~~~~~~~~~~~~ (the poetry) WORM ~~~~~~~~~~~~
32
Prospero At
Breakfast
Top-billed, you might expect a grand
hotel
while cast and crew make do with
B&Bs;
but no, you're stuck in 'Braemar'
(vacancies,
bathrooms en-suite). You wake to Prospero's
cell
spruced up in Laura Ashley;
Ariel
deflowering Miranda next door.
Please
Do Not Disturb, some hope! Breakfast, you
squeeze
two cups from one tea-bag, slick hair with
gel,
then enter with rehearsed panache; a
head
or two might turn or whisper to a
friend,
"Who's that?" "Not Alan Bates, I think he's
dead."
Still, you tame the matinee;
gradually
the sniggering kids are hushed, and by the
end
applaud enough to set an old magician free.
© Alan Wickes
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Mars
Poetica
He wants accessible, wants to peer
into the cupboard with a thousand watts
of light, wants to see the cans and boxes
labeled in simple block letters—"BEANS,"
"TOMATOES," "SOY MILK," "TOOTHPICKS."
He hates those moments when the door swings
open and all his eye can grasp is color
and geometry—blank white cartons, gray steel
tubes, amorphous blobs in transparent wrappers.
Suddenly he’s two years old at Macy’s with Mama.
When it comes to poetry, he wants his strophes
unambiguous as ants climbing the honey bear,
lines digestible as baby food, words tasty
to tongues of thought as chocolate candy bars.
Naturally, this segues straight to Mars and
Percival Lowell. In 1895, Lowell gazed through
his telescope at the Red Planet, saw the ordered
lines streaking across the plain, then pulled
and tugged at the pliable dough of enigma until it
cracked into canals—and spoke of aliens.
© Fred Longworth
( Mars Poetica
: Editor's Choice of Matt Merritt, ' I liked the
changing points of view—from the mundane, through the creative mind
to an imagined other world—the gentle
message about the dangers of a rage for order, and the deadpan way the poet
passes off the final,
surprising connection as entirely obvious..'
)
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Lingua
Franca
We speak of
linguistics
at this table of lettered
folk,
the more letters, the better in this
game.
We range from
etymology
of testiments and
testifying,
to vegetable pigments
mutandis—
root crops that were too lingam-like
in their state of
grace—
to Celts, to languages
that live and die and half-live
on
sign-posts.
A joke to pass the
salt
stops conversation
mid-thrust.
A puzzled embarrassed
look
at what ‘salth’ might
be,
or indeed whath mighth might
be
for those who
thoughth
a soft Irish
t
was just the breakfast
variety.
The crispness of
exchange,
tight, precise, now
stalled
by the lingering, moist
half-sybillance of another
culture,
of another rooth
crop
mutating in full
view.
© Nessa O'Mahony
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A Murder of So Many
Words
Sweep these words away, so they will stay
unread, unknown, will sway no one's opinion.
Sweep them from the stairs, as if they were
light
amber glass and ashes from a bash the night
before.
Sweep them into the tattooed arms of a belligerent Chicago
wind,
into the eyes of a south side mob, into the old Comiskey
Park.
Sweep them clean across state lines, into blue grass
clad Kentucky. Paint them black and hang
them
from a yellow
poplar.
©
K.R.Copeland
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6 – 23 –
1422
once
A cold Christianity grumbled and toiled;
its proud fundamentalists sailed
overseas.
later
The sun-seeking empires of Europe, embroiled
in Das Kapital industry, fell to their knees.
then
From out of the sunset, on unlikely steeds
New Worlders rescued their old fatherlands.
and
then
As though they were buying up New York with beads,
they conquered by ownership—contract in
hand.
now
In their world and their idiom Mammon’s twin towers
defy the gold sun of a heaven-sent day.
They have the capital; we have the power
to take their own symbols and blow them away.
Praise to the maker of future and past,
to the potter his pot, to the cobbler his last.
© Peter Stewart
Richards
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War of the
Worlds
Driving to work that morning, I was
struck
by something funny on the
radio:
a prankster claimed two planes had run
amok
and shut Manhattan down. Perhaps this
show
paid homage to that hoax by Orson
Welles
in '38? The newsmen played it
straight;
impressive parody! Such
bagatelles
so often carry unintended
weight.
The novelty worn off, I turned the
knob
to hear the same report on other
stations.
Arriving stunned at work, I did my
job,
seeing no point in tears or
lamentations;
preferring to go on just as
before
but loving what I loved a trifle more.
© Rose M. Kelleher
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Mary Jane Anderson Lies Awake at Night
Stars contemplate her fate in whispers and winks,
somewhere beyond Orion, they spell out plans
for chance encounters, jobless weeks,
rocks thrown her way, another love …
Another love. If only the stars would be quiet.
Not even the moon can shut them up,
herself a meddler par excellence,
thoughtless as only gods can be.
Mary Jane devises ways to slow her heartbeat
at will, avoid the eyes and hands of men,
trick the stars into believing she is dead.
Still she knows falling in love is
unavoidable,
like cutting yourself when shaving your legs,
mini-skirt already laid out on the bed.
© michaela a.
gabriel
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The Nervous Bride Receives Instruction From Her Guardian
Angel
Enough cowardice. No
chicken
ever won the Kentucky
Derby.
No chicken ever got to be
President.
No chicken ever discovered uranium.
Orphans cry. Cripples.
Anyone
ever
thought "God-looked-down-
and-gave-me-nothing,"
anyone
stuck in it. Things to do instead of crying:
cancel the wedding! jump
bail!
kite checks! head south; or,
continue
just as you have been but
wear
your hair up, maybe a small
cocktail flag, Denmark, or
Chad,
stuck in the bun—we’ll know
then
to
take you with us to the
stars.
We’ll know you ain’t
chicken,
that you have strength to
resist
the radiation of tears.
Enough.
Chickens don’t fly. Chickens we
eat.
We know a great many ways to eat them.
© Marc Pietrzykowski
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
In-Flight
Passenger
Here the pasta dinner is a
coagulation
of errors: the keys you forgot
inside
the house, stubbing a toe
against
hard luggage, the mistaken seat
and
someone else's vegetarian
meal.
How much turbulence does it
take
to turn your stomach? Like the
use
of semi-colons, it's individual. We
are
defenseless after removing our
shoes.
Afterwards the earth moves for
days.
The stewardess was a World
Literature
graduate long before her long legs
placed
her on intercontinental flights,
before
her waist thickened to something
like
your tongue after two rounds of
whisky.
The hand on your knee is your
ex-wife,
her voice slurred by the
ringing
in your ears. There was a time
when
you could laugh at Tom and
Jerry.
So far, this doesn't seem the moment.
© Arlene Ang
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Have You
Forgotten
Have you forgotten the dark piano
bar,
the cloud-dimmed dusk, the steady drip of
rain,
the sheets and clothing scattered near and
far,
the shower, room service, the morning
star,
champagne?
Have you forgotten Niagara's rumbling
roar,
the crack of calving ice in Hubbard
Bay,
the gaudy light's long Key West sunset
shore,
the one last day in Paris just before
it's
May?
Have you forgotten it all, and all so
soon,
and not recalled the sussurating
sea,
the beach, the stars, the driftwood fire, the
moon,
the wine, the bread, the cheese, that sad, sad
tune,
and
me?
© Marcus
Bales
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Soundwaves
Crashing
Time has dragged its feet through
centuries
of our romance. Blue glass veins tunnel
up
through parchment pleated skin, my
beauty
dismantled, left for
dead.
Elevation and azimuth duke it out for wall
space
at the local museum. Floors tilt in this
house
and the space curves: we're going to be
late.
Words play hard to get, just like mama
said.
If you synchronize data, compare rhyme to
reason,
latitude to longitude, and watch whatever
moves
between your ears, the force that swivels your
head
toward her hips is the whereabouts of your
desire.
The once-over you give her swerves past
me
like
a
fastball.
There's a sound when symmetry is broken. What
next
for the refugee pitch? Does it break away
clean
or lie crumpled in a cone of confusion?
© Cheryl Snell
(Soundwaves: Editor's Choice of
M.A.Griffiths,' I found this a subtle exploration of a disintegrating
relationship. I savoured
the juxtaposition of the specific and the general, which
reinforces the sense of disorientation in the poem.' )
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Inside her house he built his house of tears
According to his law every
door
stays shut. Inside, the chill is
dangerous.
It freezes the balls off those
visitors
who still call. They don’t stay long.
Icicles
drip on their heads. There isn’t anywhere
dry to sit down. In the absence of
chairs
he offers them one of his
bicycles
as he free-wheels past. His mother
despairs.
So what? He drinks. Don’t expect him to
care—
bring
an umbrella. He made
excuses
once. Now he savours bad form,
refuses
to go out. Secretly he plans to
tear
out the landline, swing from the
chandeliers.
© Helena Nelson
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An Ashlar Wall in Autumn Sun
I see tomato plants growing by
a sunny ashlar wall, lush
green
in the season may never
develop
with yellow flowers that so
late
to ripe fruit. The tomato plants
in Grandad's Aigburth greenhouse
fifty years ago: the muscular
finger thin stems, minute hairs.
I run my fingers down a stem,
smell the pungent sweet odor,
remember his wrinkled
hands in the summer sun,
the wreathed strands
of his gold puzzle
ring.
© Christopher T. George
An Ashlar Wall in Autumn
Sun : Editor's Choice of Matthew Williams, 'I like
poems with hands in. So, my choice for: the hands/plants
exchange, the simple verbs, touch and smell, and 'ashlar'.'
)
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Ingeborg
Inge tried to take to the climate
but after just over a
year
they packed to move back to England.
She left her willow-lipped bowls with me,
Bavarian plates smattered with peonies.
From a pile of boxes she pulled a book
she thought I would like,
a Hungarian novel about a girl
whose mother runs off—
on the cover, an empty chair on an ocean.
I
liked the telling. I miss afternoons
spent thumbing her husband’s library.
Between
two books—he may have forgotten—
a photo of Ingeborg facing away in bed,
long
back rising from blankets
like an ivory vase, chignon
pinned at her nape;
her petite frame lit the page.
When, on the evening before she left,
we discovered the cupboards empty
of biscuits, she let the children
eat sugar cubes
to keep them from crying.
©
Sarah Sloat
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She
Tells Him She Misses
Vienna
But name the things it gave you that you
miss.
Depressions? Headaches? Now and then a
kiss
from uptight Austrian men? Or Schiele's
doodles?
Recall the glares from women dressed like
poodles.
You hated them, but still you miss the
place:
its Habsburg grandeur, its rococo
grace,
its old-style European air, of
course—
a carriage creaking through the streets. Its
horse
will not escape, but loves, what holds it
penned.
Nostalgia is a captivating
friend.
© Geertjan
Wielenga
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Beginnings.
The impact of my sudden arrival
strums like a loosed bow string
between our masks of politeness.
The proffered letter of explanation
plucks a hum of curiosity
from
the somehow-from-nowhere crowd.
We pick our way with delicacy
through thickets of diplomacy
up to the missionary’s house,
past the shallow depression
of his grave, unmarked
beneath the banyan tree.
The house is empty, gilded with a fine light,
it bleaches, fades back into the bush;
bougainvillea grapples with the verandah.
I stand in the dusty room,
where sunlight prises at sprung seams
and leaf patterns flutter on the floor.
A convocation of geckoes
debate a mouldering Faulkner on a bedside chair;
scutter away from the threat of my shadow.
A soft scuff of sandals:
a girl slips along the boards
and through the billows of curtain.
Rice and a plump mango
are placed on the table, covered with a cotton cloth.
She leaves a smile, supple and shining in the air.
Time and the smile
swing through the gloom.
Alone again, I explore.
Two metal boxes that will not move;
two smoke alarms, unopened;
a
pair of boots, greening with mildew;
Sandburg’s biography of Lincoln;
a
paper angel spins over a child’s small bed;
debris
of another’s life.
Finger-written in the floor,
“Christian Masters 11.2 70", a vain strut of ego;
a candle that guttered in the gathering dark.
This is a webbed and sullen place,
a cove where spiders lurk and memories sulk.
My hands and face are wet
and yet, that smile still shines.
I uncover the pearls of rice,
brush away the instant choir of flies and
eat.
© Arthur Seeley
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Where the Farm Was
an
abandoned car folds its hands
and
waits for kudzu.
Noon sun
finds shards of windshield,
or rain spatters in and soaks the floor,
the way a drift of blood
wets a widowed uncle's mouth
during nights in the empty house.
Darkness drips from the eaves,
the only weather in years.
© James
Owens
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Failed
Abduction
When faxed your face I knew it was your
Eyes,
Nose, Cheeks, and Air of study. Someone
shaved
away your bushy curls, but
otherwise
You were the same, a grinning moon
upraised.
I broke a slew of traffic laws en
route
to You, where the detective held your
form
inside a fire blanket, tugged You
out
and stripped off pink bow ties like
colorforms.
I asked, "Should I check him for bruises,
marks?",
and "Was his diaper changed?" "He looks
OK.
All that's been taken care of, sir", she
barked,
re-wrapping You. I checked
anyway.
Back home I joke, "Someone is here. Look
who."
Who knows the places You have been. Do
You?
© Agrimmeer
DeMolay
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Catching the
Cock
(After a Michael Flynn modern porcelain figurine, "Catching the
Cock")
The piece refers back to
Meisson—
Eighteenth Century, rare, J.J.
Kaendler
Hurdy Gurdy Man in nether
land
where the monkey has hold of the
leash
of the grinder of the
organ.
One of a series—common man
invaded
by the toad of
work.
Feel the fishmonger's
fingers,
the sparkle in the jeweller's
eye
set in the gold of
spectacles.
Glimpse the whisky priest, sealed in the
bottle
preserving a genial
smile.
"Catching the Cock" gives victory to the
chicken—
dying to inhabit the coop of the
huntsman—
the very torso—to poke
feathers
(kingfisher blue—for palace
revolution—
the rufous Burgundy of cousin
Capercaille
the lemon down of
bunting)
through the pores of the tormentor's
skin.
The hunter's talons almost pierce the naked
heart
they share. Soon come mandibles,
cockscomb.
The clear bright energy of
porcelain
expands the precious
moment
artisan became artist.
© Philip Burton
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Aide-Mémoire
I think of things of which I haven't thought
for many years, and rush to write them down,
on post-its, scraps or sundry business cards.
They languish in my pockets, little shards
of fact, without which I would fret and frown
as evidence once more of "I forgot!"
It's punishment for years of vanity,
of gloating that my mind was a steel trap,
of pride at names and faces I retained.
But now my data-bank account is drained,
although, sometimes, on waking from a nap,
I have a sudden surge of memory.
And so, until amnesia is fugal
I'll put my trust in post-its and in
Google...
© Mitchell Geller
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Acknowledgement: A Murder of So Many
Words previously appeared in 'Triplopia'.
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