AT THE CROSSROAD

Hectate was always the one who entertained us.

Latin was never spoken here. How strange.

Yes, we always left gifts, quite a few,

enough to satisfy wild dogs, selfish men jackals,

and Rhiiannon who flew here to satisfy me

watching through the open bathroom door,

the shower curtain missing, shampoo coursing through my hair,

Saturday night, late. (Perhaps it was Sunday morning, early.)

Our gods watched us imprison the fugitives deep in the sand

until only their heads were exposed.

Then the earth began to shake and roll releasing a fresh spring.

Carob trees sprouted out of nowhere and there was shade and   

     refreshment,

Then an angel appeared badly disfigured as a foreign trader.

Not able to fold her wings, she kneeled before father and son.

There was no need for all of this. These men were thieves.

They deserved punishment, but she knew of them what we did not.

With a look she silenced us into another place.

An earthquake was not necessary to set them free.

This too happened at the crossroad.

HIDING SICKNESS

His thin face consternation

peeled back into anguish.

The air cruel, the wind,

A lack of sunlight, but no clouds,

The sky gray blue/blue gray.

He is too thin, too straight,

Sickness inside cheeks and eyes.

Cold seeps into all things,

A cold moisture of mold and distrust,

Everywhere a browning of grass.

 

Michael H. Brownstein

Supple singed

This morning

had a rainbow come through the panes

ate it off my breakfast plate

felt the fertile soil of the valley beat

under my hot feet

on the hot concrete

and will crack

hard slew will come up

one of the hundred million-year plates

shall roll over us

mess with the dead and they come in your dreams

This morning

the dog I put down came on the breeze

stinking lovely as she was

dozing in a spot of sun

Sweet Pepe arrives through the buckling screen

and the Buddha comes also to me

warm squinting lifted snarling

depends whether

I myself am supple

or singed.

In Memoriam

(After Peggy Stone) 

And now

in the midst of my handiwork

poking through the din and the silence

I hear my neighbor sobbing

and I remember

he has lost his wife

he has an aria playing

and he is sobbing

and I look out now of my reverie and I see the bars of rain

I can only see them now

bars of the gently falling prison

bars that fall and rise

with her voice

his aria

his wife

my neighbor goes on sobbing and I see

things I don't see always

he is alone in his grief

it is as this work is

but I would like to go to him.

 

 

­­­­­­­­­­­­­

Star

Sometimes Of Course You

don't have a choice

sometimes your lover gets ill and dies

and this brilliant vibrant compassionate person

full of wonder

is

gone

but remains in your heart

whatever is comfortable for you

staring through the abyss of the nucleus

this is what she offers you

rain bridges

north poles

the sky nail

a black hole

you will cross dark space on the wings of blackbirds

you will become the self-sustaining furnace

that you are

and your wife will exclaim

in wonder

Star!

and she is with you again.

Henry Grier Stanton

Valentine’s

Two trucks pass, honking
playfully on Valentine’s
Day.  Is this what love is
for giants, like two behemoths
passing in midnight water?

Stutter

I gave my name
into the metal box.  Sadly,
it could not be heard.
One day I will find more
than the first letter hiding
inside a microphone.

Gave a Word

The writer broke a word
like bread to share.  One loaf
of lines fed thousands like
the age-old story.  Then he
rang the word like a bell
in the street for a century.

 

Write for Yourself

A wise teacher says, I write
like I want to read.  Don’t spend
your time crafting for others.
Language is your own warm bath.
Soak, wallow, wrinkle in its wave.

 

JD Dehart

THIEF

 

Two days ago

the sun caught me stealing light

to illuminate a poem,

 

demanded restitution,

then reported me to Mother Nature

who posted my likeness about the land.

 

Soon, the ocean, forest, birds, flowers, et. al.

filed suit for substantial abuse

and complacent philandering without permission.

 

I pleaded guilty;

admitted taking breath from wind

for deliverance,

 

marshmallows from the sky to sweeten song,

and rage from the ocean

to instill a sense of urgency.

 

Convicted and confined to a windowless room,

no writing, visitation

or glimpses of stolen sights,

 

I was sentenced to imagine beauty

without embezzlement

and the wholesale exploitation of words.

 

WRITER

 

He imagines us on the beach,

soft sand at our feet

just after lunch

when warm rays and a delicate breeze

bid us rest.

 

He considers my arm around her waist,

my body sideways against bikini curves,

surrounded by seagulls

that squawk for attention

and the litter seas throw.

 

It’s been so long for him. 

He has difficulty deciding

what may be real

and occasionally doubts

the idea of our very existence.

SYNERGIST

 

All day

I’ve listened to the song

of a single cardinal

 

ripple stillness

just outside my office window. 

An opera in red tux

 

his throat is a spring

stretching an aria

through the cluttered house

 

of sound, awakening memories

of events since past.

The timbre enlivens my heart.

 

I can almost touch

what once was

as it floats between

 

song and wind.  An inflection

so crisp, that I’m convinced

the cardinal sings for more

 

than to merely texture

the commotion.  His tune

incites another gift.

 

He performs daily,

tireless and without hoarseness,

to make sad hearts flutter.

THE SILENT POET

 

In the beginning it must have been

that the Neanderthal

emerged from his cave

early one day

into a cold and ruthless world

 

and noticed for the first time

sun’s reflection glistening

upon lake serenity

between twin peaks

of a snow covered summit.

 

And speechless

as he might have been

for images never seen,

he fell to his knees,

staring mutely,

 

unable to excise

the swell in his soul

and realized

each morning thereafter

would speak differently.

 

EVENTUALLY

 

Staring from the moon

in a dream

I saw people of Earth

meander aimlessly

 

from minute cavities,

following burrows

to dutiful destination

and back again.

 

Some moved faster

others carried more

and few were prostrate to fantasy.

Yet above each hill

 

hovered ghosts of intentions

not resting, but preparing

markers with singular openings

where well meaning will be placed.

 

DIMINUTION

 

On a tree

by a narrow street

upon an bending bough

I perch in a dream

unseen

over people in a field

hovering about

an empty hole

obstructed by a box

with contents

of what use to be me.

Some are sobbing,

most are somber

and few hide

a reluctant obligatory glint.

All see the hyphen

between random dates

engraved upon granite,

transform my toil

to a trophy abbreviation

for living.

 

Michael Keshigian

Circle

It is an never ending shape

that can make you dizzy.  

It begins and ends the 

exact same way.

Reach for the center,

and maybe you will see

things in a different perspective.

A collage could emerge 

challenging all your previous

thoughts and actions.

Why stay the same 

when you can change

even in midstream.

 

Lily Tierney

how much money she wants

 

the next woman

that calls me

handsome

 

i'm simply just

going to ask how

much money she

wants

 

there's no point

in the bullshit

compliments

 

even this jaded

fuck knows the

truth

----------------------------------------------------------

at war with itself

 

i wake up each morning

right as i'm getting ready

to fuck some beauty in

my dreams

 

i think it's the clearest

example that my body

is at war with itself

 

there are no winners

in this struggle

 

simply just another

day closer to death

--------------------------------------------------------------

if i had a nickel

 

here comes

another jesus

freak that tells

me god loves

me

 

i said if i had a

nickel for every

time someone

said that to me

 

i would never

have to worry

about money

again in

my life

 

and obviously,

god stopped

caring about

me when i

decided to

wake the fuck

up and face

the facts

 

he's the one

that fucked

up with the

free will

after all

--------------------------------------------------------

they tend to catch me staring

 

i see these

women in

their thirties

and can tell

the ones that

played soccer

or volleyball

 

of course,

they tend

to catch

me staring

 

i'll just smile

and if they

ask, i tell

them i just

appreciate

a woman

with a nice

ass

 

i have learned

over the years,

 

considering

the way i

look,

 

to duck just

in case

-----------------------------------------------------------

assistance

 

stuck in that horrible

area of not being

rich and not being

poor enough to

qualify for

assistance

 

it makes it pretty

reasonable to

consider suicide

the most viable

option

---------------------------------------------------------------

would fall for

 

it's a short skirt

that leaves not

much to the

imagination

 

that's too bad

 

she's the type

of beauty that

my imagination

would fall for

time and time

again

-------------------------------------------------------------

J.J. Campbell