Meditation on stained glass

My nose contorts, leaden on the window.
Here I can breathe and call upon my God
for reasons other than the duty of salvation.
I listen to the sermon of the steeple wind,
read the mason's clever climbing curve
and cool my face, hot from a morning run.

Within is wine-deep. And high birdsongs
ratify the empty roof, the architrave strong
in the cup of my hand. How long is left for us?
A hedgehog tiptoes through the graves,
nods to each acquantance, leaves a shadow
in the overnight snow. No hibernation?

A tiny orb inside the glass - dawn's red hand
setting fire the cosmos. Sympatico moon,
the acolyte of small things, how long remains
for flies in aspic? Grey ribs that hug your heart
hang nearer to the floor each century:
dribs of metal, drabber than ice ages.

When ice has reached your suffocated lair,
whose lungs will breathe your little gift,
your piquant incensed air?

© Philip Burton


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~



Backwater Bongo

The speedboat trips: dah
dit dah on our bottoms,
in response to diurnal breakers
facing off Kappila's calm waters.

Behind us, in cursive-Y, the wave
is a wishbone, dangling spray.
Our velocity allows for no mistakes.
The air is turgid, full of possibility.

An acute moment, the cone of vision
narrowed to a point: Under this scalpel,
the jungle spurts cesarean
spills of offshoot and offspring.
Palms foreground Mandelbrots foreground palms.

The green exhales, familiarly. Exudations
of our own bodies: our nasal smears,
our waking mouths. Snagged saprophytes:

shell-dredgers, toddy-tappers, lone fishermen
who know the breath of channels, the width
of action windows. With precise lassos
they steal rides in the wake of motor boats.

Bandwagon dugouts form convoys.
Breaking away, a tight-U into the undergrowth,
we move in quick motion,

see in stop sequence: bees line honey nests,
seerfish choose breeding pools,
herons skip like flat stones, spattered back beat
chiding avis rap, protest songs of territorial breach,
cormorants signal rain.

© Mustansir Dalvi

( Backwater Bongo : Editor's Choice of M.A.Griffiths,'I enjoyed the exuberant vocabulary and the blending of natural and technological imagery. I feel this poem is as much about the richness of the English language as anything else. An exhilarating ride.' )


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

By Design

From girlhood they learn
the intricate patterns of life
and they sit the daughters and wives
they sit through the long winter afternoons
with needles and yarn and they learn
the intricate patterns of death.
And they learn, these daughters and wives
of fishermen, each family's pattern
worked in criss-crossed cable,
intricate patterns passed from generation
to generation knitting a history.
And when the fishermen
struggling for survival sail out
on the harsh and inhospitable seas
they wear their thick seaworthy sweaters
each interlocking serpentine design
lovingly knitted by daughters and wives
who when the storms blow
sit and wait and watch for
their fathers their lovers their husbands
and when the boat does not return
they still wait for the sea to return
the fishermen home and when the bodies
erased by the waves tumble on shore
the girls and the women come down to the sand
to search amongst the sweaters until each
finds their one intricate pattern
lovingly knitted and knows the design
of their lives has unraveled
in the intricate patterns of Aran.

© Margo Roby


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~



Grounding

When the hull grated against an island,
we both cursed crossings, hot-breathed
as buccaneers.The startled parrots flapped
and flakked. A wiser, worldlier pilot

would have avoided this sad scrape,
but our navigator thought more
of air than water. Instead of calculating
angles, he was flirting with the stars.

I saw him drop my steely sextant
into the moon's reflected gaze
when we passed through the Azores.
He pleated sea-charts into butterflies

and lanterns, and played darts
with the dividers. Well, I will light
a fire on the beach to melt pitch,
and caulk timbers, while you hammer

at necessities. We will re-launch
into a fair wind. Later we may discover
a small winged stowaway, bright-eyed,
amongst the ropes and canvas.

Do not scold him. Lift him gently
into the arms of Zephyr and let him fly
over trade-routes, trails and dragons
into the wide uncompassed day.

© M.A.Griffiths


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


Deconstructing Moby Dick

Who can say if Melville set out
to hook a god?

Maybe he was simply bored
with his life, wanted to roil
the waters, chum
for a little adventure.

Did he fish for the grand metaphor,
or do we feel so desperately alone,

We look everywhere for God-
especially between the lines.

© Glenda Cooper



~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~



Discovering April

You seemed so flawless,
strong, self-taught
all pleated, creased and polished
but then you let your defense down
allowing me to notice --
slack-sagging ass cheeks
slapping your knees,
fwipfwap, fwipfwap,
fwipfwapping ease
snap, snapping, snap,
damp sheets on line
this sudden breeze is fine, so fine,
it's dandelion and necklace.

© K. R. Copeland



~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


Manet's Olympia

His 'yellow bellied odalisque' was painted
deliberately to stir the Salon's passion.
They strung her up well out of reach. Acquainted
with Ingres' languid goddesses, then fashion
preferred coy Venuses with moist eyes rolling
in servile ecstasy. That sloe-black gaze
confounds closet voyeurs by so controlling
ardent males, charmed by her power to amaze,
they sense too late Manet, not God, created
woman. Anonymous bouquets from doting
suitors, haughtily she ignores. Defeated,
admirers pay out handsomely for nothing:
no painted lady proffers carnal pleasure,
that look remains her only brazen treasure.



Olympia's Reply

All day I watch my onlookers pass by;
I know each one: the quiet connoisseur,
the withering critic and the shy voyeur.
They cannot see behind this hawkish eye
an artist's soul. My calculating stare
takes great delight in mawkish male discomfort.
I won't be owned, although I may be bought..
It's your desire, not mine, that is laid bare.

Admirers, I dismiss with cool disdain.
Instead all through the empty evening hours,
I contemplate the picture opposite;
disregarded, I delight in the mundane -
the breezy sky, a garden full of flowers,
and summer days, eternally sunlit.

© Alan Wickes

(Manet's Olympia was written in response to a challenge to produce a modern sonnet using the same feminine end rhymes as Shakespeare's XX)


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


A Rondeau
After the drawing "Fight between an Elephant and Rhinoceros" by Francis Barlow

That rhino, Barlow's armored beast
is fashionably clad, at least;
a breastplate and bermuda shorts
head like a warthog, sans the warts,
he dances like a tin artiste

with key unwinding west to east
which, at an awkward moment, ceased.
He's drawn entirely from reports;
that armored beast.

He plays the pachyderm's last priest;
the jellied elephant he's policed
with horn to hide. His foe retorts,
turns head and trunk, seemingly thwarts
the monster who stands stocked and fleeced;
that armored beast.

© Les Wolf


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


Bell's Theorum

Dr. John S. Bell demonstrated (mathematically) that "if quantum mechanics is valid, any two particles once in contact
will continue to influence each other, no matter how far apart they may subsequently move."

How far from truth who say we live apart,
as well divide the beatings of one heart:

systolic you and diastolic me,
as I clutch it all tight, you set it free.

Then turn about, so now I have my chance
to give to your take in our hearty dance.

As electrons touch at the core of a star
then supernovaed off to spaces far

apart from each other, so we as well
still influence each other as we tell

how the spin we gave each where we met
still shapes every thing we give or we get.

Though the stretch of roads and rivers may be
a hindrance to some, it proves none for we

having touched at the centre of such fire
vibrate like the strings of a single lyre.

The sun of my parade unfurls your street,
Like Donne's gold leaf to airy thinness beat.

© Mark Allinson



~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


Steady

Never a climbing family; gardener, butcher,
shoe factory foreman, then one boy who loved reading,
advised to try for work in the local library,
keep his head down, steady, feet on the ground.

"Nobody talked about books in grandma's family.
They stood for meals, then, shared tea out of jam-jars -
no chairs or cups. Only wore boots on Sundays.
Ropes were for tying things down, holding in place."

Some people, trying to get above themselves,
bought cars to drive to fresh air at weekends,
to inch their way into the vertical.
They were missed at chapel, where the rest sang louder,

The iced title caught him, 'High', in the Outdoors section
of the local library. Inside the book a man
spidered towards a summit, his pads of footprints
only marks on the snow, his guiding hand
lifting his axe for the next slice into the crust.

Quick sum: a couple of hundred more
hacked up the page for footholds and he'd rise
straight to the crest. The picture showed a rope
trailing behind him, dropping out of the frame.

He could close the book, or grab it, and tie on.


© Martyn Halsall


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Homer's Dream

Woo-hoo Homer Simpson is thinking
designer polish makes shoes softly glow
especially a pair of Assassin cross trainers.
The day just feels better owning lots of things
and knowing soon you'll own even more
so what if the things are mostly useless and stupid
and it's a life's work paying them off
the reason for work is things
like things to eat, the children's things-
paying bills is what growing up brings.
Debt is a key that unlocks the world of things
things that you must master but will be your master.
Industry might bathe the world in synthetic oestrogen
but free-range background radiation only serves to make
us stronger. Who's complaining? TV fiction is where we
can find solace and fulfilment, the actors show us how to live
brilliantly, without hope. Cartoon characters can teach
us even more. The longer the end takes the better.
How should we live? Homer finds out and shows us.
First we laugh at growing up: look at young
Bart Simpson writing love letters to his teacher,
Mrs Krebapple who, opening them reads the thinly
veiled innuendo and relishes the scrawled
whisperings-Ay carumba, a butt that won't quit...
She falls for the smutty words written
in Bart's young hand she imagines spoken
sexily, a foreign accent, a Mexican
she's so sucked in by the photo of the football star
any fool would recognise, she wants a love
forever, a love that she deserves.
Whatever. After too many ads it's the bowling episode
perhaps the most beautiful of all Simpsons episodes
when Homer has to give up following a lifelong dream
his dream part-time job working in a bowling alley
cleaning and clearing up after the bowlers have finished
their games, there could be no work happier
yet to make ends meet Homer must
return to full-time employment
at the nuclear power plant Sector 7G
and as he walks in the door
the management lackeys chant
"Don't forget you're here forever".
Homer hates it that the dream
left him and he had to leave the dream
and in his flashbacks gets mad every time
Marge says she's having a baby but their children
are the holy family, a glowing icon pinned to a wall
in every house with a television. Moments of truth
and beauty when the reactor melts down, chaos
storms into the tv hypnosis. Only dumb luck and
one of Homer's epiphanies save us-the cartoon
craziness is Homer expressing love
for his family. O little baby Maggie her photos
brighten Sector 7G's grey walls, sweet enough
to make nuclear power safe for all.
The little baby's what the story's really about
in the end what a lot of stories are about
and that's how the Simpson family's
love redeems America's savage affluence.
One day Homer floods Springfield
to make the streets canals, his town
a work of art like Venice the city of art.

© S.K.Kelen

( Homer's Dream: Editor's Choice of Arthur Seeley, ' I admit to being a Simpson fan and perhaps that is what appeals to me most. The work itself seems unpolished and slightly chaotic. However, in the way that Homer's love for his family redeems his transgressions and grossness and stupidity so the poet's love for his subject redeems the piece. I loved to read it.)'.


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~



Father of the Man

Daunted by the shadows in my mind,
uncertain where the hazy pathways led
and frightened by the darkness up ahead,
I saw my Youth approaching from behind,
and paused and waited, thinking what to say.
We'd broken contact many years ago
and hadn't much in common; even so
his certainty might help me find the way.

He turned to me, but coldly, with a frown,
and I fell silent, angered, filled with such
dismay because this parent asked too much,
mixed with regret for having let him down.

So burdened by the weight of wasted days
we drew apart, and went our different ways.


© David Anthony


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


Playing Football on the Brooklyn Bridge
After a New Yorker cartoon by John O'Brien

Between the shores of Manhattan and Brooklyn,
the game ebbs and flows as the ball whistles
between the taut suspension cables, the East
River streaming below. Your offense surges
forward, and suddenly you're in foreign territory,
rewriting the game plan as you go, yard by yard,
chains moving downfield despite the other team's
bruising muscle power. Winning means taking
your enemy for all he's got. Every inch counts.
You're stripped of counsellors, shrinks, coaches.
Your future hinges on one last Hail Mary pass.

© Christopher T. George


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~



Made in China

My nun has a vast army of sisters
clutching bibles to black plastic habits.
Wind her up: she'll march across your chest
spitting fire as her heart wheel
sparks the flint in her larynx.

Fook Yu made her one idle afternoon
soon after his trip to Xi'an when
his thoughts turned to the economy
and long rows of Polish garden gnomes
waiting to invade Berlin.

© Christina Fletcher


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


An Intelligent Mind is a Clean Mind

An intellectual is someone who has found something more interesting than sex. ~ Edgar Wallace

Writers whose work deserves the most respect
have lofty minds, the kind that never slide
into the gutter, but remain erect
with intellect, to touch us deep inside.
Take William Shakespeare: it's no mystery
what noble notions swelled his massive mind;
Observe the Greeks of ancient history,
who left the pleasures of the flesh behind.
Consider Jefferson, whose mighty pen
produced the stuff that sired a mighty nation;
Or Churchill, who inflamed the hearts of men
through oral skill, with each ejaculation.
These men had minds that never dined on dirt,
but drank from wisdom's font - long may it spurt.

© Rose M. Kelleher

(An Intelligent Mind is a Clean Mind: Editor's Choice of Sandy McKinney,' The perfect poetic oxymoron -- a sonnet ostensibly celebrating "higher mind" with specific sexual imagery -- from those lofty minds whose erections extend all the way to the intellect on their way to touch us deep inside to Churchill's oral skills culminating in that vigorous ejaculation (long may it spurt!).)

Author's contact details:

Mark Allinson............. .. ...... lit4life@ozemail.com.au

David Anthony.......................http://www.davidgwilymanthony.co.uk

Philip Burton........................ mailto:burtophil@hotmail.comburtophil@hotmail.com

Glenda Cooper......................glenda.cooper@swbell.net

Mustansir Dalvi..................... gage@rediffmail.com

Christina Fletcher..................Christinasjf2@aol.com

Christopher T. George............editorcg@yahoo.com

Martyn Halsall...................... martyn.halsall@ukonline.co.uk

S.K.Kelen.............................kelen@actonline.com.au

Rose M.Kelleher................... kelleher@ramblingrose.com

Margo Roby..........................mroby@jisedu.or.id

Alan Wickes ....................... Alan.Wickes@ekno.com

Les Wolf...............................boticello2000@yahoo.com

Compiling Editor: M.A.Griffiths (grasshopper@wordbug.freeserve.co.uk) . Associate Editors:

Sandy McKinney (mckinney3@earthlink.net) and Arthur Seeley (arthur007@blueyonder.co.uk )

With special thanks to Helena Nelson for additional editing.