Racing Pigeons
Grey as steam, they would
be stacked in baskets,
shuffling and quabbling on railway station platforms.
Each basket would be labelled the straight way home,
a fluttering brown paper, airlift like edge of wind.
Whump of pumped steam would drown their intimate sounds,
scratch, shuffled wicker, dark sheathed blades of fast wings
anxious for spreading to harness the power of air,
row the sky back down the radar to skylights and lofts.
Almost as if they knew mismatch of names,
between the station sign, its pack and fluster,
the wrong direction where the engine pointed,
the compass in their minds that would swing them home.
A small boy dared his finger on ridge and weave
of varnished wicker, teased taut leather straps
worn polished, interlock of spine and clasp:
learned about jostle, those routes out through winged air.
© Martyn
Halsall
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
How Still We See Thee Lie
I thought I heard a giblet sing
'O Little Town of Bethlehem'
and then I heard a salmon croon
another old, familiar tune.
A choir of sweet soprano quail
resounded through the shopping aisle
and when I pricked my turkey's skin
it burst into a glorious hymn.
Sad carcasses in cellophane—
the raw, the roast—rise up again
to beat your wings, to squawk and preen
for Christ is here. The new-born King
has come to bring eternal life:
you need not fear the carving knife...
© Christina Fletcher
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Royal
Wat
All
day long they´ve straggled up these
stairs
with gold as soft as hope and thin as
prayers;
they rub their gifts of lucent leaves of
gold
against this century-weathered gilded
bronze,
which seems so sacrosanct because so
old,
and then, while prayer-wheels trickle
antiphons
which all may doubt but no one
disbelieves
they stay a moment under these ancient
eaves.
No rust debases bronze which they
adorn
for memories´ sakes - and no rough beasts are
born;
no priestess, wet with oracle frenzy,
cries
and writhes; no militant congregation of odd
believers chants; and nothing sacred
dies
to feed some small, unnourishable god.
© Marcus Bales
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Lapsed Catholic Watches the Super
Bowl
Those who fast come to
God
with the digestion of
angels.
Transparent as shrimp, they
swim
in transfiguring light.
They live on clouds and communion
wafers,
the occasional locust, the
odd
piece of honeycomb found in a
tree.
In the circle of Grace they know all the
angles.
Their every breath is a
hymn.
They have grown beyond
appetite.
Those who fast come to
God
in the bodies of Adam and
Eve,
They do not know they are
naked.
They are perfect as altered
cats.
While the rest of us
crawl
from tree to tree, hearts
raked
with longing for fruits out of
reach—
they can live on the smell of
leaves
and the wood of the
Cross.
So Mother Jerome would
teach
her captives in Catholic
School
back when there was no Super
Bowl
and no microwave
popcorn.
It was years before I
concluded
that Christ wasn’t counting the tacos,
and Budweiser was good for the soul.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Hagiography
I am the Saint of Broken
Toys,
of Cast-Off Lovers, Saint of Sinks and
Drains.
I am the Saint of Mustard
Plugs,
of the Little Rubber
Creepy-Crawlers
In Egg-Like Plastic
Containers
Kids Buy From Dispenser
Machines;
the Holy One of Phone Calls
Waited For That Never
Came.
Seek my intercession when you know
you will not get the job. I cannot
help.
I am Saint of Kool-Aid
Popsicles
Sucked Dry and White, their sweetness
gone.
My shrine is heaped-up
newspapers.
Cheap costume jewelry is my martyr's
crown.
I am the Saint of Unread
Poetry,
the Saint of Stories Scribbled on a
Pad,
Put
in a Drawer, and
Left.
I am the Saint of Those Not Chosen
For
the Band, the Team, Turned Down For Dates and
Proms,
Saint of Unsmoked Cigars and Kisses
Given From Duty and From
Cowardice.
I am the Saint of Oily Moons, Fouled Ponds,
Pollution.
I am the Saint of Animals Who Hold
Up
One Useless Paw or Run On Just Three
Legs.
Do
not come to me if you are weary and
heavy-laden.
Only come if you desire the shredding of your
soul.
I am the Saint of Heaven's Vast
Denial,
Saint of Advertising, Saint of Scars.
© David W. Landrum
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Sort of Man I Am
Some say we are the Net of Indra—
diamonds linked in strands—all infinite
reflections of each other; or we are
a hologram—illusory projections
of the Super-real (in every atom of
the micro find the macro): or we’re both.
One of my favorite lunches when
I was a kid was Spam my mother slid
out from its can and sliced and fried
and put on toast—all salty, bland,
transmogrified: it glistened like an Indra’s
net of meat, a hologram of ham. Today
we zap spam to a cyber purgatory where,
perhaps, it waits to be imagined as
an Internet of jewels to serve to fool
the
eye by mirroring a sourceless light.
I
bet if you transmogri-fried me up
a portion of the Indra-netted night,
it wouldn’t taste unlike a hologram
of my mom’s Spam. (Sort of man I am.)
© Guy Kettelhack
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
More Like Athene Than the Willendorf
Venus
That's us? That series of knobs, that blob of
hip,
that hanging gut, freckled with dugs,
no,
not a Barbie, that dyspeptic
anorexic,
but more like a bozo rolling to and
fro.
Good god! How get through the day with a
chassis
that moves like squid at the ATM, to
pitch
it over when you drop a dime, to mass
it
when you tie a lace! And to scratch an
itch!
Not a swimmer like you and me
(eons
ago), at ease in a girl's body breaking
through
waves, feet kicking foam, rangy
arms
paddles,
the body a keel cutting
through.
My
choice Athene, struck on a Greek
medallion,
greaves and all, one foot on the neck of a lion.
©
Joyce Nower
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I’m Feeling Claustrophobic
in
this small, hall-closet
skin,
I’ve a skeleton that sins like any
other.
Sure, I’ve got my mother’s curves, but hers were
cursed
and caused her early earth-wormed
slumber.
My father’s wits are in here with me, fucking
Freud-like
in their views—stroking my bones, muscling my
pleasure.
I dismiss this stiff discomfort, stretch my legs, a light goes
on;
I’ll die in here, my larynx wide with silence.
© K.R. Copeland
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
First Commandment
Thou shalt have no god before me.
Aristide
Arthur
under a hot Grecian
sun under the
imperious
facade
leaves his
flock
parks his
car
to
billow
on double yellows
safely around
him
leaves his hazard
lights
in the scant
scrub.
blinking--just in
case.
Beside the wayside shrine
Before the cash
machine
he
genuflects
he inserts his
card
bends his
head bends
his
head
murmurs his supplications curses
roundly
makes the cross
humbly bangs
the pale
screen
places
flowers.
that defines his pecuniary
plight.
Enriched
Despairing
he gathers his
flock he
returns to his car
turns their obedient
heads u-turns into the
havoc
towards the silent
blue
of hurtling cars
and ragged
hills.
rejoins the teatime rush.
© Arthur Seeley
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Parting
Shots
Departure spawns its own mythology:
the tearful scene, a squalid
terminus—
she needs his promises; he wants 'no
fuss'—
one wistful kiss, a gauche
apology.
Her script demands a clichéd
gravitas:
the jukebox playing, as his silhouette
dissolves into the cinematic
sunset:
"Regrets, I've had a few!" An emptied
glass.
Then always for the loved one left
behind,
the niggling doubts: this time he won't
return,
he'll die, shack-up with someone half his
age,
come back quite changed; she fears that those who
find
delight in not belonging always
yearn
for
solitude no woman can assuage.
© Alan Wickes
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Lapsed Catholic Watches the Super
Bowl
Those who fast come to
God
with the digestion of
angels.
Transparent as shrimp, they
swim
in transfiguring light.
They live on clouds and communion
wafers,
the occasional locust, the
odd
piece of honeycomb found in a
tree.
In the circle of Grace they know all the
angles.
Their every breath is a
hymn.
They have grown beyond
appetite.
Those who fast come to
God
in the bodies of Adam and
Eve,
They do not know they are
naked.
They are perfect as altered
cats.
While the rest of us
crawl
from tree to tree, hearts
raked
with longing for fruits out of
reach—
they can live on the smell of
leaves
and the wood of the
Cross.
So Mother Jerome would
teach
her captives in Catholic
School
back when there was no Super
Bowl
and no microwave
popcorn.
It was years before I
concluded
that Christ wasn’t counting the tacos,
and Budweiser was good for the soul.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Samson
The summer we turned
seventeen, we followed a train
through the towns of New York
State.
It was the spirit of the lion gnashing
his teeth, biting through a new leash.
Trees leaned into the tracks lonely
as fishermen. They cast
shadows
into rows of carpenter ants swaggering
up a hill. Inside a leather bound
book,
letters swarmed and became bees.
Samson stuck his hands into a lion’s carcass,
licked honey off his fingertips.
Between
his ribs, a hive pulsed like a young heart.
Bees strolled each white bone, wanton
as a railroad track.
I carried sharp scissors and each time
the sun sank, I cut a strand of shiny hair.
I braided it and set it loose to wind, knowing
birds would weave it into nests. Next
spring, when we were no longer speaking,
I walked along each railroad tie and listened
to finches or nuthatches, titmice or juncos.
The train hummed like a bee in the ribs
of that old story. I wondered if
you could
hear the train’s whistle from where you are.
You sit on a lover’s freshly painted porch
and move your black queen three spaces
forward, contemplating your next move,
eyeing her last rook.
© Laurie Byro
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
In the
photo
the war is
over
and the maples
lining
the snowy streets are severely
topped.
You hunker under a dark fedora,
pull the worsted wool in
tight.
Grandmother is young, fixed up
right.
She has a slender withy in one
hand
and smiles but shows no
teeth.
Here's another angle from that
day:
the same trees, same sloped hood of a
car,
same cracker box house tethered to an electric pole.
White chickens scratched at the remnant snow for
seed.
A stranger might call
you happy but I see how the
cold
is
manifold as small fibers gathered and woven whole,
tight and warm—like a bright red jacket that shows
only shades of gray.
© Brent Fisk
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Taking Photographs Without a
Camera
Consider the stills that thrust
themselves
into the place where they must be
seen.
The ones I took, or they took
me.
Here's one. This is me. I am
standing
in St Vinnies, Newtown, circa
1976.
And something clicks. I take a
snap.
The bin, jumbled with belts, the red
handbag,
dust floating in sunlight through the
door,
the smell of talc and toadstools and
tobacco.
Sotto voce the voice calling in the
alley,
the grind and texture of the
traffic.
I am being used (or using) like a
machine.
I have seen a horse position her
neck
to focus me in one hemispheric
eye
and to develop me in that dark
room.
The shape and stink of my tribal
aura
where I stand within the
landscape
and why, and I am captured. Captured.
© Jennifer Compton
(Taking Photographs Without a
Camera: Editor's Choice of M.A.Griffiths,' As one who shares
the primitive mistrust of cameras
and their potential dark magic, I connected
instinctively with this poem. I liked the way the sinister atmosphere builds up, and I
love
the line:' the smell of talc
and toadstools and tobacco', which neatly captures the complex nature of so many evocative
odours.)
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Cousin Frankie, 85, Makes her Annual Bid to Replace Vanna White
Her clothes line sags with rusty, metal plates.
Tall pines are creaking by her double wide.
It’s
March in Middle Georgia. The mean wind’s
unleashed. I’m filming with a box
of Tide.
I hold it high, pretend to wind the crank
while she moves down the plates.
She smiles at me.
Her white hair’s waving; her robe is flapping open.
She flips the plates with grit so now I see
on each flip side in marker there’s a vowel,
five, which her speckled hands have come to know
so well that even though her fingers tremble,
I know she’s pleased: This is The Frankie Show.
The cats inside her trailer number four:
A, E, I, and U. O has lately
passed.
She shows me the kind note the postman sent.
It seems the man can’t help but drive too fast.
She serves me tea while I tee up the tape
taken from a tall stack all labeled V.
Straight back, her teeth white, Vanna spins an O.
We stand, inducted into mystery.
© Lance Levens
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I Discover the Calico Goldfish in my Tank
is the Reincarnation of Reneé Descartes
You once said, when
a Calvinist
preacher
denounced you for
fathering
an illegitimate child (who
subsequently
died of scarlet fever), Human
foibles
should be treated with
charity
and
understanding,
and no one living should
disdain
the mundane pleasure of
love.
Your thoughtful movements in
this fish-tank purgatory
tipped me
off.
The angles and the logic
of your
swim
told me it must be
you.
When sun lights the
aquarium
you shine, speckled,
magnificent.
You do not think, yet you
exist.
The rudimentary paths of food and
love
are the currents in your
mind.
In the Netherlands,
where Catholic and
Protestant
lived side by side,
like the flecks of color in your
fins,
you thought and
wrote.
In the canals fish caught your
sight.
Out by the windmills, with
Francine,
your child, at Leyden, on the
dikes,
you saw all paths
converge.
Encompassed in this
tank,
all circles become squares.
© David W. Landrum
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Vineyard Nature
From the porch, Nathaniel watches
a woman by a window through thick
and wavy glass. She picks bits of
thread
through a cloth with her sturdy needle.
She nips a strand with her teeth.
The crisscross of the curve of letter
unravels, cardinal reds, scarlet purple.
He writes her strong and straight
like the oak outside his door. No bend
to her, she will bow, she will not break.
A foghorn interrupts his pen. He loves her
black-eyed warble, the spidery line
that resolves her mouth as he passes her
on the street. She is round as an oyster,
her baby will be a pearl. The seed
she carries will be a speck of sand
in the fathers’ eyes. A gull shrieks and chases
her worn gray skirts. He places a period
at the end of a long sentence.
While on a winter walk, Nathaniel discovers
a white-bleached skeleton of a baby cormorant.
He notes the bones that make up its wings,
the resiliency of pursuit and flight.
Eliza won’t marry him, but he doesn’t know
that yet. He’ll only make love to her
on crisp sheets of white paper.
© Laurie Byro
(Vineyard Nature: Editor's
Choice of Christine Potter,' Two things make me love this poem. One is how simply and sharply
it
evokes The
Scarlet Letter, a book
I have taught many times and
love. The second is the adept use of Hawthorne's
biographical detail
as imagery,
particularly in the stanza about the skeletal baby cormorant.'
)
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Letting
Go Of Will
He once was water in another life until
he distilled in sunlight. First, reflection
pulled him up and then he flew from everywhere,
toward the sky, away from the perfection
purity leaves. When you're floating in the air,
the
blueness disappears; the world below looks bluer, still.
© Christy Armistead
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Flotsam on a Winter
Tide
Round again on the full tide,
churning
close to the quiet foreshore,
then
caught by the undertow and
turning
round
again—
slowing now: as far-travelled
men,
turning back with regret or
yearning,
drift for a while near a journey's
end.
Knowing all and beyond all
knowing,
Nature speaks in the tide's turn,
when
all that drifts is gathered,
going
round again.
© David Anthony
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Ballade of Easy Marks
There’s billions going on
power-ball.
Surely,
your office mates
exhort,
now is the time to stake your all
on 50 tickets or—if you’ve bought
50, then 50 more! You
ought,
at even the worst of odds, to
win
a
million dollars—and so you’re
caught.
We’re
all too easily taken
in.
When stocks have taken a flailing fall,
try meeting your broker’s clowns in
court.
A suit on Peter to pay off
Paul
could end your troubles by proof of
tort—
but legal counsel’s the costly
sort,
and legal actions are hard to
win.
To lawyers’ pockets the gains are
brought.
We’re all too easily taken
in.
A ship sets out for its port of
call—
a shipboard passion begins in
port.
To love in summer and wed in
fall
seems fine enough at a beach
resort.
But after lovers have fumed and
fought
(she wastes his money, he swills her
gin)—
it’s only tinsel, the prize they
sought.
We’re
all too easily taken
in.
L’Envoi
Companions, weary of chase and
sport,
at last we’ll come to a silent
inn.
Death with a scythe will cut us
short.
We’re all too easily taken in.
© Gail White
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Monument
a work of sculptor Miroslaw
Balka
This artist's take on
burial
concretes the sunken
graveside
and allows for seating in the
well,
between two shelves as
hard
as worms that turn our
flesh.
The mower, low against
wheel
cuts a clean bio-acoustic
dash—
till the edge emits a wineglass
bell
that penetrates the hangar
glaze
of the Kroller-Muller
museum.
Here, in steel, the companion
lies
as casket to the excavated loam
-
all coated with a felted
skein
warm as the hands that pressed it
there:
the hub of the human
condition—
brushed, laid out to
wear.
Seen with the eye of a
daisy,
accustomed styles of
burial—
winding among the stone
pages
with long losts—feel
unreal
as the kindly obit
paragraph.
And the cheap varnish of the
box
adheres to the curate's
scarf
and the handful that we drop.
© Philip Burton
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Fight or
Flight
Open both eyes.
Parse
the problem. Ignore
lungs
that flap, guts that
slither
and knot.
Focus.
The tongue, stiff as
road-kill,
plays chicken with
language
swerving around
expletives
and grunts. The roar of
blood
leaves ears deaf and
muscles
shaking, knees
aquiver.
It also lets the heart
believe
it can leap through the
throat
to freedom, though it's
often
wedged in the mouth
instead,
carried for miles in hinged
jaws
only to be spit out at a
pair
of anonymous feet, still
flexing,
saturated red.
© Cheryl Snell
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Intense Care
Tapes hold cords across his nostrils
the date written in pen across his upper lip—
ropes emerge from patches covering the slash
down his sternum, a sewn line cinches left
and right together, his hands vibrate beats
into my fingers. Translucent hoses
stream from arms and gown seams. Red and yellow
fluid hangs in bedside bags. Here, the bruises,
raw flesh mark the chest cracked in half—
there, they took his heart outside his body,
his lungs pumped in breaths spirited away
from ribs—fingers cut and snipped away
the scarred parts and placed a new nestling,
restitched a closure for a beating pulp—
a secret timepiece for re-ignition. His face
smooth from fluids wrinkleless and doped
by a hanger of plastic sacs—his eyes open briefly—
a submerged undersea scan and nod when he hears
his name called. A screen of maroon, green,
and blue blipping lines tap numbers—
mechanical bells clang the deconstruction
of my brother. I press his hand and touch
my lips to a wrinkled ear pulled down by
oxygen thread, introduce myself to his new beat.
His eye crinkles, a faint voice from the deep
whispers: Hi. Sorry, I'm a bit
sleepy.
© Annie Bien
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~