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Poetry
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Taliban
Blunder (Curfew on Mobile Phones) It
is a wonder The
commander comes and pats him: Don't
worry dear O
you the blunder
When joy Arrivesby Bonnie Roll When Joy arrives I will invite it to stay. I will continue to allow entry to fear In whatever guise it appears. Anger, I will acknowledge it, hear it out, let it pass through. Judgment, jealousy, resentment, sadness - the same. Come on in my front door, have your say, Then on you go, spent. I am more hopeful now, lighter, And do not need dark clouds hovering about. But Joy! When Joy arrives, Whispering and teasing at my waiting heart window, I will throw open the shutters And will It to stay! © Bonnie Roll
The
Large Lap of Life by Brenda Peddigrew Seeing the mother hold that large child, her arms hardly able to reach around him – or her- (I couldn’t tell) I stopped and wondered what had just happened in the pit of my stomach. I felt a turn a shift like a bottom giving way and why? The child was crying the crying that is rageful, screaming, twisting around in the Mother’s arms, trying to get away, to lie down, kicking and working into tantrum, protesting the unfair circumstances of life the frustration of desire the Mother’s denial of this or that. I know what this child means. And I, edging into late adulthood, seeing the passing of possibility – things I thought I’d do someday, places I’d wanted to go – know now the limit of younger expectation. The child is screaming on my behalf, an eldering woman too conditioned to good behavior to scream and twist and kick and bite. But the impulse is there and so I am entranced by this large child in the Mother’s arms struggling for something even the child might not know. Like myself coming to the end of things I can hardly name, still a child held in the large lap of life struggling to twist away from what holds me and to hold with tender patience this smothering grief raging against everything I am no longer able to do. © Brenda Peddigrew
Late
Winter Pieces
by Conrad DiDiodato
1. Morning reflection
Stars rip up the sky—throat on fire!— blow on a wintry moon, & even with Venus to its left, wear the pearly snows on the chest, like the diving loon
And they do! Ensuing storms, calm without tears, full of the lake's glowing charm, drop & disgorge their led shot before landfall, and like a noon bird
keep angling til sunlight glances off its beak and feathers, curling into warm wintry cloud-cover, fan beaches into song- above all, the throat on fire and its tightening laughter—
The loon poked his head, out of the sky, to say: "You'd be happy, too, if you could fly."
"I love the mole more, its somber poetic nose. And the culvert, with the overturned vase."
"Oh", he replied, "and the lord of clouds that jabs the waves—does he not please you?"
"No, nor the bristly thistle along the shore , nor sand nor your swelling under wing."
2. Dawn
A true airy dream-catcher at the margin, a bluing horizon, with fetid bed of cotton grasses along a gritting shore—
Startling, a dream or sharp twitchy winds catch at my fingers, in the bluing dawn A lonely & cold lakeshore
Brightening, dreamer and the pines step into a cold dawn Proud & tall both under a weedy star Under a blue-haired star
Snows' rondeau over the pine tops and sands, the long steady step, the return Tripping like a crimson butterfly,
a dazzling slow step under Venus Dawn goes on dreaming, ready as the star- housed pines, but I'm not Day's a snow-scented
cotton flower, gritty, softening under my two feet I feel it coming like the "gospel train", bluing, brittle
3. Late winter
Winter to spring— is it like the heavy sated brow after sex? like the crook-backed lip we kiss, however sweet? or angry dawn star giving back her sea shell?
Ice to love— or the transition from great lake to patches of scaly lizard skin, swept into cerulean at dawn Late lake, & crusty as the
laughter steaming out of its thistly sides Everything gives it, from end to end, the run-off, murky and warm, that hustles along snaky grooves, nests still
strung from spiny oaks, skeletal and spare in the airy boughs, and even waves swelling ashore as foam Lake greasy and warm And late,
for it's not quite spring, winter nudging behind Look! algae pudding at the beach, insect legs set to sprout out & ah! the cottonweed swirling about— Spring or just more late flurries? © Conrad DiDiodato
“Descry”by Elyssa Claire Martinez It’s that smile of all smiles, The sensation of a settling warmth, And what I’ve been given, That lets me be who I want to be, And let my eyes see everything I never thought to see. The seed of life being planted, Growing strong and abundant, The heart beat of a refugee, frantic and afraid The sweat and grime off the brow of every laborer, building life as we know it, The plight of those I’ll never meet, their tears and cries, The lines of music dancing in the air, floating past in all their splendor, The sneeze of an astronaut in space, proving we’re still fallible, The brightness in a child’s mind, gaining momentum every second that passes, The heartache of a lonely tree, whispering it’s pleas to the passing wind It’s all right in front of me, And I see, I see everything. So I look to you, In the infinite vacuum of life, Where as far as my eyes can go, There is you, Me, And a love I never thought to see. © Elyssa Claire Martinez
The
Painter It
is late at night
Letting
Go © Eveline
Imagine by Filomena Costa
i am imagining
Truly
missing you (To C.G.) by Genevieve Nolet The sky and water collide into shades of gray- The day after the storm A few sail boats and motorboats waltzing on the surface A single duck floating around neck sunk deep into its feathers altered by each wave just floating along I connect with nature- Colours faded Lines blurry and much of no movement but tiny waves hitting the rocks below stirring the pollution and moss into an unappealing green soup Dull colours- No shine- This incredible sadness without its usual sharp edges throws me into a state I wish I could ignore and the duck floats my way sleeping perhaps… Yesterday’s reprieve comes to an end this morning and envelops my skin- raw and bare- Like the lobster shedding its exoskeleton on its way to the depth of the sea I, too, am searching for a rock to cave under but instead I float like the duck riding the waves in search of you It is really the in-betweens that haunt me The places between highs and lows Between the ripping and rejoicing The before and after the chaos or the peace It is the place suspended in suspension which causes me to ache This discomfort that seeps its way beneath my skin between the grief gripping and the tears that won’t come I think of my mother- A family of ducks has now joined the landscape Ten of them floating about awake now as the waves accelerate and break into the gray I think of my mother I accept her experience as a child into a woman’s body I sit on the rocks writing about my journey and the too sudden loss of you The truth is still wrapped into a blanket which I carry around my waist like period cramps but I keep writing in an attempt to stay connected to it and with shadows of her blowing in the wind Pockets of peace wrapped in shards of chaos too prickly for me to hold- The anxiety flowing free in my veins barely covering up the grief that collapses breaths- That falls heavy into lungs- My life today At this particular moment Bold- Intense- Lonely- At this particular moment Truly missing you- I wonder when it will be enough- When will the truth be freed from my waist and dance in the sky within the gusts of you? Where are you? © Genevieve Nolet
Fruitful
Life
by
Leanne Myggland-Carter Bright
and vibrant, the outside,
tender membrane thins. Tough
skin hardens;
thick skin can not break. Segments
struggle
to hold together. Dull
and weary, the inside,
tender membrane thins. She
then wonders:
when will life taste sweet?
Juice
seeps, silent,
from the crack on top. © Leanne Myggland-Carter
The Little Boy and his Teddy BearPoem and Artwork by Nicolas Varias Suspended
in the universe, The
little boy watches this world. What's
happening? Things
seem to be upside down! Up
there flies a shiny death bird. Pulling
his Teddy tight to his face, The
little boy sucks on the nipple Of
dismembered mother earth, And
for a moment he feels safe. Shall
I try to rescue this world? A
sudden tear of pain, Becomes
a flying saucer Is
it too late? © Nicolas Varias
She
Fell Into The Sun by
Norman Cristofoli She
fell into the sun. She
left her body and soared, transcending
the boundaries of space and time, of
reality and existence, of
everything and nothingness. Solar
flares covered her with surrealistic rainbows, and
the heat burned away her inhibitions and fears. She
fell into the sun, and
a black spot reached up for her and
wrapped her in its darkness and
breathed her like the aroma of a conscious death. Wrapped
in darkness and surrounded by light, she
became a spectrum of improbable possibilities in
a focused universe of blind definitions. She
fell into the sun. Her
emotions crumbled like a pillar of sawdust. Visions
of the Otherworld became flesh and blood. Her
dreams crystallized into amethyst pearls of divine truth, and
her love poured in amber teardrops. The
darkness pulled her down into
an ocean of molten gold, and
her existence became a singular moment. She
became the music and she became a poem. She
became a photograph of shadows and icicles. She
became a sculpture and a dance, and
a painting of brilliant colours. She
fell into the sun, and
she fell into the infinite distance between
one heartbeat and another, and
she fell into the third eye of her mind, and
she fell into the illusion of metaphysical thought, and
she fell into the ritual of pain and pleasure, and
she fell into a Circle cast by The Truth, and
she fell into a premonition of a distant universe, and
she fell into the seventy-two names of God, and
she fell into a pile of leaves that had fallen from the Tree of Life,
and she fell into my arms,
like falling into forever. © Norman Cristofoli
"Poetry!" "Waste
of time!" The
Budding Poet The Budding Poet and
Fading
Bow © Ty Ragan
Delta – Manby William McCarthy calloused words slipping through secret lips poised fingers impatient... sliding from 6th to 7th, tapping out the rhythm ...the address of the blues this song of hurt and barrelhouse booze picked up by drifters and sent out confused strumming the wires thumping and bold humming the wires like morse code build me up and let me down in a dream of low down delta town © William McCarthy
I
Was Born to Run by Emily Lowe-Wylde My tail is swishing around in the air. My eyes are focused
on the jumps. My ears are pushed back. I'm not worrying about my friends.
I'm concentrating and running fast. My hooves smack the dirt and grass.
I'm jumping over the first jump, then second. A rope will tug on my
neck...Out of the blue I’m captured! I'm put in a strange place, with no
hills, grass and my other friends. I
kick my back left hoof and I try to get out but its no use. Some day, some
how, I say to myself I'm getting out no time to dawdle. I break through
the fence and I am running again, my friends are following me, like I'm
the leader. No more yelping, or metal things in my mouth. I'm free again
and here I will stay. I belong here. With buffalo grass and my dirt hill
jumps. I will never leave here again, because I live here, I was born
to run. © Emily Lowe-Wylde
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