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Helen R. Peterson Joseph Lewis Gerald So Luis Cuauhtemoc Berriozabal Iolanda Scripca Les Wicks

David R. Morgan Nanette Rayman Rivera Patrick Carrington Michael Estabrook Andy N Stanley M. Noah

Laurel Lamperd Scott Malby Aurora Antonovic Üzeyir Lokman ÇAYCI Caitlin Crowley Eric Burke

  

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Farmington Triptych, July 2006 by Helen R. Peterson                                                                         From the Inside                                                        waves crash        clams dig    escaping                                                                      (relief comes deep)                                                                   turning burying into you                                                                                deeper                                                          as wave upon wave crashes into me                                                             there is no give in your shoulder                                                                      there is no escape                                                          French dressing and honey packets                                                                hoarded for the days the tea                                                                  came black, the salad dry. Inside Out magnesium dreams: the luxury of ice chips privilege of showers flying in airplanes (instead of watching them through double paned glass)   the feel of unfiltered oxygen the sound of trees.                                                                                                 On the Outside                                                                                                 the brain alone is awake.                                                                                                   it panics, tells stomach to vomit.                                                                                                           but stomach sleeps on.                                                                                                 in the center a tree grows                                                                                                 open only to the sky.                                                                                                 i lie beneath as honey                                                                                                 packets burst within my bag.       Anatomy Lesson by Helen R. Peterson attempts to br- eak the heart—fruitless as the knife thrown into the swamp after the sacrifice useless as a room with 3 walls the heart is empty but for the unfeeling blood carrying pain from one hand                        to                            the other…     The Catch off the Fisher’s Island Ferry by Helen R. Peterson 7 AM: Before the boat can dock businessmen, Blueteeth gnawing their ears, dark suits fresh pressed by Maria stand at the gate, ready to charge, their minds beating their bodies to the offices waiting on solid ground. 12 Noon: Mothers needing a roast— perhaps some fresh strawberries— from Super Stop & Shop roll off in late models SUVs stopping to drop off the overdue library book Maria found behind the couch. 4 PM: Children in matching royal blue blazers march off in pairs, anxious for Maria’s warm carob chip cookies and soy milk. They mutter under the weight of clarinets and lacrosse sticks towards lined up Volvos and au pairs crushing out their last Virginia Slims. 9 PM: Men thick with the dust of million dollar lawns trudge down the stairs and up the hill to the Y Knot Café, the memory of Maria’s smile taking out the trash still fresh. Cobblestones along Captain’s Walk bark beneath their boots as red Thermos coolers bounce against mud-caked thighs.     It's All Over by Helen R. Peterson As they sit at the crossroads of the buffet tables, you can see it in the grey hair cascading down her back— the miles spent bringing peace to children sitting just close enough to one another to annoy the sanctity of personal space, now bored with I Spy and the license plate game, their screams like heavy metal lyrics. Or in the roadmap of his face hinting at the years spent driving over potholes and speed bumps in a vehicle with no heat, windows sticking in the summertime, down countless dead ends, never quite getting anywhere. .   Mama Hates Rap Music by Helen R. Peterson She took to her bed last autumn, damp cloth covering her eyes, porcelain cups of weak chamomile tea growing cold. Since the day uniformed officers knocked on the door, you’d think she’d lost her own soul, drifting farther and farther away from her boys still living. So when the Beastie Boys’ “Sabotage” comes up on Jim’s mixtape, his brothers rush to turn the stereo down softly, preserving Mama’s nerves. They can’t help repeating his rebellion, mourning in their own way, the cruelty of their mother’s slow reunion with her little soldier leaving them orphans of the not quite dead. .   Return to Poetry Return to Top of  Page     Fallen Soldier by Joseph Lewis A rifle stuck in the snow was how we remember him, sent to the front just out of school, fighting with others just as young, now still young after fifty years, since death preserves like a photo kept on a mantel by a girlfriend, wife or mother who wrote a letter that was sent but never read.     New Day by Joseph Lewis A single bird sings before dawn. The sun is a white disc between bare branches. More snow. Rusted iron. A nail lies flat in the dust of an artificial road. The cars leave trails of visible fumes, red lights receding at the corner. Once more the history of the world has a human face.     Migration by Joseph Lewis Outside the trees are bare for another winter-- my coffee cup is empty But the table's full of books, and in the shelves like sentinels— but where are the birds? Migrating south in large formations, small wings fluttering across the open sky.     Evergreens by Joseph Lewis Green chairs overlook a winter scene: bare trees loom into a cloudy sky— one stump is like a broken tooth, the birdhouse is empty today. Even the snow is a memory, and so's the latest holiday. But it would be nice to see silver sparklers in the trees, some tangled wires as filagree on the tops of the evergreens.     Return to Poetry Return to Top of  Page       Actors by Gerald So My favorite actor smiles and shrugs and says, "Aw, shucks" before an audience hoping to have his success. "We're born actors, aren't we? Mimicking our fathers, mothers, sisters, brothers— until they tell us to stop." And through my television comes the sound of awe. For a moment, for all of us watching, it seems just that simple. Then the buzz dies down, and I try to picture the guy in Underoos pretending he's Humphrey Bogart. "This is me," he says, and I don't believe him.     Back on Robin Lane by Gerald So Days before her wedding, Marie drags me along showing Brian her old haunts. She slows by the house she left years ago, but avoids its windows as she does my eyes.     A Poet Dreams by Gerald So hundreds of unfinished lines, each one stirring its own debate.     Return to Poetry Return to Top of  Page       Kiss-off by Luis Cuauhtemoc Berriozabal I looked away. My eyes were burning. I did not want to raise a hand. My blood raced. The woman I loved gave her kiss away. Late at night, I heard the gossip. I was another chump without the right to weep. I was told stories about her I didn't believe.     Burn by Luis Cuauhtemoc Berriozabal I throw in poems into a fire pit. I watch the bad ones burn like they deserve. The good ones burn more slowly and throw out sparks. But it could be something different. Not every poem burns or has magic.     A Thief in this Place by Luis Cuauhtemoc Berriozabal I stole nothing. Whoever claims I stole something will hear from me. I will punch a hole through the wall to make those who accuse me of stealing feel and see my power. I would not be in this place if I had just stopped smoking.  You know, cigarettes stole my soul.  If there is a thief in this place, it is cigarettes.  They control my soul.     Return to Poetry Return to Top of  Page       Rootless Innocence by Iolanda Scripca Greenhouses broken forever... It's freezing. Rituals count no more, Hurricanes devour...   Petals dance in circles— Ecstasy with laughter Colorful pirouettes Stepping on destinies.   Machines—noisy, controlling Munch roots' depth. Levers with no soul Accuse, defend, accuse.   It stopped... petals fall to the ground Black, white, gray... Tears heavy with no thunder try to recover in an upside down crystal.   Greenhouses broken forever... Boy scouts sell roots in front of the store. Tourists drive by in soundproof cars Saddened by the emptiness of the Californian hills     Return to Poetry Return to Top of  Page       5 Minutes at Euabalong West by Les Wicks The red soil is an adamant wet, inexplicable melons tumble across packed-earth road. A few houses stood back from this embarrassed desert rail platform. The whole train has emptied for a break, cigarettes & digital cameras. We're touching something but like always trapped in timetables of our minds/hearts we leave before this little place sinks in enough to stain.     Return to Poetry Return to Top of  Page       Smaller Magic by David R. Morgan My home lay in the heart Of the angled forest, Far from rhyming pasture. Honeysuckle swam like a fiery sea,| Stags dipped their horned heads in welcome And stayed still for me and silent. Light as floss I soared through green heaven, Fast as dappled light And in the oak cool dark birds fanned my hair. Now I trace the smaller magic On your cities edges , Counting axe strokes through clouded years.     Return to Poetry Return to Top of  Page       Once were Birds 1967 is not 2007 by Nanette Rayman Rivera I. We were three young birds captive in a car in the unkempt rain.  Sidled from the sand-witch’s kitchen where the perilous ocean turns into ticks, where the sky vanished in its un stable. The sun opened to shelve itself in Massapequa Creek, blind-taut, waves knotted us, took us in custody.  Pathmark frayed through prism glass.  We shouted and shout and shout. II. The birds keel sick. The birds keel in the sick-closet imagining windows shatter, deserting their frames. Faces dark jaws we left on the filo-plume tick- ticking sea.  Cracks in the glass we half waited for them to open on a new world where the arrested would be saved— a stream of light, uniformed blue-angels mobbing the Chevy, pulling under arms, wiping brows.  We gave up wishing for powder-downs, and thought of a future—the Great Water Land where mothers line up and pay, where they’re forced to be moved from the huge silent children, once were birds.     Life, Maybe by Nanette Rayman Rivera Yesterday, it was a tomorrow where I meandered through the parking lot.  Air so cold my breath floated before me like jellyfish on a jamocha brown sea.  I roamed and roamed looking for my bed.  For some knick-knack or photo, myself. Mother, my face is not yours. I found mine, just today falling from heaven in a shower of semitone notes. When it didn’t matter anymore being mother- less, the dark sky went under renovation and the sidewalk went pink with song. I felt a sound breathing within me No more the tired-of, the tied-off vein wooing the brink where I slept. What’s the point when men call me back, when men call me buttery bougenvillea—that face? Like variations, like riffs, I turn in on myself. All that sky, those cobbled streets, those lonely bodies Opening up as though they’d always liked me.     Purple is the Color of Protection by Nanette Rayman Rivera Danger, danger.  Open the locked door. Can’t take my eyes off of you.  Can’t take empty pockets in the daytime, baby.  Scattered high heels and orders of protection rolled back in her purse, on the bureau, tipping under the wind chime under cover of his words:  Can’t take my eyes off of you. Fever dreams of yucca and she’s had a small stroke, she’s on the threshold of clown-blush and siren-purple cleavaged dresses. Glinting silver heart around her neck, he bought her a half-life.  Moan the chords Can’t take my eyes off of you. Can’t take the skin on her arms today, she wants the smoke smelling blankets off of her—hot flashes hum for her missing man. Sips of water-pasteled cherry soda, oven left on.  Slips of love-notes and lace slips slip sad-eyed under the bed, to keep purr of sorry man street-dirty in-visible-sleep.     My Husband's Addicted Spirits by Nanette Rayman Rivera They stand over my bed and seem to tremble in— full of secrets and incantation, full of lamentation, old and weeded and helixed. There is a weighted breadth, an axis of sound geometry to their waiting. The secret of the spirit—it is in their smile in the brake of body—the lying on a shaft— the stale eyes—the lavender lids— They begin to birth a vision of death, long thorny photos of their walk all night the length of alleys in the continuous series of loops around being. Wound in all that’s not well, the wound dragged in on the soles of their shoes, they appear in burnt lips – in pretty narrow spirals and rose stem pipes, through the long curves and cones of dawn.     Lady of the Dunes by Nanette Rayman Rivera The killer has never been found, that’s true: her bell-bottoms, white lace top a fade.  Hands static and gone in the mean high water line, or maybe in her long red hair, those saints of perpetual man- baiting.  Ask me where her radiance goes and I say with her hands, their beauty falling off to a beam that satins along the wild-weed dunes.  Or lopped off by the man, that Dali of dark, the slither in the outline of Race Point Beach who speaks without spoken to.  Of hands that dwell in the space between sand, the drag of a cigarette not smoked, in the bandana just stiffening in the wind.  Of the mother, can you imagine, who won’t keep watch for those disembodied hands, both ethereal and sexual. Whatever happened here, the hands insist in silent unison, she’s no fist to crossbones, just eyes of palms, mad but not yet vibeless.     Return to Poetry Return to Top of  Page       Lady of Sorrow by Patrick Carrington That first moment I stepped from the bus at Mazatlan and saw you as I bent to the trough to wet my face, Mexican heat rising from you like fog, white cotton stuck to your breasts with sweat as you dipped your laundry and wrung it dry, the power of your beauty and quiet pride of your place pricked me like the cactus rose that grew beside you.  Sweet lady of sorrow, your silent eyes moved me to touch you. Your absent whispers asked me to slide across your skin. The depth of your waters defined my first decline into your brook and flesh, your soul.  You wrapped me in the voices of your silence and their quiet screaming, blankets for the confines of my cave. The oils of your darkness lit my way with midnight shining, torches like those that led the two children that last night of Las Posadas as we watched, through the bougainvillea of your bedroom window, slender candles follow Mary and Joseph to the manger and listened, as we kissed, to the Christ child lulled to sleep by El Rorro, his cradle song.  I found religion there, in the gospel of your eyes and silence, in the tangles of your hair and river bottom, those echoes of Mexico that cry inside me still.  I found god, in that missing light that should have glowed from you that first day in Mazatlan.     Greetings from Atlantic City by Patrick Carrington They salt & peppered my eggs from a magnet on the fridge, shook shakers and their tails.  Insisted I eat as they tented my pants.  Showgirls made a tasty backdrop for breakfast.  I don’t know why mother put a postcard next to my grade-school scribblings or understand how it rivaled Aunt Esther’s mass card & grandpa’s sepia ghost.  Mom was pit boss, thought it deserved a place in the family.  So there they were every morning after she went to work, next to me & my ancestors, flashing neon & nylon as I reached for milk.  Surrogate parents, helping me grow in so many ways. Like wonder bread.  Now, I think mom was just smart, knew I’d imagine dropping dice for big scores when I felt unlucky, laugh like a high roller in our 2-room flat.  I bet she even saw me wrapping myself in flying legs & feathers when homework had me down.  I could always count on her to hold me.  Even when she wasn’t there.     Renaming the Streets by Patrick Carrington The lanterns of Atlantic horizon know times are hard tonight.  They have gone soft and filmy like sad eyes. You light a cigarette and stare off into the bones of its orbits as if answers are there.  The blurred edges grow wet.  The empathetic moon casts a copper beam for the lampkeeper to lean on and cry. The sea smokes with you, a hazy unison of brothers grieving a passing, steam rising off the far ocean waters as if Europe were in flames again. This kind of mourning, socket to socket with the sky, demands new signs on boulevards, fresh faces on coins.  Names must be changed when life is this new, could not be more different if a president were lost, or a preacher who changed the world gunned down in the parking lot of a seedy motel. You want her remembrance at street corners, red lights, in the pockets of strangers. And you want no witness as you enter the dark sea, only enlightenment on which way to go as you swim and the dawn breaks over your thoughts and secrets, back to shore or east, to touch those far eyes.     Return to Poetry Return to Top of  Page       Rubble by Michael Estabrook Hit me today like a pile of logs falling off a truck, that I haven’t seen you for 7 days and 6 nights, you’ve been gone from me for 7 long days and 6 cold nights and I still have two to go. Like the rubble of an avalanche crashing down a mountainside I still have two more days and nights to go. At work today I was so morose, antsy and impatient, not fun at all to be around, feeling so low being home alone without you. Life is simply too short to be without you anymore than is absolutely necessary. My life without you would be rubble, plain and simple as that.       Kicking by Michael Estabrook Tonight the old house is so quiet, everything dark and still, as if I’m entering the valley of dreams and shadows, only the grandfather clock ticking time in the other room and the cadence, like low tide coming ashore at midnight, of my wife’s delicate blissful breathing. As I lie here in the clean sheets so soothing, I permit the luxurious sensation to well-up inside of me, admitting to myself how wondrous life really is especially now that the new baby inside my beautiful daughter is kicking like crazy to get out and join the rest of us.     At Fox's Lobster House overlooking Nubble Lighthouse by Michael Estabrook “That was only the second lobster roll I’ve ever had and it was delicious, cool and tasty and refreshing. Ever have lobster rolls, Robin?” My daughter peers at me over her fork. “No, I don’t like mayonnaise.” And I’m thinking that she would have liked the puffy mayonnaise-like clouds floating against the deep blue sky over Nubble Lighthouse glistening like an Edward Hopper painting in the afternoon sun, tour bus smoking outside, cameras clicking, the gulls gliding overhead peaceful as crayons.     Return to Poetry Return to Top of  Page       Animals in their Bags by Andy N Mickey's got a lion in his bag, While Paul's got a elephant Luke's got a tiger While Matthew's got a monkey. David's got a gorilla, While Peter's got a horse.   Philip's got a Kanagaroo, While Stephen's got a Dinosaur. Gavin’s got a Penguin, While I’ve I’ve got my sandwiches.     Gone, Gone, Gone by Andy N Somebody else is sitting by your desk, And switching on your PC. Somebody else comes through your door And frowns when you used to smile. Somebody else with a purple pinstriped suit Instead of your long black skirt. Somebody who smiles nervously Instead of your loud good morning. Somebody who drinks coffee Instead of Lemon Tea And somebody who treats work like a hotel And never remembers to switch off their PC     Perfect Place by Andy N I don't want to wake you when you're sleeping so quiet on my shoulder. I don't want to brush your hair back down from your face or turn down the stereo. I don't want to sing in the rain nor do I want to sail away into the sunset. I don't want to close the curtains and shut out the moon shining down on us like we are in the spotlight of some imaginary film. I want to spend this moment alone in thought. I want to listen to the cars parking in the distance. I want to listen to the wind brush against the trees almost like it was somebody gently snoozing. But most of all I don't want to wake you when you're sleeping so quiet on my shoulder.       Return to Poetry Return to Top of  Page       Where is Everybody by Stanley M Noah time & place                               perceptions & lost aunts            uncles                                          & cousins too friends               events                                mothers        fathers sisters          brothers                  & movie stars soon disappearing          comings       goings burning maps                      passing lovers          lovers                               like invisible ink             vanishing landscapes       & you                     & towns too & one day                        I looked around                             like waking up            from a serene dream & asked                              where is everybody!     Quick Burn by Stanley M Noah An old brittle farm house seen vacant for ages, I surmised 1930ish. Just the thin walls remain like a fossilized birch tree, bent toward the pink and pale landscape.  But more-like the color of red death, or a Paul Gauguin painting hanging in the Louvre.  And with me, we walked in (watch your step, he said).  The windows appeared as hollow gray eyes and near by was a table and an opened book, pages turning softly caused by a breeze.  We looked at each other and imagined like a couple of stupid teenagers that this would make for a quick burn: the rising bleak smoke, and Van Gogh's falling yellow sun. We thought about forgotten and lost spirits rushing about in the blazing wind and how things go disappearing. But then, you know the past is never the past:  not really.       the distance of gravity by Stanley M Noah after work everyday two old women wearing tennis shoes would hang outside the liquor store waiting for their bus— these smiling faces in tennis shoes were seen diving hard onto the concrete the day gun shots came flying from inside the store, making it the high point of their dull lives— and like urban birds they painfully learned the distance of gravity     Child Rearing by Laurel Lamperd The baby awoke all snuffy and puffy-eyed rattling the bars of the cot pleading to get into bed with me.   Finally we slept.   At five-thirty the toddler awoke ready to begin the day.   Creeping out of bed afraid of waking the baby grabbing a dressing gown and fur-lined boots I tiptoe into the toddler's room holding my finger to my lips for silence.   The toddler laughed and called my name. Mummy.   A putting on of jumpers and socks and slippers on plump little feet I carry her against my breast her little body like a warm sausage   We stood on the verandah and watched the sun a glow in the east signaling it was about to rise over the edge of our world.     Return to Poetry Return to Top of  Page       me! Me! me! by Scott Malby Because life smells of sea breeze and junk jewelry. Because I'm foolish, in the prime of my folly. Because something has changed. Because no cause was given. Because I'm bored with my own story. Sometimes, I feel I'm being folded in half more than seven times, trapped like a hearse in a tempest of rain. Try not to understand. Words not written. Words unspoken. No kind of starving is the same.     Return to Poetry Return to Top of  Page         Return by Aurora Antonovic who says you can't go back again…? home is held in the hollow of your shoulder time rests in the curve of your back six weeks of yesteryear, tenderly packed in lavender-scented tissue, is waiting to be unwrapped and in these days of time-warped perfection all will be exactly as you remember       Return to Poetry Return to Top of  Page     Those who dance to the rhythm of their own music by Üzeyir Lokman ÇAYCI Those who nourish themselves on meats, dairy products and desserts Cannot estimate you at your fair value.   Even if stone cracked, you cannot make them open The windows of their farm … People like you are not included in their center of interest You do not exist … Hereafter you must know That they do not have time to bless you!   Their eyes are always fixed from above you While they bow With smiles above their double chins Before the sovereign...the sultan. Do you think for an instant that they acknowledge you?   If you ask my opinion on this subject It is because the ends of their twine Are in the hands of other people. Don't take exception to the fact That they are taken for kings!   Do not wait for them In the wrong places Vainly hoping They will consider you a man …   Even if you write hundreds of letters To these men of the closed doors Intending to see or speak to them You will not receive a single response … Be wary and attentive; Above everything Allow them their haughty airs. By thinking themselves important They will look at you scornfully!   They well like fondling Each others' backs … It is no longer to the point To listen to their dialogues "with admiration" To extol their writings "enthusiastically" To reward their facts "by clapping" … Do not waste your time Or put your attention here … Think of other things.   French free verse translated into English free verse by Joneve McCormick     Return to Poetry Return to Top of  Page       Heart of a lusty survivor by Caitlin Crowley They were puzzled and lists poured from their faces reasoning why and how but certainly never who they pondered the Stabs in the lungs And words after the last breath there seemed to be specialists in every trade but try as they might they couldn't explain bed sores from a terrible dream and a soul that readily would palpitate for no one in particular they dissected no one in particular thought of respect the heart laid on a table smelling like scent of regret shook as it undressed its remains for nothing but one struck— one embrace and forget a last minute love, and a speechless transplant        the abstract pelvis by Caitlin Crowley You are the flash of sun under my eyelids A tea light's kiss of flame I wish my bones could show you the sky And each hole show you the moon instead of this flesh that I rot with my own eyes Rocking back and forth on my heels I see girls with skintight faces and no room to breathe flowing before me, I know my eyes are rolled back like their heads eating away at me eating burning myself with the hot tip of gritting teeth splitting hairs shrinking muscles in my arms, end this cry of my stupid ignorant soul     persona grata paramour by Caitlin Crowley As unrequited wretched people we mime each other sinking and shifting although I hope we can disregard a minor schism             I can't stay away             when I love each breath             you draw pensive stares see you pulverized and incomplete with clear-cut affinity in a lonely state of frenzy a backward regress to me-             you have a rogue soul the ego of a painted woman but still you are my heart's inamorato     Return to Poetry Return to Top of  Page       The Amateur by Eric Burke Coke cans, tea bottles, a stale muffin to carve up, napkins, hi-liters, water to spill and smear—paint I do not have— only play, and my need for a chronicler to make it stick.

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