Susan Marie Davniero

No Greater Wealth

There is no greater wealth found
Than in the silence peaceful sound
When taking your own life’s path
Absent of false worship on behalf
Of wealth, materialism and greed
There can be no lesser creed
Seek to measure real life’s worth
By way of peace and love on earth
Aim to live a life to share
Giving your love, help and care
Help a neighbor and volunteer
Needy people are always near
Extend a helping hand
Make it your life’s plan
In the end it will make sense
Life is more than dollars and sense

{Poem by Susan Marie Davniero}

Leatha Carter Virostko

Under the Agate Moon

I met a shadow-man on the road
under the agate moon

he slipped through my fingers
like a watery make-of-mind
following my every move

though sleep should have reigned
at this hour
we were alert as owls

a ribbon of tar stretched out to the east
the direction in which we were headed
though I seemed more anxious than
the reluctant shadow-man

a lonely car drove past
moving slowly
then stopping
with steam billowing

I thought we had become fellows
if not friends but
as the beetle ingested me
I found myself alone

looking through the rearview window
the shadow-man disappeared
into the night

while my new friend the driver said
"onward and upward"
we drove away into the night
under the agate moon

{Poem by Leatha Carter Virostko}

Sonja Kosler

Feet

My feet feel weathered boards
as I walk to the end of the dock
where I will sit under the perfect half moon.

My legs sway in lazy arcs
while toes blend lunar light
adrift in the drowsy midnight lake.

Secure in this liquid world
I watch as a solitary loon
dips and dives into the water.

I wonder about this loon.
How does she occupy her time?
Does she have a plan?
Is her life closer to the beginning or the end?

I lift callused feet from the water
observe the drips as minutes from a clock
ticking toward the tomorrow
I see arriving ever too soon.

{Poetry by Sonja Kosler)

Roger Cowin

Fall

A cadre of crows plot against the scarecrow
keeping his faithful vigil over the farmer’s field.
He only moves when the wind blows.
Today the air is still.

The crisp, golden days of autumn
erupt into a pageant of splendid color.

Trees don their gaudiest clothes,
and bright yellow school busses reappear,
even the cerulean sky is streaked
with hints of violet, amber and orange.
Umber cornfields stretch out forever,
awaiting the harvest.


Winter

Winter descends quickly
and overstays its welcome
casting its icy net
over the desolate earth,
a beautiful and deadly web.

By February, the nomad in us
longs for the tropical climes
of the deep south.
We breathe the agitated air,
grow restless and sad.

{Poems by Roger Cowin}

Peter Lattu

divorce

snow falling
in Crystal City
harsh highrise
covered
in cold snow
she said
divorce
he froze
in the winter night
all warmth
crushed
in the cold

{Poem by Peter Lattu}

Gregory Liffick

Amen

The elder
of the
inner city
church
prays on
his knees,
still numb
from years
of manual
labor.
The ache
in his
bones
adds
weight
to his pleas.
He raises
a finger
like David
on the
Sistine
ceiling,
hoping
to dial
the Almighty's
number.

{Poem by Gregory Liffick}

Amye Nicole Bird

Love's Long Hours

If the love of my life has all been for naught
And all of myself I've just given in vein,
If I've truely not been my lovers one love,
Then all I've done is tossed about
In an endless, desperate fight,
Through an ever darkened, blinded plight.

For we've blown through weathered, blackend skies,
Fought the rivers rapid, turbulent cries,
We've seen the days of anguished, frightened eyes,
And still we melt in the embers of fires empassioned might.
Years of empty, years of plenty,
Years of giving all and all the more.

If loves long hours have all been for naught
And all of this heart I've just given in vein,
If I've not truely felt my lovers true love,
Then this very life has been lived out in doubt,
Unknowing, unlearning and having no clue
Of what true love is all about.

{Poem by Amye Nicole Bird}

Matt Catania

Follow Me Down the Well

Follow it down the topple well
wish the haze away
eyes are dreary, liquid, unclearly
a human fog
dim lights dismay.

Eyes grow dreary, deep, dark
dim lights dismay
Eye can see in the dark
clear precise, sharp
is the way

Eye can see in the dark
only one way
is the way
only one way
is my way

Only one thing can be said
Eye can see it
I can’t say it
I don’t know how.

{Poem by Matt Catania}

Peter Lattu

Halloween 2

jackalopes
along the wall
trophy heads
hung high
a basket full of skulls
and a chest full of masks
black spiders
creeping in the ivy
crows flapping around
pumpkin heads
here and there
and a skeleton
flying up
front and center
all in the Virginia Florist window

{Poem by Peter Lattu}

Keith Wesley Combs

his story.

crying
he takes
another drink
and begins
to tell me
a story
of love lost.
a love
that he sacrificed
with liquor
and hatred.
a love
forgotten
in her mind
but one
that tortures him
still.

{Poem by Keith Wesley Combs}

Kaci Mason

Echoes

Conflict
Resolved without tears
Without feeling
Without remorse

Followed
By shock
And then unnatural
Laughter

It builds
And shrieks
Across the world
But we are deaf

The laughter
Is obscene
Harsh
And true

It echoes
And we are deaf

{Poem by Kaci Mason}

Jovan Burgess

Understanding

In any relationship whether with someone of a different
race or the same the name of the game is understanding.
What is expected of me is also expected of you,
so we can make this a dream come true.
There is a two way street in order to meet
each others expectations, hopes, and aspirations.
It's me for you and you for me,
in order for the understanding to be

{Jovan Burgess}

Scott Alexander Jones

from “elsewhere”

That finger on your temple is the barrel / of my raygun— / / That wretched dull resonance / / breaching walls where windows once were, here / at the end of all things / / tells us nothing / / we haven/t already been told / / regarding nightjars— / / That eyelid slit of light / beneath the bathroom door at the end of the hallway / / yellow & yellowish & yellowing / as deciduous leaves / / come winter / / says one of us remains / awake at this androgynous hour / / lighting candles meant to conjure azaleas. / Call it evening despite / / our blue proximity to morning— / / Blue as your tattered peacoat I always mistook for black— / Choose any definition / / of blackout: / / A scarlet pulsing of stoplights / or the scar in my abdomen from the failed / / appendectomy of a cyclone / / fence— / / And if I am sleeping thru the lullabies of a summer / storm, you are screaming / / an arsenal of auburn / / cellos into hiding— / / Your lipstick desperately flamingo. / Soundlessly agape as Civil War daguerreotypes. / / We have arrived / / at the scene of the film where the first bullets hail down— / All sound cuts out— / / Your larynx / / banished brailleward / / by explosions in the sky. / Toward the more taciturn outskirts of: / / anywhere but here— / / The nowheres / / we/ll no longer witness together— / Scouring burnt lexicons in search of the perfect word for: / / murmurs of wind / / caught in a vacant stairwell—

{Excerpt by Scott Alexander Jones}

Maxwell Mednick

Double Dragon

My aunt calls me
from Las Vegas to say

my grandmother’s
estate is cleared for sale
but don’t hold your breath

she owed money all over town
there won’t be anything
left for us—

After a short pause
I read her my new poem.

She says she doesn’t get
one word of it.

I tell her it’s about a nutsack
with wings wearing green
night vision goggles and eating pizza.

She says still doesn’t get it—
That I just repeat the same things over
and over, only in slightly

different ways.

{Poem by Maxwell Mednick}

Dale B. Craven

Salvaged by Poetry

Salvaged by poetry
Living for the moment of inspiration
That comes after a bout with divine intoxication
What we seem born to do
And I know the feeling comes to you
That by writing our words,we change
A little piece of our world
And we are left feeling purged
And are able to understand the abstract
The meaning of the odd things we do
It is the ruin of the losing streak in my mind
That I was only playing to win

{Poem by Dale B.Craven}

Frank S. LeRose

The Abandoned Ethereal

With great spears
and enchantments
from the Eighth Sphere,
the Firmament;
soon to be known

as angels came-

having given in,
temptation was brought
into them;
by the glowing hair
and bright halos
of woman thus,
a greater descent began.


Nth Lament

Sadly caused
to lose,
to be,
unforgivingly trod upon
to the last
bent and bowed,
flowerbed
is this-
torn
and sickly mother:
Earth.

{Poetry by Frank S. LeRose}

Peter Lattu

Harlem Stomp!
A Review

Among histories of the period, Harlem Stomp! A Cultural History of the Harlem Renaissance by Laban Carrick Hill is one of the best. Hill sets the background to the Renaissance: the Great Migration, World War I, and the rise of black consciousness. There are short, incisive, vignettes of literary life, music and dance, theater including musicals, and visual arts. A chapter traces the history of Harlem itself as an urban mecca drawing African-Americans from around the United States. It was an exciting time to be there.

Hill excels in putting the Harlem Renaissance into its social context. Because so many talented African-Americans were right there in Harlem in the 1920’s, Charles S. Johnson, editor of Opportunity, could throw a party with the whole literary world there, black and white, to introduce “the New Negro”. The Civic Club Dinner brought the publishers and editors of New York City together with the new African- American writers. Out of this dinner came a special issue of Survey Graphic featuring many of these new writers. From the Survey Graphic feature came the anthology The New Negro edited by Alain Locke. All of this was made possible by the proximity of people in New York City and Harlem.

This knack for putting things into context shows up in other ways. Other surveys of the period state that Claude McKay’s poem “If We Must Die” was a landmark work signaling the rise of black consciousness and the beginning of the Harlem Renaissance. None of the other surveys, however, explain why it was a landmark. Hill places that poem in the midst of the bloody race riots of 1919, called “the Red Summer” by James Weldon Johnson. McKay’s poem struck a note of defiance in difficult times and was published widely in the African-American press across the country. Here Hill has made clear what other surveys only hint at.

Harlem Stomp! abounds in apt anecdotes. With the Depression killing his literary career, the poet Countee Cullen returned to teaching French in high school in Manhattan. One of his students was James Baldwin, who interviewed Cullen for the school newspaper. Thus the torch was passed to another generation of black writers.

Such deft touches fill Harlem Stomp!. It includes a rich literary survey through select quotes. The stunning and inviting graphic design enhances the period artwork, illustrations and photographs. The Harlem Renaissance closed with the stock market crash of 1929 and the end of Prohibition. Willie “the Lion” Smith quipped: “It was legal liquor that did to Harlem what scarcer tips and shuttered warehouses had failed to do.” Harlem became an urban ghetto with nearly fifty percent unemployment. If they could, the artists left for teaching jobs elsewhere. Otherwise, they foundered in poverty. The Renaissance was over.

{Written by Peter Lattu}

Christopher Honey

Pontiac Sunbird, 1994

my old car was inhabited
by insects
small cockroaches
I liked to call my friends
but they weren’t really
we didn’t even talk
they stayed in the back seat
and I lived in the front seat
by the radio
and the speedometer
while they whispered in the back
and ran from bright lights
screaming in small voices

{Poem by Christopher Honey}

Arthur Winfield Knight

Happy Hour

We’d go into the bar every afternoon at four when Happy Hour began. The bartender would put on CNN when he saw us come in, then he’d pour half a carafe of Chardonnay, bring us two glasses and another one filled with ice because Kit liked her wine to be cold. The oak-handled beer spigots and the wine bottles chilled on ice made a kind of poem in the blue lights strung above the bar.

The bartender always wore a black Stetson because he was bald, although Ned was only in his thirties. He also wore a black vest over a white shirt and black Justin Roper boots because that was what the real cowboys wore. He’d ridden bulls for a living before he got the job as a bartender.

Sometimes, when it was very cold out, Kit and I would take our glasses into the lounge and sit before the stone fireplace that went from the floor to the ceiling. It was very warm in there and the TVs weren’t as loud as the ones in the bar, unless there was a game on.

Sometimes older ladies with blue hair were in the lounge, sitting around the tables, playing cards. The ladies were all very serious about it so they almost never talked to each other, but you could hear the cards sliding across the tables when they were dealt and the logs burning in the fireplace.

There were times when a quiet bar late in the afternoon was nearly perfect.

{Written by Arthur Winfield Knight}

Steve Garrett

Ancient Portal

Pay attention! From the womb, I formed you,
Black hair, red skin, blue eyes.
Ancient portal, full of grace, speak.
O my people, full of fear,
You hide in the earth.
Tend to your fires.
Do not let your hearts grow cold.
The rocks will not crush you.
GOD is real.

{Poem by Steve Garrett}

Peter Lattu

Name Dropping with Camille Paglia

Camille Paglia’s book Break Blow Burn about forty-three of the greatest poems in the English language certainly elicits questions about her choice. I am not going to dip into the long past history of poetry from the sixteenth to the late nineteenth century. Even there, one wonders about her omissions and balance. I am going to look exclusively at the moderns.

Modern poetry starts with Walt Whitman and Paglia includes Whitman. That’s a good choice. The great-grandfather of contemporary poetry should be in a collection of the greatest.

Paglia, a Dickinson scholar, has chosen three of Emily Dickinson’s poems to round out the nineteenth century. Three Dickinsons seem to be too many. She could have chosen something by Alfred Lord Tennyson, A.E. Housman, or Gerard Manley Hopkins.

Then we turn to the early twentieth century. She picked two poems each by Wallace Stevens, William Carlos Williams and William Butler Yeats and three poems by Theodore Roethke. Why so much by so few? Certainly one could choose a Robert Frost or two: “Mending Wall”; “The Road Not Taken”; or “Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening”. Perhaps one could include Sandberg’s “Fog” or Masefield’s “Sea Fever”. Why no T. S. Eliot or Ezra Pound? Maybe choose a poem by Robinson Jeffers, W. H. Auden, Archibald MacLeish, or Langston Hughes. Surely there was better verse written in the early twentieth century than some of her choices.

Paglia’s selections among contemporary poets raise question. There is nothing by Billy Collins, Mary Oliver, Grace Paley, Robert Haas… Maryland poet Linda Pastan merits inclusion. Among poems by African-American writers, Nikki Giovanni’s “Knoxville, Tennessee” and Rita Dove’s “Ripont” would be far better choices than the strident “Wanda Why Aren’t You Dead” by Wanda Coleman.

She also picks one song as a poem, “Woodstock” by Joni Mitchell. That opens a door to the wide range of outstanding songwriters. One could just as easily choose songs by Jim Morrison, Carole King, Bob Dylan, Leonard Cohen, Brian Wilson, The Beatles, or Paul Simon, among many possibilities.

Paglia is bold to try to select the best poems in English. Her choices in modern poetry are suspect, but then wouldn’t any choices be second-guessed? We are all Monday morning quarterbacks. Her book promotes thought and discussion. That is good.

{Written by Peter Lattu}

Jon Mathewson

Natural Cycles

So, I’m sitting on sagging lumber, hoping to not
get stuck by the random rusty nail, thinking about
all those great poets who received inspiration from ruins -
Wordsworth & Tintern Abbey, Frost & the forty cellar holes,

The never abandoned lines, look upon me and
Despair, from ashes comes renewal, and find myself
Totally unmoved by those sentiments.
What to do after making the best
Of what is still around? Rage to what purpose?

Slow decline numbs some, confuses others.
I sit on a shore land grabbers actively seek, where
Boats once stayed in the winter. I think of the hard
Labor needed to bring the materials here, and then construct
This large boathouse, and the shame of the waste through disuse.

There is no more need for this boathouse, just as there
Is no more need for the pained expressions of loss when
Nature retrieves. Moose forage nearby, I hear the call of
The loon. The land grabbers and their
bulldozers blast and bumble over the hill.

{Jon Mathewson}

Kim Johnson

Pulse of Pain

Is like a bad headache
period cramps
realizing that which you love
doesn’t love you back
is something which creeps
up on you very slowly
but can hit at the most
inopportune time.


Love

Love
Hate
Indifference

Unrequited love?
what is the opposite of that?

{Poetry by Kim Johnson}

Roger G. Singer

Abandoned Shadows

A weaving of willow branches brushed
evening into song. The sun pressed the
last of color through scattered thin
clouds.
From her chair on the porch she lifted
A crescent smile at me, cold like
autumn moon light, pressing back
my august warm hands, stopping my
steps.
She laughed. Her cheeks lifted at
my weakness, mocking my wants
and needs into abandoned shadows,
buried deep under her name.

{Poem by Roger G. Singer}

Christina Cole

Growth Spurt

After one summer,
the little ballerina,
grows out of all her clothes,
and her lifelong dream too.
How sad it is to be
past your prime
at the age of fourteen.

{Poem by Christina Cole}

New Book by Luke Armstrong

iPoems for the Dolphins to Click Home About is a book of poetry and fun having nothing to do with dolphins. It is for poetry lovers and haters. A richly eccentric book, it delves into themes at the heart of it all: love, loss, and how to kidnap your neighbor´s cat using a lunch box. The book´s 50 poems prove that poetry can be fun and at the same time meaningful and beautiful. These are not the poems your grandma read. These are the poems she wished she had read. iPoem´s verses reveal simple, accessible truths to intrepid readers. "We want to be constantly shown and to constantly show higher vantage points," one line echoes and then answers, "We want magic carpets to carry us under shimmering stars / above everyone else´s lives, where tough questions instead / of being answered are set aside for higher simplicity." iPoems unassumingly achieves this higher simplicity. Its naked truths dig deeply, while its lyrical lines resonate richly. Instead of following the tired modes of poetry´s past, it gives its wistful readers a new verse for the new world.

iPoems for the Dolphins to Click Home About is available for purchase at Amazon.com. http://www.amazon.com/iPoems-Dolphins-Click-Home-About/dp/1451555865/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1281048366&sr=8-1)

Susan Marie Davniero

Words of Peace

One day
The peaceful way
In a world of sin
Peace starts within
Peace is a must
Help and care
Love to share
No war or wrath
The peaceful path
One day
I pray
War will cease
Let there be peace
And let it begin
With the peace within

{Poem by Susan Marie Davniero}

Kathryn Warrender

Dance in the Rain

Let’s dance in the rain,
And feel the cool tears
Of the Earth
Cleanse our bodies,
Softly, roughly, sweetly.
Listen to the melodic pattern,
As we hold each other close.
Listen, just listen.
Nature whispers
When her mother cries.
So faintly, so gently,
My skin prickles
As your heat
Penetrates me heart.
Your breath, like fire,
Burning with the desire of your lips.
So close,
I lean in to kiss you,
To unite as one
Beneath the darkened sky.


Sorrow and Guilt

To rekindle the life back within us,
Can I do it?
With the damage done,
What can I do to repent?
Though I do not believe in God,
I feel like I committed a deadly sin.
I want to heal the fatal wounds,
Mend them with hope and love.
Is there some way
For us to forget the past?
I want to be happy again,
Those blissful moments
Are lost to the wind,
Like the leaves in autumn.
Oh, sweet gentle boy,
Can we ever recover
From the memories of battle?
The devastation of war is brutal,
And I cannot help
But feel shame.
I want to move on,
Hold your hand in mine
And live freely,
But why does my heart
Continue to bleed sorrow and guilt?

{Poetry by Kathryn Warrender}

Ron Koppelberger

A Saying Told

Secure, halfway between calm and quiet dreams, within the
Melancholy of nourishments undone, required by the sacrifice
Of amused touch and express angels in matched
Pairs of presence, a saying told by the years
And the breath of a humble alliance, raved, retrieved, disturbed
And put under the amends of a lasting peace, a riot untold
By the sweet caress of a quiet eyed sun, a desire taught by
The dust of an ancient song.

{Poem by Ron Koppelberger}

K.D. Iredale

What the Night Holds in Store

A cloak-and-dagger
Hang at the door.
Desire Hush!
Your passion I implore
And you take my soul
To have and to hold.

{Poem by K.D. Iredale}

Peter Lattu

From Both Sides Now: A Review

From Both Sides Now, edited by Phillip Murray, features “the poetry of the Vietnam War and its aftermath”, written by poets who lived through the war. As its title proclaims, this is an anthology of poems by GI’s, Viet Cong, North Vietnamese Army, Vietnamese civilians, boat people, veterans and even peace demonstrators in the USA. One relives the Vietnam War from all sides.

The anthology records the brutality of the American campaign against the Vietnamese, no matter whether combatant or noncombatant. American bombing and the use of napalm and Agent Orange wrought havoc indiscriminately. My Lai was not an isolated incident. Memory, however, can be selective, remembering only our misdeeds. Elliot Richman, in “A Poison Tree”, starkly describes the butchery of “seven guys from the 7th Cav” by the Viet Cong. The war was waged savagely by both sides.

America’s young paid a high price in Vietnam. In “Midnight at the Vietnam Veterans Memorial”, W. D. Ehrhart chronicles the rite of passage back then:

Fifty-eight thousand American dead,
average age nineteen years, six months.
Get a driver’s license,
graduate from high school,
die.

These young men never had a chance to live because of a war of dubious value. The survivors paid a high price too. In “Peer Group”, Bill Shields observes that Vietnam vets have “the highest rate/ of alcoholism & drug abuse & divorce/ & mental illness & suicide” of any group of Americans. Again in “Miles of Bones” Shields notes the disconcerting fact that “the number of Vietnam/ veteran suicides… equals the names on the Wall”.
This poetry damns America for not doing enough for the survivors.

Poetry strips experience down to its essential kernel of truth. From Both Sides Now is a history through poetry of the war told with an emotional veracity that news stories and history books do not touch with their chronicling of events.

{Written by Peter Lattu, May 2010}

Henry Sosnowski

Reno Rain

Burrowing into bliss
two lovers
God’s children
aboard a downy raft
of pillows, comforter
soft flannel sheets
hearing only
hearts pulsing
in time
with rooftop
raindrops
two lovers
praying this
never stops
knowing this
fleeting moment
this heat
these tandem
heartbeats are
as precious
as rare
as Reno rain.

{Poem by Henry Sosnowski}

Gregory Liffick

Religion

Making
saints
of weak
impulses.
Seeing
in every
deadly sin
necessary
miracles
for canon-
ization
of self-
indulgence.
Building
a teetering
church
on a
crumbling,
unsteady
rock.


Immemorial

The bones
of old
contention
poke up
through
lasting
battle-
grounds.
We trip
over
the
skeletons
of past
wars
of hearts
and minds.

{Poetry by Gregory Liffick}

Martyn-Phelips de Burgh

Perigrinari

I glide through bright reflective doors
And feel at one with your soul.
I flit through misty valleys,
Hissing with streams and thunderous lightning,
And imbibe the mead of forestial illumination.
Re-entering the room of sensation,
Our bodies simmer with humming pleasures. Intention
Anchors me to the night and pleasant chatter
Shutters out the visions, as we settle into somnolence.

{Poem by Martyn-Phelips de Burgh}

Gregory Liffick

Earthbound

Fancy flies
but
crashes
upon landing.
Unrealistic
wings
take off,
but lack
the
engineering
for coming
back to
earth.
The
momentary
rush
gives lift,
but passes
and all
falls
down.


Denial

In the
habit of
putting
cart
before horse.
Insures
not getting
anywhere
soon.
Not
longing
for the
travel
involved
with the
pursuit of
happiness.
What doesn't
come
at once,
do without.

{Poetry by Gregory Liffick}

Anne Britting Oleson

Sheet Music

First cornet, Irish reel, key of C,
arranged for military band.
Marked presto, ten measures rest to start.

Anyway, story of her whole life:
presto, quick; rest—just wait.
Valve oil time while listening,

discovering how the song plays on out,
pausing so she can join in later,
and not be too far wrong, since to play

trumpet is to be too obvious
for her own good really—anyone's:
a missed note is twice as wrong

when it is twice as loud.

{Poem by Anne Britting Oleson}

Cassandra V. Murphy

Changing Tides

Your face, so soft
Feels like silky cloth
Beneath my skin-
But your eyes look dim
As they search the room quite lost,
Tossing pupils up and down
To look around these bedroom walls.
Your smile falls, your laughter pauses.
You feel trapped, and I feel like a used mat
That you carelessly stepped on.
In my dreams I call to the birds
And whisper words about escape
From this growing hate
That is spreading in between us.

{Poem by Cassandra V. Murphy}

Joy Olree

Faithful Rose

Planted on a hill,
Watered and feed,
Left to grow,
Warmed by the sun,
Caressed by the wind,
Frozen by the cold,
Weathered by time,
Colored by the God,
Of all that would see,
The beauty of creation,
Faithful and strong,
Rose for love,
Friendship or death,
Rose for whatever,
Is needed at the time,
Year after year,
Sure as the sun sets,
And the moon rises,
The faithful rose,
Will rise once more,
It’s beauty for all to see

{Poem by Joy Olree}

K.D. Iredale

Predator Craving My Heart

You pursued me, unrelentingly,
Day and night-
Enticed me
To unexplored territory.
Until I caught the jungle fever.
Delirious,
The disease spread swiftly,
Until a piece of my heart
Was tattooed onto yours.

{Poem by K. D. Iredale}

Maryann Spikes

Sword and Sacrifice (Haiku)

Sword and sacrifice:
made in the essence of God--
treat others as self.

There is no true good?
Good is a construct of will?
Ever take offense?

Love others as self:
no construct, no evolved good--
eternal essence.

Accept nothing less:
constructs do not obligate--
only love fulfills.

Goodness will always
withstand the fire of reason
and love, resonate.

Not even God willed
goodness into becoming
but IS that goodness.

The highest truth is
discovered, not created:
love your enemy.

Love is not love if
there is no demonstration--
Sword and Sacrifice.

{Poem by Maryann Spikes}

Jeanne Fiedler

Dusk

Sparrows ...strolling...kissing
Take flight! Take flight!
The Earth is trembling
Distress is lurking
Fly...Fly... Away
Your soft brown silhouettes
on the delicate hazel
shadows of the branches
hiding from the sun...
How beautifully you fit
in the stillness of love
Your tawny wings from above
Up and away..away and away
You've gone without a sound

{Poem by Jeanne Fiedler}

Peter Lattu

a review on Claiming the Spirit Within
edited by Marilyn Sewell

Claiming the Spirit Within: a Sourcebook of Women’s Poetry, edited by Marilyn Sewell, is a trove of contemporary poetry. Fossicking here will turn up gold and gems, Pulitzer winners and poets laureate. Marilyn Sewell parades forth some of the best: Sharon Olds, Lucille Clifton, Jane Kenyon, Erica Jong, Rita Dove, Denise Levertov, Anne Sexton, Jane Hirshfield, Molly Peacock, Mary Oliver, Maxine Kumin, Margaret Atwood, Nikki Giovanni, May Swenson, Louise Gluck, Linda Pastan, Muriel Rukeyser, and others.

There are some wonderful poems centered around cooking. Rhona McAdam, in “The Boston School of Cooking Cookbook” reflects on her mother’s cookbook, now in her own hands. McAdam sees the food stains, “the faded trail of silverfish”, the marginalia, and “a lifetime’s preparation vanished/ into our waiting mouths”. In “Retrospect in the Kitchen”, Maxine Kumin comes to grips with a death over a “boiling pot/ of cloves, cinnamon, sugar” and plums. Lin Max, in “The Piemaker”, hopes to have little girls in order to show them how it takes time “to get past wanting to quit” in order to make pies. Barbara Presnell learns about life and death with her mother, grandmother, aunt and herself while they all “snap heads from beans” and “unthread their sides” in “In the Kitchen We String Beans”. The kitchen is a great place to learn life’s lessons.

Some of Jane Kenyon’s best are here: “Yard Sale” reflects on generations as the “family’s belongings lie on the lawn”. “Trouble with Math in a One-Room Country School” shows how punishment can harden a heart against authority and change a child’s life in an instant. “Back from the City” charts a trip to New York City with its art and fine food that results in a startling epiphany about homelessness.

Laura Apol notes in “Woman of Light” that “lost poems are poems lost forever”. Marilyn Sewell’s collection brings us wonderful poems so that they are not lost but are here before us ready to read.

{Review by Peter Lattu}

Marissa Carney

Untitled

surely not your first
even second
or third
choice

but as water follows the
moon,
there i'll be on your shore

as the willow will always
weep,
i'll gather its tears to water your roots

i threaded the needle to mend your wounds
but you sewed them to mine,
yourself to me...

so as thunder is guaranteed
after the lightning streak,
so are you
held protected
under the eaves of my
heart

{Poetry by Marissa Carney}

Patrick T. Randolph

Tiny Child Pretending to Sleep

A whisper,
Mother’s kiss—
giggles explode.


Theater on the River

Turtle’s eyes
Observe clouds—
Water dancers!


The Voice

Breath poems—
in her ear—
Goosebumps build skin!

{Poetry by Patrick T. Randolph}

Greg Chandler

Fall From Grace

The glass ceiling got tougher
The leap to the top got longer
Nothing you can say can help you
Nothing you can do can save you

You decided to stick it out
Even while riding a cloud of doubt
You wouldn’t let them ruin the ride
You wouldn’t let them kill the ride

While relaxing in the king’s chair
You wanted to rule in a way that’s fair
You never thought it would be hard
Even though they said it would be hard

They protested against your soul
Before you started to dig your hole
You never realized the danger your in
Who knew the danger was within

Your rise to the top crowned you
Your fall from grace defeated you
Now there’s no where to go
Now no one cares where go

{Poem by Greg Chandler}

Daniel G. Snethen

Dichotomy

The scorpion stung
as the Dalai Lama prayed.
This was their nature.


No Wood to Burn

Lungs burning cold
with frozen breathlessness.
Bodies, of all ages,
frostbitten and worn,
huddle beneath tattered star quilts,
hugging one another
and their wormy mongrels.
Seeking warmth,
wearing a mask of icy death.

{Poetry by Daniel G. Snethen}

Peter Lattu

the beach

served up
on a tray:
two Adirondack chairs
painted green
looking out
at the ocean
tide rolling in
waves lapping the shore
sandpipers
scuttling along
the tide line
their tracks
washed away
by the waves
all under blue skies
with white clouds
sailing by
the beach
served up
on a tray
made in Italy
for you and me

{Poem by Peter Lattu}

Jim Brearton

Markets Will Crash

Markets will crash.
Children will still go to the beach.
A summer day will always be warm.
His words will mean the same thing.
If I saw you sleeping
I still would not know
what you were dreaming.
Young ladies still pretty
and boys fresh
without speaking.
Leaves will shake and
smoke will rise up a chimney.
Ice is where we once swam.
Someone's heart
will be torn
and hurt as badly.
You know you're a part
of all that will be.
Eyes on the past
trip us now
just like before.
We lunge to go further.
The same things we see
but cannot touch
are closer.
Always a new word to learn,
and something we've done
that needs to be
forgiven.
Catch me if you can.


Party Like It's $19.99

A long time ago
lost in the mists of history
was the twentieth century.

We have nothing to do now.
I'm down to writing the Official Guy Manual.
Here are the chapters:
1 mowing lawn
2 watching girls
3 shoveling snow
4 getting hair cut
5 watching TV
6 drinking
7 sports
8 cars
9 stupid love stories

The longest chapter is the last.
Most guys never heard of love
until it hits them like an 18 wheeler
and they are reduced to
the intelligence of an opossum
wondering what went wrong
and what to do next.
There are no screen passes for this--
no cover three zones
or easy questions like:
Move the infield in?
Bunt? Steal a base?
Guys don't know what to do.

{Poetry by Jim Brearton}

Vicki Collins

Simple Answer

Painting, John Cleaveland, 1988
Short Story, “Barn Burning” William Faulkner

Burning his enemies’ barns is a balm
for his vindictive soul. With no formal
schooling, money, or valuable possessions,
Abner Snopes works in tenebrosity, relying
on a dented oil can and wooden matchsticks
for the power and respect he seeks. Like the
Prince of Darkness, he plants small sparks
that grow toward total destruction. The long,
yellow stripe down his back mirrors the tall
peaks of flame lighting the sky as he scuttles
from his maleficent handiwork and latest victim.
Bound by years of sharecropping indentureship,
hiding in the woods, and moving his family
from one shanty to another, he yearns
for some semblance of control. He possesses
no internal fire. For a bitter, complex man,
it is a simple answer: barn burning is a decision
he makes without heat.

{Poem by Vicki Collins}

Natalie Jeanne Champagne

Man and Wife

The division between
The man and woman
Was so great

The divide so wide

That whenever he bent to kiss
Her lips
It was then he would miss

The woman
Once young
Flowered
Empowered
Now pushed him away
If he touched the wrong way

And the man growing angry
Would turn red in the face
Dangle his hands
Near her pretty white face

It was then that the woman
Once full of great pride
Walked away from the man
Who once made her bride


Artists

Artist’s are makers
And
Artist’s are takers
We are those
Who fear discourse;
Sitting at our desks
Placid pen in hand
Talking with keys
Often fallen on our knees

We walk in circles
Right left, right left
Stalking with our words
Letting go with each curve

We work for what we deserve
Naturally, unnerved
Artist’s we detest
The words that are left
Loose on lined paper

Is nothing left?

It’s always a disease
Always sweet reprieve
When we connect
When we reflect.

{Poetry by Natalie Jeanne Champagne}

Michelle M. Moat

A Battle of Epic Proportions

My hiatus
Taken in a green room
My heart won
In a cold war

He points the gun
At fear
No trigger is pulled
But meaning is found

A moment of ice
Turns

My face meets
His undying expression
As I melt in the sun
I call Inevitability

{Poem by Michelle M. Moat}

K.D. Iredale

Edmonds Downtown

The fall morning settles
With the smell of chimney smoke
8:30 am
And an elderly man walks his dog
The horn blows
Of decaying leaves about your feet
And crying from selfish seagulls
The waves move
On idle moon's whim
The fog is gloomy
And at the corner of the street
A lone child stands and observes

{Poem by K.D. Iredale}

Jessica Barido

Creativity

Creativity
Stems from the brain
Lives in the heart
Touches the soul
Soaks onto parchment
Sprints from sparkling fingertips
Then reaches millions

{Poem by Jessica Barido}

Keith Wesley Combs

king's row.

memories.
thoughts.
things I remember
from childhood
of times
that were happier.
better.
of a life
almost fogotten.
living hidden
alone in my heart.

{Poem by Keith Wesley Combs}

Reuben Deerbe, Jr.

Losing Conflict

We fight the undead/ once living like us/ impossible odds/
can one undo chance/ the unthinkable/ tap our potential/
to send them back 'home'/ an unlikely place/ we fight to escape?

{Poem by Reuben Deerbe, Jr.}

W. J. Davis

Quiet Streets

The roaring sounds of the city have quieted.
The streets have taken on a different air.
I walk alone with no real cares.
Thinking nothing of the day gone by
And nothing of the day to come.
Bars take on their own sounds, peaceful.
The soft sound of the street where I live
Is a welcome relief.
As I enter into my quiet room I could reflect
But why bother? What the heck.
I lay down my tired head with no real dread
Of the city noises that will come tomorrow.

{Poem by W. J. Davis

Robert Kernell

Diamond Mind

The operating system works
well. I am talking about

the mind. Knowledge fills
the interstices. But you

say the mind is flexible,
can change. Of course I

say, of course! But it is
still diamond. It glows with

its pure white and clear
beauty. Of course it is

still diamond…

{Robert Kernell}

Ellen Vergales

Plea

Silently I dance
Across the forbidden asphalt
In rhythm and in step
Upon the ground I prance

Through the thicket
Of a fox’s game
The cunning and curious
Stop at the sound of your shame

I listen to your plea of words
Hearing only what counts
On the stallion of your speech
You quietly dismount


Beating Drums

Such immense depth
Portrayed as shallow
Beats the steady drum
Whose echoes are hollow

The beats heavy and sturdy
Surround all caught in the drift
Sounds muffled by water
Our uncertainty lifts

Plain truth becomes foggy
As our thoughts lose breath
What once was known well
Becomes victim of theft

Dance steps to the calling
Create such an allure
Misguided arrows now stray
Before aimed straight and sure

Now pierced and scared
Scream out in fierce pain
Others move around a cry of help
Ignoring their burning shame

Captivity fights at the lock
Spreading wound will bleed
Bystanders so hungry
The eagerly feed

Red enters the bodies
Watch them squirm and cringe
Breaking open the souls
Who held on by one hinge

A village has fallen
No more bricks they can lend
The beats are now silenced
But the drums won’t end

{Poetry by Ellen Vergales}

Ron Koppelberger

Ghosts and Eyes of Fire

She dances on the edge of a frayed twilight horizon, by the gentle sway of a milkweed drama and a dandelion in saffron bloom. The intoxicating wine of an innate possession by her side, in her eyes and flowing around her in waves of silhouetted shadow. She pauses in her dance and breaths through the mists of a myriad dream, what of the spirits in sashay, by evanescent coquette and divine rapture, what of the ghosts in tender embrace with the innocence of a ravens wing and eyes aflame by the passion of a distant satisfaction. She dances in amber spears of night tide advance, with the souls of a lonesome bond and a silent fate. In arrays of scarlet and cotton weave, by the whisper of a warm wind and the turn of a rhapsody in velvet cocoons, embraced by the dream, touched by the phantasms of a nightingale in ebony shades of moon song. She wills the wont of a myriad waiting flirt, for a kiss and the breath of life, love and sustenance, for starving darkness and candent fields aflame. She spins by the wont of magic assurance and the need for loves in clouds of ethereal smoke. Ghosts by the wayward glance of a tattered dancer, ghosts in flittering half-light rapture and in pirouette, by ballerinas and sleepy fools in desire, by the ghosts of err and the lore of a vagabond dreamer.

{Poem by Ron Koppelberger}

Joy Olree

Love's Dream

In wilder days and softer nights,
Upon a pillow love did lie,
And dreamed a dream,
Of kingdom lost,
And freedom found,
To curry favors for the dead,
Trapped between here and there,
Of candid lips and jeweled eyes,
Of once before and ever after,
As passions rise and cautions wane,
The untouched needs of warped desires,
A scattered brain of useless toys,
Its’ empty thoughts of heathen Gods,
Who gave a dollar for the cause,
And never failed to hear the cries,
Of bettered fools and crescent moons,
We long for love but live in hate,
It’s morning in the Land of Oz,
But we have lost the yellow road

{Poem by Joy Olree}

Linda Boerstler

Untitled

Do not leave me alone
In the darkness
For I will surely fall --
And this broken body
Is too frail to use.
I know only you!
Lead me beside
The still waters.

Do not leave me alone
In the desert
For I will surely die
For this parched soul
Cannot find water --
Cannot see the oasis ahead
I know only you!
Lead me to
Those lush green pastures.

Do not leave me alone
On the mountaintop
For I will surely lose my way
And this feeble brain
Will not remember the journey
I know only you!
Your word, my lamp.
Your voice, my light.

{Poem by Linda Boerstler}

Sheila B. Roark

Spring's On the Way

Sleeping trees and flowers
know that the time is nigh
when spring will come back once again
as quiet as a sigh.

The world awaits the colors
that always come with spring,
along with all the dulcet tones
the many song birds sing.

It is a time of joyful hope
that fills the world with glee,
as new life takes its proper place
with unbound energy.

We know it will be very soon
for spring to come once more
replenishing the now sleeping earth
the way it's done before.


Dance of the Flakes

Gently they start to fall
floating gracefully on the air
performing slow pirouettes
on their way to meet the earth.

These crystal flakes fall rhythmically
as they ride upon the winter air,
then gently land on sleeping trees
covering them with furry coats of white.

As time goes by the flakes increase
changing their slow hypnotic dance
into a swirling blinding reel
covering the world in a deep blanket of white.

When the dance is over
the world is calm and silent
muted by the fallen snow
that rests after performing its dance of beauty.

{Poetry by Sheila B. Roark}

Janice Gero

The Silence of Kawabata
(written after Yasunari Kawabata's death)

He heard the mountain’s voice
wore village silk bleached by snow
loved the calm of the tiny bunting birds
honored the geisha’s blush just below her powder line.

Now
who will tell me these things
I need to know.

{Poem by Janice Gero}

Jason Rhoades

On the Train from New York

Overcast skies
hang down lazily
above the city
The New Haven line
creeks and lumbers along the tracks
past old tenements
and then characterless projects
Beads of water collect
and trace patterns down the windows

The Russian girl sitting behind me
has on a turquoise necklace
When she speaks
her words carry out
into the grey rainy morning
like a song

{Poem by Jason Rhoades}

Rick O'Bryan

At Season's End

From a high oak tree
That is how I would like to go
Dropping down into a clear blue sky
In early fall when each new leaf
Holds to each old branch
Then tumbles in the wind
A many-colored leaf
Dropping through the cool sunlight
Until like the sound of my heart
The summer leaf hits the ground.

{Poem by Rick O'Bryan}

Lara Dolphin

Evocation of Solomon’s Temple

Allegri's sistine secret echoed round
the chapel walls unchurching any soul
who tried to steal the sacred, stygian sound
removing him from off the parish roll.

In Rome at age fourteen, young Mozart heard
the Miserere mei, Deus twice
and memorized the music and the words
and thereby raised the ban without the price.

At every holy season, Yom Kippur
did call the highest priest into the dark
so he might take our sins and then implore
our God divine once more before the ark.

Upon the hill at Calvary, He died,
a simple man, the Son of God, a Jew.
Our sins repaid by Jesus crucified
and so the temple veil was torn in two.

So when you find your feet are made of clay
and given up and lost all will to fight,
my friend, go seek and find the one true way
for sin is black while truth resides in light.

{Poem by Lara Dolphin}

David E. Howerton

was worth it wasn't it

Took the tape
and drew words
on wall.
Didn't
care someone had too.
So I did it,
feel better and
it might end up
in the paper.
Though even then
nothing will come of it.


you know there where of

it's the cities
on the edge
where dreams flutter
whisper crying

{Poems by David E. Howerton}

Alan Britt

February Blizzard

Diminutive snowflakes collect
in a spider’s web
hung in the corner
between mink lattice boards
and peeling white two-by-fours.

Amazingly, crystals still intact.

A few crystals resemble the fine hairs
on tiny cactus spines
in shapes of crosses or scissors,
while others retain the frozen geometry
of Platonic stars,
some with five arms,
some with six.

There are, of course, several shattered stars,
clumped and torn
like raw cotton.

This fine mist of snow
has been falling
nearly six hours, now.

In its breezy, moonlit corner, the entire web
quivers like nervous flagella
below a forensics microscope

{Poem by Alan Britt}

Peter Lattu

Dark Berries by Clifford Bernier: A Review

Clifford Bernier is a well-traveled man who, in his poems, takes one from his home along the Potomac River to such places as Vancouver, Candidasa and Inan-cho. He writes of exotic faraway places in words that dance like dervishes in the mind conjuring up the magic of childhood adventure tales of mystical princes and princesses on the edge of time and the world as we know it. The rich language in these poems takes us on a journey as exciting as the destinations, as in “the shape of your back a shamisen or koto”.

He delves into the past as well in “Babylon”, where he recreates its gates and streets teeming with merchants, courtesans, kings and snake charmers. Babylon is now buried under sand and almost forgotten. This poem brings us Babylon alive again and full of vigor.

He writes too of music and writing, of love, and of the surgeon’s scalpel. “Meditations” evokes musical notes scattered on the page of poetry “though you cannot hear them”. Though imagined, they are real. “The Surgeon’s Work” is an understated moving love poem to a woman with breast cancer.

“Rabat”, the closing poem, sums up the evanescence of life, even in so lively a place as the kasbah. The poem suggests an older man drinking coffee and nostalgically recalling summers gone by. The sugar for his coffee reminds him of the “cubed passages of the kasbah” with its bustle of activity and “haggle of merchants/ over dates and persimmons”.

Take a trip with Clifford Bernier. Dark Berries is available for $10.00 from Pudding House Publications, 81 Shadymere Lane, Columbus, OH 43213.

{Review by Peter Lattu, April 2010}

Kevin Cole

Hidden Homeless

Sitting hidden
Near the cyclone fence
Next to the padlocked shed
Under the elevated train
Dripping runoff
Rail towers rust coated
In iron barnacles

Stunned watching
The numb motorcade
Endless passing rain cars
Light changes
In city repetition
Neon green
Danger yellow
Deadstop red

There was a last job
Dishwasher in a closed diner
White shirt rolled sleeves
The smell of food eternal

Now there’s sitting hidden
Near the cyclone fence

{Poem by Kevin Cole}

Ramesh Dohan

Rumours

All that it takes
is one little black dress
to start swaying
in that vacant closet

For the rest of them
to nudge each other
clicking like heels on cobblestone
or disapproving tongues


Words

On this dark,
sultry night
I come to you
like one who is lost
in love

A moment`s captive
like a lone sail
at sunset
suspended on the bay

only a few gulls
keeping it company

{Ramesh Dohan}

Abigale Louise LeCavalier

Kisses Hello

“It’s nice to meet you!”

I haven’t heard that in a while,
shaking hands
in public places.

A kiss?
Maybe two.

Stubble feels like sandpaper
ripped across the lips,
it’s better to aim for the mouth,
unless rude.

A feather floats into my purse,
like magic,
like me;
not “magical”
but magic just the same.

And I can float on air
without wings,
it only takes a thought
or a “nice weather we’re having!”
from a passer by.

No kisses hello for them,
just a courteous nod.

And the conversation continues
mirrored in the eyes
of, what’s his face.

I think his name was Milford.

And now I have enough feathers
to fill a pillow,

“it’s nice to meet you too!”
I say,
with a little blood in my mouth.

{Poem by Abigale Louise LeCavalier}

Judith Ann Levison

Two Men on a Bench in a Great City

I am no more
Than I am in this moment;
And yet, I am everything I have been.

It's a wonder, isn't it?
Our generation signals us to
Carry on, yet we are the last to know.
The grand children will tangle our lives:
You'll be in the wrong story,
And I will be left out.

I have unearthed the secret. It is kinder
Than I thought and the gargoyles above
My head lap the rain, rust sealed at their lids.

What did you say?
Oh, I have come to that too.
Finality. We can breathe now.
Dreams had their way with us
And those lost we tossed out.
No one was to blame. No.

Anything left is a reverence
I keep for my mother.

{Poem by Judith Ann Levison}

Peter Layton

Songs Song Birds

The world will I believe never get to know
what it's lacking
of its most wonderful emerging talent
just readying to flower.

And now,

in the ethosphere of the pin hole dots of the
earliest night sky
dust
which might've been mountains.


True Or Fall

The rain has melted
and blown away
the night is still and cold
still wet
the moon shimmering through silvered clouds.

I'll close my eyes
try as hard as I may try
to produce you
you who left with the rain
blind sun.

{Poetry by Peter Layton}

Derrick Steilman

Criminal Family

Men of honor come together to form an alliance
Oaths are made; enemies met with defiance
Your brothers become my brothers,
Side by side in business and in war
Cruelty, brutality and gore:
Critical elements in order to rise,
For an organization lacking wealth and numbers eventually dies

Loyalty among wolves as long as sheep exist
Where no meat is offered, men will resist
Great leaders raid and plunder,
Leaving communities torn asunder

In a world of treachery and betrayal
Hearts are shielded in iron mail
Not a matter of if by when--
Disappointment is assured
Facing death conduct twists to absurd

Knowing that the end will surely by met
Some willingly pay that debt
And stand up for what they believe
Selfless service gives noble purpose
To those with courage and valor in surplus


Prison

Cold gray stone, every portal barred
Among the crazy and immoral
Emotionally and mentally scarred
Paranoia, hate and violence
Men bound by an oath of silence

A warehouse for human beings
Guarded by society's depraved
Whose souls remain unseeing
Lock them up and throw away the key
The memories of them soon I will hardly see

{Poetry by Derrick Steilman}

Les Cammer

Hostess

we have accommodations for the
decent and the
indecent which
are you
this time


Untitled

As
The
Slacker
Candidate
For
President
I
Promise
To
Do Absolutely
Nothing


Untitled

poets don't
have missile silos
and security alerts


Untitled

back from the swap meet
with vampire books
pliers cassette
storage crates
a large box
formerly used to
store vacuum
tubes what
ill do with
that i haven't
the faintest
notion

{Poetry by Les Cammer}

Jonathan C. Holeman

An Angel

If there was an Angel
that fell to earth today,
and if I sat with her in wonder
why she now refused to pray.
I'd listen to her teardrops
in the warming sun's bright ray,
and I'd ask from her one promise
that she'd never go away,
and if she took that vow
there'd be nothing left to say,
because I'd be in heaven,
and with her my heart would always lay.


A Clearing

A cloud of trees,
puffy leaves,
sunlights beams break through,
the branches secret holdings.
Scattering down,
luminescent bright stalks of warmth,
bringing energy to the world,
filling forest floors with eerie peace.
Serenity and silences,
birds a flutter,
the aura of harmony.
Laying down,
on needles and pines,
I rest, internally.

{Poem by Jonathan C. Holeman}

Lara Dolphin

One

I know I often expatiate
on errant stuff, yet truly
complete substance follows unrivaled you.

Author's Note: This poem is written following the number Pi.
Each word beginning with the title bears the same amount of
letters as the corresponding digit in Pi, 3.141592653589793.


Duke

Your long board creates
a bower in the blue wave.
Aloha, my friend.


Cap d’agde

A train from Paris
departs a world confined and
comes to the beach where
naturists and libertines
bask in the Westering sun.

{Poetry by Lara Dolphin}

J.T. Whitehead

Nocturne No. 6

Even God Dances Nights. Beneath cloudy rafters,
before thousands of lesser stars, how composed God must be,
given our fireworks, flashing & invasive, like Paparazzi.


Nocturne No. 1

Eve of day, an Arab woman, walks behind men.
Night, an Arab woman, stares day in the back, avoiding eyes.
Night, an Arab woman, is hidden, wears a black veil.


Nocturne No. 2

Outside the house a circle of stone wall surrounds the court.
The stones shift throughout the weaving suburban wall
as slowly as rigor mortis creeps through a corpse.


Nocturne No. 3

The Moon is misty-eyed . . . in memoriam the Sun.
Calendars, as honest as propaganda, claim Spring has begun.
Cats, as honest as silence, do not lie.

{Poetry by J. T. Whitehead}

Christopher Seth

A Pure Cold Light

When from
where from
there from
touch the tinkeling
best be asleep by nightfall
hands collected in
innocent prayer
the ordeal
stopped for a moments moment
expanding itself
headlong
if grey allowed my head
to slip about giddily
into the positive
free choice veil
callow ear piercing
groan of indignation
how could the big bang
orchestrate similar breaths
to boil over unconditionally
I want to deny it
I want to deny it
and said and done
applied to some
others in a bracket
set up to be spoiled
does pulled apart
continue to
vice scope on end?
or end does it
in vipers teeth driven?
boquet of roses
frown furiously
on thy threadbare surroundings
and give a new breath
place and sanctimony
riddled apart
yet kept current
under current washing

{Poem by Christopher Seth}

Ed Beller

A Train Ride and One Dollar in His Sombrero

For one dollar on the number one
I saw his small brown fingers dance on the accordion.
He danced too,
This small brown virtuoso.
But softly.
Mastery of the instrument
Made movement irrelevant.

Note: Some of the subway trains in N.Y.C. are designated by number. Mexican
musicians
often play and pass the hat.


Wind

There is power in the wind.
And small strength in a small boy's voice
In the sixth floor hallway on his way to school.
They will meet soon
And the father, standing near his son,
Will remember his father
And how he stared silently at the wind bent trees.

{Poetry by Ed Beller}

Sarah-Judith Bernstein

The Raven

He walks quickly to the end of the branch
Raises his head
Stretching it from side to side
Exercising his muscles after a night of rest

He shrugs his wings backwards
Loosening the muscles

Now, fully awake,
He looks around
Eyes darting this way and that
For signs of predator

His head darts in and out
As he determines the direction of the wind

He raises his wings just slightly,
An old pro at this sort of thing

Determining the direction of the wind
He raises his head
Standing straighter
Loosening his hold on the branch beneath him

Raising his wings so that they point backwards
He prepares to leap

Done with preparation
The raven takes flight.


The Hawk

A bird of prey
A bird of flight
A bird of wind
A bird of night

The hawk of moon and starry night
The hawk of watchers running where sky is bright

The beauty of the earth and sky with wings so like the eagle
May stretch his wings and, with beak wide and head held high,
Make take, like a king in his domain,
To the skies when he will, and savor every joy,
Of this his strangest right, the right of flight.

{Poetry by Sarah-Judith Bernstein}

Peter Lattu

A Look at Poems by Linda Pastan

Harold Bloom, in The Best of the Best American Poetry 1988-1997, bemoans the state of modern poetry and literary criticism. Others, more recently, continue to find gloom amidst contemporary poetry offerings. They haven’t discovered Linda Pastan.

In her recent book, Queen of a Rainy Country, the poems sparkle. “Snowed In” echoes Carl Sandburg with “soft white paws under/ the door of winter”. “Snowdrops” is brilliant. It’s a short poem that captures the essence of snowdrops and their role in “presiding/ over the slow/ death of winter”. Indeed, snowdrops are the first sign of spring among snowdrifts, of life after winter’s chill.

In an earlier book, The Last Uncle, “The Months” catches a sense of each month, each change, each season in the natural cycle of the year.
Pastan often finds just the right words to describe the moment: in “The Crossing” she awakes “to the small applause/ of rain”. “The Answering Machine” brings a friend’s voice persisting after death. Nature and death are cheated by a machine. “The Last Uncle” neatly conjures the Janus face of generations as the door closes behind him.

Carnival Evening is a selection of poems from thirty years of Pastan’s literary life, 1968 to 1999. It’s a rich offering. “A Craving for Salt” casts a new and different light on the story of Lot’s wife: she turned back because “what she left behind/ was simply everything”. In “Still Life”, Pastan favors the French phrase ‘nature morte’ which reflects that “life is less… without the actual taste/ of a pear on the tongue”. In “You are Odysseus”, she perhaps sums up her years of writing by concluding “only my weaving is real”.

In Contemporary American Woman Poets, Andrea Adolph puts a glass ceiling above Linda Pastan as a poet. Adolph notes that she is concerned with the “everyday” and writes of a “woman’s world”. Adolph finds that Pastan’s poetry has a “distinctly female sensuality”. While much of this criticism may be true, Linda Pastan doesn’t deserve to be compartmentalized in this way. Her work over the past forty years deserves to be read and appreciated regardless of her gender.

{Written by Peter Lattu}

Frank S. LeRose

Yggdrasil

The most sincere creation,
paramount in nature
its’ leaves:
an always rebirth
of dying trees-

it keeps them
forever fertile, yes,
in being
inherently sprung from
the virginal.

{Poem by Frank S. LeRose}

Mark D. Cohen

Car Wash Blues

I am in quite a fix
I am gaining weight constantly, absolutely constantly
And about ten months ago, I got my car washed
And they broke my front seat

Now, if I could adjust it, I could fit behind the steering
wheel more comfortably
But that just ain’t gonna happen
And every week the tight fit gets a little tighter
And pretty soon, I’m going to be taking cabs around town

I definitely have the car wash blues
Will my family buy me a new car?
(A bigger one, of course)
I sincerely hope so
Or else I’ll be in a whole heap of trouble

{Poem by Mark D. Cohen}

Judith Ann Levison

Lemonade

I continue my embroidery
Of a butterfly upon lace-leaf greens
Simple enough to sew blind,
Then in nerves you ask
Will I 'bury' you and we laugh.

You tap your frosted glass,
Waiting for my years to entwine
Yours like small, yellow
Roses trapped through a fence.

But, aloneness is a treasure.
That can feign affection,
Unwrap the in and out weave
Of love's uneven stitchery,
Of eyes that see roses bouncing
Yes, no, in the breeze.

I sip the lemonade,
It is cruel I know,
That money plays a part
And roses turn to rot.
Embroidery has a fierce needle,
To calm any emotion down,
And I can do it blind.

{Poem by Judith Ann Levison}

Bobby Geans

The Wings of A Swan

She is spotlight glamour, in her youth.
Her body is a swivel.
Her arms are the wings of a swan.
She is gracefully swirling and swaying.
Her long black hair is flying away.
Is she tiptoeing on hot coals of fire?
I have never seen such class.


God's Coloring Book

Somewhere in the hills of Virginia,
Just off some old two lane.

We could hear the distant rumbling,
Of an old freight train.

We kissed beneath a dogwood tree,
Where only the creatures of nature might see.

A mild wind blows,
While a yellow butterfly
Is kissing a red rose.

Just beyond a sunny slope,

Were the sound of murmuring brooks...
Virginia is one of God's coloring books.


If I Were A Kitten

If I were your kitten,
A cute little ball of fur.
I would sleep upon your pillow
And purr and purr.

On wintry nights,
You would receive a treat.

I would sleep at the foot of the bed,
And warm your little feet.

I would purr and purr,
To the rhythm of your heart beat.
And purr and purr until you fell asleep.

{Poetry by Bobby Geans}

Tom Wilson

Stinging in the Rain

I walked in the rain
Poesy on my brain
Out to pick some verse
Profound yet terse
But in my poetree was a beehive
I'm lucky to be alive
I was stung so many times
I suffer for my rhymes.

{Poem by Tom Wilson}