Forgetting.
That's the soul's answer to the locked doors
that confront you in the path.
Open the eyes and see
the zero that has become you.
And when the danger comes, let the
forgetting become a mantra.
Let it flush away the diseases
of yesterday's disasters.
When the yellow sun shines, ignore
the grey skies that have
defined you.
Be the empty that you can be.
It's the solution to the
falling asleep at the wheel.
And when the pencil lead breaks,
sharpen the axes to begin
the hacking away.
Let the zone alarms arrive,
and make them the purpose
of your ashtray heart.
Forgetting.
It's the most obvious solution
to the drowning of the
sense of being.
And when the rain starts to fall,
hold the radio
in your arms and let
the electricity
snapple your brainwaves.
Leave without saying goodbye.
Thursday, May 27, 2010
Summer Heat by Santiago del Dardano Turann
The summer flashes gaudy heat
Much like a fusty pompous diva
Who stumbles on the bone-dry street
With bitchy tranny drunken drama.
The downtown crowds are cooked and edgy
From the touch of that vampire
Dressed in an atmospheric fire
That sucks out spirit, leaves us lazy.
The song continues and we fade
More with each off-key note degree
That bleeds into the concrete shade
With snake steps slipping soft and slowly.
Perhaps tomorrow I’ll call in
To work, surrender to the sin
Of the summer’s kinky din.
Much like a fusty pompous diva
Who stumbles on the bone-dry street
With bitchy tranny drunken drama.
The downtown crowds are cooked and edgy
From the touch of that vampire
Dressed in an atmospheric fire
That sucks out spirit, leaves us lazy.
The song continues and we fade
More with each off-key note degree
That bleeds into the concrete shade
With snake steps slipping soft and slowly.
Perhaps tomorrow I’ll call in
To work, surrender to the sin
Of the summer’s kinky din.
Blinded by Julia Rothschild
Wings flutter,
as sparkles fall.
Fairy dust enchants you.
The doors open to a magical world,
where everything shines.
Nothing bad can happen.
You think you’re in heaven,
until you open your eyes.
as sparkles fall.
Fairy dust enchants you.
The doors open to a magical world,
where everything shines.
Nothing bad can happen.
You think you’re in heaven,
until you open your eyes.
Street Poet by Arnold Skemer
And while he sprouts harmonies on gloomy corners,
in the antechambers of subway stations,
the lobbies of office buildings
singing of the ecstasy of orgasms
that overpower him in the night
the world revolves around him in great enveloping waves
flooding him with the impressions that he must resist
else his visions must be washed away
under the hoof beats of hominids.
He speaks firmly in the awakening dawn,
perpetually renewing his invocations,
living in a world of his unique conception.
Do they hear him? He must move relentlessly
in streets measureless to man
on avenues of the mind wide and hazy,
on boulevards of capricious obscurity.
He is compelled to enunciate the vision
vouchsafed to him in dreams of velvet abandon
and trusts to the ears of adherents
materializing in the awakening crossroads
in the nerve centers of the tremulous urbus.
in the antechambers of subway stations,
the lobbies of office buildings
singing of the ecstasy of orgasms
that overpower him in the night
the world revolves around him in great enveloping waves
flooding him with the impressions that he must resist
else his visions must be washed away
under the hoof beats of hominids.
He speaks firmly in the awakening dawn,
perpetually renewing his invocations,
living in a world of his unique conception.
Do they hear him? He must move relentlessly
in streets measureless to man
on avenues of the mind wide and hazy,
on boulevards of capricious obscurity.
He is compelled to enunciate the vision
vouchsafed to him in dreams of velvet abandon
and trusts to the ears of adherents
materializing in the awakening crossroads
in the nerve centers of the tremulous urbus.
Diamonds by Nick Perry
Light is a slave to its resounding myriad,
Like the mercury boiling within a thermometer,
Through which a thousand alienating eyes marvel upon.
But they are not acknowledging the light,
They are preoccupied with the acrobatic shadows,
Whose showmanship is far exceeding,
As they summersault and trapeze within the blank space.
And their own gluttonous reflections,
Torn askew by a thousand screeching countours;
Yet without light the diamond is devoid,
Of all of its perfections;
And of its seductive charm.
Compelling materialists unto evil ends
Through evil means;
And they shall become just as empty as the diamond.
Like the mercury boiling within a thermometer,
Through which a thousand alienating eyes marvel upon.
But they are not acknowledging the light,
They are preoccupied with the acrobatic shadows,
Whose showmanship is far exceeding,
As they summersault and trapeze within the blank space.
And their own gluttonous reflections,
Torn askew by a thousand screeching countours;
Yet without light the diamond is devoid,
Of all of its perfections;
And of its seductive charm.
Compelling materialists unto evil ends
Through evil means;
And they shall become just as empty as the diamond.
Two Poems by David Hassler
CUT
A small black fuzz box for Christmas.
Impressed the hell out of my friends
at the music shop where you'd stopped
and bought it for me -- what kid's mother
encourages guitars?
Still under your roof, I enjoyed
playing cards, eating Chinese food
with you. I called if not coming home.
Checked out the Bible college,
but drove back from Seattle
after two hours of chapel --
not a place for me to stretch out.
Late nights in my buddy's barn, drinking beer
his brother bought and playing loud,
calling girls to come and hang out.
Empty half rack in the back of my truck
led to your lashing -- not about driving drunk,
but the evil of liquor and sin of fornication.
Screaming, eyes pupilless moons, called me
wicked, boozer, lecher, pervert.
Staggered by your bullets, their white cut,
part of me wished your charges were true --
would have made me
a much cooler kid.
***
LITTLE PROBLEM
Had little problem putting down
the Tonka trucks to play dolls with
his sister, or the girl downstairs.
Could weave a story just as spicy
as any on Grandmother's soaps.
Made friends sometimes, but no little girl
ever once tried to give him a kiss.
Never heard how to go about catching girls.
Chased them down playground slopes, in
poor poems, into gay clubs, around boyfriends.
Chased them right up to airplane gates.
The good ones steered clear, could smell
the doubt and fear, sour like month-old milk.
A few stuck, by some chance mix
of charm and luck: either messed up enough
that they didn't care, or their own stench
of missionary zeal and fanciful wish
didn't allow for a meaningful sniff.
Nothing lasted -- crumbled like clods of dried earth.
Hoped for years someone would write
"Women for Dummies". Didn't know
he needed to read "Fix It Yourself and Save".
A small black fuzz box for Christmas.
Impressed the hell out of my friends
at the music shop where you'd stopped
and bought it for me -- what kid's mother
encourages guitars?
Still under your roof, I enjoyed
playing cards, eating Chinese food
with you. I called if not coming home.
Checked out the Bible college,
but drove back from Seattle
after two hours of chapel --
not a place for me to stretch out.
Late nights in my buddy's barn, drinking beer
his brother bought and playing loud,
calling girls to come and hang out.
Empty half rack in the back of my truck
led to your lashing -- not about driving drunk,
but the evil of liquor and sin of fornication.
Screaming, eyes pupilless moons, called me
wicked, boozer, lecher, pervert.
Staggered by your bullets, their white cut,
part of me wished your charges were true --
would have made me
a much cooler kid.
***
LITTLE PROBLEM
Had little problem putting down
the Tonka trucks to play dolls with
his sister, or the girl downstairs.
Could weave a story just as spicy
as any on Grandmother's soaps.
Made friends sometimes, but no little girl
ever once tried to give him a kiss.
Never heard how to go about catching girls.
Chased them down playground slopes, in
poor poems, into gay clubs, around boyfriends.
Chased them right up to airplane gates.
The good ones steered clear, could smell
the doubt and fear, sour like month-old milk.
A few stuck, by some chance mix
of charm and luck: either messed up enough
that they didn't care, or their own stench
of missionary zeal and fanciful wish
didn't allow for a meaningful sniff.
Nothing lasted -- crumbled like clods of dried earth.
Hoped for years someone would write
"Women for Dummies". Didn't know
he needed to read "Fix It Yourself and Save".
Owning Up by Ronnie Lane
Whether we defeat our demons or become them,
become a better person or learn to pass as one;
cast in stone is not the stone itself.
Pretending is the same as doing or being
except to the perpetrator, and if you
can keep a secret long enough,
you will believe it one day.
If we could be honest we would say
that’s how I would feel
if I really felt that way.
The moon, the tide, kismet or chaos,
all excuses you wouldn’t tell your mother.
Everyone else will get a dose though.
become a better person or learn to pass as one;
cast in stone is not the stone itself.
Pretending is the same as doing or being
except to the perpetrator, and if you
can keep a secret long enough,
you will believe it one day.
If we could be honest we would say
that’s how I would feel
if I really felt that way.
The moon, the tide, kismet or chaos,
all excuses you wouldn’t tell your mother.
Everyone else will get a dose though.
Creation by Gerald Bosacker
The God of Hope and Circumstance,
snapped his fingers and the World began.
Inventor of the sharks and fire ants,
for pundit’s praise, created man.
All life evolved by selection chance,
by expiring flaws, from ordained plan.
Was man designed for second birth,
our time on Earth, a trial event?
Could man improve, deserving Earth,
with evolving change, design intent?
Or was God faulted by wit and mirth,
and too forgiving to ask for rent.
www.bosackerbooks.com
snapped his fingers and the World began.
Inventor of the sharks and fire ants,
for pundit’s praise, created man.
All life evolved by selection chance,
by expiring flaws, from ordained plan.
Was man designed for second birth,
our time on Earth, a trial event?
Could man improve, deserving Earth,
with evolving change, design intent?
Or was God faulted by wit and mirth,
and too forgiving to ask for rent.
www.bosackerbooks.com
Aigues-Mortes By Raymond Hv Gallucci
(written while sitting within a tower atop the walled city of
Aigues-Mortes ["Dead Waters"], France)
Just birds and me, content to be
Alone within these walls.
The "waters dead" evoke no dread
Where ancient voices call.
Perhaps I trod in leather shod
When waters were alive,
A guard upon this bastion
With armor, sword and knife.
More likely just a wishful lust
For life of simpler ways.
No cars or planes or bullet trains
In medieval days.
Perhaps birds know that same winds blow
As for ancestors past,
And naught remains of knights or chains,
For only stone can last.
Aigues-Mortes ["Dead Waters"], France)
Just birds and me, content to be
Alone within these walls.
The "waters dead" evoke no dread
Where ancient voices call.
Perhaps I trod in leather shod
When waters were alive,
A guard upon this bastion
With armor, sword and knife.
More likely just a wishful lust
For life of simpler ways.
No cars or planes or bullet trains
In medieval days.
Perhaps birds know that same winds blow
As for ancestors past,
And naught remains of knights or chains,
For only stone can last.
Adam Vs. The Animist by Joe DeMarco
And so it came to pass that after ten thousand years the Animist finally agreed to duel Adam, in what would be a David versus Goliath match up, winner take all. The prize: planet Earth. The Animist arrived early to scout the terrain. He searched for tracks and the presence of a divine deity. He found none. The Animist was mostly human, meaning he had the body of a person, except for a few strange anomalies such as a hog’s nose capable of smelling across miles in the fresh morning breeze, a bull’s horn jutting out of the left side of his forehead, and a raccoon’s tail. He looked rather inhuman carrying a spear in his hand, and had a slingshot slung over his back, his striped tail dragging at least two feet behind him. The Animist was a towering six-feet, four inches tall with bulging muscles, wearing the hide of some deceased animal around his waist. Most might be quick to call him a savage; certainly he did not think of himself as savage. He killed when food needed to be provided. He did not kill when unnecessary, for instance for sport, and he certainly had not declared an all-out war on the animal kingdom like his brother Adam had so feverishly begun ten thousand years ago. Slowly but surely Adam had begun to snuff out all species that might pose a threat to him. After ten thousand years he was closer to his goal than ever: world domination. He figured if he could once and for all slay the Animist, he could silence the critics, mostly because the main critic was the Animist and he’d be dead.
The Animist had been there an hour and a half, had slouched down in the shade and was taking a nap, when a fifty-foot tall Adam showed up in his shiny red sports car, wearing a blue Armani suit, talking into his miniscule cell phone. Adam came to a sliding stop, smashing into an orchard, killing a family of squirrels, some groundhogs and a plethora of fruit trees in one swift blow. He did not care. He might have arrogantly blurted out “That’s how I roll” if questioned about the annihilation of the squirrels or groundhogs or fruit trees. As Adam got out of the car, he held up a finger shiny with rings, indicating for the Animist to wait while
“I don’t care that the place is a historical landmark,” Adam yelled into the tiny rectangular box that was his cell phone. “We either expand or we die, do you hear me?”
The Animist sat up. He had been having the weirdest dream about a woman named Eve who thought she had acquired the knowledge of the gods by eating a piece of fruit from a tree. Eve had been sorely mistaken. The Animist shook off his weariness and rose to meet his aggressor.
Adam shut his cell phone and removed his jacket. “Shall we get this over with?” Adam insisted towering forty-four feet over the Animist. “I have a one o’clock appointment with a masseuse.”
Adam neatly folded his jacket, “But you wouldn’t know anything about happy endings. You can barely form a written language.” No sooner had the insult been fired, when the Animist hurled his spear. As the spear flew through the air, for an instant the Animist had an inkling that it would hit its mark, before Adam smiling smugly, swatted it away like a toothpick.
“I’m going to enjoy crushing you,” Adam remarked. “It’s been a long time coming.” He started to back the Animist into a corner. The Animist picked up a rock and grabbed his slingshot. He waited for the fifty-foot Adam to move in a little closer, then he was going to let the rock fly. As Adam stepped closer, he tripped over a branch. At that exact moment the Animist let the rock fly. The rock went high into the air in an arc, sailing clear over Adam’s head. The Animist picked up another rock. Adam stumbled but did not fall (at least not yet).
The Animist was cornered. He had nowhere to go.
"I’m going to enjoy this,” Adam said.
The Animist remarked that only the descendants of Adam enjoyed murder, but it was lost on this fifty-foot giant. As Adam brought his fist down to smash him, he found that oddly his hand went right through the Animist as if he were a ghost. Adam tried to bring his fist down a second time, but found as the Animist raised his hands, an invisible-force field seemed to stop him from smashing his prey. Adam swiped at the Animist again, but found he could not touch him. What he did not know or possibly couldn’t understand was that the Animist belonged to a deeper magic. Animal magic. He was in a sense the god of all animals including humans, and Adam was just a man.
“The only way you can destroy me is by destroying yourself,” the Animist revealed, but Adam did not believe him (descendants of Adam did not trust their own kind).
“Homo sapiens man was around 190,000 years old before you came around and started fouling things up,” the Animist explained. “Man, if you’re merely talking about people without the ability to foresee the future and reason cognitively have been around 3 million years.”
“Three million years!” the Animist roared.
“In just 10,000 years you developed a pervasive culture that would put us all out of business, and I have been there since the beginning, ensuring balance, that all animals live within the laws governing nature, and you my friend have been defiling them,” clarified the Animist.
The fifty-foot tall Adam laughed, “So what are you going to do about?”
The Animist shrugged. “Nothing.” There was very little he could do about it. This was more of a warning. “But you will destroy yourself VERY SOON if you don’t change your ways,” the Animist explained. Adam’s cell phone rang. He picked it up. The fifty-foot giant had recently been diagnosed with attention-deficit disorder, which meant he didn’t have to listen to you if he didn’t want. What it meant to Adam personally was that he could act loud and outlandishly brash and it wasn’t his fault, he had a disorder.
“Sue me!” Adam yelled into the phone.
The Animist shrugged (he knew a stubborn animal when he saw one), pulled some magic sand out of his pocket, threw it at his feet, and POOF, he was gone.
The Animist had been there an hour and a half, had slouched down in the shade and was taking a nap, when a fifty-foot tall Adam showed up in his shiny red sports car, wearing a blue Armani suit, talking into his miniscule cell phone. Adam came to a sliding stop, smashing into an orchard, killing a family of squirrels, some groundhogs and a plethora of fruit trees in one swift blow. He did not care. He might have arrogantly blurted out “That’s how I roll” if questioned about the annihilation of the squirrels or groundhogs or fruit trees. As Adam got out of the car, he held up a finger shiny with rings, indicating for the Animist to wait while
“I don’t care that the place is a historical landmark,” Adam yelled into the tiny rectangular box that was his cell phone. “We either expand or we die, do you hear me?”
The Animist sat up. He had been having the weirdest dream about a woman named Eve who thought she had acquired the knowledge of the gods by eating a piece of fruit from a tree. Eve had been sorely mistaken. The Animist shook off his weariness and rose to meet his aggressor.
Adam shut his cell phone and removed his jacket. “Shall we get this over with?” Adam insisted towering forty-four feet over the Animist. “I have a one o’clock appointment with a masseuse.”
Adam neatly folded his jacket, “But you wouldn’t know anything about happy endings. You can barely form a written language.” No sooner had the insult been fired, when the Animist hurled his spear. As the spear flew through the air, for an instant the Animist had an inkling that it would hit its mark, before Adam smiling smugly, swatted it away like a toothpick.
“I’m going to enjoy crushing you,” Adam remarked. “It’s been a long time coming.” He started to back the Animist into a corner. The Animist picked up a rock and grabbed his slingshot. He waited for the fifty-foot Adam to move in a little closer, then he was going to let the rock fly. As Adam stepped closer, he tripped over a branch. At that exact moment the Animist let the rock fly. The rock went high into the air in an arc, sailing clear over Adam’s head. The Animist picked up another rock. Adam stumbled but did not fall (at least not yet).
The Animist was cornered. He had nowhere to go.
"I’m going to enjoy this,” Adam said.
The Animist remarked that only the descendants of Adam enjoyed murder, but it was lost on this fifty-foot giant. As Adam brought his fist down to smash him, he found that oddly his hand went right through the Animist as if he were a ghost. Adam tried to bring his fist down a second time, but found as the Animist raised his hands, an invisible-force field seemed to stop him from smashing his prey. Adam swiped at the Animist again, but found he could not touch him. What he did not know or possibly couldn’t understand was that the Animist belonged to a deeper magic. Animal magic. He was in a sense the god of all animals including humans, and Adam was just a man.
“The only way you can destroy me is by destroying yourself,” the Animist revealed, but Adam did not believe him (descendants of Adam did not trust their own kind).
“Homo sapiens man was around 190,000 years old before you came around and started fouling things up,” the Animist explained. “Man, if you’re merely talking about people without the ability to foresee the future and reason cognitively have been around 3 million years.”
“Three million years!” the Animist roared.
“In just 10,000 years you developed a pervasive culture that would put us all out of business, and I have been there since the beginning, ensuring balance, that all animals live within the laws governing nature, and you my friend have been defiling them,” clarified the Animist.
The fifty-foot tall Adam laughed, “So what are you going to do about?”
The Animist shrugged. “Nothing.” There was very little he could do about it. This was more of a warning. “But you will destroy yourself VERY SOON if you don’t change your ways,” the Animist explained. Adam’s cell phone rang. He picked it up. The fifty-foot giant had recently been diagnosed with attention-deficit disorder, which meant he didn’t have to listen to you if he didn’t want. What it meant to Adam personally was that he could act loud and outlandishly brash and it wasn’t his fault, he had a disorder.
“Sue me!” Adam yelled into the phone.
The Animist shrugged (he knew a stubborn animal when he saw one), pulled some magic sand out of his pocket, threw it at his feet, and POOF, he was gone.
The Persistence Of Memory by Annika Bergen
I miss your firework face.
I want to laugh with you,
drink you like cola in August, not caring how it burns,
sit on that old abandoned train bridge in the woods
shoulder to shoulder, t-shirts and jeans,
letting our legs dangle twenty feet above the river,
and talk poetry and immortality.
Then we're over, it's biting December,
and I'm frozen to this stone bench,
listening to sirens sear the silent night,
watching the faint glimmer of a city far away.
I want to laugh with you,
drink you like cola in August, not caring how it burns,
sit on that old abandoned train bridge in the woods
shoulder to shoulder, t-shirts and jeans,
letting our legs dangle twenty feet above the river,
and talk poetry and immortality.
Then we're over, it's biting December,
and I'm frozen to this stone bench,
listening to sirens sear the silent night,
watching the faint glimmer of a city far away.
Being Of Sound Mind by Brother Mario Andrew Parisi
Wind howling
Breezes whirling and stirring
Thunder clapping
Bells tolling
Neighbors yelling,
Shouting, screaming, chattering,
Lovers whispering,
murmuring and sighing
Trumpets blaring
Drums beating,
rolling, tapping, pounding
Music playing
Radio blaring
Bass thumping
Dragsters screeching
Car horns honking
Fire-trucks bleating
Police car sirens roaring
Traffic pounding
Trains whistling and steaming
Cargo ships bellowing
Lions, tigers, and bears growling
Monkeys aping
Reptiles hissing
Birds chirping
Dogs barking
Human being
www.bocohio.org
Breezes whirling and stirring
Thunder clapping
Bells tolling
Neighbors yelling,
Shouting, screaming, chattering,
Lovers whispering,
murmuring and sighing
Trumpets blaring
Drums beating,
rolling, tapping, pounding
Music playing
Radio blaring
Bass thumping
Dragsters screeching
Car horns honking
Fire-trucks bleating
Police car sirens roaring
Traffic pounding
Trains whistling and steaming
Cargo ships bellowing
Lions, tigers, and bears growling
Monkeys aping
Reptiles hissing
Birds chirping
Dogs barking
Human being
www.bocohio.org
Two Poems by Alice Beecher
NATIONAL GEOGRAPHIC
Asleep in the slave deserts of El Salvador
A child is dreaming of tangerines.
He is dreaming of their pulp mashing between his teeth
in aphrodisiac orange,
of the juice humming through his veins
like his sister's cantering whistle
as she beckons the white nosed cattle
with the sword sharp ribs.
He is dreaming of tangerines arriving carelessly
they fumble single file
into sugarcane fields.
He dreams little dirt hands fight
for each concupiscent section,
desperate in animal greed,
their blood running gold in the afternoon heat,
heads screaming wild for the stray nectar
to grace their naked tongues...
But He will not beg the tangerines their vibrance.
He will take hours to suck out their hearts.
***
THE LAST OF THE ROMANTICS
what better could you do
little girl
shook up with your blue suede eyes
as you roamed for the holy in oak trees
cross-stitched with the names of a thousand strangers
none of them your lover
while you listened shut-lipped for streetwalkers mumbling urban arias
your ears were sharper than sacred pavement
you thought they were writing bibles
from the strains of their madness
don't you know New York has lost its taste for poets
now that Jim Carroll died
and we all are getting silicon-drunk
on instant cures and digital access
now there are no verses left
and no smoky eyed dreamers
to wear ink on their elbows.
and
do you remember your grandfather told you
you would have countless loves
that they would burn your heart
do you remember he said to forget all of them
except the one you never begged to dance
the one with whose limbs bent in natural rhythms
thin and black, like accordion folds
the one who sang songs you half-whistled, half-wept
is there not enough poetry for you
in the curve and slip of his gaze?
Asleep in the slave deserts of El Salvador
A child is dreaming of tangerines.
He is dreaming of their pulp mashing between his teeth
in aphrodisiac orange,
of the juice humming through his veins
like his sister's cantering whistle
as she beckons the white nosed cattle
with the sword sharp ribs.
He is dreaming of tangerines arriving carelessly
they fumble single file
into sugarcane fields.
He dreams little dirt hands fight
for each concupiscent section,
desperate in animal greed,
their blood running gold in the afternoon heat,
heads screaming wild for the stray nectar
to grace their naked tongues...
But He will not beg the tangerines their vibrance.
He will take hours to suck out their hearts.
***
THE LAST OF THE ROMANTICS
what better could you do
little girl
shook up with your blue suede eyes
as you roamed for the holy in oak trees
cross-stitched with the names of a thousand strangers
none of them your lover
while you listened shut-lipped for streetwalkers mumbling urban arias
your ears were sharper than sacred pavement
you thought they were writing bibles
from the strains of their madness
don't you know New York has lost its taste for poets
now that Jim Carroll died
and we all are getting silicon-drunk
on instant cures and digital access
now there are no verses left
and no smoky eyed dreamers
to wear ink on their elbows.
and
do you remember your grandfather told you
you would have countless loves
that they would burn your heart
do you remember he said to forget all of them
except the one you never begged to dance
the one with whose limbs bent in natural rhythms
thin and black, like accordion folds
the one who sang songs you half-whistled, half-wept
is there not enough poetry for you
in the curve and slip of his gaze?
Shade's Steam by Amy Huffman
No street is a rainbow.
Though the colors are always there.
Shining.
Blinding.
Staring
isn’t enough
to make them real.
Turn them over.
Your eyes
not your dreams.
They don’t scream enough
to bother.
Their seams
only bleed
when a touch gets caught.
In your blink.
Though the colors are always there.
Shining.
Blinding.
Staring
isn’t enough
to make them real.
Turn them over.
Your eyes
not your dreams.
They don’t scream enough
to bother.
Their seams
only bleed
when a touch gets caught.
In your blink.
Concords by Frank De Canio
She storms Town Hall’s stage, determined fighter,
sporting formal dress. A toothy giant
Baldwin grand stands keyed-up to ignite her
thrust. She attacks his body. Defiant
with fierce forays of floor-shaking fortes,
she crows her show of strength. Legerdemain
fingers stress criss-crossed wrists as she essays
pianissimo passages that strain
her battery of skills. These tasks spring traps
to challenge her defense force till it cracks.
But swift sforzandos show how fast she taps
into her arms, till hammered pedals tax
sapped resources. Despite the closing chord
she hunches by the ivory for sore
resistance from the pummeled sounding board.
Unnerved by battles with this rattling score
she stiffens, poised to muffle overtones
that resonate from her prolonged assaults.
They slowly fade away with dying groans
beneath her respiration’s starts and halts.
She slackens following this pregnant pause,
then smiles triumphantly to loud applause.
sporting formal dress. A toothy giant
Baldwin grand stands keyed-up to ignite her
thrust. She attacks his body. Defiant
with fierce forays of floor-shaking fortes,
she crows her show of strength. Legerdemain
fingers stress criss-crossed wrists as she essays
pianissimo passages that strain
her battery of skills. These tasks spring traps
to challenge her defense force till it cracks.
But swift sforzandos show how fast she taps
into her arms, till hammered pedals tax
sapped resources. Despite the closing chord
she hunches by the ivory for sore
resistance from the pummeled sounding board.
Unnerved by battles with this rattling score
she stiffens, poised to muffle overtones
that resonate from her prolonged assaults.
They slowly fade away with dying groans
beneath her respiration’s starts and halts.
She slackens following this pregnant pause,
then smiles triumphantly to loud applause.
Deciduous by Edward O'Dwyer
Tell me, how does it feel?
But before you answer,
think about that tree;
remember, in the field
behind your house,
the one where we used kiss
when our feelings
first sprung to bloom;
where we took
a blunt knife, carved
a crude heart together
in the young bark;
where we inscribed
each other’s names
on the clean insides.
If you can see all of this
then maybe you can hear
the sound of leaves
rustling together
in a tender breeze,
sharing a rhythm,
skin over skin
and sinew for sinew.
Keep going. Follow
this thought, the vision,
the sound; follow
until, ever so suddenly,
I’m there with you,
waiting in chill silence
and shed leaves,
and I’ll ask you again,
how does it feel?
Does it feel like winter?
Does it feel as though love
has been stripped down
around your heart?
I know. I feel it too.
But before you answer,
think about that tree;
remember, in the field
behind your house,
the one where we used kiss
when our feelings
first sprung to bloom;
where we took
a blunt knife, carved
a crude heart together
in the young bark;
where we inscribed
each other’s names
on the clean insides.
If you can see all of this
then maybe you can hear
the sound of leaves
rustling together
in a tender breeze,
sharing a rhythm,
skin over skin
and sinew for sinew.
Keep going. Follow
this thought, the vision,
the sound; follow
until, ever so suddenly,
I’m there with you,
waiting in chill silence
and shed leaves,
and I’ll ask you again,
how does it feel?
Does it feel like winter?
Does it feel as though love
has been stripped down
around your heart?
I know. I feel it too.
Two Poems by Joan McNerney
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.
***
WINTRY BOUQUET
This December
during wide nights
hemmed by blackness,
I remember roses.
Pink yellow red violet
those satin blooms of June.
We must wait six months
before seeing blossoms,
touch their brightness
crush their scent
with fingertips.
Now there are only
ebony pools of winter’s
heavy ink of darkness.
Dipping into memory of
my lips touching petals
tantalizing sweet buds.
My body longs for softness.
I glimpse brilliant faces of
flowers right before me as I
burrow beneath frosty blankets.
Bracing against that long, cold
nocturnal of wind and shadow.
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.
***
WINTRY BOUQUET
This December
during wide nights
hemmed by blackness,
I remember roses.
Pink yellow red violet
those satin blooms of June.
We must wait six months
before seeing blossoms,
touch their brightness
crush their scent
with fingertips.
Now there are only
ebony pools of winter’s
heavy ink of darkness.
Dipping into memory of
my lips touching petals
tantalizing sweet buds.
My body longs for softness.
I glimpse brilliant faces of
flowers right before me as I
burrow beneath frosty blankets.
Bracing against that long, cold
nocturnal of wind and shadow.
Possessions by Brenda Ledford
A hospital gown wadded up,
impatiens shedding spicy red petals
like drops of blood
on the waxed floor.
Bottles filling the medicine cabinet,
no longer needed.
The kitchen table scratched
with coffee cooled in a saucer.
A jar of honey on the counter,
beside the sofa, a Bible.
Three packs of chewing tobacco,
a red bandana, overalls
stained with motor oil, flannel
jacket hanging on the doorknob.
Three suits, two white long-sleeved
shirts and ties in the closet.
An empty leather wallet,
social security number inscribed
on metal ID, a Medicare card,
and a 50-year-old photo
of a blonde hugging her husband
dressed in his CCC's uniform.
www.brendakayledford.com
impatiens shedding spicy red petals
like drops of blood
on the waxed floor.
Bottles filling the medicine cabinet,
no longer needed.
The kitchen table scratched
with coffee cooled in a saucer.
A jar of honey on the counter,
beside the sofa, a Bible.
Three packs of chewing tobacco,
a red bandana, overalls
stained with motor oil, flannel
jacket hanging on the doorknob.
Three suits, two white long-sleeved
shirts and ties in the closet.
An empty leather wallet,
social security number inscribed
on metal ID, a Medicare card,
and a 50-year-old photo
of a blonde hugging her husband
dressed in his CCC's uniform.
www.brendakayledford.com
Teens With Autism by Amber Rothrock
Remember how awkward your teenage years were? Remember struggling to fit in; to be cool? Even as hard as it was, you probably had some idea of what was expected of you. You understood what certain gestures and symbols meant. Now imagine you’ve just been told you are going to be part of a foreign exchange student program and your flight to China leaves in less than one hour. You have no time to learn the language or the culture. When you arrive in China you feel alienated and completely cut off from the rest of the population. This is how it feels to be autistic.
Autism is a developmental disorder usually diagnosed in the first few years of a child’s life. The illness is found in all parts of the world and can affect people of all races and ethnicities. The rate of cases in the U. S. has risen in the last decade from one in twenty-five hundred to one in one hundred fifty (Shute, USNews.com). Despite its prevalence nobody knows for sure what causes autism but family genetics and underlying medical conditions are important factors. It is also common for other mental problems to be present, including depression, obsessive compulsive disorder, and ADHD.
Autism is also considered to be a spectrum disorder, meaning that its symptoms range from mild to severe. With high-functioning autism, more commonly referred to as Asperger syndrome, teens can get by fairly well in the real world but can’t hold or maintain eye contact or a normal conversation. They also have difficutly playing with their peers and picking up on social cues. Those with low-functioning autism are often afflicted with mental retardation.
At each level of development a person with autism struggles with interpersonal skills (Coplan 16). Language development is delayed and sometimes children never acquire speech at all. Sensory input is processed differently as well. They may over or under react to physical stimuli. Those with autism also tend to be very clumsy. Taking all this into account, it’s interesting to note that some autistic people are math and memory geniuses. It’s as if the brain overcompensates for its disabilities. What it lacks in general development and social skills it makes up for with extreme intelligence in certain fields.
Teens with autism are very much isolated in worlds of their own. Some may appear to be completely normal but still have difficulty fitting in. Many are incapable of understanding the thoughts and feelings of others, making it hard for them to form emotional bonds. They may have many behavioral problems including anger expressed through tantrums and even violence. Whereas most of us can control the urge to act out victims of autism lack the mental capabilities to prevent these emotional outbursts (Evans, ezinearticles.com).
This is not to say they can’t function in the real world. There are many different therapies available to help autistic children and teens improve their communication and social skills. Cognitive Behavioral Therapy, for example, can help them understand and manage their emotions and encourage them to find constructive ways to express themselves (Evans, ezinearticles.com).
Another form of therapy that is most beneficial, but often taken for granted, is animal-assisted therapy. It’s been proven that when autistic children play with animals their violent tendencies gradually subside as they take on the responsibilities of animal husbandry such as feeding, watering, and cleaning up after the animal. The friendships animals provide can reduce feelings of loneliness and promote trust, commitment and self-confidence (Evans, ezinearticles.com).
In 2006, a graduate of New Mexico Highlands University School of Social Work conducted a research project to study the impact animal-assisted therapies have on autistic youth. One boy, Zachary, underwent a dramatic change. Zachary was prone to throwing tantrums and participating in new activities was stressful for him. He couldn’t understand how to play with others and had never spoken a complete sentence. However, after meeting an eight-year-old Australian Cattle Dog named Henry he became more self-assured and was able to relax in a new environment. He was able to better understand the needs of others and what was going on around him. What was most interesting is that halfway through the research project, Zachary spoke his first complete sentence (Evans, ezinearticles.com)
It is also possible for teenagers with autism to attend college. Several U.S. colleges have services to assist the learning impaired, such as the SALT center at the University of Arizona in Tucson. The Strategic Alternative Learning Techniques, or SALT, center was originally designed for those with learning disorders and ADHD but has expanded to include students with autism (Hincha-Ownby, Autism Friendly Colleges).
To help autistic people assimilate into the push and pull of everyday life there are now programs that have recently been developed to help the mentally challenged find work after graduation and become productive members of society. Counselors work with employers to find ways to make the quirks of a disability useful. For example, one young man who had fun pushing buttons and liked the sound of swishing water started his own business washing towels for hair salons (Shute, USNews.com).
Today, autistic teens are being recognized for the important roles they can play in society. They no longer have to become wards of the state and collect disability for the rest of their lives. When given the assistance they need they can participate in social activities and live relatively normal and happy lives.
Sources:
Shute, Nancy. “Teenagers With Autism: Want A Job?” US News.com 2 Apr. 2009.
Coplan, James. Making Sense of Autistic Spectrum Disorders. New York: Bantam Books, 2010. Print.
Evans, Rachel. How to Handle Autism Anger in the Teenage Years, Five Strategies for Coping with Autism and Anxiety on Socialization and the Benefits of Animal Therapy for Autism. Ezinearticles.com. Web. 8 Apr. 2010.
Hincha-Ownby, Melissa. Autism Friendly Colleges. Autism-education.suite101.com. Web. 8 Apr. 2010.
Autism is a developmental disorder usually diagnosed in the first few years of a child’s life. The illness is found in all parts of the world and can affect people of all races and ethnicities. The rate of cases in the U. S. has risen in the last decade from one in twenty-five hundred to one in one hundred fifty (Shute, USNews.com). Despite its prevalence nobody knows for sure what causes autism but family genetics and underlying medical conditions are important factors. It is also common for other mental problems to be present, including depression, obsessive compulsive disorder, and ADHD.
Autism is also considered to be a spectrum disorder, meaning that its symptoms range from mild to severe. With high-functioning autism, more commonly referred to as Asperger syndrome, teens can get by fairly well in the real world but can’t hold or maintain eye contact or a normal conversation. They also have difficutly playing with their peers and picking up on social cues. Those with low-functioning autism are often afflicted with mental retardation.
At each level of development a person with autism struggles with interpersonal skills (Coplan 16). Language development is delayed and sometimes children never acquire speech at all. Sensory input is processed differently as well. They may over or under react to physical stimuli. Those with autism also tend to be very clumsy. Taking all this into account, it’s interesting to note that some autistic people are math and memory geniuses. It’s as if the brain overcompensates for its disabilities. What it lacks in general development and social skills it makes up for with extreme intelligence in certain fields.
Teens with autism are very much isolated in worlds of their own. Some may appear to be completely normal but still have difficulty fitting in. Many are incapable of understanding the thoughts and feelings of others, making it hard for them to form emotional bonds. They may have many behavioral problems including anger expressed through tantrums and even violence. Whereas most of us can control the urge to act out victims of autism lack the mental capabilities to prevent these emotional outbursts (Evans, ezinearticles.com).
This is not to say they can’t function in the real world. There are many different therapies available to help autistic children and teens improve their communication and social skills. Cognitive Behavioral Therapy, for example, can help them understand and manage their emotions and encourage them to find constructive ways to express themselves (Evans, ezinearticles.com).
Another form of therapy that is most beneficial, but often taken for granted, is animal-assisted therapy. It’s been proven that when autistic children play with animals their violent tendencies gradually subside as they take on the responsibilities of animal husbandry such as feeding, watering, and cleaning up after the animal. The friendships animals provide can reduce feelings of loneliness and promote trust, commitment and self-confidence (Evans, ezinearticles.com).
In 2006, a graduate of New Mexico Highlands University School of Social Work conducted a research project to study the impact animal-assisted therapies have on autistic youth. One boy, Zachary, underwent a dramatic change. Zachary was prone to throwing tantrums and participating in new activities was stressful for him. He couldn’t understand how to play with others and had never spoken a complete sentence. However, after meeting an eight-year-old Australian Cattle Dog named Henry he became more self-assured and was able to relax in a new environment. He was able to better understand the needs of others and what was going on around him. What was most interesting is that halfway through the research project, Zachary spoke his first complete sentence (Evans, ezinearticles.com)
It is also possible for teenagers with autism to attend college. Several U.S. colleges have services to assist the learning impaired, such as the SALT center at the University of Arizona in Tucson. The Strategic Alternative Learning Techniques, or SALT, center was originally designed for those with learning disorders and ADHD but has expanded to include students with autism (Hincha-Ownby, Autism Friendly Colleges).
To help autistic people assimilate into the push and pull of everyday life there are now programs that have recently been developed to help the mentally challenged find work after graduation and become productive members of society. Counselors work with employers to find ways to make the quirks of a disability useful. For example, one young man who had fun pushing buttons and liked the sound of swishing water started his own business washing towels for hair salons (Shute, USNews.com).
Today, autistic teens are being recognized for the important roles they can play in society. They no longer have to become wards of the state and collect disability for the rest of their lives. When given the assistance they need they can participate in social activities and live relatively normal and happy lives.
Sources:
Shute, Nancy. “Teenagers With Autism: Want A Job?” US News.com 2 Apr. 2009.
Coplan, James. Making Sense of Autistic Spectrum Disorders. New York: Bantam Books, 2010. Print.
Evans, Rachel. How to Handle Autism Anger in the Teenage Years, Five Strategies for Coping with Autism and Anxiety on Socialization and the Benefits of Animal Therapy for Autism. Ezinearticles.com. Web. 8 Apr. 2010.
Hincha-Ownby, Melissa. Autism Friendly Colleges. Autism-education.suite101.com. Web. 8 Apr. 2010.
Friday, March 19, 2010
Spring 2010
I apologize for all the confusion lately. Nobody is more upset than I am. I finally have the opportunity to put everything else aside and really submerge myself into the back log of submissions, and someone has to go and hack my email account. But I was able to recover mostly everything.
I am a full time student now, which means I will have less time to devote to Illogical Muse. However I'm going to try to publish issues in a timely manner. I will no longer be writing reviews or conducting interviews but if you have something along those lines that you would like to submit, please feel free.
I’m hoping this year we can have 4 issues instead of three and it looks like things are off to a good start, despite all the complications. I’m already working on the summer issue. So keep those submissions coming!
~Amber~
I am a full time student now, which means I will have less time to devote to Illogical Muse. However I'm going to try to publish issues in a timely manner. I will no longer be writing reviews or conducting interviews but if you have something along those lines that you would like to submit, please feel free.
I’m hoping this year we can have 4 issues instead of three and it looks like things are off to a good start, despite all the complications. I’m already working on the summer issue. So keep those submissions coming!
~Amber~
American Life In Poetry Column 170
American Life in Poetry: Column 170
BY TED KOOSER, U.S. POET LAUREATE
I’ve lived all my life on the plains, where no body of water is more than a few feet deep, and even at that shallow depth I’m afraid of it. Here Sam Green, who lives on an island north of Seattle, takes us down into some really deep, dark water.
Night Dive
Down here, no light but what we carry with us.
Everywhere we point our hands we scrawl
color: bulging eyes, spines, teeth or clinging tentacles.
At negative buoyancy, when heavy hands
seem to grasp & pull us down, we let them,
we don’t inflate our vests, but let the scrubbed cheeks
of rocks slide past in amniotic calm.
At sixty feet we douse our lights, cemented
by the weight of the dark, of water, the grip
of the sea’s absolute silence. Our groping
hands brush the open mouths of anemones,
which shower us in particles of phosphor
radiant as halos. As in meditation,
or in deepest prayer,
there is no knowing what we will see.
American Life in Poetry is made possible by The Poetry Foundation (www.poetryfoundation.org), publisher of Poetry magazine. It is also supported by the Department of English at the University of Nebraska-Lincoln. Poem copyright © 1998 by Samuel Green. Reprinted by permission of the author, Sam Green, from his book “The Grace of Necessity,” Carnegie Mellon University Press, 2008. First published in "Cistercian Studies Quarterly", Vol. 33.1, 1998. Introduction copyright © 2009 by The Poetry Foundation. The introduction's author, Ted Kooser, served as United States Poet Laureate Consultant in Poetry to the Library of Congress from 2004-2006. We do not accept unsolicited manuscripts.
BY TED KOOSER, U.S. POET LAUREATE
I’ve lived all my life on the plains, where no body of water is more than a few feet deep, and even at that shallow depth I’m afraid of it. Here Sam Green, who lives on an island north of Seattle, takes us down into some really deep, dark water.
Night Dive
Down here, no light but what we carry with us.
Everywhere we point our hands we scrawl
color: bulging eyes, spines, teeth or clinging tentacles.
At negative buoyancy, when heavy hands
seem to grasp & pull us down, we let them,
we don’t inflate our vests, but let the scrubbed cheeks
of rocks slide past in amniotic calm.
At sixty feet we douse our lights, cemented
by the weight of the dark, of water, the grip
of the sea’s absolute silence. Our groping
hands brush the open mouths of anemones,
which shower us in particles of phosphor
radiant as halos. As in meditation,
or in deepest prayer,
there is no knowing what we will see.
American Life in Poetry is made possible by The Poetry Foundation (www.poetryfoundation.org), publisher of Poetry magazine. It is also supported by the Department of English at the University of Nebraska-Lincoln. Poem copyright © 1998 by Samuel Green. Reprinted by permission of the author, Sam Green, from his book “The Grace of Necessity,” Carnegie Mellon University Press, 2008. First published in "Cistercian Studies Quarterly", Vol. 33.1, 1998. Introduction copyright © 2009 by The Poetry Foundation. The introduction's author, Ted Kooser, served as United States Poet Laureate Consultant in Poetry to the Library of Congress from 2004-2006. We do not accept unsolicited manuscripts.
Scars by Lyn Lifshin
that one shaped like a 7. Bryant Park,
the first slit in the skin you could see
shaped like a 7. It was at the close
of a reading and I wasn’t ready to give
up my mic for a talk by Governor
Rockefeller. In the bar I saw blood
soaking through my wedgewood blue
longdress, stuck to my skin
from where what they pulled from
me boomeranged. I shortened the
dress 12 inches. Then I was scalped,
or nearly. I wasn’t in any war, just on
the way to meet a friend for a film.
I suppose it was poetry thast did
me in: I was mailing some ms when
the car behind me slammed into
the car right ahead into a car coming
from the opposite direction. 250
stitches and my amethyst barrette.
Gone. Mummy wrapped. And I adored
the orchid stone. But it wasn’t until
the white gauze came off and I could see
the jabbed barbwire whit3e on a night a
man I still didn’t know, on a night
of a poetry reading I shuddered at what
looked like a knife fell from space
and I was sunbathing under it. That
scar seemed to glow in the bed
room when we turned out the light.
Now I wear my hair over the slash, may
be why I slammed wildly the treacherous,
sharp slate steps and hacked my shin to
the bone. A machete chop on top of
where a suitcase falling made a blood
trail thru the house, bled thru gauze
12 days. Blood poured thru another hall
as skin torn as if sawed, flowed. The
towel couldn’t stop it. The stitches a scar
on top of a scar, a criss cross, rail
road tracks, a gas explosion. More months
of bandages, salves, adhesives, silver
and adaptic. No tights, no stockings, no
mini skirts, no ballet, not even ballroom.
No skin that looks or feels like skin again.
Lyn's Website
the first slit in the skin you could see
shaped like a 7. It was at the close
of a reading and I wasn’t ready to give
up my mic for a talk by Governor
Rockefeller. In the bar I saw blood
soaking through my wedgewood blue
longdress, stuck to my skin
from where what they pulled from
me boomeranged. I shortened the
dress 12 inches. Then I was scalped,
or nearly. I wasn’t in any war, just on
the way to meet a friend for a film.
I suppose it was poetry thast did
me in: I was mailing some ms when
the car behind me slammed into
the car right ahead into a car coming
from the opposite direction. 250
stitches and my amethyst barrette.
Gone. Mummy wrapped. And I adored
the orchid stone. But it wasn’t until
the white gauze came off and I could see
the jabbed barbwire whit3e on a night a
man I still didn’t know, on a night
of a poetry reading I shuddered at what
looked like a knife fell from space
and I was sunbathing under it. That
scar seemed to glow in the bed
room when we turned out the light.
Now I wear my hair over the slash, may
be why I slammed wildly the treacherous,
sharp slate steps and hacked my shin to
the bone. A machete chop on top of
where a suitcase falling made a blood
trail thru the house, bled thru gauze
12 days. Blood poured thru another hall
as skin torn as if sawed, flowed. The
towel couldn’t stop it. The stitches a scar
on top of a scar, a criss cross, rail
road tracks, a gas explosion. More months
of bandages, salves, adhesives, silver
and adaptic. No tights, no stockings, no
mini skirts, no ballet, not even ballroom.
No skin that looks or feels like skin again.
Lyn's Website
Two Poems by Elizabeth Swados
"Strange Music"
Her music is strange
because the pen is a man’s pen
and her fingernails are polished red.
Her music sounds strange
because men in powdered wigs
clanged on harpsichord keys.
While she brushed over the inside strings
with colored feathers.
Her music sounds strange
because when her lovers left her
she didn’t suffer with a bow
over a bridge
in a corset and hooped skirt
but stretched a skin
over a hollowed log
and hit.
Her music sounds strange
because men pulled at symphonies
and cranked up their power
while she wandered the mysteries
listening for whispers.
If her music sounds strange,
it’s because the feminine ear
catches the catch, the breath
between word and word and
builds her violent screams by
collecting centuries of rage for
never being heard.
It is too real.
If her music sounds strange,
it’s because playing by ear
has that raw incendiary quality
that makes black heels tap flamenco,
that makes the keening and wailing at
dark seashores
during storms.
The sound of the voice now, free
once muzzled by a man’s hand
breathing, telling
centuries of stories.
Strange and real.
***
"Focus"
The shaking, the sleep
The shaking, the sleep
the not remembered dreams that have you waking up
sudden
like a pointer.
These days they say
they say cut down on the medicine
or add more
add this to that
we’re not really sure
they say we’re working on it
in laboratories, can I
lie down on a couch
in your laboratory, read
a mindless mystery about
a Midwestern serial killer
and wait?
If they can put a man on the moon
then why can’t they fix . . .
and blah, blah, blah
born too early,
then pop, drip, zoom tss
too late
in the glass tube
Too later for Lincoln, Abraham Lincoln and
brother Lincoln, too late for me
on the couch with the serial killer
pushes his next victim
off a bridge in Minnesota
The detective found a shoe.
Reckless reckless clouds
floating determinedly
like submarines,
I’m waiting to explode
or be radiated, I
am being eradicated,
rewired, recircuted.
Clues tacked to
the Police Sergeant’s wall
Parts of bodies. Bare locations.
This killer is smart
He leaves the paper ring
(of a cigar) on every victim’s middle finger.
New medicines, new caves emerge
A hand reaches down
gets burned, reaches down
Can’t reach
The serial killer pushes me.
I’m still falling.
Her music is strange
because the pen is a man’s pen
and her fingernails are polished red.
Her music sounds strange
because men in powdered wigs
clanged on harpsichord keys.
While she brushed over the inside strings
with colored feathers.
Her music sounds strange
because when her lovers left her
she didn’t suffer with a bow
over a bridge
in a corset and hooped skirt
but stretched a skin
over a hollowed log
and hit.
Her music sounds strange
because men pulled at symphonies
and cranked up their power
while she wandered the mysteries
listening for whispers.
If her music sounds strange,
it’s because the feminine ear
catches the catch, the breath
between word and word and
builds her violent screams by
collecting centuries of rage for
never being heard.
It is too real.
If her music sounds strange,
it’s because playing by ear
has that raw incendiary quality
that makes black heels tap flamenco,
that makes the keening and wailing at
dark seashores
during storms.
The sound of the voice now, free
once muzzled by a man’s hand
breathing, telling
centuries of stories.
Strange and real.
***
"Focus"
The shaking, the sleep
The shaking, the sleep
the not remembered dreams that have you waking up
sudden
like a pointer.
These days they say
they say cut down on the medicine
or add more
add this to that
we’re not really sure
they say we’re working on it
in laboratories, can I
lie down on a couch
in your laboratory, read
a mindless mystery about
a Midwestern serial killer
and wait?
If they can put a man on the moon
then why can’t they fix . . .
and blah, blah, blah
born too early,
then pop, drip, zoom tss
too late
in the glass tube
Too later for Lincoln, Abraham Lincoln and
brother Lincoln, too late for me
on the couch with the serial killer
pushes his next victim
off a bridge in Minnesota
The detective found a shoe.
Reckless reckless clouds
floating determinedly
like submarines,
I’m waiting to explode
or be radiated, I
am being eradicated,
rewired, recircuted.
Clues tacked to
the Police Sergeant’s wall
Parts of bodies. Bare locations.
This killer is smart
He leaves the paper ring
(of a cigar) on every victim’s middle finger.
New medicines, new caves emerge
A hand reaches down
gets burned, reaches down
Can’t reach
The serial killer pushes me.
I’m still falling.
Tuesday Morning by David Howerton
flowers run
tilt to sun
dance winter away
yellows
reds
blues
that dazzle
in light.
some coffee
or tea
and a walk
before sun
erupts over eastern ridge
tilt to sun
dance winter away
yellows
reds
blues
that dazzle
in light.
some coffee
or tea
and a walk
before sun
erupts over eastern ridge
Problems by Holly Day
I never have learned to stop picking my nose
before it bleeds. You would think
with all the field time spent
with my finger shoved up there
that I could tell right when
the membrane was about to tear
or that the particularly stubborn
crust of booger I’d been scraping at all day
was actually a scab, and that any minute
I’d work it loose
only to have streamers of blood running down my wrist
onto my good sweater sleeve. Really, you’d think
that after all these years
I’d have some sort of instinct
concerning
when exactly to stop.
before it bleeds. You would think
with all the field time spent
with my finger shoved up there
that I could tell right when
the membrane was about to tear
or that the particularly stubborn
crust of booger I’d been scraping at all day
was actually a scab, and that any minute
I’d work it loose
only to have streamers of blood running down my wrist
onto my good sweater sleeve. Really, you’d think
that after all these years
I’d have some sort of instinct
concerning
when exactly to stop.
Dark Card: A Book Review by Amber Rothrock
Dark Card
By Rebecca Foust
Texas Review Press
ISBN: 978-1-933896-14-4
$8.95
Dark Card, Rebecca’s first book, deals with the pain and triumphs of raising a child with Asperger’s Syndrome. Her frustration with the way the world treats her son comes through in several of the poems but none more keenly than the poem for which the book was titled:
Before they get angry, I pull out my deck
deal out what they want. Yes, he’s different
but look at his IQ score, his Math SAT!
There are also poems that express the everyday worries and fears of a mother. Such as "Sometimes The Mole Is Merely:"
Sometimes they happen – bombs
blow up school buses, a son’s shyness
is autism, the mole is more than a mole,
a teenager mistakes the brake for the gas
and that sound like a recycle truck drop-gate
where no truck should be and you run, you run
outside and see in the back wall of the garage
the cartoon-cutout shape the size of a car,
but the color of sky.
Writing the words in this collection probably proved to be therapeutic at the time and the way they’ve been refined into the heartfelt poetics they are is the mark of a gifted writer. With this book, Rebecca Foust has given a piece of herself to the world. Her writings are intensely real. I would recommend Dark Card to parents of children of all ages and mental capabilities.
Rebecca's Website
By Rebecca Foust
Texas Review Press
ISBN: 978-1-933896-14-4
$8.95
Dark Card, Rebecca’s first book, deals with the pain and triumphs of raising a child with Asperger’s Syndrome. Her frustration with the way the world treats her son comes through in several of the poems but none more keenly than the poem for which the book was titled:
Before they get angry, I pull out my deck
deal out what they want. Yes, he’s different
but look at his IQ score, his Math SAT!
There are also poems that express the everyday worries and fears of a mother. Such as "Sometimes The Mole Is Merely:"
Sometimes they happen – bombs
blow up school buses, a son’s shyness
is autism, the mole is more than a mole,
a teenager mistakes the brake for the gas
and that sound like a recycle truck drop-gate
where no truck should be and you run, you run
outside and see in the back wall of the garage
the cartoon-cutout shape the size of a car,
but the color of sky.
Writing the words in this collection probably proved to be therapeutic at the time and the way they’ve been refined into the heartfelt poetics they are is the mark of a gifted writer. With this book, Rebecca Foust has given a piece of herself to the world. Her writings are intensely real. I would recommend Dark Card to parents of children of all ages and mental capabilities.
Rebecca's Website
Food On The Table by Joe Gambino
I sail across the
iron waters
Without giving into my
fears no her fears
Let her carry that burden
while I stay
strong
and
resolute
Because
I am man
I am husband
I find islands that once held life
Before waters submerged the beauty
Dive
Dive
Dive
Deep down
into the waves of death
Pray the spirits don’t notice
I remove pebbles from the eyes the once saw light
and polish the dulled life
into beauty again
A treasure
A gift of love
That becomes nothing more or less
than a useless luxury for
aristocrats
Pillaging life for money
A disgrace
But it feeds those waiting at home
iron waters
Without giving into my
fears no her fears
Let her carry that burden
while I stay
strong
and
resolute
Because
I am man
I am husband
I find islands that once held life
Before waters submerged the beauty
Dive
Dive
Dive
Deep down
into the waves of death
Pray the spirits don’t notice
I remove pebbles from the eyes the once saw light
and polish the dulled life
into beauty again
A treasure
A gift of love
That becomes nothing more or less
than a useless luxury for
aristocrats
Pillaging life for money
A disgrace
But it feeds those waiting at home
Metamorphosis by Jean Lichtenwald
Leisurely drifting through infinite space
Lost dreams
From the souls of mortal beings
Assemble in a cumulus;
Clinging together in a mass
They create a metamorphosis
As they avert from dark, superficial clouds
To soft, welcoming pillows of visions
Which bestow to the weary in heart a resting place;
A renewing of faith
And new-found hope to the
Bosom of mankind.
Lost dreams
From the souls of mortal beings
Assemble in a cumulus;
Clinging together in a mass
They create a metamorphosis
As they avert from dark, superficial clouds
To soft, welcoming pillows of visions
Which bestow to the weary in heart a resting place;
A renewing of faith
And new-found hope to the
Bosom of mankind.
Like Shooting Fish In A Barrel by Dayton Osburn
They always say it's darkest before the dawn,
but what if the dawn never comes?
My mom always told me to think before I speak,
if everyone followed this rule then no one would marry.
When in Rome do as the Romans do,
what exactly did the Romans do besides
fail miserably?
We all know they couldn't build quickly.
The grass is always greener on the other side,
what constitutes “greener” color is a relative concept.
Furthermore what divides these “sides”.
You make a better door than a window,
I don't think humans would do well as either.
Roses are red...
Why yes they are, how observant.
You would think violets would be,
violet.
If you see a light at the end of a tunnel,
do not walk towards it,
trains can be dangerous.
but what if the dawn never comes?
My mom always told me to think before I speak,
if everyone followed this rule then no one would marry.
When in Rome do as the Romans do,
what exactly did the Romans do besides
fail miserably?
We all know they couldn't build quickly.
The grass is always greener on the other side,
what constitutes “greener” color is a relative concept.
Furthermore what divides these “sides”.
You make a better door than a window,
I don't think humans would do well as either.
Roses are red...
Why yes they are, how observant.
You would think violets would be,
violet.
If you see a light at the end of a tunnel,
do not walk towards it,
trains can be dangerous.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)