SPELLBOUND
This nation went this route before,
Little logic after 9/11,
Bonded against someone, needing to prevail,
Sending thousand of soldiers, and counting, marching to heaven.
Nine years plus and an economic crisis later,
The fearmongering has roared back into the discourse,
Over extending tax cuts and unemployment benefits,
This time it's Democrats who are the source!
We've traded one enemy for another,
Partisans insanely searching for a way to "win" a round,
"Tremendous!" is this any way to run a country?
Emotion driven "wars" driving it into the ground.
Tantamount to those days of yore and lore,
When it was thought the earth wasn't round,
When Chicken Little said the sky was falling,
And all but one believed...and died SPELLBOUND.
A National Gift Card For One and All
The banks got a bailout,
Wall Street did as well,
GM and Chrysler got infusions of cash,
For them, that's really swell.
First timers wanting to buy housing, subsidized,
If you work, there's less withholding,
Cash for Clunkers moved Lots of Cars,
Government money just seems to keep on coming!
But not if your not in a "favored" group,
Retired, jobless, broke, or paying rent,
For all the taxes paid over all the years,
What exactly do you get?
Nothing much that I can see,
A "Bailout Orphan" in free fall,
The holidays are coming, the next giveaway should be,
A national gift card FOR ONE AND ALL!
To buy basics or to splurge,
Put one under everyone's Christmas Tree, please!
Makes as much stimulus "cents" as extending tax cuts and unemployment benefits,
And then the contra-seasonal "spirited" debate can cease.
Karen Ann DeLuca
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.
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.
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
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
Monday, October 11, 2010
Hello,
I am writing again in order to submit my pieces of poetry to your magazine.
1. Riot Of Word
Guys, all you are good at is scolding a cop,
Yes, some of your statements have meaning, indeed,
But words with no reasons won't get you on top,
You're giving your fellows a casual feed
Of rhyming curse words that you cast out loud,
So over-inflated and false-emphasized,
You try to be brusque, and you merge with the crowd,
Your ego is stained by the fact you are biased.
You crave for a rebel, so get it all planned,
Clean out the dump in your mind for a start!
Use word as a weapon when perfectly penned,
Withdrawn from the ultimate depth of your heart.
Guys, all you are good at is scolding a cop,
As they are subdued by the careless chief
For dubious joys of a desperate job.
They've sold their true and most cherished beliefs.
But what you are doing is always the same,
You're telling them what they are waiting to hear.
You know they quote you, you choke on your fame,
You don't even care if it sounds sincere.
You crave for a rebel, so get it all planned,
Clean out the dump in your mind for a start!
Use word as a weapon when perfectly penned,
Withdrawn from the ultimate depth of your heart.
The crowds keep rocking, applauding, exclaiming,
Quoting your words, lacking ones of their own,
If being a poet is what you are claiming,
Declare what really needs to be known!
You crave for a rebel, so get it all planned,
Clean out the dump in your mind for a start!
Use word as a weapon when perfectly penned,
Withdrawn from the ultimate depth of your heart.
2. In The Gutter
You say you are braver, superior, smarter,
Your pride, ever swollen, has poisoned the air.
In fact, you are already deep in the gutter,
You've merged with the shades of the earthly despair.
Your crave for respect, much more cash, a career,
But luck's velvet fingers won't grant you a touch,
Your purpose is being in front of the rear,
You cannot believe that it costs one too much.
The same elevator, the buttons in rows
From Monday till Friday. The same boring week.
You press button ten: you are taken below -
Regarding your dwelling, emotion-sick.
You crave for respect and life-long recognition,
But rich-colored life is behind your bent back,
You don't realize it's a bitter position,
You've never considered the change of this track.
You say you are braver, superior, smarter,
But you are deprived of the pleasure of thought.
In fact, you are already deep in the gutter,
The look of a shadow is all that you've got.
3. From The Heart
I'm here in the corner, devoured by cold,
My little ribbed shell hides a desperate sigh,
It holds an enigma for you to unfold
Until I'm asleep to your breath's lullaby.
My soul is rushing beyond the extremes,
Revealing the vibe that is hard to appease,
But once you discover the door to my dreams,
My consciousness lives through a moment of peace.
Whenever my lips start exploring your skin,
They bleed unexplainable bitter remorse -
My poison leaves stains, and it feels from within,
But lips ever sealed do appear much worse.
4. Invisible Scars
The poison of spring has dissolved in my veins;
A second is worth both my future and past.
The more I denied my becoming insane,
The sooner insanity touched me at last.
The silence we hear is the laugh of my fate,
The soundless laugh at the one I forgot -
The yesterday's me - and the force to create
The life I portrayed. But it's less than I've got.
I love the invisible scars of my skin -
The blades of your hands are so tempting, indeed.
These words I give birth to just come from within,
Revealing the truth till the scars start to bleed.
These words cost two hours less than a night -
Mixed feelings are harder to rhyme than small talk.
Two hours more, and the things will go right
As long as I fail my deceiving the clock.
5. Replay
You're shallow as a pool of dirt,
In which your semi-force has drowned.
Your words are pointless and absurd;
You spread your helplessness around.
You hide behind your ego brand,
You contradict your each demand.
You're freedom-proof, yet still aware
Of all the grieves of your position.
Wipe out the rust of your despair -
Your brand is someone else's mission!
Your programmed life has gone astray,
Your days are like a failed replay.
My biography is the following:
April A. has been writing for almost five years, getting inspiration from various experiences seen by the eyes of a thinker. The purpose of her creativity is urging people to see beyond the bounds, to be themselves, to speak their minds loud, not to be afraid to differ from the crowd.
She creates to destroy. To destroy the naive beliefs. To destroy the stereotypes.
April lives in St. Petersburg with her beloved one at the moment and hopes to succeed further both as a poet and a songwriter.
You can find out more about me here: http://april-abd.bravehost.com/Homepage.htm
My contact e-mail address is beautiful-disaster-90@hotmail.com
Best regards,
April Avalon
I am writing again in order to submit my pieces of poetry to your magazine.
1. Riot Of Word
Guys, all you are good at is scolding a cop,
Yes, some of your statements have meaning, indeed,
But words with no reasons won't get you on top,
You're giving your fellows a casual feed
Of rhyming curse words that you cast out loud,
So over-inflated and false-emphasized,
You try to be brusque, and you merge with the crowd,
Your ego is stained by the fact you are biased.
You crave for a rebel, so get it all planned,
Clean out the dump in your mind for a start!
Use word as a weapon when perfectly penned,
Withdrawn from the ultimate depth of your heart.
Guys, all you are good at is scolding a cop,
As they are subdued by the careless chief
For dubious joys of a desperate job.
They've sold their true and most cherished beliefs.
But what you are doing is always the same,
You're telling them what they are waiting to hear.
You know they quote you, you choke on your fame,
You don't even care if it sounds sincere.
You crave for a rebel, so get it all planned,
Clean out the dump in your mind for a start!
Use word as a weapon when perfectly penned,
Withdrawn from the ultimate depth of your heart.
The crowds keep rocking, applauding, exclaiming,
Quoting your words, lacking ones of their own,
If being a poet is what you are claiming,
Declare what really needs to be known!
You crave for a rebel, so get it all planned,
Clean out the dump in your mind for a start!
Use word as a weapon when perfectly penned,
Withdrawn from the ultimate depth of your heart.
2. In The Gutter
You say you are braver, superior, smarter,
Your pride, ever swollen, has poisoned the air.
In fact, you are already deep in the gutter,
You've merged with the shades of the earthly despair.
Your crave for respect, much more cash, a career,
But luck's velvet fingers won't grant you a touch,
Your purpose is being in front of the rear,
You cannot believe that it costs one too much.
The same elevator, the buttons in rows
From Monday till Friday. The same boring week.
You press button ten: you are taken below -
Regarding your dwelling, emotion-sick.
You crave for respect and life-long recognition,
But rich-colored life is behind your bent back,
You don't realize it's a bitter position,
You've never considered the change of this track.
You say you are braver, superior, smarter,
But you are deprived of the pleasure of thought.
In fact, you are already deep in the gutter,
The look of a shadow is all that you've got.
3. From The Heart
I'm here in the corner, devoured by cold,
My little ribbed shell hides a desperate sigh,
It holds an enigma for you to unfold
Until I'm asleep to your breath's lullaby.
My soul is rushing beyond the extremes,
Revealing the vibe that is hard to appease,
But once you discover the door to my dreams,
My consciousness lives through a moment of peace.
Whenever my lips start exploring your skin,
They bleed unexplainable bitter remorse -
My poison leaves stains, and it feels from within,
But lips ever sealed do appear much worse.
4. Invisible Scars
The poison of spring has dissolved in my veins;
A second is worth both my future and past.
The more I denied my becoming insane,
The sooner insanity touched me at last.
The silence we hear is the laugh of my fate,
The soundless laugh at the one I forgot -
The yesterday's me - and the force to create
The life I portrayed. But it's less than I've got.
I love the invisible scars of my skin -
The blades of your hands are so tempting, indeed.
These words I give birth to just come from within,
Revealing the truth till the scars start to bleed.
These words cost two hours less than a night -
Mixed feelings are harder to rhyme than small talk.
Two hours more, and the things will go right
As long as I fail my deceiving the clock.
5. Replay
You're shallow as a pool of dirt,
In which your semi-force has drowned.
Your words are pointless and absurd;
You spread your helplessness around.
You hide behind your ego brand,
You contradict your each demand.
You're freedom-proof, yet still aware
Of all the grieves of your position.
Wipe out the rust of your despair -
Your brand is someone else's mission!
Your programmed life has gone astray,
Your days are like a failed replay.
My biography is the following:
April A. has been writing for almost five years, getting inspiration from various experiences seen by the eyes of a thinker. The purpose of her creativity is urging people to see beyond the bounds, to be themselves, to speak their minds loud, not to be afraid to differ from the crowd.
She creates to destroy. To destroy the naive beliefs. To destroy the stereotypes.
April lives in St. Petersburg with her beloved one at the moment and hopes to succeed further both as a poet and a songwriter.
You can find out more about me here: http://april-abd.bravehost.com/Homepage.htm
My contact e-mail address is beautiful-disaster-90@hotmail.com
Best regards,
April Avalon
Dear Editor
Please note the attached poems, “Man in the Moon" The Great Journey" "Broken Man" and "It Always Fades Away"
Here is my 3P bio: Sam Campbell's work has appeared in Full of Cro Quarterly and Blinking Cursor Literary Magazine. He is a creative writing student at Concordia University St. Paul and continues to grow and learn as a writer and a musician.
Thank you for your consideration,
Sam Campbell
Man in the Moon
I walked along the big lake as it whispered hush.
Sparkling reflected eyes spat tears
And as they hit my shoulder my mind crawled to his face.
How lonely is the man in the moon?
He looks down on us.
He sees our mistakes,
and can’t do a damn thing about it.
No one has hugged him.
No one has kissed him.
No one has even tried to learn his name.
How far apart are the points on his crescent moon?
Too far apart for me.
I wouldn’t be able to sing to its furthest point
The Great Journey
The traveler in me says follow the pull.
The pull is this force, this powerful force that feels like God on the horizon holding a magnet that’s attracting my belt buckle.
I see ladies, beautiful ladies.
The kind of ladies that you don’t just turn your head for, you clutch your chest because your soul was sucked out of your body and followed the angel that just walked past you on the street corner.
Before you can even picture her face again in your mind your head has already whipped around and your feet have started to scream at you to stop and introduce yourself to your future wife.
But reevaluate the situation, feet, soul, head.
She isn’t following your pull.
Do I risk it?
Do I want to ignore the horizon?
No, my mind is focused on my travel—my travel in life, my travel in mind, my travel in experience.
It’s not that I’m narrow minded, but rather cynical.
There’s a great opportunity to be had and people walk the other way.
Those are not the folks that I am going to have distract me.
How about the ones that say my adventure yesterday was so moving that I will doing again the next day, regardless of how putrid it is.
These folks follow this force, this pull.
They see something they want and take it.
Take it now.
It won’t always be there.
Well, it will, but will you always see it?
If I lost its sight I’d simply light my cigar and wait to die.
Broken Man
Have you had the feeling of a being’s soul scratching your legs?
Begging you to come back in?
Their fingernails clawing your into your calves so you can’t move?
It’s a feeling that stays with you no matter how badly you try to shake it.
It makes hair stand up on the back of your neck,
As you feel the moment their heart literally breaks.
Call me a pioneer, but I have traveled this cold path thrice before.
Every time, the harder it gets.
My nightmare gets worse when I realize I am not in a dream.
In between their gasps for air I can feel the tears hit the floor.
The floor is where I look so I don’t see the eyes of the being that I am forever branding.
I am branding them with the feeling that they will remember for the rest of their lives.
I think about them feeling what I have laid upon them.
I look for forgiveness, but I am shunned by each and every one of them.
I make Judas look sincere enough to trust.
I didn’t learn.
I didn’t learn not to do it again and again and again and again.
I want to stop, but I can’t.
I find myself in this position all too much.
Are you having fun God?
Do you like to play with my head?
I say I don’t believe in you, but I want to.
I want to know that it is you who is making me do this.
Although, the more I think about that I laugh.
I laugh because I know it’s only me.
It’s my fault.
I’m to blame.
I want to love, but I feel that there is an inevitability of me killing another connection.
I can’t force myself to be different.
I tell people I have changed, but you know, they know, and I know that maybe I am just better off living by myself.
At least I can’t my break my own heart.
Actually, I take that back, coming to this sad realization.
I just did.
It Always Fades Away
Why do dreams dare to die,
leaving me with a foul taste?
I arise to the harsh sun
and the start of another trek.
I am not alone, but I might as well be.
My dreams bring me to a safer place.
And bring me to her without the awkwardness
of sweaty palms, and a trembling voice.
I need not to impress her.
I am to cool for that and she clings to me for it.
I am a confident man
and she is my trusted companion.
This all fades as morning comes.
It shows up in a tragic fashion.
As the deep kisses were just getting good,
and the weight of my stress was rolling off my shoulders.
So I tend to my day
looking forward to my slumber.
It is hard meeting her for the first time
again and again only when I am out of consciousness.
Please note the attached poems, “Man in the Moon" The Great Journey" "Broken Man" and "It Always Fades Away"
Here is my 3P bio: Sam Campbell's work has appeared in Full of Cro Quarterly and Blinking Cursor Literary Magazine. He is a creative writing student at Concordia University St. Paul and continues to grow and learn as a writer and a musician.
Thank you for your consideration,
Sam Campbell
Man in the Moon
I walked along the big lake as it whispered hush.
Sparkling reflected eyes spat tears
And as they hit my shoulder my mind crawled to his face.
How lonely is the man in the moon?
He looks down on us.
He sees our mistakes,
and can’t do a damn thing about it.
No one has hugged him.
No one has kissed him.
No one has even tried to learn his name.
How far apart are the points on his crescent moon?
Too far apart for me.
I wouldn’t be able to sing to its furthest point
The Great Journey
The traveler in me says follow the pull.
The pull is this force, this powerful force that feels like God on the horizon holding a magnet that’s attracting my belt buckle.
I see ladies, beautiful ladies.
The kind of ladies that you don’t just turn your head for, you clutch your chest because your soul was sucked out of your body and followed the angel that just walked past you on the street corner.
Before you can even picture her face again in your mind your head has already whipped around and your feet have started to scream at you to stop and introduce yourself to your future wife.
But reevaluate the situation, feet, soul, head.
She isn’t following your pull.
Do I risk it?
Do I want to ignore the horizon?
No, my mind is focused on my travel—my travel in life, my travel in mind, my travel in experience.
It’s not that I’m narrow minded, but rather cynical.
There’s a great opportunity to be had and people walk the other way.
Those are not the folks that I am going to have distract me.
How about the ones that say my adventure yesterday was so moving that I will doing again the next day, regardless of how putrid it is.
These folks follow this force, this pull.
They see something they want and take it.
Take it now.
It won’t always be there.
Well, it will, but will you always see it?
If I lost its sight I’d simply light my cigar and wait to die.
Broken Man
Have you had the feeling of a being’s soul scratching your legs?
Begging you to come back in?
Their fingernails clawing your into your calves so you can’t move?
It’s a feeling that stays with you no matter how badly you try to shake it.
It makes hair stand up on the back of your neck,
As you feel the moment their heart literally breaks.
Call me a pioneer, but I have traveled this cold path thrice before.
Every time, the harder it gets.
My nightmare gets worse when I realize I am not in a dream.
In between their gasps for air I can feel the tears hit the floor.
The floor is where I look so I don’t see the eyes of the being that I am forever branding.
I am branding them with the feeling that they will remember for the rest of their lives.
I think about them feeling what I have laid upon them.
I look for forgiveness, but I am shunned by each and every one of them.
I make Judas look sincere enough to trust.
I didn’t learn.
I didn’t learn not to do it again and again and again and again.
I want to stop, but I can’t.
I find myself in this position all too much.
Are you having fun God?
Do you like to play with my head?
I say I don’t believe in you, but I want to.
I want to know that it is you who is making me do this.
Although, the more I think about that I laugh.
I laugh because I know it’s only me.
It’s my fault.
I’m to blame.
I want to love, but I feel that there is an inevitability of me killing another connection.
I can’t force myself to be different.
I tell people I have changed, but you know, they know, and I know that maybe I am just better off living by myself.
At least I can’t my break my own heart.
Actually, I take that back, coming to this sad realization.
I just did.
It Always Fades Away
Why do dreams dare to die,
leaving me with a foul taste?
I arise to the harsh sun
and the start of another trek.
I am not alone, but I might as well be.
My dreams bring me to a safer place.
And bring me to her without the awkwardness
of sweaty palms, and a trembling voice.
I need not to impress her.
I am to cool for that and she clings to me for it.
I am a confident man
and she is my trusted companion.
This all fades as morning comes.
It shows up in a tragic fashion.
As the deep kisses were just getting good,
and the weight of my stress was rolling off my shoulders.
So I tend to my day
looking forward to my slumber.
It is hard meeting her for the first time
again and again only when I am out of consciousness.
Dear Editor:
Please note the below poems "Ode to the Homeless Man" and "Spring Cleaning".
My name is Thomas Schoenberg, I am a creative writing student at Concordia University-St. Paul.
Thank you for your consideration,
Thomas Schoenberg
Ode to the Homeless Man
As I slip you this five dollar bill
I know you can’t use it as an umbrella
Keeping you dry from the storm that is coming
To wreak havoc on your shanty
Like a banana thrown into a blender set on “high.”
It won’t be a blanket for you
When winter’s harsh breathing exhales
Down your tattered coat and over
Your ribs, which are plainly visible through
Your pale, ashy skin.
I’d like to think that it won’t
Fund another drinking binge
And I am confident that I am right
As I notice the silver “O” around
Your starving mouth.
Spring Cleaning
Places I had forgotten I’d been to,
People I forgot I knew.
Memories of them crawl into my head
From deep recesses, like dormant spiders
Covered in the dust thrown on to them by the
Distractions of the last ten years.
I wish to converse with the people in the frame
But they are frozen there.
It’s like looking at something behind a glass window
In a museum.
I can see them, but I can’t touch these
Wax statues in their exhibits that are
Confined to the glossy paper.
Their smiles tell a lie… these people are not happy.
A prevailing undertone of sadness radiates
From the photos, like everyone was
Happy when the picture was taken
But now they wonder why I haven’t kept in touch.
Nostalgia washes over me like warm water,
But when the feeling passes,
The wind picks up and I am left cold and shivering.
Please note the below poems "Ode to the Homeless Man" and "Spring Cleaning".
My name is Thomas Schoenberg, I am a creative writing student at Concordia University-St. Paul.
Thank you for your consideration,
Thomas Schoenberg
Ode to the Homeless Man
As I slip you this five dollar bill
I know you can’t use it as an umbrella
Keeping you dry from the storm that is coming
To wreak havoc on your shanty
Like a banana thrown into a blender set on “high.”
It won’t be a blanket for you
When winter’s harsh breathing exhales
Down your tattered coat and over
Your ribs, which are plainly visible through
Your pale, ashy skin.
I’d like to think that it won’t
Fund another drinking binge
And I am confident that I am right
As I notice the silver “O” around
Your starving mouth.
Spring Cleaning
Places I had forgotten I’d been to,
People I forgot I knew.
Memories of them crawl into my head
From deep recesses, like dormant spiders
Covered in the dust thrown on to them by the
Distractions of the last ten years.
I wish to converse with the people in the frame
But they are frozen there.
It’s like looking at something behind a glass window
In a museum.
I can see them, but I can’t touch these
Wax statues in their exhibits that are
Confined to the glossy paper.
Their smiles tell a lie… these people are not happy.
A prevailing undertone of sadness radiates
From the photos, like everyone was
Happy when the picture was taken
But now they wonder why I haven’t kept in touch.
Nostalgia washes over me like warm water,
But when the feeling passes,
The wind picks up and I am left cold and shivering.
Dear A Brilliant Editor Editor,
I'm sending you some poems that I hope you’ll please consider for publication.
My poetry and essays have appeared in more than 160 journals worldwide, among them Canadian Literature, Fulcrum,Twentieth Century Literature, Grain, and the Journal of Modern Literature. I have published two books of poetry: The Miracle Shirker, which won an Honorable Mention in the 2007 Writer’s Digest awards, and Swimming the Mirror, which won a First Prize in the 2009 Writer's Digest awards. I also run a new operation called Roan Press, Sacramento’s Small Literary Publisher (website www.roanpress.com), and my most recent book, Oedipus Against Freud, has just appeared from the University of Toronto Press.
Thanks for your time and consideration.
Yours sincerely, Brad Buchanan
Brad Buchanan
Swimming Lessons
Surviving water means ducking under
the surface tension to teach your breath
to accept the need for interruption,
acquainting yourself with the transparent
repulsion of depth. You see, death is patient;
as long as you can arch your back,
spread your arms, relax, and kick
for the least resistant pool of light,
you will never quite swallow it whole,
no matter how much you may drink,
shiver, complain, or howl with fright.
All you need to leave behind
is your sense that the heaviest thing
in the world is a single human soul;
drowning here means refusing to fall.
The View from the Grass
The view from the grass
makes the baby immense
as the neighbor's house
but not as nice.
It lends the trees
a fractal eye
around which to weave
a green hurricane
of stiffened juices.
It leaves the cat
no room to become
anything but terrifying.
When hunger threatens
the blades taste
sweetly sinister.
Heard from here
the street is an ocean
that gains in power
distantly and deafeningly,
invades with the curt slam
of a car door.
Cottage Country
The less you have, the more you want to keep
away from the government's flying eyes
under dog and tree, in the clutter and waste
of your shady rural sovereignty.
You honor appliances you have replaced
with undesired permanence.
Your marijuana patch has an air
of the accidental, inevitably.
Your vehicles cry out for uncontrolled
enjoyment, threaten a cynical world
with grease, ungainly godliness
and dangerous dirt.
The buxom girl
profiled in silvery chrome on your pickup's
wheel flaps traces the absolute limit
of the average male imagination.
The house your parents kept for vacations
has become a place you will die
defending to impatient girlfriends
almost patriotically.
A Dream of Two Daughters
At first she clung to my back like a leech,
of which there were many in that lake,
then she held me in a headlock,
choking me at every lunge
I made through the water. My spluttering lungs
and throttled limbs were a double life-
preserver till she leapt and slipped
under the surface. Though I slept,
I turned and dove—I felt the slime
of the distant bottom, which she had slightly
disturbed on her way to the shore. She slapped
at the edge of my hearing, reborn as an insular,
sloppy baby. Her fate so sealed,
she beckoned me closer, signaling still
distressed awareness of sinking slowly
out of sight under a soulless
natural spell, like a terrible solace.
Mating Season, in Grade Seven
That spring, the girls knew who was whose
before we did, and their choice was wisely
left implicit—the illusion
of freedom and competition remained,
but it was over with; we bragged
and fought and bartered, but none of it mattered.
The winners looked in vain for rewards,
the losers licked their wounds, which tasted
like strawberry lip gloss: the girls had seen
that coming too, had worn the war’s
sweet ravages before it was declared.
By summer, all uncertainty
was gone, and only the stubbornest fool
still hoped to meet an exceptional girl
who would break the rules spontaneously
and give him confidence for the next fall.
Nobody suspected that sex would change
so much when mixed with alcohol.
I'm sending you some poems that I hope you’ll please consider for publication.
My poetry and essays have appeared in more than 160 journals worldwide, among them Canadian Literature, Fulcrum,Twentieth Century Literature, Grain, and the Journal of Modern Literature. I have published two books of poetry: The Miracle Shirker, which won an Honorable Mention in the 2007 Writer’s Digest awards, and Swimming the Mirror, which won a First Prize in the 2009 Writer's Digest awards. I also run a new operation called Roan Press, Sacramento’s Small Literary Publisher (website www.roanpress.com), and my most recent book, Oedipus Against Freud, has just appeared from the University of Toronto Press.
Thanks for your time and consideration.
Yours sincerely, Brad Buchanan
Brad Buchanan
Swimming Lessons
Surviving water means ducking under
the surface tension to teach your breath
to accept the need for interruption,
acquainting yourself with the transparent
repulsion of depth. You see, death is patient;
as long as you can arch your back,
spread your arms, relax, and kick
for the least resistant pool of light,
you will never quite swallow it whole,
no matter how much you may drink,
shiver, complain, or howl with fright.
All you need to leave behind
is your sense that the heaviest thing
in the world is a single human soul;
drowning here means refusing to fall.
The View from the Grass
The view from the grass
makes the baby immense
as the neighbor's house
but not as nice.
It lends the trees
a fractal eye
around which to weave
a green hurricane
of stiffened juices.
It leaves the cat
no room to become
anything but terrifying.
When hunger threatens
the blades taste
sweetly sinister.
Heard from here
the street is an ocean
that gains in power
distantly and deafeningly,
invades with the curt slam
of a car door.
Cottage Country
The less you have, the more you want to keep
away from the government's flying eyes
under dog and tree, in the clutter and waste
of your shady rural sovereignty.
You honor appliances you have replaced
with undesired permanence.
Your marijuana patch has an air
of the accidental, inevitably.
Your vehicles cry out for uncontrolled
enjoyment, threaten a cynical world
with grease, ungainly godliness
and dangerous dirt.
The buxom girl
profiled in silvery chrome on your pickup's
wheel flaps traces the absolute limit
of the average male imagination.
The house your parents kept for vacations
has become a place you will die
defending to impatient girlfriends
almost patriotically.
A Dream of Two Daughters
At first she clung to my back like a leech,
of which there were many in that lake,
then she held me in a headlock,
choking me at every lunge
I made through the water. My spluttering lungs
and throttled limbs were a double life-
preserver till she leapt and slipped
under the surface. Though I slept,
I turned and dove—I felt the slime
of the distant bottom, which she had slightly
disturbed on her way to the shore. She slapped
at the edge of my hearing, reborn as an insular,
sloppy baby. Her fate so sealed,
she beckoned me closer, signaling still
distressed awareness of sinking slowly
out of sight under a soulless
natural spell, like a terrible solace.
Mating Season, in Grade Seven
That spring, the girls knew who was whose
before we did, and their choice was wisely
left implicit—the illusion
of freedom and competition remained,
but it was over with; we bragged
and fought and bartered, but none of it mattered.
The winners looked in vain for rewards,
the losers licked their wounds, which tasted
like strawberry lip gloss: the girls had seen
that coming too, had worn the war’s
sweet ravages before it was declared.
By summer, all uncertainty
was gone, and only the stubbornest fool
still hoped to meet an exceptional girl
who would break the rules spontaneously
and give him confidence for the next fall.
Nobody suspected that sex would change
so much when mixed with alcohol.
Saturday, September 18, 2010
You will find 4 poems that are specifically influenced by my careful navigation of being bi-racial (half Middle Eastern & half Black); “Confessions?,” “Beauty Is Fair,” “Statement Of,” and “Caught.” Additionally, you will find one more poem of interest, “I didn’t say what you wanted.”
I have enclosed all poems in the body of the email (see below signature) as well as pdf attachments. If you are able to view the pdfs, that would be best. I understand that some of my poems ideally have unique space requirements, and if any of them are chosen I would be happy to work with the editor in charge of uploading the content to help ease the burden of laying it out properly or coming to a compromise on how it can be laid out more simply.
Short Bio:
S. Mojdeh Stoakley, is a 4x award winning bi-racial American-born writer, performer & interdisciplinary artist. Her work is about the intersections of race, trauma, and social stigma. She has a BFA from The School of the Art Institute of Chicago. Her audio and poetic works have been exhibited internationally in Tokyo, Berlin, and New York amongst other places, and is the founder of, The Mojdeh Project, Radiant Devices, and Lethal Poetry Inc.
Thank you for your time and consideration.
Sincerely,
Mojdeh
CONFESSIONS?
© S. Mojdeh Stoakley
I should
be quite keen on color coordination
Bold footwear should be on my list of important accessories
But diamond studded bling should be most important
My clothing
worn by a white person should be seen as no less hip hop
Should I stray from the hip hop image
it should only be to wear the threads of tribal Africa
I should bend over
laughing every time Chris Rock tells a joke
My number one roll model should be Oprah Winfrey
My survival as an artist
is dependent upon the Afro-American population
Growing up
in a white community
should have no effect on my black character
Despite my heritage, I should hold black power to be most important
I should own up
to the fact that I am only offered opportunities
because I am a light skinned African-American
I should not
seek an education when there are plenty
of custodial and food service jobs offered as a means of honest work
When I write poetry
I should write in hopes of becoming the next big hip hop queen
I should be most fluent in Ebonics
I should be able to offer
the names of the top artists on the BET
You will become blacker by spending time with me
You should worry that my blackness is contagious
I should be aware
that it is my people that takes advantage of the welfare system
It is perfectly acceptable for me to have two, maybe three children out of wedlock
I should accept the word Nigger
as a term of endearment or empowerment
Gospels should have been my first encounter with music
My poetry read by a white person
should be awkward
because they would lack
the profound genetic tendencies towards rhythm
I should not take offense if someone assumes I know drug dealers
Even I
should be cautious of black men roaming the streets past eight o'clock
It should be most important
that people recognize my skin tone
so that they may properly apply their knowledge
of the black experience to everything that I say
Beauty is fair
© S. Mojdeh Stoakley
I’m tan. No
Caramel, brown
She said, I should protect
my skin.
Because it’s the most beautiful
thing that I stand in
She said it
like a double-edged sword. She said,
I should be proud
I’m mulatto. No
Mixed
Light, sometimes
My pride should swell
As my features would glow
amongst a crowd of dark creatures
She said, I should be proud
of my heritage
But what she was really saying
Is that I should be proud of hers
Fair? No
Neither, both
It wasn’t her ignorance
speaking but I finally heard the hurt
in her voice
And part of me
wants to let her be
And let her believe
that my beauty is
because of her
That beauty is fair
Statement Of
© S. Mojdeh Stoakley
i feel hurt
i feel that now
there's nowhere to escape
judgment and norms
expectations
and
my form so I was born
because i make
my choices
and i let other things dissipate
and i will continue to move
my mind
my form
forward
anticipation
to deviate
i will continue to
take the kink
out of the nappy
out of the curls
because no matter
what i do
what i choose
of comfort
it becomes my
statement of
Caught
© S. Mojdeh Stoakley 2007
I walk right in
to these expectations
But I’m always caught
unprepared, unready
bemused, and
you tell me not to read too much into this
but those words speak so much truth
I always walk right in
to these expectations
But I’m always caught
un prepared, unready
bemused
I’m always caught
flatfooted, unwilling
ill predicted, and you
you tell me not to read too much in
to this
But
when all I hear are judgments I’m confused
I always walk right into these expectations, but
I’m always caught, unprepared
unready, bemused
I’m always caught
flatfooted unwilling, ill predicted
I’m always caught
grudging, resistant, and tired
bone-tired
and weak, weak enough to
almost give up this fight and you
you’ll tell me not to read too much into this, but
when you’re already comparing me
without ever
really looking
me over to make comparisons I feel
weakened
and I shouldn’t feel that way, but
I do. and
I’m caught
I’m caught
walking right in
I didn’t say what you wanted
© S. Mojdeh Stoakley
She sings to herself when no ones looking
Full conversations while she walks alone
Some would brand her,
but THIS is her way of telling
Healing comes so painfully
And it chills to the bone
Won't anyone get close to me
I'm damaged, as I'm sure you know
She has conversations with you
of course you’re not there or listening
But this is the closest she gets to telling
She practices with you
with everyone she hopes to feel safe with
It’s only for my soul - To undo this fear and…
She was just another child and he was stronger
And she wants to tell you but instead
she’s sabotages her cover stories
So that hopefully
you will know. hopefully
you will wonder
I'm scared and I'm alone
I'm shamed and I need for you to know
I’m here but I’m fading
I’m here but nothing seems real
She is beckoning you to ask – but you don’t
I didn't say all the things that I wanted to say
And you can't take back what you've taken away
Cause I feel you, I feel you near me
She whispers when no ones looking
She even has quiet conversations – with him – he’s not there
But she hopes his ears are burning
I didn’t say what you wanted, but you’ll take it anyway
[Some text in "I didn't say what you wanted" appropriated from “Damaged” by Plumb]
I have enclosed all poems in the body of the email (see below signature) as well as pdf attachments. If you are able to view the pdfs, that would be best. I understand that some of my poems ideally have unique space requirements, and if any of them are chosen I would be happy to work with the editor in charge of uploading the content to help ease the burden of laying it out properly or coming to a compromise on how it can be laid out more simply.
Short Bio:
S. Mojdeh Stoakley, is a 4x award winning bi-racial American-born writer, performer & interdisciplinary artist. Her work is about the intersections of race, trauma, and social stigma. She has a BFA from The School of the Art Institute of Chicago. Her audio and poetic works have been exhibited internationally in Tokyo, Berlin, and New York amongst other places, and is the founder of, The Mojdeh Project, Radiant Devices, and Lethal Poetry Inc.
Thank you for your time and consideration.
Sincerely,
Mojdeh
CONFESSIONS?
© S. Mojdeh Stoakley
I should
be quite keen on color coordination
Bold footwear should be on my list of important accessories
But diamond studded bling should be most important
My clothing
worn by a white person should be seen as no less hip hop
Should I stray from the hip hop image
it should only be to wear the threads of tribal Africa
I should bend over
laughing every time Chris Rock tells a joke
My number one roll model should be Oprah Winfrey
My survival as an artist
is dependent upon the Afro-American population
Growing up
in a white community
should have no effect on my black character
Despite my heritage, I should hold black power to be most important
I should own up
to the fact that I am only offered opportunities
because I am a light skinned African-American
I should not
seek an education when there are plenty
of custodial and food service jobs offered as a means of honest work
When I write poetry
I should write in hopes of becoming the next big hip hop queen
I should be most fluent in Ebonics
I should be able to offer
the names of the top artists on the BET
You will become blacker by spending time with me
You should worry that my blackness is contagious
I should be aware
that it is my people that takes advantage of the welfare system
It is perfectly acceptable for me to have two, maybe three children out of wedlock
I should accept the word Nigger
as a term of endearment or empowerment
Gospels should have been my first encounter with music
My poetry read by a white person
should be awkward
because they would lack
the profound genetic tendencies towards rhythm
I should not take offense if someone assumes I know drug dealers
Even I
should be cautious of black men roaming the streets past eight o'clock
It should be most important
that people recognize my skin tone
so that they may properly apply their knowledge
of the black experience to everything that I say
Beauty is fair
© S. Mojdeh Stoakley
I’m tan. No
Caramel, brown
She said, I should protect
my skin.
Because it’s the most beautiful
thing that I stand in
She said it
like a double-edged sword. She said,
I should be proud
I’m mulatto. No
Mixed
Light, sometimes
My pride should swell
As my features would glow
amongst a crowd of dark creatures
She said, I should be proud
of my heritage
But what she was really saying
Is that I should be proud of hers
Fair? No
Neither, both
It wasn’t her ignorance
speaking but I finally heard the hurt
in her voice
And part of me
wants to let her be
And let her believe
that my beauty is
because of her
That beauty is fair
Statement Of
© S. Mojdeh Stoakley
i feel hurt
i feel that now
there's nowhere to escape
judgment and norms
expectations
and
my form so I was born
because i make
my choices
and i let other things dissipate
and i will continue to move
my mind
my form
forward
anticipation
to deviate
i will continue to
take the kink
out of the nappy
out of the curls
because no matter
what i do
what i choose
of comfort
it becomes my
statement of
Caught
© S. Mojdeh Stoakley 2007
I walk right in
to these expectations
But I’m always caught
unprepared, unready
bemused, and
you tell me not to read too much into this
but those words speak so much truth
I always walk right in
to these expectations
But I’m always caught
un prepared, unready
bemused
I’m always caught
flatfooted, unwilling
ill predicted, and you
you tell me not to read too much in
to this
But
when all I hear are judgments I’m confused
I always walk right into these expectations, but
I’m always caught, unprepared
unready, bemused
I’m always caught
flatfooted unwilling, ill predicted
I’m always caught
grudging, resistant, and tired
bone-tired
and weak, weak enough to
almost give up this fight and you
you’ll tell me not to read too much into this, but
when you’re already comparing me
without ever
really looking
me over to make comparisons I feel
weakened
and I shouldn’t feel that way, but
I do. and
I’m caught
I’m caught
walking right in
I didn’t say what you wanted
© S. Mojdeh Stoakley
She sings to herself when no ones looking
Full conversations while she walks alone
Some would brand her,
but THIS is her way of telling
Healing comes so painfully
And it chills to the bone
Won't anyone get close to me
I'm damaged, as I'm sure you know
She has conversations with you
of course you’re not there or listening
But this is the closest she gets to telling
She practices with you
with everyone she hopes to feel safe with
It’s only for my soul - To undo this fear and…
She was just another child and he was stronger
And she wants to tell you but instead
she’s sabotages her cover stories
So that hopefully
you will know. hopefully
you will wonder
I'm scared and I'm alone
I'm shamed and I need for you to know
I’m here but I’m fading
I’m here but nothing seems real
She is beckoning you to ask – but you don’t
I didn't say all the things that I wanted to say
And you can't take back what you've taken away
Cause I feel you, I feel you near me
She whispers when no ones looking
She even has quiet conversations – with him – he’s not there
But she hopes his ears are burning
I didn’t say what you wanted, but you’ll take it anyway
[Some text in "I didn't say what you wanted" appropriated from “Damaged” by Plumb]
Saturday’s Swagger
It was an early night –
1:00 AM early.
Police passed by,
For the bigger problems,
And the clubs roared
A little louder than usual,
While I danced,
And danced,
The Saturday night stumble –
To the left,
To the right
And twice back
Destination -
Home.
I continued,
To tripped,
Or ripped,
To have a friend,
A little lonely,
But feeling a little famous
All the same
And all the while.
I strode with swagger,
Head held a little higher
Than usual
Made my way home,
Slept,
And started over
Tomorrow,
Or was it the day
After,
Sleep can be such a nimble little
Beast,
When it wants to be.
Good thing a
Cold beer’s
Always
Just around the corner.
Imperialism
I’m drinking their
Beer,
But I don’t feel bad.
I feel –
Patriotic.
I’m greedy,
I’m entitled,
I’m self-indulgent,
I’m an American,
I feel none of the above,
I feel it all,
And I’m numb,
But still
Smiling.
I squeak out some
Laughter,
When I embrace a new
Family
And sweat an
“Ineligible” one
Of sorts
Out.
Oddly enough,
I don’t deserve this –
The beer
And the laughter,
As my countrymen celebrate –
Not with “them,”
But
For the cheap goods they
Provide.
I laugh even harder,
Choking back the tears of
Assumed exploitation,
Correctly assumed
With an added
Inept aggression
Against others.
I cackle to a
Sudden stop
After my eyes spy the
Bride
I go home with.
I take and
Take,
And take her
Home.
I study,
I assimilate
And allow
Assimilation.
“Assimilation,”
Being a Euphemism for
“Conquest.”
Somehow hybrid
And somewhat
Unoriginal,
Where does that leave us
Now?
Torn,
Wholly
Symbiotic,
Or building the world
That deep down
We always dreamt of?
On the other hand,
And there’s always another
“Hand,”
Are we the tyrants that’ll
Strip clothes
And later strip-mine
Souls,
All in the name of
Manifest Destiny
Underneath the flags of
Corporatism,
Fortune
And the Fatherland?
I’m an American after all.
Outside in and Introverted
The bass annoys neighbors,
But occupies
And entertains me,
As I write,
With red wine,
And smoky ink.
My cigarettes,
Now smolder in the carpet.
As the song continues into the
Night
I stop
To spy a pounding,
From my heart,
From the city,
And from my door.
I choose to ignore
It all,
But most importantly
The pounding at the door –
My landlord,
Who demands silence
During the wee hours of the
Night,
A joke
And the rent.
I could provide one,
Of the three –
The joke,
Just by answering the knock,
But choose my safety
Within the noise,
My noise,
And solitude of existence,
My existence.
I snore
While awake,
Bored with the premise,
Of company,
More aptly described as
Lechery
And the loss of honesty
Intrinsic to “people.”
I continue in avoidance of the
Pounding.
I guess
I could try to be happy
Within the annoyance of
Camaraderie.
But the butterflies
Would soon float,
From the mouths
Of the others,
Simple promises into the
Flowers
That are my ears,
Pollinating,
Procreating,
And making something
New,
And something unwanted,
At least for the time being.
When my sentence ended,
And finish line seemed even
Further away,
I was
Sorrowed by the thought,
Of another lost poem,
Lost moment,
And new friend –
Another knock at the door,
A robbery more vicious
Than any dealt by the
Unwelcomed thief.
Call me an
Introvert,
Or call me
Lonely.
I’m only seeking my kind of
Quiet,
If only for a moment.
Let me have this one
Night
To myself,
Alone
With my pen and paper.
Leaves, Ash, Snow and Flowers
“It’s”
A sinking feeling,
A drowning touch
And somehow above the
Cold water’s
Surface.
I’m loosing my taste,
But can still smell hell,
While my eyes show the world,
They show “it,”
Or me,
What?
I’m not quite sure
Yet.
Reluctantly,
My heart sees the truth.
I’m losing,
And I’ve lost,
But why does it feel so good
To be the
Loser?
The sunny days laugh,
Few and far between,
Where the clouds cover,
And even the stars seem gone.
When I sleep,
I’m back…way back,
With what I try to forget,
But need to carry on.
Waking,
Walking,
Talking,
Touching,
Loving,
And dying,
This is my winter,
Where my friends have
Already
Fallen as autumn leaves,
And I’m left to carry the ashes
In our snow.
I’ll keep my eyes open
For the –
Flowers.
I’ll welcome you all
Home,
When I see the first colors
And fresh breath of
Spring,
Please..?
I think his name was Random
I arrive to talk,
And make an attempt to explain –
Time travel,
Physics,
And my latest poem,
Somehow catching
And for a moment
Capturing
Who I was prior to
Pain and Prose.
That was him,
And not me “now,”
The “I” –
That can stand before you,
Albeit swaying,
Ten drinks later,
Pad in hand and
Pen in ear.
It’s him
I try so hard to bring back,
But not for you.
It’s for selfish old
Me,
Who sometimes longs for
Sobriety and
Reason
As compared to this
Chaos and drink.
You later laugh,
½ Relieved and
½ Bewildered
When I mention,
That pissing on ice,
Reminds me of love,
Confetti
And corpses left to the
Sun,
Because random’s –
What I am,
And poetry’s the byproduct.
After two years,
And an off-and-on
You,
I’m no longer allowed to
Remember “him” any more.
I heed your wish,
Placing a pillow over his
Face and for good,
A cold-bodied kind of
Good,
Against my better judgment
Perhaps.
Truth be told –
I cried,
To a certain degree,
When I left him behind.
Destroyed,
But not entirely.
Lucky for me,
Figments surfaced like the
Life-preservers of those
Who could hold on
No longer,
Eternal.
And when I blamed you,
For the almost-total loss of “Me,”
Him,
And not "I,"
Goody-goody me,
My good grades,
And wholesome lifestyle,
I was right to,
Though you remained a
Simple accessory.
All intrusions aside,
Reality became –
Wild nights,
Poetry and the girl
I brought home
Once again.
All illusions aside,
It was me
And never you.
“The man with many names.” (My Biography) -
I was born “Christopher Hanson” in Minnesota; Born in the same hospital as Bob Dylan, not that it matters. I remember very little from this snowbound world having actually grown up in California where I picked up the nick-name, “Cloud,” I don’t know why, simply, “Cloud.” While in good old San Fran, I made nice with some fellows and females of Japanese decent. I picked up a sword, I learned to eat sushi and wander in between the realms of Aikido, Iaido and Zen. They dubbed me “Kazuki.” All aside and all names following me into college, I studied for five years at the University of Wisconsin and graduated with degrees in both Criminal Justice (to bust-up a broken system) and Anthropology – I love people, what can I say? During year five of college, I’d acquire my latest addition, “Yang Yun,” my Chinese name. The name basically translates to, “a tree in the cloud.” This was the name given to me by my wife, the love of my life that I met while studying abroad in China. Since my graduation in 2008, I’ve lived in China for nearly two years as a teacher and within this last year, have finally made it back to the states, wife and all. It’s been a wild ride and something tells me that it’s just begun. As for my “writing” and my “art,” it’s a time-honored tradition and way of life – at least for me.
Thank you for your time and consideration. I truly hope you enjoy.
Best Regards,
Christopher Hanson
It was an early night –
1:00 AM early.
Police passed by,
For the bigger problems,
And the clubs roared
A little louder than usual,
While I danced,
And danced,
The Saturday night stumble –
To the left,
To the right
And twice back
Destination -
Home.
I continued,
To tripped,
Or ripped,
To have a friend,
A little lonely,
But feeling a little famous
All the same
And all the while.
I strode with swagger,
Head held a little higher
Than usual
Made my way home,
Slept,
And started over
Tomorrow,
Or was it the day
After,
Sleep can be such a nimble little
Beast,
When it wants to be.
Good thing a
Cold beer’s
Always
Just around the corner.
Imperialism
I’m drinking their
Beer,
But I don’t feel bad.
I feel –
Patriotic.
I’m greedy,
I’m entitled,
I’m self-indulgent,
I’m an American,
I feel none of the above,
I feel it all,
And I’m numb,
But still
Smiling.
I squeak out some
Laughter,
When I embrace a new
Family
And sweat an
“Ineligible” one
Of sorts
Out.
Oddly enough,
I don’t deserve this –
The beer
And the laughter,
As my countrymen celebrate –
Not with “them,”
But
For the cheap goods they
Provide.
I laugh even harder,
Choking back the tears of
Assumed exploitation,
Correctly assumed
With an added
Inept aggression
Against others.
I cackle to a
Sudden stop
After my eyes spy the
Bride
I go home with.
I take and
Take,
And take her
Home.
I study,
I assimilate
And allow
Assimilation.
“Assimilation,”
Being a Euphemism for
“Conquest.”
Somehow hybrid
And somewhat
Unoriginal,
Where does that leave us
Now?
Torn,
Wholly
Symbiotic,
Or building the world
That deep down
We always dreamt of?
On the other hand,
And there’s always another
“Hand,”
Are we the tyrants that’ll
Strip clothes
And later strip-mine
Souls,
All in the name of
Manifest Destiny
Underneath the flags of
Corporatism,
Fortune
And the Fatherland?
I’m an American after all.
Outside in and Introverted
The bass annoys neighbors,
But occupies
And entertains me,
As I write,
With red wine,
And smoky ink.
My cigarettes,
Now smolder in the carpet.
As the song continues into the
Night
I stop
To spy a pounding,
From my heart,
From the city,
And from my door.
I choose to ignore
It all,
But most importantly
The pounding at the door –
My landlord,
Who demands silence
During the wee hours of the
Night,
A joke
And the rent.
I could provide one,
Of the three –
The joke,
Just by answering the knock,
But choose my safety
Within the noise,
My noise,
And solitude of existence,
My existence.
I snore
While awake,
Bored with the premise,
Of company,
More aptly described as
Lechery
And the loss of honesty
Intrinsic to “people.”
I continue in avoidance of the
Pounding.
I guess
I could try to be happy
Within the annoyance of
Camaraderie.
But the butterflies
Would soon float,
From the mouths
Of the others,
Simple promises into the
Flowers
That are my ears,
Pollinating,
Procreating,
And making something
New,
And something unwanted,
At least for the time being.
When my sentence ended,
And finish line seemed even
Further away,
I was
Sorrowed by the thought,
Of another lost poem,
Lost moment,
And new friend –
Another knock at the door,
A robbery more vicious
Than any dealt by the
Unwelcomed thief.
Call me an
Introvert,
Or call me
Lonely.
I’m only seeking my kind of
Quiet,
If only for a moment.
Let me have this one
Night
To myself,
Alone
With my pen and paper.
Leaves, Ash, Snow and Flowers
“It’s”
A sinking feeling,
A drowning touch
And somehow above the
Cold water’s
Surface.
I’m loosing my taste,
But can still smell hell,
While my eyes show the world,
They show “it,”
Or me,
What?
I’m not quite sure
Yet.
Reluctantly,
My heart sees the truth.
I’m losing,
And I’ve lost,
But why does it feel so good
To be the
Loser?
The sunny days laugh,
Few and far between,
Where the clouds cover,
And even the stars seem gone.
When I sleep,
I’m back…way back,
With what I try to forget,
But need to carry on.
Waking,
Walking,
Talking,
Touching,
Loving,
And dying,
This is my winter,
Where my friends have
Already
Fallen as autumn leaves,
And I’m left to carry the ashes
In our snow.
I’ll keep my eyes open
For the –
Flowers.
I’ll welcome you all
Home,
When I see the first colors
And fresh breath of
Spring,
Please..?
I think his name was Random
I arrive to talk,
And make an attempt to explain –
Time travel,
Physics,
And my latest poem,
Somehow catching
And for a moment
Capturing
Who I was prior to
Pain and Prose.
That was him,
And not me “now,”
The “I” –
That can stand before you,
Albeit swaying,
Ten drinks later,
Pad in hand and
Pen in ear.
It’s him
I try so hard to bring back,
But not for you.
It’s for selfish old
Me,
Who sometimes longs for
Sobriety and
Reason
As compared to this
Chaos and drink.
You later laugh,
½ Relieved and
½ Bewildered
When I mention,
That pissing on ice,
Reminds me of love,
Confetti
And corpses left to the
Sun,
Because random’s –
What I am,
And poetry’s the byproduct.
After two years,
And an off-and-on
You,
I’m no longer allowed to
Remember “him” any more.
I heed your wish,
Placing a pillow over his
Face and for good,
A cold-bodied kind of
Good,
Against my better judgment
Perhaps.
Truth be told –
I cried,
To a certain degree,
When I left him behind.
Destroyed,
But not entirely.
Lucky for me,
Figments surfaced like the
Life-preservers of those
Who could hold on
No longer,
Eternal.
And when I blamed you,
For the almost-total loss of “Me,”
Him,
And not "I,"
Goody-goody me,
My good grades,
And wholesome lifestyle,
I was right to,
Though you remained a
Simple accessory.
All intrusions aside,
Reality became –
Wild nights,
Poetry and the girl
I brought home
Once again.
All illusions aside,
It was me
And never you.
“The man with many names.” (My Biography) -
I was born “Christopher Hanson” in Minnesota; Born in the same hospital as Bob Dylan, not that it matters. I remember very little from this snowbound world having actually grown up in California where I picked up the nick-name, “Cloud,” I don’t know why, simply, “Cloud.” While in good old San Fran, I made nice with some fellows and females of Japanese decent. I picked up a sword, I learned to eat sushi and wander in between the realms of Aikido, Iaido and Zen. They dubbed me “Kazuki.” All aside and all names following me into college, I studied for five years at the University of Wisconsin and graduated with degrees in both Criminal Justice (to bust-up a broken system) and Anthropology – I love people, what can I say? During year five of college, I’d acquire my latest addition, “Yang Yun,” my Chinese name. The name basically translates to, “a tree in the cloud.” This was the name given to me by my wife, the love of my life that I met while studying abroad in China. Since my graduation in 2008, I’ve lived in China for nearly two years as a teacher and within this last year, have finally made it back to the states, wife and all. It’s been a wild ride and something tells me that it’s just begun. As for my “writing” and my “art,” it’s a time-honored tradition and way of life – at least for me.
Thank you for your time and consideration. I truly hope you enjoy.
Best Regards,
Christopher Hanson
Walking Down Frat Row
(By Walter Beck)
So all these bros and hipsters were staring
At this weird, long-haired, barefoot thing
Ambling down their street;
With a Dunhill cigarette hanging from his lip
And strange incantations muttered
Of Two-Headed Dogs
And Lazarus Digging himself back in the Cave
That came out of the pocket of his loud gonzo shirt.
A fleshed out legacy of the Doctor’s words;
“Some may never live, but the crazy never die.”
A Fire Poet’s Lament
(By Walter Beck)
Reduced to hashing out
Press releases and promos;
The red flame don’t need no poets
To keep her fire burning.
The Dust of Many Moons
(By Walter Beck)
She tells me the dust of the moons knows my name and their hands squeeze my chest as dirt hardens and cakes around my pale leather soles.
She tells me the dust of the moons knows my name and I speak to them as the ash blows from the reed and clay.
She tells me the dust of the moons knows my name and they speak to me as I take a hit and fall in the mud, hearing the words in my head, “Ã tout le monde, Ã tous mes amis, je vous aime, je dois partir”.*
*Taken from the chorus of the Megadeth song "A Tout Le Monde"
Neon Sign Blues
(By Walter Beck)
He drinks his Pink Gin
With an Olive garnish;
As I sip an Iron City
And look down
At my dirty natural leather.
Walter Beck is from Avon, IN and is currently enrolled as a graduate student at Indiana State University in Terre Haute. He has become a mainstay in the Terre Haute poetry scene for his intense performances. His work has appeared in the ISU Tonic, the Vincennes University Tecumseh Review, subTerreanean, Camp Chase Gazette, Paradigm Journal and most recently, Burner Magazine.
(By Walter Beck)
So all these bros and hipsters were staring
At this weird, long-haired, barefoot thing
Ambling down their street;
With a Dunhill cigarette hanging from his lip
And strange incantations muttered
Of Two-Headed Dogs
And Lazarus Digging himself back in the Cave
That came out of the pocket of his loud gonzo shirt.
A fleshed out legacy of the Doctor’s words;
“Some may never live, but the crazy never die.”
A Fire Poet’s Lament
(By Walter Beck)
Reduced to hashing out
Press releases and promos;
The red flame don’t need no poets
To keep her fire burning.
The Dust of Many Moons
(By Walter Beck)
She tells me the dust of the moons knows my name and their hands squeeze my chest as dirt hardens and cakes around my pale leather soles.
She tells me the dust of the moons knows my name and I speak to them as the ash blows from the reed and clay.
She tells me the dust of the moons knows my name and they speak to me as I take a hit and fall in the mud, hearing the words in my head, “Ã tout le monde, Ã tous mes amis, je vous aime, je dois partir”.*
*Taken from the chorus of the Megadeth song "A Tout Le Monde"
Neon Sign Blues
(By Walter Beck)
He drinks his Pink Gin
With an Olive garnish;
As I sip an Iron City
And look down
At my dirty natural leather.
Walter Beck is from Avon, IN and is currently enrolled as a graduate student at Indiana State University in Terre Haute. He has become a mainstay in the Terre Haute poetry scene for his intense performances. His work has appeared in the ISU Tonic, the Vincennes University Tecumseh Review, subTerreanean, Camp Chase Gazette, Paradigm Journal and most recently, Burner Magazine.
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