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}