Issue # 07 (page two) from June 1997
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Issue #7 (page two) for June 1997
I would like to thank the authors of the following poems for their contribution
and wish them much success!
Read and Enjoy
And if you do enjoy a poem, please E-mail the author.
a drowsy perception of all things
©
mike eng
dizziness and a slight confusion hazes
over and under the scent of evening rain
that somehow managed to peek its head inside,
through the blackened windows.
waves of conversations and shadows of
an empty corner play upon this evening rain,
a new friend.
outside, the chill of spring wind peers into an
empty but living room.
the exit sign doesn�t shine, really.
if you don�t know its there, you probably won�t even
notice it.
unwritten or unread,
an unfinished book lays gently upon the table before me,
along with an empty glass of nothing.
it used to hold water, then it was
half-full, then it was
half-empty,
and now it is completely empty.
waitress, she stops by and asks to refill
my glass.
i refuse, and wonder why.
she carries her tray away.
a road, a tunnel, a painting, certainly,
hanging behind me until i turn around.
voices of silent chuckles echo
by and past me, not wanting or
not thinking about stopping to see if i�d care to join them.
the shadowy corner waits for me to move.
the coverless book waits watches the empty glass,
shining through light fixtures hung snugly on the ceiling.
the unwritten pages watch the empty glass crashing,
onto the scarred and scuffed and stained wooden tiled floor.
and the glass isn�t empty, anymore.
two teardrop�s worth of clear and pure water
hang low, glistening off the razor-sharp gleam
of the broken lip of the broken glass on the broken floor.
i�m tempted to bend down to kiss these droplets goodnight,
but they fall too quickly to the floor,
and are lost within the crying grains of wood.
my boot steps on them, to smother them.
so they won�t breathe.
to smother them.
a chessboard holds steady a half-finished battle.
checkmate has not come, and won�t for some time,
but the game is ...
... over.
someone left the board there,
on the very next table.
beside it, two glasses sit empty,
until they fall to the floor and realize that they weren�t really
empty.
it just seemed that way.
an empty basket sits on the empty floor beside the empty
chair next to empty blades of glass,
and a dime-sized puddle, under my boot.
and an empty man sits patiently,
watching the chess pieces laughing at him.
his eyes, a deepened shade of gray, or maybe that was
just the reflection of the dimmed lights.
the broken glass swept away, and
i am no longer thirsty.
standing up, i feel the warmth of the chair as i push
it in.
two droplets of water remain, smeared over the stained wood.
turning and pacing towards the propped-open door,
my hair tumbles in the midnight chill.
two tears sting my face as they trickle down.
they don�t like movement.
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THE AUTHOR
of this poem.
saturday morning, before i was awake
©
mike eng
marbled across the distant 7 a.m. sunrise,
the shades and blades of charcoal, burning,
lifting to the sky,
up, up and away.
dad�s spirit is somewhere up there, too.
you can see him if you close your eyes.
charred and biting metal,
scraps of thick and dirty glass.
blood stains pour over the asphalt,
like spilt milk.
but, no one cries over spilt milk,
right?
whispers of screaming sirens shuddering just like
the dangling rearview mirror.
you were wearing your seat belt, weren�t you mom?
i think so, because it left bruises across your shoulders
and chest.
black and blue and an in-between purple. bruises.
your breastplate -
broken.
a tiny tear of blood trickled down from
your face, the cut above your closed eye. it fell from your cheek,
and now rests as a stain on the fabric of my shoelace.
stepping over an overturned car seat,
the straps still buckled tightly, the way you always told me to.
the dashboard is cracked where daddy�s
head hit it on accident.
the smell of gasoline,
of burnt rubber,
of thick and confused smoke,
of a hospital gown,
of sanitary tubes and pumps and machines,
all attached to you, mom.
they keep you alive.
you�re laying here, in white sheets
on a white bed,
in a white room,
with a white ceiling and
a white tiled floor.
but you keep bleeding, mom.
it�s all clean, but you keep bleeding.
the machines, mom, they�ll make you all better.
i know they will.
the doctors... they�re good doctors, mom.
they�ll make you all better, mom.
just hold on real tight, mom.
they�ll make you all better.
mom, the doctor wants to know if you want to die now.
mom, the doctor is asking me if you want to die.
mom, i don�t know how to answer that.
mom, i don�t want to answer that.
mom, please make him stop asking me.
mom, will you wake up?
mom, i�m having a nightmare!
mom, i�m having an awful dream that you�re dying right now.
mom, please, wake up and smooth my hair back the way you always do.
mom, do you want to die now?
mom, they keep asking me.
mom, i�m only seven.
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THE AUTHOR
of this poem.
SPRING IS IN THE AIR
©
Duane Anderson
Raise your eyes, look into warm sky,
birds are, once again, on the wing
filling the air with searching cry,
little children run, jump and sing.
Warm sunshine heats morning dew,
awakens sleeping flowers and trees,
nudging the vibrant colors to view
and the air is abuzz with busy bees.
Yes, springtime has come once again
to brighten and enlighten our lives,
while we awaken a happy spirit within
singing songs that renew and revives.
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THE AUTHOR
of this poem.
THE GARAGE SALE
©
Ron Baron
The church had decided a garage sale was needed
and funds for the budget be raised
They needed new choir robes and fixing the organ
would help God more greatly be praised
The men were excited - the women exuberant -
the task was approached with much zeal
Those discarded trinkets that used to be treasures
to others might seem quite a steal
Strong tables were spread with white linen so neat
and on each placed a worthy array
But one wooden table assigned to the deacons
stood void of any display
Much worry and thought of what could be brought
caused the deacons no little dismay
They searched all around - but nothing was found
and the time that remained just one day
Then quite by surprise a thought did arise
much junk in the church attic lay
Each year high up there - discarded in despair
just left there to rot and decay
They rushed up the stairs and found shelves full of boxes
so dusty the names barely read
One said "New Life" - another said "Hope"
and one simply "Our Daily Bread"
Others were labeled with names such as Healing,
Salvation and Eternal Love Peace,
Joy, and Faith and The Holy Ghost
- and a box called Manna from Above
Gifts of the Spirit and Tongues of Praise
and boxes of Blessings were found
And an Old Rugged Cross on the shelf there lay
. . . . . . . . . . . it's final resting ground
These boxes weren't needed their value not heeded
so, down to the garage sale they went
But try as they did they could not get a bid
and soon all the selling was spent
Then one last customer - a time-worn old man
whose face bore Life's pain and scar
Examined each carefully and joyously exclaimed
"what a treasure these boxes really are
I'd give quite a sum to possess even one
but I'll give all I have for the lot
I pray they be mine and on me fortune shine
I beg you take all that I've got"
Each deacon bartered and each box was sold
and the bidding was finally done
The old man had bought all the boxes he thought
but strangely, there still remained one
The cashier said "this one they couldn't get opened
I guess you can bid if you please"
The old man's gnarled fingers took hold of the lid
and opened the box with great ease
He gave a shout as he flung high the lid
and a - million - words soared in the air
The label inside said "herein reside
all the Old Time Religion words there"
Then a great voice from heaven said "Now is the time
I'll pour out my blessings on you"
And all in the crowd left their purchases proud
and went clambering to catch just a few
The cashier said "Sir, I hate to refer
but a price on that box was not laid"
But as He walked away . . . she heard him say,
"The Price . . . . long, long, ago
WAS PAID"!
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THE AUTHOR
of this poem.
Rainy Days
©
Donna McBride (Az Red Head)
Drizzly rain -
Dampering the silence of the day.
The sky turns gray
Like a puff of desert dust.
Fogged up windows,
From the steam of coffee
Put a sense of solitude
In the mood of the day.
Warmth from the fireplace
Along with a good love novel
Keeps the mind secure
From the rain outside.
Slowly night falls over the sky,
Leaving one with the illusion
Of just another wasted day
Fading away.
Drizzly rain,
Dampering the silence of the day.
Letting someone special
Spend a quiet day before the fire.
Getting in touch with solitude,
Quietly relaxing the mind.
Drizzly, rainy days -
How warm, how secure.
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THE AUTHOR
of this poem.
No Baggage Required
©
Donna McBride (Az Red Head)
Raindrops fall from the sky
Appearing to be tears on his cheeks
With puddles forming in the streets,
Capturing the flow of his loneliness.
His hair is limp and wet against his face
Matching the lifeless shirt on his back
As he walks down the darkened street
Looking for somewhere, finding no place to go.
He sits on a cold cement bench
Allowing it to captivate the dampness of the world.
Watching fancy cars drive by without seeing him
Until the puddles cover him like a blanket.
He doesn't seem to mind the mess they have made
Because he knows at least nobody will notice.
Not one will stop and say they are sorry
But thats okay, he doesn't expect them to.
He remembers yesterday and prays for today
Hoping he will be here tomorrow.
Knowing he is homeless and without possessions
With only his worn life showing on his torn wet sleeve.
This man will die while carrying no bags or belongings
But no matter will it make when the doors to heaven open
Because he realized long before many of the wealthy
That angels can't fly with baggage anyway.....
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THE AUTHOR
of this poem.
Bury Your Emotions
©
Donna McBride (Az Red Head)
Bury your emotions
Like a dog hides his bone.
And then watch as your heart
Turn cold - hard like stone.
Take your memories and set fire to them
Like a pile of old used rubber tires.
And then watch as your soul
Blackens with your desires.
Build a wall around you
Like feuding neighbors might do.
And then watch as your mind
Breaks like your heart has done too.
Open yourself up to someone
Like a timid ocean shell
And watch yourself come alive
When you realize someone really does care.
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THE AUTHOR
of this poem.
Hi Joe,
I haven't been writing poetry...well, started again, but I've been on vacation from P*. I have one I wrote not too long ago in response to Shell's note about the parents holding their children while someone killed all of them (a tragic homacide case in Tennasee, early 1997). She couldn't understand how the parents could just sit there holding them. It was a choice they made. Death was going to happen. Here it is...
Jo
Let Me Hold You, Child
©
Jo Taylor (JoLady)
Let me hold you,
child
give me your hate
your fear
rock softly
in my soulcradle
where love collects
disperses
transmutes
all evil
through gentle
healing
sway
Let me calm you,
child
your heart
your soul
until you sleep
your last sleep
until you
sleep,
child
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THE AUTHOR
of this poem.
Lovely Geisha Maiden
©
Dillon Staas
Oh lovely geisha maiden, won�t you dance for me tonight.
One hour dispel my loneliness and set my world aright.
That I might know your graceful step, and see your pleasant smile.
That I might sit in sweet content, and watch you for a while.
Oh lovely geisha maiden, won�t you sing for me tonight,
Your songs of oriental love, to make my spirits bright.
This lost and lonesome gaijin longs to hear the tender voice,
Of one whose golden throated tones can make his heart rejoice.
Oh lovely geisha maiden, won�t you play for me tonight,
And lift my lonely spirits up, and bring them to the light.
Then in the end when you have done; your magic spell is cast,
My troubled heart shall weep no more; I�ll be at peace at last.
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THE AUTHOR
of this poem.
Hearts And Ribbons
©
Dillon Staas
I�ve heard the cry of eagles as they soar across the sky.
I�ve stood upon the mountaintop and watched the world go by.
I�ve wondered at the valley with the river running through,
But never have I seen a sight so beautiful as you.
I�ve shared the many secrets with the winds, here humming low.
I�ve heard their autumn love song when the leaves begin to blow.
I�ve known the robins� melodies as overhead they flew,
But never in my life I�ve heard a song as sweet as you.
You came into my life upon a lovely summer�s eve.
You found my heart was empty and you taught it to conceive,
Of love so all encompassing, for you and I to share.
I knew you were my destiny when first I saw you there.
And now my life is filled with all the wonders of your love.
Together we are soaring to the mountains and above.
Our hearts are tied with ribbons made from happiness and glee,
Reflected on your smiling face, for all the world to see
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THE AUTHOR
of this poem.
looking for a woman's black leather coat lost in the system
©
Daniel Weinshenker
in the still of the moonset
or the daily twist of sun
before the fuses of revolutions are lit
and the sparkplugs firing and firing,
everything's in its place.
every sock
every tooth
every footstep rests an imprint.
everything has theirs
then
the ring of a bell
and epilepsy of turnstyles
and melting of train tracks,
malleable to the hammering of briefcase mallets
and necktie chisels
hanging on
hanging onto rails and seat tops we move,
hanging on we move,
until a cog
until a spoke is bent,
and askew runs the train, twisting away from mobius,
churning about itself and charring anguish
like a pig stuck with a knife in its side
it comes to a halt.
like a pig stuck with a knife in its side
everything comes to a halt
shivering discomfort
staring into the light of an oncoming chevrolet,
on course to run over routine.
there's a hit and run
a hit,
then run, bolting away from the scene.
over the intercom, neutral
"looking for a woman's black leather coat lost in the system"
eyes don't shift, and balances remain,
while the frantic woman somewhere goes cold.
like a pig stuck with a knife in its side
there's a black leather coat lost in the system
a black leather coat
buttered and jammed in the wheels that are turning,
impaled on the track.
a black leather coat
with buttons of bone,
pressed face down to the floor beneath moving feet
a black leather coat
and a zipper now torn away from the seams
away from the seams and the lining and stiches
looking for a woman's black leather coat lost in the system
like a pig stuck with a knife in its side
squealing and blind
looking for a nipple
looking for a woman
looking for a black leather coat.
lost in the system
squealing and blind
lost in the system
while the sparkplugs are firing
and firing and firing
and it's lost in the system
everything has theirs
but she won't get hers
lost in the system
shivering discomfort
staring into the lamp of an oncoming car
lost in the system
a pig stuck with knife in its side
hanging on as we move
hanging on to the places
those places we hold to our breasts,
those places routine as the daily moonset
those places we count on to be beneath feet
until the hit and run
until the squealing and blind
until the spokes bend
and the weight of the cog is too much
and the teeth break in two
and we find ourselves looking for a black leather coat
lost in the system
like a stuck pig
lost in the system
lost in the system
lost in the system
lost.
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THE AUTHOR
of this poem.
slough
©
Daniel Weinshenker
this poem contains strong language or subject content
when her friend comes to visit,
and she comes one week out of every month,
she tells no one to touch her.
before you said what you said,
you hadn't known that she collected your tampons.
"My own Mother?"
"Yes."
"What did she do with them?"
and then you were told that she stole them,
wrapped up in a wad of toilet paper
(sometimes she put them inside her, just so she could take them out
again)
and she smuggled them out of
you
r
home.
and she was quite quiet.
"My own Mother?" again.
"Yes."
your friend, the thief, rubs them,
praying that they're still wet,
on the crotch of her panties,
and tries to transfer the stain.
then she throws them,
bloodside-up,
in the pastel bathroom garbage can,
for all the world and her husband to see.
and then she buys new panties,
because the ones she had are now marred.
She buys new panites every week.
and when he asks her what she's doing
(this is after she has pulled the ones she had
inside out)
she says:
"All women have their period underwear.
The ones they don't care about.
The ones they throw away."
they still fuck sometimes,
that is,
after her friend comes to visit.
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THE AUTHOR
of this poem.
last
©
Daniel Weinshenker
how many times
many tries
many doubts
many lies
how many will it take for you to
break the path of the moon overhead
at night, the switchback of train track on your living room floor,
if you can't fix a model, how are you supposed to apply,
institute new orbits within whose bounderies
you'll fly, and navigate the waves which batter your
rusty ironsides.
how many barnacles
how much of a lunar pull
how to empty your shopping cart loaded with
thickets of last straws.
what to do with them all, tie them together with a twisty,
a makeshift broom, to sweep away the nagging dirt of possibility
that pokes you like a single sock at the end of laundry folding,
no match
no match.
what to do with this basket of splintering last straws
you have collected and woven together.
do you take them and shuttle them under your bedsprings,
to hear the crunch everytime you lay down.
do you mount them with matting and frames and flags,
frozen butterflies caught in the act.
or do you let go of the basket, let go of the straws,
and the shopping cart rolls down the hill, unaware,
your last, at last, is gone.
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THE AUTHOR
of this poem.
edges
©
Daniel Weinshenker
Grafitti on chandeliers,
finger-painted diamonds
no longer sparkle.
A baby mobile hangs suspended from the ground
while Catholic schoolgirl walks
a tightrope sidewalk.
Uniform dusty, hair in braids
lapping and twisting about each other,
coming slowly undone.
White blouse
blue skirt pleated everywhere.
Inside those folds, beneath
the pressed flats, sealed
by hot steam and
spraycan starch,
curl answers.
The first time mom put them in the dryer
they shrunk.
The lint screen is full.
She'll never look, though.
never peel back the skin on her thighs
never drink from the bottle
or dig-up her grandfather's bones.
Just remain fixed on that echo
organ,
paper mache alter boys
carousel chandelier
throwing colors round,
while tightrope walking
all the way home.
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THE AUTHOR
of this poem.
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