Issue # 08 (page two) from July 1997
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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.
Based
©
Daniel Weinshenker
a 40-year old man was found slain in a boxcar yesterday
and another today
and the one from last year
is already melting in the heat.
we evaporate quickly
and maybe a soda can will outlast you
and a plastic bag will point a transparent finger at that mortal
silhouette
and an oil painting will put you down, put you down in shame.
if you look closely you can see the steam rising from the surface
and the mirages you breathe from a rippled distance
he's fooling no one
a busted dog on the side of the road
he's fooling no one
a soap bubble expanding in the heat
he's fooling no one
a felled and rotted-out oak
he's fooling no one
and neither are you.
because a core the marrow the blade:
there is nothing we can outlast.
as the melting man in the boxcar can attest to,
for he is dissipating
in the face of a roach
and a bottle of salad dressing.
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THE AUTHOR
of this poem.
King
©
Daniel Weinshenker
what we make
is what makes us
go ask the oracle,
behind the desk,
with the accessories and power to bundle.
with the paper clips and rubber bands.
what it is to make.
when a serf takes the air of a king
and swallows it whole and
exhales it back into the faces that surround.
when a slave smiles at their master
when a prisoner caresses bars
when a messenger hold's their chin above the pavement
and it is suspect to the rest.
there is a little royalty in every tongue
rich and full in muscle jumping in the marrow neck-deep in our blood.
but it does not fight so loud,
or we drown it with the radio,
a kazoo in the gut
kicking at a pregnancy.
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THE AUTHOR
of this poem.
plums
©
Daniel Weinshenker
we used to watch them fall
pretend our eyeballs were out of sockets
to pick up and fit back in.
the day our brother was born
dad planted a vegetable garden
and on weekends he'd watch it grow
maybe it was easier to mark the progress
of a tomato
a tight green to a yielding red.
he was weeding when our brother took his first step,
fertilizing, the day he stopped breast feeding,
pruning upon first speaking.
there was a draught when our brother was young,
so no longer could he make puddles in the yard,
floating leafs and the dried skins of plums
on the surface.
but there was enough water for the garden.
and dad brought squash to the table,
presented like trophies,
baskets of green beans.
subsistence farming was a novelty,
the straw hats, the Stanley tools, the sweat,
the shed our brother used to jump
off, into beds of pine needles.
pretend we are farmers,
pretend we are in need.
put the leftover in tupperware and microwave later.
from the window of the kitchen
he watched the garden grow,
and we buried our cat out there,
then the iguana,
giving them to the zucchini.
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THE AUTHOR
of this poem.
Slurring
©
Daniel Weinshenker
Tonight
I whispered in Spanish
In a stairwell.
Without watch.
To an audience of no one. I whispered in Spanish.
Accents lithe and spilling
down banister,
wrought and rubbed
down with hands
with ears
with soles.
In the basement the accents
met clandestine, huddling together
in the shadow of the staircase.
Each word tumbled from step to next step
Uniformed children came down a slide,
piling at the bottom.
At the bottom, skirts were torn,
tanbark mauled the white.
A boy in the corner watched them,
slurring in Spanish.
And it sounded like peach skin separating from the flesh, pulling and cussing.
I whispered about this.
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THE AUTHOR
of this poem.
"Untitled"
©
Krista Brotzel (Krister)
Maybe the world would be a better place,
If we had no eyes to see out of.
For without sight, we could not
see our differences.
Maybe there would be no hatred,
If we had no ears to hear it.
For without being able to hear hatred,
there would be no point in voicing it.
Maybe there would be no prejudice,
If we had no mouths to speak it.
For without mouths we could not
voice our unreasonable racism.
Maybe someday there will be no racism,
Without losing out to accomplish that.
Would it take for us to lose our sight,
our sound, and our voices
just so we can all feel equal?
Maybe someday there will be no hatred,
the day when we can look at someone
and see only a person,
Nothing more, nothing less,
No matter what.
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THE AUTHOR
of this poem.
In my Dreams
©
Krista Brotzel (Krister)
At night, you are the one in my dreams.
In my dreams I see your smiling face,
and I feel your warm embrace.
In my dreams I hear your laughter,
and I see the one I love so much.
Sometimes I can even feel your touch.
In my dreams nothing's changed between you and me,
In my dreams you aren't just a memory.
This hurts so much,
because false dreams will never be enough.
In my dreams you've come back to me,
and never before have I wished a dream
to be a reality.
Send some E-mail to:
THE AUTHOR
of this poem.
Insomniac
©
Krista Brotzel (Krister)
The night begins,
I lay in bed awake.
Insomnia "they" call it.
I call it hell.
"They" probably sleep.
My mind wanders,
and I enter the place
between dreams and sleep.
I doze off, and wake up,
feeling worse than before.
Maybe it's not insomnia,
just depression.
I wish I could just not care,
not think about anything,
But I am only human.
Early in the morning,
I drift into the happy-land of dreams,
and the alarm clock rings.
Send some E-mail to:
THE AUTHOR
of this poem.
Maybe I Could Be A Fly
©
Sean Ramey
Silken strands surround me
As I tremble serenely
Within this woven tomb
Drifting through my fading mind
Half of my eyes still open
So that I may see her come
The other half million closed in gentle dreaming
Of freedom and flying from wall to wall
Eavesdropping as is my caste
I see her
Dancing across her artful snare
Singing sweetly as she starts to love me
I fall into her
Heat escapes me
I am so cold that I smile
Darkness
Silence
Nothing
Send some E-mail to:
THE AUTHOR
of this poem.
Anna Katherine
©
Sean Ramey
Even through her smile
Tear drops fell
And deep within
Hearts crumbled
And me,
I was evil
Kissing her casually
Allowing her to lose herself
In my deceptive depths
Giving her reason
Cause to believe
in me
As a shield
As a friend
As for every day
That the sun will set
So comes the time
To say good-bye
She said nothing
And as I blinked
She slipped away
Into the silence
The bitter seed
Sown that day
Blinded me from the truth
Of her flight from me
Sprouting a flower
Deformed and twisted
Stealing from me
My knowledge of her
When speaking next
(And last)
She tried to tell
Of her sadness
I said nothing
And as she paused
I slipped away
Into her darkness
When in myself
I can feel her cry
Its too late
To be sorry
Too late to know
That I love her
Send some E-mail to:
THE AUTHOR
of this poem.
DAD?
©
Sean Ramey
" I'm worried," he confessed.
"O.K." I said.
For I could not think what to say
To the one who had always been
So sure.
" I'm worried about you," he said.
"Oh," I mumbled.
For I wanted him to believe
That I could understand
Anything.
" What will you do when I've gone? "
I told him what I thought he wanted to hear.
For I never could bear to disappoint him.
" O.K. " he said and looked away from me
Into the seasonless world.
I stayed.
He held my hand
For the one reason
Or the other.
Send some E-mail to:
THE AUTHOR
of this poem.
RAIN
©
Angie Toedtemeier
Rain falls to the ground so quiet and shy
Clinking against windows just the rain and I
Then the rain gets mad and starts pounding strong
Flying all around you for so very long
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THE AUTHOR
of this poem.
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Created October 28 1996