I Believe in Trees
Those silent citadels
standing against long
nights of wind and cold.
Broken willow bramble
scratches a pale sky after
yesterday’s ice storm.
Each spring small buds
blossom as bugs and
butterflies orbit boughs.
Green new leaf fits
your hand so perfectly.
The future lies in your palm.
Birds reciting litany in woods.
Each rainfall the forest
grows taller, more verdant.
Summer afternoons…trees
sashay in sunshine showing
off their emerald gowns.
Winds sway maple branches.
Leaves drop like butterflies
falling to the warm earth.
Red yellow brown carpets
of crunchy foliage spread
over roads welcoming us.
When the Moon is New
Groping through darkness
knocking everything down.
Down into enormous night
where thoughts unravel.
Memories moan past us as
shadows quiver across walls.
We lie pinned to bed sheets
like captive butterflies.
Dry butterflies...our throats
are brittle, eyes turning
from light. Sore arms reach
for anything soft to hold.
Remembering seasons gone by.
So many lost promises.
This huge moment surrounding us.
Wide awake we wait for the new day.
the sun is sparkling, the rain rumbling, and we badly need some poetry...
Sunday 24 April 2011
Jessica Otto - One Poem
Lupercalia
Winter is as ignorant as it has always been.
What sky we have is clouded gray.
The river that cuts through the city has frozen.
Last year my mother ran down
to the dock, threw
her hair onto the ice and
let her brain crystallize. My sister cracked
open her skull and crunched
her nickel plated stuffing
as she would cotton candy. She thought
the round tumors of rose quarts
nestled there would
make her fertile
since the preacher’s flogging didn’t.
Today I will burn a salt cake
at the slum’s edge,
behind the power plant.
You can come along if you want,
suck at the teats of some rabid wolf
with me. There are so many three
headed mothers who ate their
little ones in the famine. Screw
prudency, soon we’ll all be running
around on eight legs braying insanities
at the spot where the corn husk moon used to be.
Winter is as ignorant as it has always been.
What sky we have is clouded gray.
The river that cuts through the city has frozen.
Last year my mother ran down
to the dock, threw
her hair onto the ice and
let her brain crystallize. My sister cracked
open her skull and crunched
her nickel plated stuffing
as she would cotton candy. She thought
the round tumors of rose quarts
nestled there would
make her fertile
since the preacher’s flogging didn’t.
Today I will burn a salt cake
at the slum’s edge,
behind the power plant.
You can come along if you want,
suck at the teats of some rabid wolf
with me. There are so many three
headed mothers who ate their
little ones in the famine. Screw
prudency, soon we’ll all be running
around on eight legs braying insanities
at the spot where the corn husk moon used to be.
Monday 18 April 2011
S.P. Flannery - Three Poems
Attack
Boar tusks pierce
the abdominal wall
to spear the organs inside,
remove discarded flesh,
the rest left behind
to perish under the sun,
but the smooth inner coils
still have life, pulse on
those competitive blades
until constriction flips
the male beast on its back,
lying near a rotting log,
sounds of dogs in the distance
become closer to lost parts
that are retrieved to reunite
with the whole child,
a funeral pyre lights next to
the roast that will feed
those who grieve and keen.
The Pianist
When I press the keys,
those white and black wooden
blocks, no song echoes out,
I wail and pound, but
my fingers cannot create
notes strung together to
please the ears.
I have the same bones,
muscles, and tendons;
they are not clubs
or hammers to deafen
the tunes produced when
the cords are struck,
but he must have something,
whether from nature or nurture,
to be able to glide above
those keys without touching,
a dance of digits
few see because they
sit transfixed, transported
from their theater seats
into a world of auroras
curved along the black and white
remembered stars of closed eye lids.
The Hill Mound
Rain beads on the weathered blocks
of stone hauled up the raised knoll
built to give a noble view
now covered in creeks of mud.
Three teams tow with hand-spun rope
while ground slides under damp shoes
made from fallen hart-beasts' hide,
gifts from their life stricken sire.
He died in the autumn war,
in defense of the clan's herd;
lithic points rest in his chest,
shards carved by a banished son.
The ash they entomb when snow
covers the eastward glazed mound.
Three drawn spirals direct his
energy towards hidden planes.
*
We circle the eroded hill
to capture an image for
books to pass amongst our friends
of sights found on calendars.
Even with our modern tools,
the builders remain unknown
to everyone but those who
dwell between shade realms shrouded.
Boar tusks pierce
the abdominal wall
to spear the organs inside,
remove discarded flesh,
the rest left behind
to perish under the sun,
but the smooth inner coils
still have life, pulse on
those competitive blades
until constriction flips
the male beast on its back,
lying near a rotting log,
sounds of dogs in the distance
become closer to lost parts
that are retrieved to reunite
with the whole child,
a funeral pyre lights next to
the roast that will feed
those who grieve and keen.
The Pianist
When I press the keys,
those white and black wooden
blocks, no song echoes out,
I wail and pound, but
my fingers cannot create
notes strung together to
please the ears.
I have the same bones,
muscles, and tendons;
they are not clubs
or hammers to deafen
the tunes produced when
the cords are struck,
but he must have something,
whether from nature or nurture,
to be able to glide above
those keys without touching,
a dance of digits
few see because they
sit transfixed, transported
from their theater seats
into a world of auroras
curved along the black and white
remembered stars of closed eye lids.
The Hill Mound
Rain beads on the weathered blocks
of stone hauled up the raised knoll
built to give a noble view
now covered in creeks of mud.
Three teams tow with hand-spun rope
while ground slides under damp shoes
made from fallen hart-beasts' hide,
gifts from their life stricken sire.
He died in the autumn war,
in defense of the clan's herd;
lithic points rest in his chest,
shards carved by a banished son.
The ash they entomb when snow
covers the eastward glazed mound.
Three drawn spirals direct his
energy towards hidden planes.
*
We circle the eroded hill
to capture an image for
books to pass amongst our friends
of sights found on calendars.
Even with our modern tools,
the builders remain unknown
to everyone but those who
dwell between shade realms shrouded.
Tuesday 12 April 2011
Karina Longo - One Poem
Water and Other Fluids
Sometimes it's clear, sometimes it's thick -
Colour of nothing, colour of drunken insanity
Taste of the world - taste of no words
Rivers and showers - of gold and iron
It's only water, it's not wine anymore
Go on, move on - someday we might find home
But now you're alone
Sometimes it's obvious, sometimes you shiver inside
Colour of rainbows and wonders, colour of beige and denies
Writing 'love' on your fists
The baby doesn't know what it means
Ink; black, red or blue -
They don't go through the soul
It's just the superficial skin
Saliva in our mouths
Sweat in our bodies
Liquid from me, liquid from you,
I only want to know the truth -
No lies, no broken promises, no excuses
Clear as water, not dirty like other fluids.
Sometimes it's clear, sometimes it's thick -
Colour of nothing, colour of drunken insanity
Taste of the world - taste of no words
Rivers and showers - of gold and iron
It's only water, it's not wine anymore
Go on, move on - someday we might find home
But now you're alone
Sometimes it's obvious, sometimes you shiver inside
Colour of rainbows and wonders, colour of beige and denies
Writing 'love' on your fists
The baby doesn't know what it means
Ink; black, red or blue -
They don't go through the soul
It's just the superficial skin
Saliva in our mouths
Sweat in our bodies
Liquid from me, liquid from you,
I only want to know the truth -
No lies, no broken promises, no excuses
Clear as water, not dirty like other fluids.
Peter Magliocco - One Poem
The Defiling
Rain revolves around me as I jog
over the precipice of hillsides.
Somewhere in the German forests
I watch the depot workers arrive
each morning to begin work,
molding the natural edifice
into a thousand barked sentinels
of sap & shadow, still resilient
to their touch from rooted ages
falling rain bleeds life into.
What my booted feet tramp over
in a luxury of motion we caress
rich soil preparing its saturation,
for whatever humanity defiles,
the way I once did a lover's skin
so endlessly fecund beneath me.
Rain revolves around me as I jog
over the precipice of hillsides.
Somewhere in the German forests
I watch the depot workers arrive
each morning to begin work,
molding the natural edifice
into a thousand barked sentinels
of sap & shadow, still resilient
to their touch from rooted ages
falling rain bleeds life into.
What my booted feet tramp over
in a luxury of motion we caress
rich soil preparing its saturation,
for whatever humanity defiles,
the way I once did a lover's skin
so endlessly fecund beneath me.
Joseph Farley - One Poem
US
the US government
is no longer about
the people
it is not about
the US
it is about
“us”
but that “us”
does not include
us
that “us”
is only for “them”
and “them” is
a series of names
on a secret list,
written in gold and oil
Gary Beck - One Poem
One Summer
The sounds of summer,
the little legs
running field to field
that fall, roll,
dirty knees smiling.
O evening,
clouds like tarnished nickels
smoking home to bed,
the last bugle from a nearby camp,
voices whispering,
kiss, parting…. Promise.
The night falls a sudden ballerina
landing in grace
on love’s wet earth.
The sounds of summer,
the little legs
running field to field
that fall, roll,
dirty knees smiling.
O evening,
clouds like tarnished nickels
smoking home to bed,
the last bugle from a nearby camp,
voices whispering,
kiss, parting…. Promise.
The night falls a sudden ballerina
landing in grace
on love’s wet earth.
Laury A. Egan - Two Poems
Grace
Grace is in your hands, strong and slender.
I watched them while you were writing,
as the cool lake wrapped air around us;
I watched them in gesture, in repose,
in the kitchen, grasping a wooden spoon.
I watched and knew they were his to hold,
not mine, and yet I hope. My touch
is lighter than the lightest whisper.
A Woman Like You
A woman like you will know
the word that precisely unlocks the trick of my heart,
the phrase I’ve yearned to write.
A woman like you will know
the invisible road for us to follow, sifting present,
finding future, while I light the space around us.
A woman like you will know
how to imagine each touch without it happening,
who will sense my presence on a breeze.
A woman like you will know
that joy springs from sadness like reds
and yellows against gray skies.
A woman like you will know
how to translate who I am, where I am,
even when I am unsure or have strayed beyond reach.
A woman like you will know
my love, profoundly so, as I will know your love,
profoundly so, and that I am a woman like you.
Grace is in your hands, strong and slender.
I watched them while you were writing,
as the cool lake wrapped air around us;
I watched them in gesture, in repose,
in the kitchen, grasping a wooden spoon.
I watched and knew they were his to hold,
not mine, and yet I hope. My touch
is lighter than the lightest whisper.
A Woman Like You
A woman like you will know
the word that precisely unlocks the trick of my heart,
the phrase I’ve yearned to write.
A woman like you will know
the invisible road for us to follow, sifting present,
finding future, while I light the space around us.
A woman like you will know
how to imagine each touch without it happening,
who will sense my presence on a breeze.
A woman like you will know
that joy springs from sadness like reds
and yellows against gray skies.
A woman like you will know
how to translate who I am, where I am,
even when I am unsure or have strayed beyond reach.
A woman like you will know
my love, profoundly so, as I will know your love,
profoundly so, and that I am a woman like you.
Laila Abdulmalik - One Poem
Reflection
The deep water fails to wash the sins off my face
Indenting on my dignity,
plastic spoons used as pistols.
I twirl my sock monkey as the wind chaps my ears
I can't see my reflection
or myself.
C.B. Anderson - Two Poems
Age-Creep
I laugh at grief
And grief laughs back at me.
On bended knee
I beg relief,
But all I see
Are shadows in the night.
Time is a thief,
And I come off as trite
For saying so.
A while ago
My hair turned white
As freshly fallen snow.
Lakeside Property
The wind blows harmlessly on every hill,
But when it falls upon a placid lake
There's hell to pay for any kayak or
Canoe in open water. Heaven's sake
Is not a telling factor -- with a will
All of its own, wind batters my back door.
I laugh at grief
And grief laughs back at me.
On bended knee
I beg relief,
But all I see
Are shadows in the night.
Time is a thief,
And I come off as trite
For saying so.
A while ago
My hair turned white
As freshly fallen snow.
Lakeside Property
The wind blows harmlessly on every hill,
But when it falls upon a placid lake
There's hell to pay for any kayak or
Canoe in open water. Heaven's sake
Is not a telling factor -- with a will
All of its own, wind batters my back door.
Hal O'Leary - One Poem
SPRING HAS SPRUNG
The time has come, and spring has sprung.
Soft earth below, blue skies above,
The time is now, and we are young.
What better time to fall in love.
Soft earth below, blue skies above,
What more could anyone desire
What better time to be in love,
Our heads awhirl, our hearts afire?
What more could anyone desire?
The future is at our command.
Our heads awhirl, our hearts afire.
So here, my dear, your wedding band.
The future is at our command,
I'm yours to honor and obey.
So here, my dear, your wedding band.
I'm yours forever, come what may.
I'm yours to honor and obey.
The time is now, and we are young.
I'm yours forever, come what may.
The time has come and spring has sprung.
The time has come, and spring has sprung.
Soft earth below, blue skies above,
The time is now, and we are young.
What better time to fall in love.
Soft earth below, blue skies above,
What more could anyone desire
What better time to be in love,
Our heads awhirl, our hearts afire?
What more could anyone desire?
The future is at our command.
Our heads awhirl, our hearts afire.
So here, my dear, your wedding band.
The future is at our command,
I'm yours to honor and obey.
So here, my dear, your wedding band.
I'm yours forever, come what may.
I'm yours to honor and obey.
The time is now, and we are young.
I'm yours forever, come what may.
The time has come and spring has sprung.
Dave Schwartz - Three Poems
Things Spring Into Bloom
Things spring into bloom
By crawling from the ground
Yet I've not seen it yet
You've not been around
they say that it is seeds
Which when planted start to grow
Well, I've been planting ostrich seeds
And they do not ever show
I Shake My Head
I shake my head and lose my thoughts
They fall abbot and leave me dead
Oh, I'm not dead for sure
It's just that I forgot
Now pleased tell me true
aren't you being a bit silly
if you ask what I am doing
I forgot you silly Billy
I’m So Sad About You
I’m so sad about you
I can’t live without you
With everything I do
I just want to be with you
I’m so sad without you
I can’t be glad about you
With everything I do
I just hope to remember you
Things spring into bloom
By crawling from the ground
Yet I've not seen it yet
You've not been around
they say that it is seeds
Which when planted start to grow
Well, I've been planting ostrich seeds
And they do not ever show
I Shake My Head
I shake my head and lose my thoughts
They fall abbot and leave me dead
Oh, I'm not dead for sure
It's just that I forgot
Now pleased tell me true
aren't you being a bit silly
if you ask what I am doing
I forgot you silly Billy
I’m So Sad About You
I’m so sad about you
I can’t live without you
With everything I do
I just want to be with you
I’m so sad without you
I can’t be glad about you
With everything I do
I just hope to remember you
Russell Streur - Three Poems
THE INVENTION OF RAIN
She was there
A very long time
Until it finally
Came to her.
When the noise faded
She dusted the place
Pulled oceans
Out of rock
And cooled her heels
In cyanic water.
Then one day
She danced
And the skies
Opened.
THE ELEMENT OF FLESH
Fingers
Until
Space
Echoes
Leaned
Reached
Spilled
Under
Pressing
Lips melting
Flooded
A long moment
Gone
Over the edge.
PORTRAIT OF A WOMAN ON RUE TOULOUSE
Purple saxophone
Loose ends of the moon
Water rising
In cobalt and petroleum
I paint you nude tonight
In oak and neon gold
Spanish moss
Between your legs
The trace of lilac on your lips
Chocolate of your breasts
Ochre and sienna of your skin
Your carmine tongue
Broken glass and rain
On Rue Toulouse.
Wednesday 6 April 2011
Ben Nardolilli - Three Poems
Played By
Anything free is diluted,
Anything given away is clear
Of substance, of essence,
If it floats or if it cannot fly,
Anything worth paying for
Sinks right to the bottom.
So pay just a little bit, enough
So that they cannot call it
A loss for their gain,
No evidence of generosity
On either side’s behalf,
Pay to keep it away from free.
Springtime Reformation
You have gone out with a coat
To enjoy the sun, believing
Those layers and the heat
Would help remind you it burns
Far away and makes you hot,
Friend, remove your coat,
There is heat enough without it,
And open your eyes, the sun
Is still high, bright, and beautiful.
Why Do You Weep For Him?
Why do you weep for him, why
Between the talk of heaven do you cry?
Sisters, brothers, ladies and gentlemen,
All of you agree he has moved on,
Feels no more pain, rests eternally
In a better world than ours,
Wherever that might be, yet
Your eyes make the air taste
Like the air on the shore, so bitter,
Where is the song for dancing?
Where are the colors of the rainbow
That your clothes ignore to make shadows?
You all know he can feel no more,
His sorrows are gone forever,
Why do you take that yoke upon yourselves?
Oh familiar ones, ones who knew him
As well as I, we should know better,
Did he live his life as an overture
To such wailing, to such beating of breasts?
Why do we weep for him, he lived,
Passed on, is in a sweeter garden,
My jealousy is enough to make me cry.
Anything free is diluted,
Anything given away is clear
Of substance, of essence,
If it floats or if it cannot fly,
Anything worth paying for
Sinks right to the bottom.
So pay just a little bit, enough
So that they cannot call it
A loss for their gain,
No evidence of generosity
On either side’s behalf,
Pay to keep it away from free.
Springtime Reformation
You have gone out with a coat
To enjoy the sun, believing
Those layers and the heat
Would help remind you it burns
Far away and makes you hot,
Friend, remove your coat,
There is heat enough without it,
And open your eyes, the sun
Is still high, bright, and beautiful.
Why Do You Weep For Him?
Why do you weep for him, why
Between the talk of heaven do you cry?
Sisters, brothers, ladies and gentlemen,
All of you agree he has moved on,
Feels no more pain, rests eternally
In a better world than ours,
Wherever that might be, yet
Your eyes make the air taste
Like the air on the shore, so bitter,
Where is the song for dancing?
Where are the colors of the rainbow
That your clothes ignore to make shadows?
You all know he can feel no more,
His sorrows are gone forever,
Why do you take that yoke upon yourselves?
Oh familiar ones, ones who knew him
As well as I, we should know better,
Did he live his life as an overture
To such wailing, to such beating of breasts?
Why do we weep for him, he lived,
Passed on, is in a sweeter garden,
My jealousy is enough to make me cry.
iDrew - Three Poems
iSick
i hate you for the emptiness
when you’re not here
and when you are
you give me trembles
and a shortness of breath
help me please
i seem to be in distress
i hate you for my racing pulse
loss of appetite
i’ve weakness in the knees
and a wonderful unnecessary
feeling
in my nether-region
someone tell me please
what’s happening
i think
i’m being assassinated
with kisses
all my heart beats
have been stolen
i think i need a doctor
and possibly the cops
some one call an emergency vicar
i need to pray
that these feelings
never stop
iE
when i’m electric
separated from
time
on my own little moon
weightless
in a glitter milky way
of a thousand
thousand
laser lights
and nothing else exists
except there are beats
and tunes
orbiting
my big love theory
of how my heart
is the sun
in this is my universe
in verse with bass
and drum
i suddenly realise
in a thousand
thousand
star-lit gleams of heaven
i don’t want to go home
without you tonight
iBreathe
the very breath of your hands
as i close my eyes
exhales to linger
longingly
where i am wet
and i feel your weight
press dreams into me
slow
and oh so
delib
er
ate
as the very length of you translates into
pas
si
on
inside me you are radiant
inside me you are beautiful
inside me you are oxygen
Michael Brownstein - One Poem
RACISM
The flow of my life a beaver's dam
thick with mud and muddied breath,
muddy graft and the mud of corruption,
corruption of language, corruption of use.
Death is always an inconvenience,
the dialysis machine filling itself with souls,
blood pressure rising, falling, rising.
On the best of days she is too old to vote;
on the worst, too young to abandon ship.
Once she published a newspaper article
bylined everything good with this world
so much to begin, so little left at the end.
(for Linda Panky, Elmer Johnson, Leonard, Rachid, Greg, etc. etc. etc. who may have contributed great things if it hadn't been for racism)
The flow of my life a beaver's dam
thick with mud and muddied breath,
muddy graft and the mud of corruption,
corruption of language, corruption of use.
Death is always an inconvenience,
the dialysis machine filling itself with souls,
blood pressure rising, falling, rising.
On the best of days she is too old to vote;
on the worst, too young to abandon ship.
Once she published a newspaper article
bylined everything good with this world
so much to begin, so little left at the end.
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