Tuesday, November 9, 2010

Attached are three poems for your consideration: "Red Velvet Familiarity," "Retrospect," and "Home is Where the Heart is." I am a graduate of the writing program at Illinois Wesleyan University, a resident of Chicago, and write freelance in my spare time. Thank you for your consideration.


Kimberly Stabosz


Red Velvet Familiarity


Lay your head upon the soft
down feathers of my pillow,

and dream of red velvet ribbons with me.

Like the kind I wore in my hair
the night the rain fell
but never quite reached us.

We were untouchable,
hovering in the stillness of the silent moment.

I should have know then
that reacting with such honesty
would only escort us to the scene
we could not return from as one.

Where the hollowed trees hum the mourner’s song
and the path bends at a sharp angle to the left,

your left, not mine.

Nevertheless, of all the pleasures in my life,

nothing was so simple
as you
laying beside me,

in the coolness of the evening,

until the gentle rays of sun
shone on our makeshift bed.

But makeshift was never meant to withstand,

and most dreams
are only a few seconds span.


Retrospect

He melted the snow that year,

with a vigor heart.

Like an eclectic dream

I tore myself away from.



I lost the truth in the discontinuation of time,

somewhere between the suffering trees

and the stained sidewalk.

On that long walk through

the kite runner’s park.



I carry the depth of a lost home around in my

hidden guilt.

While the scenes of my

failed affiliations

continue to repeat:



Like watching that

cinematic catastrophe-

fingers entwined.

One late afternoon

just before dark.



Or the party of depravity,

our single dance

in an airless basement.

True feelings exposed

in the rhythm of that moment.



The acceptance of realization

together, in a room alone.

That night the dreamer stopped time

to give us that last flicker

of tenderness devotion.



He then,

took my alabaster bones-

The ones encasing

my

affection,

and fractured each piece.



His eyes reside in memory,

revealing themselves just as mine close.

The harmony of his laugh and mine,

the composition of our limbs.



Ultimately, in the company of destiny,

I will fail to remember

these imaginings,

and he will no longer reside

in the darkness.

Tempting me

at every ill-fated turn.


Home is where the heart is



This moment extends into the cycle where her family is all that remains

inside the prison of concrete mortar love.



I’m alright, she says. I’m fine, don’t worry,

this isn’t your place anymore.



The heat from the day rises in circles around her head

taking away her dreams.



She’ll never see them again.



Be strong, hold on, he says.

But this isn’t his place anymore.



The sunlight melts away behind the closed drapes.

She doesn’t like to open them lately.

She never liked the glow of natural light anyway.

Harsh brightness hurts the eyes.



I didn’t expect to see you here, she says.



The walls of her room breathe memories and scents of

the world she once thought familiar.



You’re lucky, he says. To have a home you can run to.



But this is not a home,

it’s a prison where the memories rip through

the lining of her skull

and penetrate deep into the darkened core of her essence.



When will you simply leave me alone? She says.



I’m sorry, he says. I didn’t mean for it to be like this.

But this isn’t his place to apologize anymore.



The sunlight remains hidden for hours, but then starts to taunt her again

from that world he disappeared into



where the reality of false dreams lie, and desired hopes

might one day possibly come true.



I hope you understand, he says.



I don’t think you even know me at all, she says.



He chose the beautified life of a successful man

over the smooth sensation of love.



He’s not coming back, she says.



This really isn’t his place anymore.
Pasted into the body of this email are six poems for your consideration for Record: "Complete," "Front," "Formation," "Drama," "Under" and "Sprung."

Thank you for the opportunity to submit my work. Your attention is appreciated and I look forward to hearing from you.

Sincerely,
Gregory Liffick


COMPLETE

Have
written things
to fill in
the blanks.
There are
some
puzzles
whose
missing
pieces
are poems.
You match
the colored
edges
of the
words
to those
of other
parts of
the
larger
picture.


FRONT

The mood
is too
dark
to let
the eyes
see the
light.
A wind
of un-
fortunate
events
pushes
dark clouds
in front
of the
sun.
A rain
of tears
will fall,
further
blurring
illumin-
ation.


FORMATION

Only some
of the
coal
is crushed
into
diamonds.
Poets
put heavy
pressure
on the
muse,
not having
the
benefit
of the
geological
forces of
nature.


DRAMA

Reading
lines
from a
play
written
by the
ugliness
of the
scene.
Method
acting
the moti-
vation
to hurt
each
other,
which flows
easily
from sense
memory.


UNDER

His own
waters
carried him
away with
himself.
Didn't learn
to swim,
only to
sink.
Couldn't go
with a
flow
so clearly
over his
head.


SPRUNG

The muscles
want to
release.
Tension
is a
physical
feeling
dressed up
with
no where
to go.
The mind
runs in
circles,
but will
meet a
brick wall
if not
rocked
to sleep.
Attention Deficit Society...Click, Click

We're an Attention Deficit Society,
Not giving anything or anyone much of a chance,
Was two years enough of Obama?
Lickety split, on to the next partner at the dance.

Republicans think they've just "won,"
Their "reward," an unfinished Bush mess galore,
Chris Christie called it, time to "put up or shut up,"
Or else in 2012, they'll be headed for the door.

Nobody wants to "stay the course,"
Long enough to see if a program or policy will work,
Perhaps a legacy from #43, backlash from the wars,
Now it's take your best shot and be done with it quick.

Maybe as the 2010 commercial said,
It takes a Clinton to clean up after a Bush,
Only one third of the Tea Party candidates won,
Another shellacking, not a pat on the tush!

As the GOP decides in which direction to go,
Realizing they're just "renting" for twenty four months,
Will Obama, chin down, go out on a "listening tour,"
Will youth, raised on tech, become focused?

Perception aside, the reality is,
The President's still the captain of the ship,
The future boils down to that oft maligned word "choice,"
Loyalties no longer linger, except to self, click, click.


Karen Ann DeLuca