
castanets on glass.
He wore an august smile.
It was the beginning of us.
Lady
of Fatima
by Carol Lynn Grellas
Lady of Fatima
I stand before you;
blossom-hands and heaven-eyes.
The clouds whip across a river-sky
where you wait beyond the horizon.
Why must I linger inside this fleshy-hollow?
Lady of Fatima
with your oyster-light,
I hear the cries of forgotten children
their dead mother’s and fathers boneless and cold.
I carry the name of someone who loved me
from deep in a furrow where the long grass weeps.
Lady of Fatima
where the fawn runs free,
through secret groves and millions of oaks
the white moth circles, like tiny kites
with unbroken strings, and I long to emerge
from this spirit’s shell, this transparent chrysalis
to become a pearl thrown back once again
into a bottomless sea.
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Count
Down
by Robert
L. Harrison
He remembered every lost tooth
like departed children
who were raised with care.
Brushing and cleaning them,
flossing and rinsing
every day
looking in the mirror
with a smile.
A mouthful of pearls,
he thought
until like children
they grew up and went away.
A gum drop took the first
on a ride out of the mouth,
a second departed and a third
until the tooth count
reminded him of
a carved Halloween pumpkin
in the morning mirror.
Life does not make
grumpy old men
only missing teeth do.
The Newbridge
Road Bridge
by Robert
L. Harrison
The gas bellies flow in
a stream of light at dusk.
Each rubber wheeled pod
form into a straight formation.
At this overpass
no tolls are taken
by outstretched hands
and only your feet
can get you across
the sea of travelers below.
And so I view this stream
of lights,
at twilight’s end.
The coming and going,
from bank to mall
from home and job,
from lover to lover.
Even those who exit here
do not wave to me,
but pass by
a darken stranger
standing on
Newbridge Road Bridge.
Drip, Drip,
Drip
by Robert
L. Harrison
The spil
li
g
of words
can start
like a
f
l
u
s
h
from the toilet
or from a steady
faucet dri
p.
Whenever, the spilling continues,
as your fingers reach the keyboard
and the words begin to flow.
Those who are inspired by the f l u s h
spil out their verses
l
until the toilet water is level again.
Those who hear
the fauset d
r
i
p
can write on
until the leak
is
fixed.
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How
mother would have loved the internet
by Rebecca
Katechis
Mother
would have loved the
Internet, you say and
we think the
same thought
Oh and email she would have loved email
There’s something to
put us into reverie.
Imagine
the
possibilities hints and hellos and
warnings here and there the
Dangers of drug interactions and wisdom
of cleaning regularly and
a good Blue Cross plan and even
the meaning of life.
Ah
, mom, when you learned to
attach
What clippings we might
see coupons and deals and
reasons families fight and
ways to love your sisters in
all their mishegas
mom
would have loved
google and the
deals and
haven from schlemiels
how smart–how much smarter–
we could be
just by hitting send.
if
only I had your gmail
address there would be
pictures of
my Greek wedding
(we broke the glass, I promise
and then a few plates for
balance.)
I’d
show you Alex in all her
years of becoming and
her bargain fine
toddler clothes and
now, off to Columbia
which you could have researched for me.
Here,
mommy, is
Ari’s Ella, and Caro on her own and
making art and how we keep
circling back to your
beaming face and
the so many things you knew.
you
could send me back a photo
of you playing mah jhong
laughing with Aunt Lee in
heaven you could
tell us about Tobs.
I’d
let you know that
I look for you all
In the clouds when I am
flying I look for you all in my
heart all the time
I honor you by never
paying for shipping.
I’d
let you know that
Caro draws you and I write you and
Alex is loved so well because of you
Mommy,
If only
You could send me a short
email saying you know.
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Midsummer
by Joseph Lewis
A spotted dog with a lady at the leash
And a cover of sunlight on the grass,
The shadows of two pines divide the ground
As a brilliant red car makes a pass.
Green leaves wilt in the tropical air
As everyone waits for the sun to take flight.
The road grows dim in the coming dark
As the air gets cooler with the moonlight
Key West
by Joseph Lewis
The walls of the motel room are white.
The double bed has a striped coverlet.
No need for blankets in this climate.
Even in a photograph the sun is evident.
There's palm trees in the parking lot.
The swimming pool is bluer than the Atlantic.
On these walls made whiter by the sun
the simple frames of more seascrapes,
a couple on an empty pier leading to the ocean,
the sun resuming its red afterglow,
and a solitary sail on the horizon.
But the room's enough for now.
To lie in bed as the wind bends the palms,
even if the picture is just in an album,
or a travelogue of a future destination.
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Metro.
Crush
by Lyn Lifshin
it’s never the women,
not even the overweight
ones squeezing out of
their polyester pants in
blue or pink. Their
thighs might seep over
the side a little but you
can deal. They have
no way to go. No, it’s
the men, not even
just the enormous broad
shouldered types, it’s
almost as if they know
enough to be careful
but the ones in 3 piece
suits, their arms spread
like wings, as if they
owned the space, owned
the air, had the right,
all rights. I try to find a
place for my arm when
he turns the page. It’s
as if everywhere he can
reach is his, air doesn’t
belong to anyone. It’s
as if my body, my elbow
had no rights. Imagine
such pressure under the
table with a dark eyed
lover and it would be
something else. As it is,
it’s like an immovable
handcuff, a swath of
chloroform over where
I try to breathe, a 2000
pound dog nuzzling,
lapping and licking and
taking a bite of Monday
Those Crushes
That Crush
by Lyn Lifshin
they start off harmless, the
look of a man who has
always been your type
tho who knows, he
could be an axe killer.
If he holds you in his arms,
just feel the warmth, the
ease of his gliding. Don’t
let your mind work
overtime. You are paying,
as you would lets say
a gigolo. Let’s say he
holds your hand a little
longer than other ball
room dancers, that he
notices, remembers
exactly what you wore. Let’s
say you’re heard stories
of his losing one job
for fooling around with
a student at a different
school, would you want
to be warned or hold
on tighter to
the fantasy
Not Cold, Baby
No
by Lyn Lifshin
but lava. that
strangeness, wanting,
not sure, wanting
the strangeness. Here
mounds of the darkest
grey, the cold,
scars. Your words,
a quilt
He Wants the
Me I Was
by Lyn Lifshin
posed in driftwood
houses in a purple
hippy dress, laced
boots. What was it
one teacher called
them, razzle dazzle
boots of s and m.
Thick heavy hair,
that’s the one he’s
in love with, the
one I’d be, catching
trains from one
location to another
Before the
Fantasy Blurs
by Lyn Lifshin
the way starfish
crawl on the tidal mud,
lie still, are invisible
as the real stars.
I want to hold on,
imagine we both
knew what we wanted,
keep that glitter,
intense, blaze of last
light before we know there
is nothing more to
do about it
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White
Pony
by Amelia Makinano
Lutine finds the highest part of her
pasture
where her mane brushes the sunlight
until it intoxicates the eye,
whiting out a forever-dimmed world.
She carries a robin
over three fences
before the weeping willow pond.
The two balance as one
as they glide into the water,
one sandpaper tail swats a last fly.
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Breakfast
with Jeremy
by Carla Martin-Wood
Jeremy in his wheelchair
giggles at his sister
draws a syrupy smiley face on pancakes
knows only this
unlimited early blue sky
pops a wheelie
squeals in unfettered exuberance
possible only to children
who write poems everyday
in languages unknowable
and gaze in fixed amazement
at a world new each morning
fragile as a snowflake
undamaged.
Witness
(in memoriam)
by Carla Martin-Wood
I can testify that you
lived
to the end of the rhyme,
to the final iamb,
to the shadows of the couplet
we formed on your bed,
in a room where the only sound
was our breathing as one,
where the pools of your eyes
drew me down,
your mouth an animal,
seeking refuge in the caves of my body,
your soul grown dark like moss,
hidden between the lilies of my breasts,
so that hunter Death lost
his quarry for a moment,
seeing only one lying there,
until night dropped below the skyline like a stone
and morning came at last,
the small, grey sparrows of our lives
fallen to earth unnoticed.
For a swinger
of birches
for Robert Frost
by Carla Martin-Wood
We swung on birches, you
and I.
You took me down to the pasture, too,
and taught me well along the way
to question what a wall should do.
You led me down the left-fork road.
I found it rocky, bare and steep,
for I was soft with city ways,
but you had promises to keep.
You showed me how to clear that spring,
and how to know which road to take.
You versed me well in country things,
the difference a choice can make.
You were acquainted with the night—
a child, I didn’t understand.
Your poems began in sweet delight;
in age, their wisdom takes my hand.
You told me nothing gold can stay.
Your legacy gives that the lie.
Your lover’s quarrel is in time out;
we’ll get back to it bye-and-bye.
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Carduelis
Elegans
for
the Scottish Songbird
by Katina Ravenswood
Goldfinch
Until April silenced
Bursts into grace, flame, song
And sudden glory
Thrilling us all
As the new blooms do
Finally unfurling
in promise
Poem for the
Letter I
by Katina Ravenswood
I can now patrol
city streets, eight guns
blazing, shootin' 'em
down left and right
Suddenly, no one sees me
Impulsively, I could hold up
a crowded bank, grab all the fifties
and hundreds and calmly
walk right out. Right past the
armed guard. Incredibly,
no one stops me
Insouciantly, I might jump
naked out of a red and orange
paisley hot air balloon,
five stories tall, landing in
broad daylight in the middle
of Times Square,
trailing a stream of 40-carat
diamonds and marabou feathers
from my emerald and ruby
tiara and no one would
even notice ...
Are congratulations in order?
I am now, the Invisible Woman
Inevitably, I have turned fifty.
Plainsong for
the Rocky Mountains, I
by Katina Ravenswood
First green
appeared today
Although it was
a weed, I
simply
thanked it.
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I
D
by Iolanda Scripca
I am Summer
Nobody can deny
The stage is ready and feathers fly
I turn and turn
Obsessive pirouettes
Warmth can't hurt me
Because I'm Summer
Leave the curtains drawn
Blown by Santa Ana Winds
Hummingbirds on my ears
Shells on my caressing breasts
A dizzy dance with time
Goes on and on and on...
At least I know who I am
I am Summer
I fade away but I'll come back again...
Dali
(The Persistence of
Memory)
by Iolanda Scripca
liquid memory
time stuck in corners of life
museum is closed.
One Last Dance
by Iolanda Scripca
Weeping willows on dead Swans' Lake
Ballerina shoes too small, hanging on rusted nails
I keep on waking up from giggled dancing lessons
Mother still alive in the waiting room— proud...
Shaking fingers crossed, holding my fans' bouquets
My hair not gray, teasing life on pirouettes
It started snowing glitter of way long childhood gone
I scream a violent silence through a double paned sliding dream
It's time—the time when clocks face me without hands—
I shyly grab some "What if's" and remember to tie my shoe laces
" Stand straight, chin up"—a stage light on a solo swan
A last and gracious slide on an untangled musical key....
Brancusi
(Dedicated to the
Romanian artist—Constantin Brancusi)
by Iolanda Scripca
Infinite column
On a table of silence
Gated my birth kiss
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Painters’
Exhalations 95
—after Philip Absolon’s About
Last Night
by Felino Soriano
Secrets must weave
esoterically
stitches mending wounds
from egoist’s insults, hand spreading. We
like birds in a congregating lean or
askew stance, document though in pain
allowed occurrences, answer the absent or
devastating questions.
Painters’
Exhalations 96
—after Dawn Clarke’s Narrative
Landscape
by Felino Soriano
Moss more beautiful than the portrait of
road kills’
mangled fur. Just as sad
though in
the loneliness
of chlorophyll tinted skin protruding space
expecting human touch
not to run towards
distance’s antiquated door,
slamming
with contempt,
exacerbating fear.
Quiet tongues embark on touching
adjectives
while watching leaping frogs tap in dancing
scenarios atop lily pads’ paper bodies,
too
dragonflies zigzag in drawing with
turquoise pencils
abstract versions of mazes man
will never determine real. Here
where consecration gathers up to ten stories
high
delivering cryptic
homilies the spiritual
devalue due to misapprehension.
Painters’
Exhalations 97
—after Dirk Richard’s Memories
by Felino Soriano
Memories misplace and place you
behind barbed wire. Rusted wire
rail thin damaged
prison form
delegating movement to partial
understanding of physiological
standards.
Memories fold onto the face
of pre-prisoner. Language
man’s, the only existing of preconceived
falsities. The here is a place of otherness
a found pocket of land one forgets
to manage into direct eyesight. Forget
then, then recall your body whole
prisoner not yet occurring
and the tongue speaks gardens
instead of cliché
sewer derelictions.
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Gaza
lullaby
For Najib Hussein al-Hossari:
March 30, 1996-April 13, 2009
For Aisha bint al-Hossari:
January 3, 2004 -April 13, 2009
by Constance Stadler
Najib!
It will happen tonight, this night!
Remember the card you sent Auntie
About leaving Khan Younis with Aisha
And flying
On the steed of the Prophet, Buraq
Oh,
such wings
You would sing
Of such wings
And
so white!
(oh
your dammas and kasrahs were so perfect,
And
the kasrah, the kasrah is not easy to write!)
It
will happen, habibi, it will happen tonight!
No
more bombs will fall
You
must be good, heed the call
Of Papa and your brothers who are waiting SO high!
Yes,
Aisha can take her dolly from Amreeka,
The
one who cries like a baby…like a baby,
she cries.
Aisha,
My princess!
You
must ride with your brother!
So
brave, ma habipti!
Like
Aisha, your namesake
Who
rode on her camel
Such
beauty, such wisdom,
like a warrior, such fight!
No,
Mommy must stay
As
you soar over night sands
You
must stay with your brother
Buraq
is so high and so wide!
Yes,
Mommy is sad now,
She
does not know you felt nothing
As
the machine guns
Of
Hamas or, mumkin, Israeli
Made
you disappear in small drippings
Oozing
into the light.
Go
to sleep now, my darlings.
Yes,
they wrap you in white swaddling
To
put you your bodies to sleep far away from this
garbage
strewn blight.
That
is over, my darlings, look the night star is calling!
Mommy
knows you are safe now, so take wing
(Malesh! Yes, with your blankets)
Yes, of course, yes
My
angels, I now kiss you good-night…
Coquette
by Constance Stadler
46 years
Old
Crown
Heights born
n’ bred
New
perky plump boobies
Botox
slaughtered smile.
Never
been to Paris,
Or
Marseilles
Or Provence
Doesn’t
really matter.
For
every day
She
is there.
Dyed
blonde chignon
Red
Beret angled, so
“Eiffel
Lust” red lipstick
Frou-frou
blouse
Mid
thigh slit
Near
to split
Laced
up lambskins
Squeeze
calves,
paper
thin
But
Adorned dans le
mode
She embarks
In chansons.
Taxis,
always taxis, cause
For
a fiver,
They’ll
“believe”
any
crap accent
And
don’t stare
At
the freak show
Sauntering,
saucily “bye!”
Drops drip
by Constance Stadler
Drops
drip
The
elderly faucet
The
rust stippled gutter
The
impaled index finger
The
canvas that weeps.
Drops
drip
As
the years consume bodies
As
the sea brinks at shallows
As
the infant sucks fiercely
As
endings prove true.
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Checking
for Mail
by Richard Spuler
It helps if I take clonidine first,
just to take the edge off.
Xanax works better,
but I like it more than I should.
I'm relieved when no one
is checking their mail when I do.
They would go about wondering,
Is the shaking contagious?
Don't worry, I'll never tell them,
but they'd be right either way.
My body's filled with trepidation,
and I'm allergic to every day.
The key and its lock
don't speak the same language.
Neither willing to yield, and I have to translate.
It's no different with my mail.
At first, I hold it at a distance,
suspicious of unheard of toxicities,
anthrax in my bills and junk mail,
and for a moment I want to put it pack.
But next time would be no different.
Only Sundays and holidays offer any relief.
Those days I spend time writing just to myself,
and there's no need to labor with my mailbox.
Coming Back,
Lean
by Richard Spuler
Coming back, lean hard against these walls you've made, and the ones
less of your doing. Press them for their texture, walk their height
and length, learn their gravity. Find the corners, lean hard against
the corners and come back. Sit on the ledge to know what a window is,
and is for, and for whom. Your windows. Lean soft against them, lean
soft against the walls,like shoulders, coming back.
Confusing Words and Homonyms
by Richard Spuler
I keep a list of these at my desk.
I find it indispensable,
because words are confusing
and my homonyms not up to par.
The list is hidden in a drawer.
It's secret, so I never open it.
I expect the same courtesy of others.
That assures we're all on the same page.
I'm embarrassed to admit to confusion,
and to be honest, I despise homonyms.
But because the list is both secret and hidden,
I have to be sly about this depository of words.
When I'm confused, I keep my distance from that drawer.
Instead, I just forget confusing words and homonyms.
I'm just fine with liable or libel, and don't intend to altar a thing.
There's nothing wrong with a wrong word, as long as it fits.
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The
Poem Tells Us Death
To Gottfried Benn
by John Sibley Williams
The poem tells us
death’s geometry
is not round like earth,
supple and cold like endless sea,
but plotted upon contiguous
right angles, drained of abstraction
into sharp corners and red alleys,
a razed mountain
and human rubble,
all organs and cavities and words,
a pure mathematics.
An expression of love
in copper transit,
itself labored over like a poem,
his many graveyards
know no shadow or ghost.
Where is the vacuous depression
expected of darkness
and the vicious emotion
bound to its description?
His world writes
between wintry doctor’s hands.
Silence the symphony!
the poem tells us,
and weave a landscape
of precise incisions
and dull spoons,
of colorless blood
and knives like flowers
thrown amongst the summer-faced children.
Carve the dawn in language
and translate it unevenly
so both living and dead
can read the same day
and ending us in twilight,
mince me, this demanding poem,
and drink me like sand
in your ripening garden.
Palace Gardens
—Schönbrunn, Vienna,
far too deep into Summer
by John Sibley Williams
Dried fountains of history,
varied foliages and wells
and a rosebush
aware only of its thorns.
Once a plaything
of the temporarily crowned-
barbarian or Roman,
fowl hunters, nearly beheaded queens,
knives and mortar,
vestiges of a forgotten heritage,
now shade where cameras babble
and words pour like unkind waters.
Wrestling images of marble and sand
sprout limbless
from immaculate grass. Green hills
older than attempts to name them
rain from the horizon.
The hangman has grown languid
long enough ago
that nothing really lives anymore.
The roses’ petrified beauty,
a postcard, a delicate lovers’ stroll
gazing everywhere but within.
A colossus, spires with eagles
stolen into gold. Countless pathways
all leading away.
Don't Fear
by John Sibley Williams
Don’t fear the vast green depth of night,
peopled by oscillating shadows
and competitions with ghosts and the unseen
mincing of waves. How they bellow
into the cliffs, all three,
with one voice.
Your silence rustles the reeds
and they run from you
leaving behind a mask of salt.
Between each tulip’s tight lips escapes
all that is born this moment-
the searing grass embers, the ravenous wind,
your hands of sudden jasmine,
and eyes harvested coal.
The not-so-distant gathers
around you. The aluminum mountains
unroll to wrap the stars
in the silver lining of naked time.
But a faint trace of song in you,
my invisible love, and the moon’s profile
would smooth its glass edges.
Just a dance atop this sea,
blind together in everything,
and the night would devour itself,
oblivion cave in, and the dead
quivering deep in your eyes
draw back from this sandy line.
O my unyielding flame, bewitched
by black mirrors. The humble
dunes that pave your breasts,
the white sands drifting over your belly,
the brutal surf of your love
all maintain the simple truth
of a ship’s return.
Such a deep promise
the silhouettes speak. Such languages
imbue our air. Hold my hand now
while tracing your unsteady borders.
Relieve my fear
of arriving so late in your summer
and finding eternal autumn.
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