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}