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Tuesday
by George Anderson
getting up at 7 earl grey
in the red dawn muesli
reading The Strange Case
of Jekyll & Hyde making
pencil notations in the margin
‘arouses great interest in the
reader’ or ‘inspired hatred’
night descending by degrees
over the Point at 10:40 am
the students enter FG05 we
draw a mind map & discuss
the idealistic integrity of
Atticus’s representation
the closer to town the
longer the abacus of traffic
John McLaughlin’s guitar
seamlessly transcending
the grind I cop detention
duty and mark work on
Flaubert Hardy Dickens
& Tolstoy later shop for
bananas blue berries and
peaches type more words
onto the page attempting
once again to establish some
semblance of order for the day
On Vermillion Lake
by George Anderson
1
limestone softer than granite
orange canoe blue life jacket
a boy bends to tie his shoe lace
another sits on boulder near the lake
a black dog they have called Pepper
dad telling them to paddle
towards the leash of the camera
the grand toilets of the Chateau
off-limits to the general public
2
The edges of the lake green
rock climbers notched in stone
hanging with steel clips
the mirrored symmetry
of the shimmering sky
on vermillion lake
3
a busload of elderly Japanese tourists
trek up the incline
they puff heavily
into the commercial wilderness
their cameras clicking, buzzing, flashing
documenting, recording, filming
the unusual murky colour of the glacial silt
4
the scene is like a painting
you see on fridge magnets
expressing an obvious sentiment-
there is an explanatory tourist map
(complete with the scientific names
of endangered mammals)
150 metre thick ice caps
the width of fingers
5
this poem
like the life I have excavated
has almost turned the full circle-
it is nearing completion
as you exit from these sentences
can you kindly explain to me
the sound of this wind on my chest
the latest surge in cooper and oil prices
the maligned metalanguage
the way I can learn to love literature again
The Chair
by George Anderson
1
I frame the slide against the blue sky:
His favourite chair rests next to the hay barn
its legs embedded in the melting spring ice
2
After he retired to the Valley
he had positioned the chair near the barn
where he could idle in the sun
read the stock market reports with a magnifying glass
drink whiskey, think about God,
think about the war
think about about how his minesweeper was sunk by a Nazi sub in 1944
think about his 35 years in the foundry,
think about his long deceased wife
how her death was his fault
how his own life was worthless
3
Projected on the white wall of our lounge room
I take careful note of the chair in my notebook:
‘It is a hollow steel-framed structure (circa 1965)
Thick seat & backing reinforced with plastic;
a scribbly, dotted pattern matted in a gaudy green hew’
4
After his death,
we left his chair by the barn
for a decade or more
initially as a tribute to the man
but later, as a huge hole
eventually engulfed its back,
the spilling out of the foam in-lay
its legs rusting-
as a symbolic representation
of the ‘temporalness’
of all things material
5
Now, in this rushed &
hugely vacuous present
when I think of him-
I think of his chair-
long discarded,
sitting next to the barn
with its dissembling pre-fab back
I think of that tough but fragile man
facing the sun
60th Wedding
Anniversary
by George Anderson
The aging father lies comatose in the
nursing home bed
mouth agape
oblivious to his wife
oblivious to his nine middle aged children surrounding his bed
oblivious to the rental television blaring from the ceiling
after a series of major strokes
he appears to have lost it
appears to have descended to an advanced vegetative state
he is unable to speak
he is unable to sit up
he lies mouth open staring at the ceiling
we stand around his bed talking
we prop him up & slide a double shot of rum into him
then another
laughing, telling old jokes, anecdotes
we take numerous digital photos
one sister (who is a nurse) explains to us he is like a plant
all they have to do is to water him
nurture him
& in the home’s 24 hour climate control
he might live to be 95, 100, maybe more
later, we get louder, someone spills a bottle,
someone laughs raucously
He shouts out clearly to no one in particular, his eyes closed,
‘When you going?’
.
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Thoroughness
by Uma Asopa
Whenever I clean our room I start
from the top shelves, give spiders time
to wind up, let silverfish crawl
from stacked books. Scratching
crusty crevices in the walls I let lime
fall
and watch flakes float in air like
white fog.
By the time I am done with lower levels
the lime settles on our bed
like scraped skin from an old wound.
Fallen strands of cobwebs cover it
like collapsed collagen—a scum
waiting to be cleared with a deft hand.
Before I can ease it out
into the evening's empty bin
I hear your voice from the other room:
Hurry up; have you changed the
sheets?
Not all the grime is gone
by my scrupulous standards
but I make it alright for a clean cover
up.
Muirfield
Road, Hankok Park, LA
by Uma Asopa
The house at the corner wants to sleep.
Counting the swish-swoosh of cars
through the night it waits for
thump screech of floors to stop
and the rumbling of water in the pipes
to ebb.
It's late and it's cold and dark.
The
old
sycamore in the front has swallowed
its shadows and winds don't moan leafy
whispers
any more. The house still hears soft
snores
and a rustle of sheets between tossing
limbs.
Before the day breaks on the roof
in a faltering pattern of life and
morning
knocks with a hustle at the door
the house needs to wrap up its dreams.
Space-walk
by Uma Asopa
The sky is a cobblestone street
I can walk on without hurting my feet.
Paved with clouds of wooly vapors
it's wide; never tapers. As I walk on
its end recedes further.
Someone calls from below: "come
back you dreamer".
I realize it's you standing on our
lawn. You see me
as an alien; I look at you through gaps
between tall eucalyptus. Our eyes
never meet; voices echo together then
disperse.
Like a magician deft at his rope trick
you raise your finger and tug me down
from that universe.
The sky-street somersaults, disappears.
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Verbatim
by Priscilla Barton
A fact is a cold stone
It remains in place
You may argue a theory
Or debate a concept
But a fact gives no leeway
You can dance around it
Or cover it with flowers
Sooner or later
It will make itself known
It is a cold stone
And it remains in place
Easy Peasy
by Priscilla Barton
My very first lesson began:
Make two rabbit ears,
and tie them together.
Once this task was mastered,
I was left believing
all things were possible.
The world could never defeat
someone who stood
with shoelaces firmly knotted.
Educated
by Priscilla Barton
To survive this world
It is not necessary
To be a genius
One need know only
The barest of truths
This hurts
That doesn't
What could be simpler?
Rooted
by Priscilla Barton
She had forgotten to water the
plants
They sat withered and dead
She rocked back and forth in her chair
Laughing, as the dust piled higher
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Last
Kiss
by Luis
Cuauhtemoc Berriozabal
She surrendered one last kiss
as if she meant it. In my youth
I rallied around that kiss with
my hysterical heart. That kiss
was the closest I had been to
death. I did not know it at
the time, but I do now. Her
kiss remains like a lock upon
my caged lips and tongue. Was
it worth it? I can't tell. Perhaps
when death approaches I will
find closure. Heavy hearted,
I combat the night of the last
kiss, as death bids its time.
Death
Steps Out
by Luis
Cuauhtemoc Berriozabal
Death stepped out on the
town
on a windy spring morning.
It tapped on the shoulders of
those who seemed too young to die.
Death painted the asphalt with
blood. It bought itself a
scoop of vanilla ice cream and
voiced a death song from the
backseat of a mangled taxicab.
He sought out Mexicans,
African-Americans, and Caucasians.
It cut its hair short for the coming
summer. In June it would bring
out bucketfuls of blood, to paint
the asphalt and walls of
American's inner cities.
This is Heaven
by Luis
Cuauhtemoc Berriozabal
Everyone in here
are angels and
this is Heaven.
I am the only
one that is out
of place in here.
The only thing
I have in common
with these angels
is that God talks
to me and he
commands me on
what I have to
do in His name
and for the world.
He said must spread
the word in all
psychiatric
wards in the world.
The angels don’t
believe I should
be the one God
is counting on.
They’re so jealous.
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I
Should Not Have Been Born
by Maryam Chahine
"I am become Death,
destroyer of the worlds."—Robert J. Oppenheimer, father of the atom bomb
I should not have been
born. And it has only gotten worse
scaling down the generations of sin.
When I soar, I then land and give
curse.
There is no life from where I come.
My entrance and exit is from the same hearse.
I'm in the control of rational
murderers from
the world. In meetings they calculate power.
Collateral damage is a necessary sum.
I arrive in terrifying showers
but no one listens to the one employed in death.
My brothers and sisters, spanning the globe laying flowers.
There are fields where I gather
breaths.
And there are places where I startle hope.
I Fall and I Fall. Yet they remain deaf.
When I'm done, no one will be left to
cope.
I was the one who did Hiroshima and the Gulf War.
And there is nothing left to cleanse with any kind of soap.
You are like grains of sand,
indifferent at the shore.
And I'm coming to take all of you with every sweep of water.
This is just the introduction to the grand finale I have in store.
I should not have been born to
perpetrate such slaughter.
O humanity! There are 400,000 Hiroshima’s in Iraq.
When are you going to get tired of the water?
The environment is warming even from
the smallest rock.
They are petitioning globally for you to remember
this world. Atoms are dying but you remain complacent flocks.
For I wasn't born to sweep only
you—so consider.
I have come for the entire sphere, for the great globe itself.
Before it is too late, I beg of you for me to dismember.
Declarations
of a Quixotic Dreamer
by Maryam Chahine
An abyss met me in the road
because I decided to walk instead of run.
consented to a whisper instead of a shout. sat in the
dark instead of hiding in the light.
escaped into mystery, instead of the known.
felt every drop and didn't
gulp every glass. and decided not to
hire a detective to investigate every flaw.
I left people alone
judged only myself. the
kite misinterpreted the sky and fell in the
lake. this I found our only
mistake, but I was born unsatisfied and revised
nations into
one country called Humanity,
protecting the rights of every atom. after that I was branded a
quixotic dreamer and even a
renegade, now a target of man made weapons. yet I am not
sorry, nor will I ever be, except when I
trespass the boundary of another human being.
undaunted I dress instead of undress.
vying with anyone to tell me it is better to reveal than to protect.
why must I become a slave to male attention,
xing out my very soul because of superficial boys. please allow me to
yell, because sometimes there is nothing else. except the inevitability of
zero.
My Soul Became
Coffee
by Maryam Chahine
In the end, it all came down to coffee.
A fearful procession of eyes hover above me.
The morphine leaves me without expression, expression of life.
I do not care for the exempt, exempt doctors.
Their attempts at immortality leaves me tired.
I'd rather get on, on with the severance.
I've mowed my lawn till there is nothing left.
I'm sorry Dylan, but I do want to go gentle into that good night.
Why is there so few, few to understand the need to relinquish.
In the end, my soul became coffee.
After all, all the mystique of death.
The fall was not a fall, but rather a drip.
A little of me is dripping away.
Tipping, tipping into a vast common cup.
My soul, soul is permeating
Through a meticulous bowl filter.
I drip slowly without force.
Someone is taking sips, sips of me away.
So this, this is what it is like.
It is softer than a kiss of a raindrop.
Someone is crying, but really I haven't time for such hypocrisy.
Can't they see I'm dying, dying into a pond.
There is no room for hysterics into such calm, calm.
What a balm this filter has become.
All those years of doors, ropes, lies, gates, defeat.
There were too many tears, tears for me to cup.
Leaving behind, behind all that wreckage.
Only the essential is sinking into this very kind filter.
My salt water that became an ocean
The filter with devotion, devotion sifts out the impurity.
The rust, weeds, rocks, acid, acid
Will not survive this placid drip.
The means of separation is only to percolate.
Not to saturate the intermittent expiration, expiration.
What is left is an insubstantial, insubstantial fluid
Gathering only my essential essence.
Ah, only a few more drops left.
I'm about to separate from this salty shore, shore.
Now I can enjoy my pure essence, there goes the last drip, drip, drip.
Do not worry, doctors, there is nothing left to sip.
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At
Varanasi
by Robert Cullen
death
dips daily
into the Ganges
mourners
tide the banks with prayers
as candles drift
fresh blossoms swirl
saddhus come and go
holy pilgrims
passing through wreaths of flames
consuming
incandescent
tears of sorrows falling pungent
parched lips of longing . . .
bone pickers
beggars|
sons and
daughters
hobbling chains of caste
the heartbeat of a child named Laxmi
playing alone
a squalid street.
Sleeping with
Orcs
by Robert Cullen
The
Tower of London is crumbling
even the Taj Mahal
claims not immunity
ravages to rocks hewn . . .
ladies in elegant tea rooms
sipping their darjeeling
the latest fashions
beaded pastel purses
chatalains and persiflage
enamored of their Empires
titles
jewel-crusted thrones
pillars of society
propping esteemed stations
with aplomb
and carriage . . . .
the hoards are encroaching
hinterlands broaching
enmity
truculence
on obsidian steeds
with rasping tongues . . .
hubris trussed
righteous robes of vision
her Ladyship and her Lord
hear not
coarse hands chiseling
the courtyard walls.
Promises
by Robert Cullen
Those pirouettes on polished woods
are heartbreaks
turning
each time you spin from love
to your icy parlors
of ivory linen . . .
promises are
strings
plucked to hollow choruses
things invisible
yet
danced on oak grains
from crystal prisms hung in windows
spectral splendors
when the sun shines.
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Dollhouse
Chronicles
by Carol Lynn Grellas
If her dolls would
talk, they’d tell
of Babylon and China cabinets holding
them captive for years at a time.
Poor things, never living in a proper
home; sandwiched between thin glass
shelves and double doors, closed for far
too long. Every now and again light
trails in, scatters on a skein of hair,
fastens beams on a deprived braid
that misses the touch of little fingers.
Those dolls are such lonely things
keeping company with other dollish
creatures, forced to a life of pretending;
standing on their wired pedestals
hard-rings around their tiny waists.
All the while wishing for hands to caress
their soft pliable bodies. Unloved bar
the occasional Saturdays when a small cat
snakes a tail across the wooden
furniture they call home. The child
looks up, remembering how to play.
She floats gardenias in a shallow bowl
outside the breakfront, maybe hangs a tassel
for decoration from the ceiling fixture.
If her dolls would talk, they’d speak
of improper ventilation, want for air
homemade clothes and garbled tiaras.
They’ll grumble at the child growing
up too fast, a girl-mother who keeps miniature
turtles alive in her bedroom with fake palm
trees on petite plastic islands while she dreams
of escape from her malison-life; climbing
on that feline’s slinky cat-back, holding on
to a soft champagne coat, she whispers
open-sesame—the cat, humming
in purr-response, whooshes them off
to an unknown planet- where dolls
can be heard and so can she.
The True Story
of Rapunzel
by Carol Lynn Grellas
It wasn’t easy being beautiful.
Born to a mother who’d trade you in
for a spoonful of rampion from another’s garden.
Sure, I was given attributes, a voice like a songbird,
little sparrow, that sends a soft trill through air,
calls to her lover with the purest notes
no pianist comparing to my perfect tune.
But it came with a menacing price,
a life of downheartedness, given happiness
only after my prince’s eye’s were pierced with thorns
blinded by a curse from the grainy voice of my mother.
The witch who cast a vermillion cloud
above my soul, for the misery she ordained me.
I was a child graced with the purest hair,
pale liquid plaits, the color of gold orchids
always falling twenty feet from my lover’s step.
And years it took to break free, unchain her spell,
become unbeautiful, skeins of silk strewn across
the tower’s floor, loped off by her cruel hand,
what was once my most treasured asset.
It was then I found him, sightless an old,
wandering wastelands in search of me.
Banned forever, somehow he heard
my melodious call, a midnight crooning.
I wept with pleasure, tears bloomed in his eyes
and he finally saw me, for the very first time
The Witch's
Side of Things
(from the Story of Rapunzel)
by Carol
Lynn Grellas
You call me
witch, an evil woman,
with heart of worms, dead as crushed leaves,
fissures filled with wickedness throughout my soul.
Born for propagating sour love and jealously.
No I say. All words whispered by goddesses
of cherry lips with passion flying in and out,
fast as emperor moths perch on pepper trees.
Women like begging sparrows, who wait for a twig
to sing their downhearted song, prey on the grainy
voice of another’s ugliness, to call notice
to their beauty, their piano sound of an aria,
and oh how lovely they are, with their flaxen hair
growing stairs to the heavens, as every prince appears
one lover after the next who will never be mine.
I am no witch; I am the giver of divinity.
But for my wretchedness, who would notice
the gift of an Eve-like woman?
So fine, with her shapeliness, her forget-me-not eyes.
It is I who defines them, as they peer into my garden
pleading for green and vermillion leafed fare.
Come here, you owner of loveliness,
stand in my misery and tell me
you would not cut the hair of another
so supremely blessed.
Warning Label
Ignored
by Carol Lynn Grellas
You married a woman named Bedlam
who once was a spy. I’ve seen her double
agent trench coat hidden between the Chanel.
Inside both pockets she carries silver bullets.
She was between jobs needing to make ends meet.
Capturing the enemy was confusing for awhile
since mingling with both sides, she sometimes forgets
which one’s hers, having spells of amnesia
from too many dirty martinis. Her last antagonist,
almost did her in. I’ve heard her talking to Central,
she speaks 20 languages and swears in French
mixing phrases like, Je t’aime, so you’ll find her appealing.
Everyone knows French mon frere, they just keep it hidden
for the sake of mystique. I’m not practiced in espionage,
but I know better than to serpentine around, conducting
covert operations in such an obvious way.
She waves her finger-weapons back and forth,
sending blood-darts from poison veins.
I pray you’ll stop the madness, end the charade,
hoping she doesn’t aim fire, before you wakeup
and finally say, “Bullshit!”
Why
Won't I?
by
Carol Lynn Grellas
Because I wear my lipstick every evening,
A waxy barrier preventing the messy kiss
you’ve called me on many a time.
Surrender, now?
Come here and press yourself against me,
let me smear this Hollywood Pink
all over your chiseled face.
Be careful
While I release my tattooed passion,
the color of summer hydrangeas
before the gardener aluminum-sulfate’s their bloom.
My fear?
Birthing a million shades of blue
within a chaotic universe of fever
from one lobed, lip to lip brush of the skin.
Promise…
You will wear my mouth forever
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Brushing
Grandma's Hair
by Michael
D. Grover
She has me reach into a drawer
Take out a brush
And brush her hair.
I guess it feels good to her.
Her own hands now too weak
To hold a brush.
Brush glides lightly
Through silvery hair.
Harder I'm not tenderheaded.
She says.
I brush harder.
When I am done her hair
Looks pretty much the same
As when I started.
I guess she feels better.
Later at the dinner table
She speaks of having her hair brushed.
My father and I
Both say that we did it.
We look at each other realizing we've been conned.
She just smiles knowingly.
The Child By
the River
by Michael D. Grover
Family walks child
Barely old enough to walk
Up and down the stairs
Down by the river
Side by side they walk
Screams of joy and laughter escaping
The child runs
To the edge of the water
Starts to jump in
Grandmother grabs him
As they carry him away
Kicking and screaming
Because he wanted to
Throw himself in
He looks up at me as they pass
With crystal blue eyes
Poet sitting on a bench
Writing
He stops crying for a second
As our eyes meet
Curious eyes
Taking in the world
Then he starts screaming again
Ode To
A Homeless Dog
by
Michael D. Grover
Dog stays curled under blanket
Loyal to it's master
Hunched over on the sidewalk
Next to it.
Something to catch the change
A cardboard sign.
The forecast says
Later today
It will snow.
I wonder where they will go.
Dog stays curled under blanket
Loyal to it's master.
Dreaming of better dog days.
The city rushes by.
Survival
by Michael D. Grover
Sparrow with a broken neck,
Flip floppin' on hard concrete.
Head sideways trying to eat.
Some sort of sick spectacle
As spectators walk by.
Death dance,
Struggling to survive.
Tomorrow,
We may pass it dead.
End of life's cycle.
Now wings beating frantic.
Fighting with last bit of energy
To survive.
The Void Of Florida
by Michael D. Grover
We get home
When the sun comes up.
Four AM
Driving
The foggy Florida void.
Three people sleeping
Elsewhere in the car.
Hip hop and spoken word
Loaded in the MP3 player
To keep me going.
Returning from another
Road trip adventure.
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Hotel
Del Coronado
by Karen Kelsay
She unwraps the newspaper
and lifts it from the box,
palm trees and red rooftops promenade
across her beloved watercolor.
Back in her early twenties,
she caught the bus to meet sailors
in that ball room, and danced
all night to big band music.
Pictures of royalty and movie stars
lined the hallways, behind
gold frames. Chandeliers
hung in the lobby.
There, she sunbathed on the Silver Stand
while naval ships passed by.
Now, sea scents fill her mind,
as eighty-year old fingers trace
the glass.
Staring at the ragged palm
outside her desert home,
she squints her eyes—and pretends
she’s in San Diego.
The Parental
Dance
by Karen Kelsay
It always had to be his way, and she
knew it: his money, his rules.
When he was displeased, she would
do her pacifying dance—sometimes with
reluctance, but it was still a dance,
a well rehearsed display of twisting
and tapping, all around the kitchen.
Now he's old and slow, plagued by
a fading memory. His rules are lost,
and her own feet no longer skitter
across the linoleum. She controls
the home and finances; now and then
she tries to teach him her old dance—
but he's grown too fat to bend.
A Fist of
Roots
by Karen Kelsay
Some shadow filled evening, when the moon
settles her pale light upon my trellis,
you will call me—
as silently as leaves alternate.
I’ll look between each rolling hour, while vine
blossoms grasp the ghostly mist. Perhaps
you will move the elements?
Long grass that hems the brook may quiver,
or a wood sparrow will chant her song
at the perfect moment, beneath an arch of maples.
By the looming hill, my secret obelisk to you,
I’ll clutch a fist of roots—and quietly wait for a sign.
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Correspondences
by Joseph Lewis
A toy yellow truck in the grass
reminds me of William Carlos Williams.
And a toy tractor tipped on its side
makes me think of The Grapes of Wrath.
The sky makes me want to read Dante
and trees make me believe I'm still alive!
The blue pool outside reminds me of Heaven
where everyone is floating in another world.
This girl in a bikini needs a sonnet,
maybe from Shakespeare if he was still here.
But he's buried in his home town in England
after telling everyone that life is a dream.
Perfection
by Joseph Lewis
My old blue shoes are perfect
and so are my old brown glasses,
and the cloudy sky is perfect too
as blue wildflowers are blooming
near a dumpster filled with trash--
nevertheless the stars will return
and the moon will come out again,
I've seen them in the morning stillness
as the sun rises over the pines,
and an oak tree outside my window
growing from a single twig.
Storm
by Joseph Lewis
Sitting in a darkening room
I'm waiting for a summer storm.
And everything seems new again.
I've gone back to my youth
watching the trees bend
before a hurricane.
Now in a room grown dark
by colliding clouds
I'm waiting for the rain.
Cool
by Joseph Lewis
I like all the cool things in America:
TV, hot rods, hot dogs and beer!
And rock n' roll with King Elvis,
and Tinker Bell with her naughty smile,
and a roller coaster to the moon!
Mostly I like the beer and dogs,
the dogs of summer when I was eighteen,
beach-blanket bingo with Annette,
Mickey-Mouse eyeglass and bra too,
run down to the sand castle woe,
we built them together Annette and me,
yeah under the orange day-glo sky,
I had a rocket in my pocket,
zippo lighter and zip up his lips,
telling all my secrets to the girls,
a hot-rod dog watching too much TV.
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Probably
Frost
by Lyn Lifshin
dark on the way to the train
slight glow of oak leaves
dark cape of stars,
a bolero night
think of a dancer in
the tangled branches, hips
a flaming corsage.
Smoke swirls,
deer in my blood
leaping, their
own bolero
This coldness is
wild for fire
After the Snow
by Lyn Lifshin
you see a church that
looks like its closed.
Nobody swept the
steps. The sign says
morning worship
starts at 11 AM and
it is 20 minutes after
that. But you see only
one set of foot steps
leading in and none
coming out
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Butterfly
Pavilion
by Scott Malby
Thin king of the perceptual maze; a
butterfly wing floats
in a blue lagoon surrounded by water lilies
on an embroidered robe. Iridescent. For a short time only.
Among the most beautiful flowers in the
Chinese garden
are the children, watching a squirrel nibble at a drunkard's nuts.
An ambulance takes the squirrel away.
We don't know. We overhear things.
To be taken by surprise is to accept responsibility
for something not ours.
A traveler wakes in a bathtub packed
with ice,
weeping from his teeth, missing something from an interior place,
realizing all heroes are dead.
It's hard. Will you always love me
deeply?
Will you always care? I was raised to be a disappointment.
At night this pavilion fills with ghosts.
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Way
of the Raven
by Carla Martin-Wood
Skylarks never contemplated
benefits of asphalt
flown to shrinking woodlands
they compose hymns
of loss and longing
to Gaia
Ravens are another matter
appreciating occasional
squirrel meets Goodrich
or hare outfoxed
by Volkswagen
Nevermore crows
scavenge amongst tall grasses
remove that which fouls
sweet country air
but congregate
along this highway
raspy caws announcing
smoggy dawn
they leisurely await
the next convenient kill
Nor can we blame these
bold opportunists
who make the best
of progress
our fast food delivery
of carrion
we too lazy to walk
whose faith lies
in the Mórrígan
sprawling cities
that feed her warlords
highways between
that carry us
swift-commuting
angels of death
delivering our message of
doom to chipmunk
hapless armadillo
and homeless lark
On weekends
making our escape
to the country
see them swagger
off the median
like they own the place
Hitchcock their heads
peer into windows
of cars stopped at redlights
take our measure
dream of bigger game.
Why I never
visit
by Carla Martin-Wood
I don’t visit
that place where
pale fingers that glided
over piano keys
imparting Mozart
to the unattuned
go down to nothingness
where flaming hair
is finally quenched
and porcelain skin
sinks to alabaster bone
where amber eyes
are perpetually closed
seeing everything
I don’t bring flowers
remembering your voice
when I was four
baby girl, don’t pick those
they’ll die.
so I don’t go there
you never stayed in one place
more than a few weeks anyway
I thought you visited me once
in a recovery room
where I almost didn’t
pieces of you
cool fingers on my brow
slim white ankles
as black stilettos
clicked you out of the room
when I was coming to
a dream they said
I don’t go there
I like to think
you got bored waiting
and found something better
to do
a place more interesting
to go.
Cherry-on-Top
by Carla Martin-Wood
Cherry-on-Top
drove a new ‘63 VW
Pepto Bismol pink
just like her
lipstick and leather miniskirt
Maybelline eyes
cantaloupe breasts
stood out
in our flat-chested reality
sunny-haired blue-eyed
running on empty
Cherry was the sure thing
cheerleading future wife of
a quarterback
envy of
underlings
acne’d adolescent
whispers of pot and blow
jobs at away-games
sneaking under bleachers
Spanish Fly
by night Boones Farm
sticky sweet cherry-
flavoured four-letter words
giggled secrets
lies and gossip
her nickname a joke
in every locker room
Cherry-on-Top
driving by in
perfect pink
oblivion
decades gone
Cherry-on-Top sells
patterns at Justine’s Fabrics
proud moms
of new cheerleaders
scoop them up
one breast and
crowning glory
gone to cancer
cherry scented lipstick
stains creep into lines
hard around Cherry lips
eyeliner dragged in
jagged marks across
wrinkled lids
Cherry says
how she remembers
when she was on top
complete with
rhinestone tiara
pink orchid
corsage so big
she couldn’t look down
to see us wave
when she was queen
and how
the gym decorated
in tissue paper
chicken wire and
christmas lights
looked just like
heaven must
Snow Day
by Carla Martin-Wood
for my girls
Everything doesn’t come out
in the wash
like the blue and pink flowers
I let you paint on me
face
arms
legs
laughing
till
tears streaked the paint
when we were snowed in that day
You my sweet girls
ran out of paper
and I let you use me
design me for battle
a wild Celtic warrior princess
Lacking feathers
and beads to hang
about my neck
you took those
mysterious curiosities
from the bathroom shelf
as though you finally
understood their purpose
strung tampons
about my neck
looped them over
my ears
I looked fierce
held you both
so close
knew
what a memory
we’d just made
Now I’ve lost you
to what I’m never sure
only that I’m bereft
and you still living
but these stains
I still see
indelible
blue flowers
pink centers
laughter
a snow day
crazy tampon jewelry
and me
wild Celtic warrior princess
of the PTA holy of holies
who let her daughters
make of her this
socially unacceptable
objet d’art.
Divination
by Carla Martin-Wood
At first my fingers
sought your skull
and tenderly
feigning a massage
I read each bump
stole surreptitious glances
at your palms
cross candlelit tables
ciphered ridges found
in discarded
fingernail clippings
later came Tarot
oracle bones
salt cast into flames
runes
rings of oak
hackle feathers of crow
crystals for scrying
and I examined
leavings
in abandoned teacups
seeds
within the excrement
of birds
now I read
the entrails of this owl
and find there
shriveled
black and
blighted
this:
an undigested heart
ha!
at last
I know.
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Artificial
Prosperity
by Bill Roberts
A flowering jade plant
near my front door
is supposed to attract
abundance and prosperity.
My jade plant, really quite
attractive though non-
flowering, was expensive
because it doesn't require
watering—it's a fake
since I just don't have
time to water plants,
so real ones die on me.
Maybe there's something
to the flowering business -
so far I've only noticed
an abundance of dust
on the faux-succulent leaves,
leaving me, thereby, with
an artificial sense of prosperity
since I am saving on water.
Closer
Examination
by Bill Roberts
Microscopic examination would reveal
that I'm actually larger than life,
full of daring, daunting ideas,
blood flowing madly with a desire
for expression, hammering heartbeats
pulsing pent-up theories on evolution,
counter-revolution and totally
unintelligent design—all very familiar
I suspect with what lies hidden
in practically all of us.
Prescription
Renewal Time
by Bill Roberts
I'm down to my last pill
and should call to request
the prescription be refilled,
but do I dare?
The pharmacist will tell me
my doctor has to renew
all prescriptions.
The doctor will want me
to come in for an exam.
He'll write me a new
prescription, maybe several.
The pharmacist will fill them.
I'll submit the bills
to my HMO insurer.
The insurance company
will bill Medicare.
Medicare will pay a portion.
My insurer will pay a part,
if it's beyond my deductible.
I'll be billed by my insurer.
I'll pay whatever is asked
so I can call the pharmacist
again to refill these drugs
for my nervous disorder.
Spacespeaker
by Bill Roberts
We have this friend, a veritable rocket
scientist,
No less, who studies black holes in space
And spacespeaks in black-hole cadences
That suggest black moods and deep depressions
Within the hidden recesses of his head—
A man who tries to be congenial though he
Struggles with us who do not understand his
Black recesses and why he's drawn into them,
Given the unnatural blackness of his disposition.
He ventures into space seeking answers to
Questions we can't formulate ourselves,
The answers riddles themselves as they unravel -
Black dots in indecipherable patterns
On a long paper printout that occasionally,
When we trouble to question him, issues forth
Unstoppably from our friend's dark mouth.
What I'd Give
by Bill Roberts
What would I give to once again
feel that growing summer heat
in Georgetown, walk its streets
in the morning, no one else out yet?
What would we give, Dickie Keyes
and I, to trudge again down Rocky Hill
toward the Francis Scott Key house
ruins to dig up sleepy fishing worms?
What would I give to have to untangle
that first eel from the line, fighting
for its life, unsure whether I'll throw
it back in the muddy C&O Canal?
What would we give to carry our string
of sun perch and fat carp back up
the hill to the House of David, sell
our catches to those thankful, bearded Jews?
What would I give to have Dickie back
in life again, just to talk about those
lazy, rich summer days in Georgetown?
I'll tell you true—I'd give a lot.
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Beauty
is Mysterious, Mystery is Beautiful
by Austin G. Wallace
In a blind man’s brain
neurons mind motets hummed
by home appliances
buzzing with brio,
as frenzied dendrites dream
prismatic membranes,
crustaceous creatures
unknown to braille-less businessmen,
sought-after socialites:
Some flowers open only at night.
Before their winged ascent
up to the erratic moon
moths cased in cocoons
linger on leaves immersed
in moonlight; sheathed
in brittle shells, pent
in private trauma, why
not transform themselves
by ease of brighter light?
Some flowers open only at night.
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