Poetry 360

Fred

2009-05-19T22:10:00.000-04:00

Listen to me
My dear dear friend
Listen to me
For I have this to say

I need you to know
I will always be here
I will never leave you
I will never fade
I want you to do
These few things
So that you may have
A happy life
Fred...
Fred you must try
Try to forget
those who hurt you
Try to forget
those ones that broke you
Try and forget
All those bad things
Because life has not ended yet
So don't give up
You say you
"I wont love again"
You say
"I have no heart"
but if you dont give up
and you never look back
Then one day you'll see
That you do have a heart
And you can love again
Fred...
I will always be here for you
I will always protect you
I wont ever hurt you
Never ever, will I dare
So Fred...
Dont give up hope

who needs a dog?

2008-06-20T10:53:00.001-04:00

my carpets are stained with the muck
children bring into my life
sunshine and smudges upon my walls
painted with little finger marks trailing the banister

once golden, now brown the carpet gleams
colors of red, yellow and green grace my fridge
on a tattered piece of construction paper
stickmen tell the tale of my life

men I cannot understand steam the dirt away
while the children watch in childish fascination
plotting a new way to bring color to the world
the smallest stands on the table and pees on the cleaned floor

The world is on fire, baby

2008-06-10T20:35:00.002-04:00

It's time to come inside.
The smoke is thick as a deep Indian tea,
The southern sky aflame with orange and red
As you call up honey
A smattering, a glitter, in
The evening's candle light.

It's time to come inside; the
Hearth draws near and the
Air shimmers as if alive.
Too often, have I felt the love
Upon my neck, a shuttering,
Even in sooty air.

It's time. It's time for something
other than the melancholic moans of
Dissatisfaction lingering like
Smoke on a barbecue, the coals white
Hot and desirous of fat and meat
Drips into the smoldering ash.

It's time to come inside; the
World is on fire, baby.

Not Today

2008-01-07T16:12:00.000-05:00

5 am. Light breeds optimism. New day. Changes are eminent.

Alarm shrieks the reality of responsibility. Snooze always a possibility.

Purring friend delights in your presence. Warming acceptance.

So many possibilities to make the day great.

Noise fills the room. Unnotable occurrences broadcasted by smiling, lineless faces. Murder, robbery, celebrity this, celebrity that, flood, death, fire, car wreck, celebrity blah, celebrity blah.

530 am. The pure smell of coffee beans invaded by Glade. Starbucks always wins.

Smiling at strangers met with blank eyes and half nods. Misanthropy sets in.

Brake lights, my kid is smarter than yours, roadkill. Coffee – cold.

700 am. Cubicle window overlooking downtown. Phillip Morris, an eyesore in my view. Suits in big chairs, smoky windows killing my hope.

When will the day begin?

Preventable Epidemic?

2007-07-20T18:36:00.000-04:00

Inspired by and dedicated to the Youth
(especially Adam Smith of the Unitarian Church of Norfolk,
Unitarian Universalist).

Yes, education is the remedy
   To cure the malady called ignorance;
But hatred and deep-seated bigotry
   Can build rock-hard impregnable defense
Against known facts as mighty as the sea.

So racism and fears of difference,
   And festering, phobic longtime bigotry
Surround the hater with a shield that's dense
   Enough to render vain the pounding sea
Breaking in vain against the rocks of ignorance.

Education grows vast like the ocean,
   With ideas coming in with every tide;
Facts and attitudes, even emotions
   Expand and grow, becoming deep and wide;
But bigotry arrests all growth, all motion.

Therefore, it behooves the School of Light
   To shine its beacon beams upon the youth,
And teach them to seek out the good and right,
   To explore various routes toward the truth
that makes us free to fight the righteous fight.

By William "Bill" Carroll First published in Songs, Scenes, and Sentiments, 2003. Subsequently published in The New Journal and Guide, 2003. Copyright 2002 by Bill Carroll. All rights reserved. Reproduced by Poetry 360 with permission of the author.

Sowing Seeds to Succeed

2007-07-08T21:37:00.000-04:00

(The Garden Sonnet)

A serious gardener, I like to think that I
   Have faith enough to trust in Power Divine
To bring a fruitful end to most of my
   Attempts to grow a veggie, tree or vine.

Likewise, I tell myself that through my years
   Of teaching, writing, mentoring and speaking,
I have assisted person, lives, careers,
   And helped some students reach some goals worth seeking.

I plant the seed, with hope that it will grow,
   Producing fruit that's wonderful to see;
I plan with faith, and faithfully I know
   The sweetest fruit is called Sweet Charity.

The harvest that comes forth from class or sod
Is all the proof I need that there's a God.

By William "Bill" Carroll First published in The Virginian Pilot, 09/14/2003. Subsequently published in The New Journal and Guide, 2004. Copyright 2003 by Bill Carroll. All rights reserved. Reproduced by Poetry 360 with permission of the author.

Catch On The Fly

2007-06-19T21:29:00.000-04:00

Full barrel up 53 north,
heading to Lake Zurich, IL,
Christian talk radio 1660
on the radio dial,
crisp winter day
sunbeams dancing down
on the pavement like midgets.
85 mph in a 65 mph zone,
just to aggravate the police,
black Chevy S10 pick up,
shows what a deviant I am
in dark colors.
Running late for a client appointment,
creating poems on a small hand held recorder
knowing there is not payment for this madness
in this little captured taped area of words.
Headlights down the highway for a legacy
into the future, day dreaming like a fool obsessed.
Working out the layout of this poem or getting my ego in place,
I will catch up with the imagery when I get back home.
This is my life, a poem in the middle of the highway.
Scampering, no one catches me when I'm speeding
like this.

Norwich

2007-04-03T15:50:00.000-04:00

You and I walked arm in arm through
Yawning streets-- warm evening light
Reflected off sale signs and dowsed us both.
Light like the heater I kept turning off and
You kept switching on. I pulled at your arm
Interlocked with mine.

You moved in that loose limbed way
Like unformed bones.

What is this thing the English
Have for tea? The teapot steeping, the thimble
Cups staining like teeth. From all this tea,

From all this coffee, from all these cigarettes,
There's no wonder why teeth here remind me
Of little gold pips.

Bananas

2006-11-24T15:08:00.000-05:00

We all need to eat the bananas
That are sitting on the counter
In the kitchen in the white bowl
With a delicate filigree of blue
Pinstripes, two of them, on the
Rim where the tips of two of them,
The bananas I mean, are jutting
Over

And starting to turn from pure yellow
To brown and yellow with a cluster
Of spots on each flat of the fruit
That tomorrow will be connected
With a fine filigree of brown lines
Linking them, and, after that,
Well everyone knows what happens,
All the fingers will be pure brown
With the hidden, soft pulp under
The skin jutting out and swollen.

Isn’t it strange how the one who
Buys the bananas eats just one
After she comes home from the
Market with a load of other things
That do not so quickly turn brown,
Even in the refrigerator, though
Putting bananas there won’t make
Any difference, and how she adroitly
Avoids the bowl, the blue one with
Pinstripes right on the counter where
Anyone can see it as he enters the
Kitchen, even for breakfast when
The lights aren’t on yet. But she

Remembers the bananas when he
Comes in, and after a few days
Begins to ask why he isn’t eating
Them, doesn’t he notice they are
Turning brown and soon will be
Too soft to eat although he says
They are best when the brown
Spots are all one, and he will eat
Them tomorrow at breakfast on
Cereal, if it isn’t too dark to see
Them, and he doesn’t maybe
Forget

By David King Copyright 2006 by David King. All rights reserved. Reproduced by Poetry 360 with permission of the author.

Lazy Days

2006-11-08T13:01:00.000-05:00

Lazy days on the boardwalk;
plodding along; distended belly bouncing
as my body sways to the beat of music
drifting from open shops.

Finding a shaded spot,
I settle between permanent vendors,
melding into the backdrop,
oblivious to all who stroll by.

Elderly men and women stroll
along the wooden walkway,
a salty ocean breeze
lifting their shirts and skirts.

Triumphant yells pierce the air as a man grasps his kill
from the jaws of the claw machine;
both exhausted at the hunt and capture,
victorious he waives the flopping animal.

My unborn child lurches at the scent of pizza and fries,
so I purchase sustenance as
dogs walk their owners and
wheel chairs squeak.

Sighing contentedly, I prop my feet,
ankles resting on a vacant bench;
a pathway beneath me
for scavenging birds of the day.

A memory poem by Jennifer L. Stinson. Copyright 2006 by Jennifer L. Stinson. All rights reserved. Reproduced by Poetry 360 with permission of the author.

childhood

2006-09-27T16:12:00.000-04:00

Prison bars of childhood
against false promises
in the morning sun,
against the moon
who never warns
about the lies
the sunset tells.

By Pete Freas Copyright 2006 by Pete Freas, The Mindworm. All rights reserved. Reproduced by Poetry 360 with permission of the author. See The Mindworm's website for more of Pete's poetry.

Bus Meeting

2006-06-03T23:57:00.000-04:00

It could have been one day
When the salt spray blew across
The road from the boardwalk, smelling
Of creosote and taffy, or the
Wind just carried a swell from
The rolling of the sharp Atlantic,

But, waiting after her job at the Albion Hotel,
She notched her coat tighter and held
The lilac scarf more firmly about her face,
As he, stumbling at the curb in the half done
Twilight, lurched at her.

So they met in apologies and found
The loneliness in their faces like the
Emptiness of the great hotels across
The way, in the gray solitude of long
Winter nights, sparkling with indifferent
Stars that wheel in false patterns.

Perhaps they went to the boardwalk the
Next night and bought stringy sweet taffy
From the only open shop or just watched
The strings of lights blaze on the joints
Of the creosote ties bending light
Far out to ocean where the waves
Unsteadily, yet predictably, wander.

The next night, he took her salt fishing,
She wearing her best mauve
Dress, he smoking an old pipe,
And casting into the clear water out from
The boiling of the surf with sure eye
And steady arm, for a time content
With nothing. Then she talked him into
Going to the Asbury Pharmacy
For coffee and a sandwich,
And they gazed in each others' eyes,
Full of their oneness,

But they both remembered how the
Bus, warm with sticky diesel fumes,
Felt that first night while they stood
Holding the straps hand on hand
For the longest time, and how
Her fingers, pressing the hard flesh,
Left a faint dimple on his.

By David King Copyright 2006 by David King. All rights reserved. Reproduced by Poetry 360 with permission of the author.

Grandpa's Wars

2006-01-18T18:20:00.000-05:00

There was no Verdun with rows on
Rows of bodies, neat as sacks in a
Coal bunker, or Battle of Jutland
With ships blazing into
The sea, entrails half exploded
And half drowned,

But only the heat of a greasy
Boiler in the pipe thin hull of a
Sub chaser hissing through the solidity
Of the near Atlantic.

There he tended
The shells, fifty caliber and
Five inch, handing them
To the gun captain in staccato bursts
As the barrels pitched or fell silent. Between
Shots, he cleared the deck by rolling the
Empty casings over the side or pitching
Them into a can by the bulkhead to save
The brass, when full lowering them bucket
By bucket into the nothingness of the
Magazine or etching the ship's name and
Dates on the side of the shells after cutting
And brazing them into ashtrays.

They patrolled from Sandy
Hook to Portland in lazy circles,
Listening to the staccato bursts of the
Marconi set and rushing from longitude
To longitude looking for invisible
Things under the surface. Once they
Saw a conning tower with a Maltese
Cross and fired until a wound of
Oil rolled on the sea. He lowered the
Shell bucket until it filled with debris
And splashed the contents on the
Deck.

The surgeon picked through
The few brass casings, still hot from
Firing, pronouncing this kidney
And that lung, finally holding upright a stingy
Pink rope he concluded was fresh entrails.

In age, after the stroke, Grandpa showed
Me the ashtray he made of those shells,
Brazing the smaller ones along the cupped
Bottom of the five inch rifle, so they
Made a convenient rest to hold pipe
Stems in, but by that time, he had forgotten
The story, so we had to help him by
Filling in the details he didn't remember,
Since the date and ship's name etched
On the brass were so thin that they
Could only be known by feeling.

By David King Copyright 2006 by David King. All rights reserved. Reproduced by Poetry 360 with permission of the author.

Jetty Fishing

2005-12-01T16:30:00.000-05:00

Grandpa would fish on the
L-shaped jetty at Shark River Inlet,
On the north side where the
Rocks calmed the sea summer nights
As the moon faded out of the
Flat horizon.

He’d walk the mile of boardwalk
From Ocean Grove in the dusk
With the same chipped rod he’d wrapped
And varnished on the kitchen table,
Clamped to it the one decent piece of gear
He owned, a twenty-year old Meek reel,
With new line each spring and a small bucktail
Lure at the end of the leader, waiting

For the water to clear after a tide-rise
That rolled the water clear from tip
Of the jetty to the north tide-pool where the
Summer flounder feed in the flat sand
Just near the boulders.

He’d cast out from
The breakers and drag the line in staccato
Jerks again and again, saying nothing to
The others except Al who’d not fish but
Come with pipe tobacco and a dry match.
If there was no action in a half-hour or so,
He’d add a piece of pork rind usually
Used for the blues earlier in the season
And swear it’d draw em like laughing gulls
Chatter at the shadow of Venus
Reflected on the sea’s inconstant surface.

Once, in a low tide of spring,
When the foot of the jetty was dry and
Open, he took me walking across the sand
Ripples and troughs where salt water still
Pooled, and showed me spots where,
In such-and-such a year he’d hooked
A flounder, always remembering the exact
Conditions of tide and weather and
How the fish had fought, he following
Its capture line back to the jetty leaving
A trail of confused foot prints in curves
And swells across the untouched sand.

Then we’d walk back the jetty, and
He’d show me the spots from there,
Pointing to each as if it was
The one sure thing in the world, even
When hidden below the savagery
Of the tide pulled by a pale moon.
By David King Copyright 2005 by David King. All rights reserved. Reproduced by Poetry 360 with permission of the author.

Midlife Chrysalis

2005-10-07T07:39:00.000-04:00

When you were just a babe

(you still are, but you know what I mean)
lying around in a crib
the mobile over your head
was like a fan,
going around and around,
about as exciting as life got those days.
You got a little older
And to fan changed meaning.
You ran around in the yard
Flailing your arms over your head
You were “fanning” around.
Life was sweet
Before long,
Boys had caught your eye
And a fan was something
Used to dry that nail polish.
Had to keep yourself looking good
(what’s that you say . . . still doing nails huh?)
Next stage of a fan-
Music groupie
Hard core
Dyed in the wool
Music groupie,
Be it Elvis,
Dave of the Monkies
Or Manilow…
Pretty soon
College came
Hot dorms
No air in sight
You came to naturally
Dry your hair
And you bought a fan.
That helped some.
Next stage in life
You became a wife
You got a house
And a spouse
Mantel there with fireplace
Now your fan had a different face
One of floral décor…
But oh, there’s more…
Now fan means
To make a dash
And grab a magazine
For hot flash
means fan like crazy.
Fan away Miz Daisy…
And get the oxygen tank

There’s a boa ‘round her neck.

Is it constricting?

Can she get air?

Get an ambulance

We’re all a nervous wreck.

She’s passing out-

Does anybody care?

What’s that you say?

“There’s six snakes now-

all red-“ Great day-

Save us all somehow!

Train those snakes

Don’t make ‘em too tight

Look, now some are purple

Oh what a fright.

Loosen that thing

Drape it on your chest

Let it just swing

Yeah, that feels the best.

Take a deep breath

Now exhale- ahhhh.

Isn’t that better?

Yeah, better by far.

‘Cause word was
that like me…
she walked on the wild side
This former PTA mom
The one who always baked cookies
Kept everything all neat and clean
Kept her feelings on the inside.
Must have been that midlife thing
The one that had her buy a Mustang
A convertible, red to be exact,
It matched her hat…
Such change her age did bring…
You’d see her coming
Purple boa stretched out in the wind
Hat beside her on the seat
Usually with a red hat friend
Both of them smiling… sunning…
And maybe just to be wild
A pair of dice hanging down
In utter rebellion against good taste
Besides at fifty, she dared anyone
To denounce that smile…
Especially on the romance aisle
We like those books
Both her and me…
One day I felt a lust for lust
And found a lookout I could trust.
No one around the romance aisle
‘twas there a frown replaced my smile
When wandered my friend from lookout post
‘Twas her betrayal that hurt the most.
Just to browse through one or two
Or three or four
Heck, before I knew it
It was even more.
And my friend back there
With the eagle eye
Had seen some shoes
She had to try
To my dismay,
My pedestal got lowered a bit
When I turned around
I had a fit.
“Reverend Thomas,” I stuttered
as my face turned red.
I closed the tome of bath and bed.
He had the tact and blessed grace
To help a woman save her face.
“Comparison shopping today I see,”
then he looked and laughed at me.
“The subtle ones are over there,”
with sweeping hand, he pointed where.
“My wife reads ‘em every one.”
My face glowing like the sun.
Then came friend with shoes in hand
Ready for the checkout stand
I smirked at her with hint of malice
“Just don’t work at Buckingham Palace.”
Her face turned red
As the hat on my head
But I shook it off instead
Cause I’m
Living life to the brim,
I’m full of spunk and desire.
My red hat runneth over
Ready to set the world on fire
Hobbies to try, places to go
Classes to take
New folks to know.
My nest is empty
My mind is not
A busy calendar
Is what I have got.
Fill it to the brim with enthusiasm,
fill it to the brim with fun,
fill it to the brim with compassion,
Until my days are done…
And when I die,
please don’t wear black
Put some purple on your back…
Play some jazz
Eat some cake
Don’t just cry
For heaven’s sake.
Or better yet
You can wear red
To celebrate my life instead.
Just like I’d wear on girl’s night out…
When I’d even circled the date
Making sure he wouldn’t forget…
He did anyway.
“It’s girls’ night,” I laughed
as I put on my feather boa
adjusted my hat – fixed my face,
pushed my worries away…
“A frozen dinner’s in the fridge.
I won’t be home ‘til late.”
He glanced up from the classifieds
And then had this to say…
“You go charge your battery dear.
Have fun with your friends.
let down your hair and chill a while,
Go enjoy your stay…”
“I’ll stay home with Sara Lee.
She makes a mean cheesecake.
Go off in that bright red hat
And celebrate the day.”
He knows when I come back home
With batteries all charged up
The Energizer Bunny’s back
And sometimes wants to play…
After Girls’ Night Out.
So wouldn’t you say…
That fifty is the new thirty
Sounds good to me
I’m just getting my second wind
How about you?
Fifty is the new thirty
That makes sixty become forty
And seventy is fifty girlfriend…
Do you agree too?
So look out life, here we come
A force to be reckoned with
Each and every one
And our numbers aren’t few.
No fading into the woodwork for us
Invisible we are not
Gaining the attention
To which we are due…
How about you?
Cause you’re One Hot Mama-
There’s a song by that name

You’ve heard it before

But ain’t it true

You’re one hot mama.

Reading romance books

You brought home from the store

It stokes your fire

You’re one hot mama.

Wearing shells when it’s cold

Almost nothing when it’s not

Yeah ain’t it true

You’re one hot mama.

Who cares if you’ve got lines

Yeah maybe one or two

But what lies beneath

Is one hot mama

who remembers periods
When they weren’t just
Something at the end of a sentence,
Punctuation like a dot or a dash-
Now my life is punctuated
By fanning myself from a hot flash.
In younger days, we studied
Dangling participles and split infinitives,
Now there’s something quite definitive
About my taste-
It’s for dangling earrings and banana splits
And I don’t give a rip if it’s good for my shape.
The bigger the fish…
The bigger the SPLASH!

By Phyl Johnson Copyright 2005 by Phyl Johnson. All rights reserved. Reproduced by Poetry 360 with permission of the author.

Not Merely Friends

2005-09-12T04:01:00.000-04:00

Not Merely Friends
but Lovers Past
with feelings still uncertain

And when we meet
the kisses warm
but only on the cheek

The arms embrace
in tender touch
strange and yet familiar

The caring real
the wishes warm
but passion in restraint

Somehow so strange
to care for you
Unnatural not to love

By Robert E. Downing Copyright 2005 by Robert E. Downing. All rights reserved. Reproduced by Poetry 360 with permission of the author.

Be Gentle

2005-06-27T22:54:00.000-04:00

Poet Eddie Dowe reads his work at the Rally for Social Justice held in Yorktown on Saturday, 25 June 2005.

PLEASE NOTE: This photograph is Copyright (c) 2005 by Cathy Dixson and is used here by permission. This photograph may not be used further without the written permission of Cathy Dixson. All rights reserved.

Across this field their words
leap like suicides from their lips
and rise above them like knives
but be gentle

Across this field
in this same blue air we breathe
they plan our murder
but be gentle

Across this field
where our shadows are the same
beautiful and black
be gentle

Across this field
as the dark birds gather
in their arms let our arms
cradle children
so be gentle

Across this field
today is not tomorrow
and even though yesterday
wears the black dress of a widow
be gentle

Across this field
of bodies and blood
bones and ghosts
they are afraid of the graves between us
so be gentle

Across this field
drop the stones to the grass
and open the wide prayer of your arms
to call their names
and be gentle

Across this field
where love lurks like a thief
where hope bleeds in its cage
here where we gather with the dead
be gentle

Across this field
I have seen them smile
and they have given birth
and their kness have touched this warm earth
be gentle

Across this field
you can hear them calling
calling for help
kiss them when they arrive

By Eddie Dowe Read at the Yorktown Rally for Social Justice, June 25, 2005. Copyright 2005 by Eddie Dow. All rights reserved. Reproduced by Poetry 360 with permission of the author.

Quintessence of Dust

2005-01-26T20:42:00.000-05:00

. . . lost between two infinities,
the infinitely large and the infinitely small.
- Blaise Pascal -

Among the khaki husks of last Fall's weeds
in Henry Second's Umberland a small
white flower leans in slightest zephyrs, bends
beneath the weight of but a cabbage moth,
then bobbing once again erect when free.

The chill of early evening settles on
a field beside a clear May stream about
a boisterous Saxon band emerging from
marauding raids against the Norman king’s
dominion over lands that once were theirs.

Through star-pricked deepest night, an aging fire
beside the forest’s foot protects the warmth
of slumber’s innocence while not one league
away, among the cooling ashes of
a manor house the grotesque slaughtered sleep.

The gray beginnings of the day arise
above the coughing embers’ dying glow,
while horses and dark grumbling men awake
to preparations for the violence
ancestral vengeance passed on to its kin.

Inside the great depression of a boot
beside a fire's heap, a small white bloom
lies flat among the skeletons of last
Fall's weeds where yet another flower will
tomorrow sway to merest thoughts of wind.

By Peter Freas As published at The Mindworm. Copyright 2005 by Pete Freas. All rights reserved. Reproduced by Poetry 360 with permission of the author.

On the canvas

2005-01-18T19:18:00.000-05:00

Dreams are like
white clouds spread against
the blue skies of my thought.
The rain drops fall
making me recall,
the typical smell of a
newly furnished room
and of flowers in half bloom
in the dim light
of your lies,
sitting crossed legged,
you begged.
If only I could forget and forgive
and your dreams live.
I enigmatically weighed,
the sorrows
you had given me,
and without looking
in your eyes,
I knew something would die
in you and me.

Copyright 2004-2005 by Asma Karim Mirza. All rights reserved. Reproduced by Poetry 360 with permission of the author.

The Stairway

2004-12-25T19:07:00.000-05:00

Inspired by Les Escaliers de Montmartre, Paris

Landmarks by day
Beacons of light by night
always there
Like a quiet reassurance

A succession of stairs
Like so many rites of passage
Wrought iron, stately,
Victorian, cool to the touch.

Casting light at nightfall
Making the way clear
For those who stroll
By heat of day or cool of night.

A mist lingers
Kissing the metal
Leaving its whispery trace
Of dewy wetness behind.

The whispering wind whistles through
A crack in the lamppost glass
And branches crack and pop
As a slight breeze blows

A voice is calling
Faintly, in the distance
Someone heading to the top of the stairs
Stops to listen

But sees no one
It isn’t until the journey to the top
That the voice becomes more clear
And the trip is now complete

It is a voice he has heard
All along but knew not
the source from which it came
Yet it is clear

He glances back down
The lampposts are pointing the way
Even though it is daytime and they burn not
Yet he sees someone in the mist

It is her
He hasn’t seen her in real life
Only in dreams
Sometimes faceless

Yet very real
He always saw her
Always almost reaching her
To catch a glimpse of her face

And then the subway
Or bus in his dream
Would pull away
Leaving her once again faceless.

Then came an answer
His dog bolted
Ran down those steps like crazy
Headed straight for her dog

Two needy souls
Being walked by their dogs
On a misty morning
Up a flight of steps
By some stately lamp posts

By Phyllis Johnson Copyright 2004 by Phyllis Johnson. All rights reserved. Reproduced by Poetry 360 with permission of the author.

Being Frank With Anne

2004-11-22T16:46:00.000-05:00

At the request of the poet, Phyllis Johnson, "Being Frank with Anne" has been removed from Poetry 360. If you would like to read this poem, please check out Deunant Books; you can download this powerful poem from here.

Grace Church, Yorktown

2004-10-26T21:03:00.000-04:00

Still, colored shadows. It is not
The building that is still, but we
Who stand at twilight by the red-
Stained walls, eroded to curves,

Yet changed by the same hands
That laboriously cut and

Shaped convenient rectangles of
Marl, the leavings of unbelieving
Creatures, accumulated through
The passage, heat, and pressure of years.

The shells, once articulate, bivalve
Dissolving to blunt rock, made the walls

Sufficient to have stayed, but we have
Not the faith to keep them as they
Were placed, through the fallow years
The yard destroyed as the walls.

Blocks, though brown, are red in the
Light of certain sun, like we who shall pass.

By David King The sixth poem from Virginia Churches, a series of 8 poems on colonial churches. Copyright 2004 by David King. All rights reserved. Reproduced by Poetry 360 with permission of the author.

St. John’s Chuckatcrk

2004-10-21T20:16:00.000-04:00

Between the roads, among the trees.
Twisting in a course above the
Green scummed pond that lies,

Has lain, the centuries, the circle
Of water persists from vapor
To piercing drops that fall upon

Us who live. The faith, too, lives
In our minds as in the English
Bond that stays as it was known,

Then the only force solidity.
Six by one and ten lives thick, the
Faith considered permanent as

Clay borrowed from the river’s edge
Convenient for use and dried
In sunlight by the stalking wheat

And reflecting pond, waiting for
The faith to place each course
With faultless line and enduring love.

By David King The fifth poem from Virginia Churches, a series of 8 poems on colonial churches. Copyright 2004 by David King. All rights reserved. Reproduced by Poetry 360 with permission of the author.

Glebe Church

2004-10-13T15:59:00.000-04:00

Repointed arches, one door, and the
chuff chuff of a tractor on the glebe,
not the dray of horses. To speak
with a voice more suddenly my own.

As silently as time can whippet,
swallows wicker on the evening air.
Return to brick, few remain
between directions of modernity.

Though plumb and fast, square at least
upon one corner, little is
placed where they left it, matchlocks
and steel plows against the wilderness.

Is it less now, when we have made
a monument and token for
ourselves among the spoken walls
and, redolent of singing, choir?

Once fallen, are they the less, so
laboriously as they were piled,
sunlight angled on the mortar
stippling a prayer to evening?

Is this past dead, or do we have
in it a vision of a purer
arch, completed rondel, and a
firmer door like the faith that was?

By David King The fourth poem from Virginia Churches, a series of 8 poems on colonial churches. Copyright 2004 by David King. All rights reserved. Reproduced by Poetry 360 with permission of the author.

Yeocomico

2004-10-04T17:13:00.000-04:00

Upon the road a crosstie lies
the product of a deeper yearning
than that of flesh which labored it.
Each one put upon his hand the

holiness of clay, more pure than
nightjar’s calls across repointed
furnishing that now remain, where
two roads cross among the furrows.

The looming square of transcept
and crossing at an angle mark
more firm along the coming dark
the certitudes of simple faith.

So they loved who were the body
of a surer time of soul, who
knew corruption in its forms more
quietly than we imagine

flesh decays and swells to light. Yet
the mind was stronger and the wall
elected with a calmer hand
than we who name it can invent.

By David King The third poem from Virginia Churches, a series of 8 poems on colonial churches. Copyright 2004 by David King. All rights reserved. Reproduced by Poetry 360 with permission of the author.

Southwerk Parish

2004-09-30T15:47:00.000-04:00

(A picturesque ruin opposite Bacon’s Castle on Route 10)

Across the water and the land
vague stillness lives, as if the flesh
were not here, but bent along
the common fields and unkept houses
that remain: a fuller feeling
in the hearts of us who stay
on the edge where highways and
the sculpted farms give way to
silence and the fallen brickwork.

The past we are, in flourishes
of molecules upon the cells,
makes us both dead and living.
They who lie upon the earth
are us; we tasted on the lea
the salt-tinged victuals they ate,
felt the swell among us move,
and quickened in the act of freedom.

Here upon the land their shapes persist
from folded meadows to the knoll where
stands a lighted house again.
An arch of dreams transmits the present
to the peopled past. Again the
clutter of a rural mind fills
the straightened bricks with simple faith
or faith made in a different soil.
Life awakening the ever dead.

From the present, too, we
bring ourselves to the body.

By David King The second poem from Virginia Churches, a series of 8 poems on colonial churches. Copyright 2004 by David King. All rights reserved. Reproduced by Poetry 360 with permission of the author.

Somewhere Between A Dixie Cup and a Big Gulp

2004-09-28T02:09:00.000-04:00

Shopped for a bra today
I’d rather shop for shoes
Victoria’s secret is still one
Because I was clueless.
What a bust.

Room spun around
So confused
Miracles, wonders, angels
Flying around my head
Such lust.

Fluff and satin
Boas and lace
Teddies bare
Were in that place.
A real must.

Somewhere between
A Dixie cup
And a big gulp
Can I be on Victoria’s Honor Roll
With a C Plus?

Merchant’s Hope

2004-09-16T15:24:00.000-04:00

I’ve heard they placed a brick up-
on a brick, each act a measure
of their faith and settled mind. At

Merchant’s Hope for us the crumbling
brick and perfect lunette bring to
mind a lighted, purer past,
made simple by the lack of that
we see encumbering our lives.
That it’s a church seems more to show,
in the closers and studied arch,
leaning always eastward, as they
had compasses and hearts to use them,
faith had every day its light,
yellowed perhaps, and on some days
too cold for even firm flesh
to feel, but always on the lintel,
and sang again at dawn and dusk.

Would they change, if given it,
the idea of faith in a simpler flesh
for the impediments of Godless time?
Do these cushions and the central air
make the round of love the less,
belief the more ambiguous,
and every miracle so common?
Or, removed by centuries and
all the busyness in every day,
do we esteem them not real flesh,
forgetting in ourselves their faults,
who shared our bread, had slaves, looked
at a neighbor’s wife with calm intent,
and bastardized the land for gain?

At least we feel all peace is here,
Among the tracing arch and fallow dead.

By David King A poem from Virginia Churches, a series of 8 poems on colonial churches. Copyright 2004 by David King. All rights reserved. Reproduced by Poetry 360 with permission of the author.

Moment in September

2004-09-07T18:05:00.000-04:00

Quiet silhouettes
creep noiselessly past watching eyes.
Shadows laugh at passer-by’s feet
as wet pavement glistens
under streetlights.
Trees cry at approach of autumn.
Leaves cringe at the impending cold.

By Peter A. Stinson Copyright 2004 by Peter A. Stinson. All rights reserved. Reproduced by Poetry 360 with permission of the author.

Sacrificing Isaac

2004-08-30T12:15:00.000-04:00

We've executed Isaac, and we call
him hero, having fed upon his flesh.
With oil his skull anointed, hold we high
his sacred goblet overfull with wine
and pour it on the stone as chisel bites
his name into this monument. The grit-
contaminated wine appears as blood
which, splashing from the letter-gouges, seems
to issue from the very rock itself.
We celebrate the dead. We honor those
consumed, whom we have sent to satisfy
this festival of arrogance; we call
them Heroes whom we've offered up to feed
this faithless, fearsome creature. We can find
in any city anywhere about
the globe these granite walls, these obelisks,
these sandstone totem poles, these litanies,
these condemnation curses dug in stone,
these names whose bones, alone, have journeyed home.
We make this ample sacrifice of souls
again, another generation rich
in hope, and hope it's pleased this monster we've
created in our image and our greed.
Our pride has given bloody Ba'al form,
which we now feed our own. In gratitude,
we comfort a parade of widows and
of grieving mothers, telling them, "Be proud,
for he served well, stood firm before the face
of hate, until the gaping maw of Death
snapped shut upon and swallowed him.
You see? His name is here in stone. He is
a Hero. Honor him; remember him."
Remember Him . . . We must remember Him.
By Pete Freas Copyright 2004 by Pete Freas. All rights reserved. Reproduced by Poetry 360 with permission of the author. For more poetry by Pete Freas see The Mindworm.

Doc Wilson

2004-08-23T22:12:00.000-04:00

Old Doc Wilson had great rough hands
With knuckles as harsh as the rocks
That work their way out of the land
After each winter's freezing shocks.

His skill was not in gentleness
Or the fineness of his touch
But he could make a poultice
That would cure a body of much.

He knew the ache of rumatiz,
The jutting of a mangled bone,
The mysteries of birth and colics,
How and what must be quickly done.

And he would come out any night
In the clinging mist or drifting snow
Or sit alone in oil light
With bag and book in a cold home,

Just to see a man set clear
And out of danger's way.
So Doc's hard hand was always near
And never seen to shake or sway.

He pulled many a young un
Who could not come of its own accord
With the skills of his arms
And the mercy of the Lord.

His was the hardness of a land
Born of mountains and tall rocks,
Kept by the daily work of hands,
So made of stern and steady stock.

By David King Copyright 2004 by David King. All rights reserved. Reproduced by Poetry 360 with permission of the author.

To hold on

2004-08-18T11:37:00.000-04:00

Heavy, white, misty. Like fog
the past envelopes,
cool, slips through my fingers.
By Peter A. Stinson Copyright 2004 by Peter A. Stinson. All rights reserved. Reproduced by Poetry 360 with permission of the author.

Reprieve

2004-08-02T07:32:00.000-04:00

Straight down
The rain comes
Suddenly
Seemingly
All at once.
Citywide sheets of cascading water,
The deluge tonight knows just where it wants to go.

Angry hooves
In the cold
Strike the slate roof above me,
They outrage
The grass below,
Hard we feel it press, weighing down on us as heavily
As clamps bear down on wood.

More vulnerable than I can stand to be,
A friendless, homeless woman,
Drenched and cold in the black night and wondering why,
I remember fear.
I wonder if the roof will hold,
Whether the outdoor cats got in all right,
Or if we left something precious outside, and it's now destroyed.

But footfalls now are light,
Prancing happily above me, raindrops have become
Friendly, light, and musical -- offering me hope.
Surely our cats know all they need to know,
To find their way to warmth and safety.

And in the morning, after sleep,
On getting out of bed,
I find the razor sharp, staccato, polar air of yesterday
Has given place to warmth.

Copyright 2004 by Diana Strelow. All rights reserved. Reproduced by Poetry 360 with permission of the author.

Boxwood, ferns

2004-07-27T12:52:00.000-04:00

Boxwood, ferns
but not boxed in.
Bubbling fountain
free flowing, erotic.
Hibiscus, white and delicate
like supple skin.
Lush green fronds
of ferns, potted.
Ivy climbs up concrete blocks
as if to kiss the sky.
Gazing balls reflect
but yet distort
not true to the beauty
that flanks beside.
A cat outstretched
on a wooden bench
belly turned up,
tongue hanging down.
Round are rims
of concrete vase,
birdbath, pedestal
Platforms of grace
like the statues that
that tend court in the yard.
Archways rounded,
promising entry
Dentil molding
Pediment topped
finials to finish.
Romanesque romance
Vine winding
Flourishing venue
to a celebration of nature,
art and beauty.
Copyright 2004 by Phyl Johnson. All rights reserved. Reproduced by Poetry 360 with permission of the author.

1941

2004-07-18T20:18:00.000-04:00

In 1941 I was six years old, in Iowa, USA.
In the evening the sky turned lavender, deep blue, and purple,
We children ran hard, laughing and shouting our joy in
Our own special time, "the children's hour,"
Time for our last burst of energy, of unfettered happiness
Before our mothers and fathers would tuck us in safely for the night.

My wondering eyes were wide and hazel,
My dark hair naturally curly.

In Germany across the sea, also in 1941, in Poland, or perhaps in Czechoslovakia
Another child, a boy, also of six years, asked himself and he asked his mother
What had become of the children's hour.
His questioning eyes were dark and wide,
His dark hair a heavy mass of curls.

That night a comforting, almost mystical, a beautiful snow has been falling.
It's Christmas Eve, or Holy Evening
In fairytale, ancient Germany, then and always a land of beauty and wonder,
The Birth of the Holy One is coming again to their lives and also to ours, on this very night.
Grownups happily shout love to their children,
Joy fills their souls, families light their trees, and all rejoice to see the glow of God's love.
They eat Bratwurst and fresh-made bread, and they drink dark beer and good wine, all the while
Whispering out loud to each other, to anyone who can hear,
"The Christ Child is coming! Das Christ Kind commt! Der ist schon wieder hier!"

But on that night,
Never a special night: it was never a magical or a holy day
To the boy or to his family,
An iron door has slammed hard before the child in his terror,
He's destroyed, as his naked, sobbing body quakes in fear.
As he's erased from the earth, and his mother and father as well.
Powerful, angry men have said and are still saying grandly, obscenely,
That the child and his family are being liberated
From their despicable lives
As Jews.

In 1961, I teach ten year olds. I have a fifth grade. I'm twenty-six and healthy,
My life a comfortable and happy place to be. I love my work and the children I teach.
But I stomp my foot in rage and horror
As though my anger could somehow help the dark-haired child of 1941,
Or my rage be of any use to him.

If there were a way one could say to those who died for the grand design of an angry few,
If one could now say to the boy, to his teachers, to his family:
We are just all of us so very sorry.
We want to know how such a thing as this can ever have happened.
We were alive and we were well, even happy, while they were killing you -- many of our lives were going forward.
How could terror and death have become your reality -- and how could the knowledge of it now be ours?
We must never let go of our outrage, never, ever forget our anger.

Copyright 2004 by Diana Strelow. All rights reserved. Reproduced by Poetry 360 with permission of the author.

Anticipation

2004-06-29T08:30:00.000-04:00

Turning in the fire,
My mind is a glowing iron

The world smells like new leather,
And it’s waiting for me to burn into it.

Copyright 2004 by Deborah Markham. All rights reserved. Reproduced by Poetry 360 with permission of the author. Deborah Markham is the founder, host & online moderator for GhentPoetryCafe

Pavarotti in China, 1987

2004-06-21T09:20:00.000-04:00

Chinese children study excellence
And often the violin
Rather than disrespect.

The people's communities
Seem ones of constant and smiling endeavor,
As young and old swing by on bicycles
There is no Ford, Chevvy or Buick, and never a limousine.
We see the people flock, so many, to the Great Hall of the People
To hear Pavarotti
Bring his great love to China.

Rodolpho sings love and dolor to Mimi,
And Pagliacci weeps his rage,
The sound a great groundswell of power, of profundity and truth
That engulfs us and the place we are in,
Here where all things end, and then again begin,
So that we hope to find places large enough within ourselves
To store it, to keep so much beauty and joy alive
      For our own hard times later on, when we may need such love.

But for now, ten thousand Chinese faces rise
And break into joyful, reverberating grins,
         And as one they
Communicate their deafening love of beauty.

The fountains of Bernini
      Gush pure and robust and honest
         Today in the broad and busy streets of Beijing.
         Luciano Pavarotti sang here today.
         The people have heard him sing.

Copyright 2004 by Diana Strelow. All rights reserved. Reproduced by Poetry 360 with permission of the author.

To Gordon

2004-06-12T20:00:00.000-04:00

What difference does it make how Gordon died
or who he was? It’s all the difference in
the world to me. I called him shipmate and
a friend. We were two aviators in
a class in Monterey. I’ve learned that Life
is not so cruel as those who once were friends.
My friend, how many times have you and I
conversed one-sided, drinking late into
the night? While one discoursed profound,
the other slept until the drink caught up
and turned the situation ‘round. How oft
did we replay this cycle through a night?
How many times would you prod me awake
in class and I’d blurt out, “I AM awake!”?
How many times did we work out our rage
and our frustration playing racketball
until our shirts our shorts our shoes were soaked
in sweat and neither one of us could breathe?

You played a trick that turned into a long
revolving joke. You’d planted in my bed
a bra I intercepted when a Wife
returned with me from Christmas break; I found
the bra before my bride had such a chance
to find this sign of infidelity.
We sneaked the bra into the glove box in
your Vette. You found it, nonetheless, before
a date one evening might discover this
suggestion of your aspirations, clear
revealed. So thus began the saga of
the wayward bra appearing at odd times
and places unpredictable for years.

My wife and I pulled off a stunt on you -
we sneaked a kitten in a basket once
into your car; and we got back a cat
when you got orders to the Philippines.

It hurt to watch your luster fade while you
worked there between the joy of flight and crush
of drudgery for seaweed eaters lost
in purgatories of their own washed up
careers. When you reluctantly let go
a life we both had loved in Naval Air,
I shared with you a sadness born of change.
One weekend out of San Diego I
dropped in on you, and we dined out ‘til late.
Next morning at the Club, while we drank beer
for breakfast, Alameda lost a jet
too heavy off the runway to sustain
sufficient lift and left a broken “Whale”
beneath salt water on the rocks in San
Francisco Bay. The A3D consumed
its crew and fiercely burned until it sank.
The plane confirmed the name the pilots all
had given: All 3 Dead because there were
no rocket seats, no way to bail out
but down – no exit at low altitude.
We heard the engines’ take-off roar, the thud -
more shudder felt than noise heard - the Crash
Crew sirens’ wail. I felt a sadness then,
the shadow of a prophesy that this
event portended. This black pall of smoke
that hovered over Alameda rode
me back to San Diego. Gordon, I
was unaware how like that hapless Whale
you were. Your wounded wings and fuselage
on rocks in water without depth enough
to swim back out to sea and yet too deep
to walk back to the shore, you drowned while I,
with all my Search and Rescue training, could
not save you. No one builds a helo that
can pluck a damaged soul from broken dreams.

The Navy done, you went abroad to fly
big jets for foreign airlines, hoping for
an opportunity to come back home
and fly domestic in the U.S.A.
As you pursued a new direction, I
continued mine; and we lost touch.
With no address, there were no letters, cards,
no news of new adventures, loneliness,
of triumphs or of failures or fears.
I hoped one day to recognize your voice,
“This is your Captain speaking, ...” overhead
my seat on board a flight somewhere, and we
would send a brown-bagged bra up to the front,
instruct the flight attendant, “Tell him
‘This token’s from a shipmate in his past.’ ”

Some ten years hence, again in Monterey,
I sought and found a link that might
connect us one more time. I called and spoke
to one who would protect and isolate
a fragile friend. We did, however, talk;
and you told me that you had ARC
and did not want your friends to know. I told
you then that it was more important
now than ever that we visit you.
I only knew we had to see you soon
before this illness dashed you on its rocks.
My family and I drove up to see
how you were getting on and let you know
we cared. We shared some memories and laughed;
and when we left, we hugged. You told me that
my children’s hugs turned you into a long
lost uncle reunited now, at peace.

That afternoon with you became for us
a highlight of that year in Monterey.

A few months afterwards, a letter I
had sent returned with sanguine hand-stamped cold
inscription “Addressee unknown”. I knew
your fight was done and told the envelope
that it was wrong - you simply did not live
there anymore – the tide had set you free.

Copyright 2004 by Pete Freas. All rights reserved. Reproduced by Poetry 360 with permission of the author.

Accept Me As You Find Me

2004-06-06T11:59:00.000-04:00

Accept me as you find me –
Do not try to make me over.
Don't try to create or destroy anything about me.
I have lived with me longer that I have with you.
I am satisfied with me.

I can change –
But it must be because I want to change.
I have no problem with me now,
And I have no problem with you maintaining
Yourself as you are.

You can create an awareness –
And, you can create an atmosphere
In which I may develop and become
Better able to meet your needs;
To be better able to understand my shortcomings,
And to better utilize gifts I may possess.

You cannot carry my load.
But, you can share your knowledge
And your understanding in areas where I might not be capable, in roles where I may not be so readily equipped;
And you can challenge me to go far beyond my means.

It is important that you not try
To make me anything but what I am,
What I want to be, or what I am capable of becoming.
Before you, I was me.
Please let me stay, as I want to be.

Copyright 1980-2003 by Charles B. Whitehurst, Sr.. All rights reserved. Reproduced by Poetry 360 with permission of the author.

State Hospital

2004-05-31T14:51:00.000-04:00

We have all of us, long since, died here.
And we are all so very dead, already dead and for so long.
But all the same I'll ask it anyway,
Could I have a cigarette please?
There are too many of us, all of us asking, and all of us at once
But could I have one please?
We were children once.
And some of us were happy.
Me they told me I was sick then, and it hurt.
But now what I want -- and it's all I want -- is a cigarette.
When you give me one I feel the whole meaning of life -
So I wish you'd lay one on me, and it'll be like you love me.
I've got a light - I just want a cigarette and it's all that I can handle.
But do you, does anyone, can you -- do you love me at all?
But I won't ask that.
I'm strange and I'm lost and you are nothing to me.
You go to Hell.
And I'll ask again,
Please give me one.
Please.

Copyright 2004 by Diana Strelow. All rights reserved. Reproduced by Poetry 360 with permission of the author.

National Portrait Gallery

2004-05-19T21:20:00.000-04:00

The faces of the dead who live,
Forced in oaken frames, painted
Close in oil, washed with
Pale, correct temperas, follow
Across the room with eyes
Of surprising humanity.

In our colored thought, we see
Them in a daily life our own:
Digging for a dollar or
Forgetting a grocery list,
More than feeble saints, they say,
Is what consumed us. Made of flesh,
Now pigment, we too had our
Days of indolence and tincured
Anger: thought sex, ate love, had
Our children dearer than the earth,
And then were nothing. Were we
The chosen seed or did we dream?

Only these pictures stand with us
Between our lives and faceless dark.

Copyright 2004 by David King. All rights reserved. Reproduced by Poetry 360 with permission of the author.

The Other Side of the Slotted Spoon

2004-05-16T21:22:00.000-04:00

We fed the poor and homeless there
Our stew and bread we went to share
A rosy glow it brought to faces
and spread some cheer around that place.
Then out on the street and down the way
and scattered around, the folks did stay,
in a parking lot stood a woman there
with shopping cart who lives nowhere.
Her countenance I recognize
that look of lost was in her eyes...
We sat her down upon a chair
and fed her stew ...two bowls - her share.
'Twas all we had left in the pot.
We dished it out, it hit the spot.
She showed up looking dazed and rough
we served it up, 'twas just enough...
The Master's hand was on that spoon
that fed the hungry by full of moon.
I felt a warmth from sharing thus
by twist of fate it could be us...
on other side of slotted spoon
standing in line by fullest moon
with blanket there and checkerboard
and hungry stare to ill afford
a home to stay and food to store
and yearn for comfort evermore.
Forever will the homeless be
an analyzing soul once said to me.
I think on this and draw a frown
forever's such a long time sound.
Yet what is their purpose there
to teach compassion and how to share
to show us all a contrast,
measure our blessings far more
rich to treasure.
Could it be so this is their role
so humble yet sometimes so bold
part of a plan we can't quite see
worked by the Master Deity...

Copyright 2004 by Phyllis Johnson. All rights reserved. Reproduced by Poetry 360 with permission of the author.

Sailing the Lady Maryland

2004-05-10T23:17:00.000-04:00

Our fathers did not live like us
Upon a vessel fixed by mind,
Decorum in their narrow eyes
The trading of a life for life,
Consuming of the tide
In all its intricate and swelling forms
A passion of flesh released.
Living close to nature, they
Knew no sin in killing,
But kept all life in living it.

We, of nature now so tamed,
And indolent on the living water
Take for play their outward form
Of motion, from wooden hulls
To the slap of bleaching sails,
Their faces, we hope, our own
Their hearts were something more
Both savage and content.

Copyright 2004 by David King. All rights reserved. Reproduced by Poetry 360 with permission of the author.

When They Study An Artist

2004-04-14T12:10:00.000-04:00

An amazing painter.........
she was
an artist to the bone
with an artistic flair
for seeing women of the world
not only
for their physical beauty
but their inner charm as well...
A gallery showcasing her work
draws you in........
Painting after painting
hanging on the walls
Glowing countenances of women
from the U.S.
from China
from Haiti
from the Ukraine
and many more......
women and their stories
very alike
and yet...
very different.....
Standing and looking at each one
gazing into their eyes.......
sparkling blue,
flashing green,
a soft, doe like brown.........
wondering what it is that they see each day
as they go about their lives
what they encounter.......
how they deal with it.......
are they in pain......
or full of joy?
how sensual are they.......
do they have the love of their lives.....
or are they just going through the motions......
what's on their minds when
they go to bed at night.......
when they get up in the morning......
when they look in a mirror........
when they study an artist
who is studying them.........?
Copyright 2004 by Phyllis Johnson. All rights reserved. Reproduced by Poetry 360 with permission of the author.

Marriage Lines

2004-04-09T00:01:00.000-04:00

There was a time before we met,
When moments existed
Without us.
Then like butterflies in the wind
We touched.
Our wings set the molecules in motion.
Strangers dancing around each other,
Aching for what the other could give,
Fearful for what would be taken.
A thin line drew us together,
Like a spider spinning her web
In the dark corner hoping to
Trap the juiciest fly, chew, swallow,
Digest, excrete and begin again.
Sucking the juice from one another
We wove dreams into illusion,
Till the web broke and neither had the
Will to mend.
Now I design a solitary mandala,
A place for me to sit
In the centre.
You, my ancient love,
Are still spinning lines to trap,
And finding you have only caught
Yourself begin again.
But the design is losing its integrity
And I am too far away to care.

Copyright 2004 by Helen Eden. All rights reserved. Reproduced by Poetry 360 with permission of the author.

The Birds

2004-04-06T17:27:00.000-04:00

There was an ebb and flow
to the flight of birds overhead
dark shapes against an azure sky
creating patterns
once, an unmistakeable
string of diamond shapes
formed by flapping bodies
flowing first this way,
then that.......
changing again.......
some of them flying left
others flying to the right
then seemingly forming
a constellation pattern
nearly making
the Big Dipper...
then another shape
moving so gracefully
so in sync
so sensually
as though nothing else
in the world
even existed........

Copyright 2004 by Phyllis Johnson. All rights reserved. Reproduced by Poetry 360 with permission of the author.

Days by the Sea

2004-03-31T13:02:00.000-05:00

We, called to return,
    look seaward:
water and horizon touch.

Gold pools of summer bright
    lap at the rocky shore.
Loneliness gathers at our feet.

From where we came,
    shall we return in fire;
water calls us home.

Copyright 2004 by Peter A. Stinson. All rights reserved. Reproduced by Poetry 360 with permission of the author.

REFLECTION

2004-03-26T21:00:00.000-05:00

Looking at my father's face, I must confront
my own mortality. I marvel at his silver hair,
the wrinkled skin, his blue Paul Newman
eyes that sparkle still. Antiquity has stolen Dad.

Although insurance tables tell me he's
in overtime, and my clock's running down,
I don't feel so old. It's like a jug of water
leaking. I'll bet a bigger jug would make
no difference. Suppose instead
of eighty, the tables topped a hundred
sixty years. My wife's dad died
at eighty-five, but he had failed to live
a day past twenty-five. But then,
I've read about a Russian guy who lived
a hundred thirty-three, still active
to the end. Dad's raised three
of us pretty well successfully,
outlived two wives, and married
a third; he's traveled some and saved
enough to live a comfortable retirement.
That must say insurance tables don't
mean much -- just tell how fast the average
jug will leak, but not how well a life's been lived.

I look again into my father's face, smile,
and wonder at his silver hair, his aging skin,
and blue, defiant eyes still full of expectation.
I splash hot water and smear the lather,
then lift the razor to my cheek and chin.

Copyright 2004 by Pete Freas. See also The Mindworm website. All rights reserved. Reproduced by Poetry 360 with permission of the author.

'48 Hudson

2004-03-24T09:00:00.000-05:00

We, the impermanent ones,
Who are doomed to a life of going
And coming, day to day
And hour to hour wearing away,
Find in objects a brief salvation.

We found the article one day
In the Asbury Park Press,
"48 Hudson 4-DR, ST 8, green,
Good condition, 5000 miles,
Needs new tires and a battery."

I went with dad on Saturday
And met an ancient woman, hardly
Able to read the key tag.
The car was there beside
Rotted sea tackle and a pipe rack
In the garage out from the house.
"It's sat eight years," she said,
But I could never stand to sell it.
Henry loved it and kept it to himself.
No one but him drove it, till he died.
A heart attack. So sudden. It
Reminds me of him and I could not
Bear to part with it. Here, take the keys."

We renewed the oil, bought
Five tires, and a battery. It
Ground, kicked on the third turn,
Roaring back to life. "For fifty dollars
And a form it's ours!" We drove
Toward the Delaware and
Motored on, passing winding
Farms and pale, still horses. Ripe hay
Lolled in the idle summer.

As we drove, a strange scent
Grew and filled the car,
Tobacco fumes from a long dead
Pipe and man.
We stopped and found a leather pouch
Under the seat frame, eight years forgotten.
Dad looked and put it back.
Then we turned toward home.

Are there
Places where tobacco fumes
And a faded green car will take you?

Copyright 2004 by David King. All rights reserved. Reproduced by Poetry 360 with permission of the author.

Madrid 3rd March 2004

2004-03-22T23:27:00.000-05:00

Once again the hand of terror invades all our lives.
Pages run red with blood
Names and faces I have never seen
Never known
Become familiar across the borders of our world.
News at ten, news at six
24 hours the news breaks across the screen
The horror of the massacre.
In such a short time the bombs took their toll of life.
Children returned home from school
No parents to meet them,
Friends lost forever, only the shreds of clothing
To suggest a life once lived.
Today we hear the latest victim a seven month child,
Patricia.
Father already dead, mother dying.
What is this world we have created?
I feel it escalating into chaos
I fear the journey we are on is a downward one
And I am part of it.
Is it so hard to stand in the light
That we prefer to walk in darkness?
Is it so frightening to believe
That we are beautiful powerful souls
Incarnated to care for this planet
That we prefer to inflict pain and suffering
On ourselves and others?
Is it so impossible to stop the hatred
In our own hearts?
I see a wake up call in the images in the papers
Bodies ripped open right down to the bone
A call to reach out across boundaries
To break open my own fettered heart
We take to the streets with our banners
We cry out in our anger and pain
We beg that our voices be heard
Please! Let this never happen again.

Copyright 2004 by Helen Eden. All rights reserved. Reproduced by Poetry 360 with permission of the author.

Brian Boru

2004-03-16T17:02:00.000-05:00

Brian from the crags and trees of Banba
Came to the throne of his long-dead fathers
After years of struggle with the Northmen,
Defeating ringed armor and sharp helms
With uncertain, steady force of valor,
Was at last defeated by hunger, hollow
Of belly and unsteady of hand
Though his mind burned with freedom like a fever.

Burned the dream of freedom, the vision
Of days long past, when the land was ruled
By men who rose as the sun rose and set as
The moon falls among rushes. These shadows
Are as firm as courage, as strong as the will.

No matter that pain and death follow this,
that the flesh can not endure what the mind
demands day upon day, year upon dreary year.

The River Shannon flows with dark water
to the sea, runs with rippled stirrings among
the pools of mirror-still motion, reflecting
the sky darkly, as if day were night. Pale
musings of the shadow of thought, of the
stirrings of desire, wait. Men, too, sleep
until the dawn rises and the sun appears.

Many years and many men will die at the hands
of conquerors, killed in battle or hanged
in their garden trees, left to rot like fish
on the shore until dry, dead eyes stare aimlessly.
But the dream never slackens, the hope never wanders,
for the old ones are with us, their shadows remember
the summer with green hills and free winds,
for the time of the future and the time of the past are one.

Copyright 2004 by David King. All rights reserved. Reproduced by Poetry 360 with permission of the author.

Flood

2004-03-12T20:50:00.000-05:00

The rains fall forever
Or so it seems.
I should build an ark,
I thought,
Watching the melancholy
Drizzle against the glass.
That's what I would do
If I was Noah and God spoke to me.
But I am not
And He doesn't
So I sit and watch.
The tides rise.
The rivers overspill into homes
That belong to other people.
Faces on the news,
Holding a single prized possession ,
Rescued from the debris,
To take with them
Into a new day.
And I wonder.
What would I take with me
Should that new day come
And the rains stop
And the waters recede?
What will I carry
That I treasure
From the flood?

Copyright 2003 by Helen Eden. All rights reserved. Reproduced by Poetry 360 with permission of the author.

Raw Beauty

2004-02-28T00:13:00.000-05:00

To some it would look
only like a black heap
but there was something beautiful about it
gazing at it from the car
in the darkness
there was something
almost mesmerizing
graceful rounded mounds
of black coal
promising energy yet spent
over which beams of light
cascading down
created a hazy
filtering in white
showcasing
beauty in a raw form........

Copyright 2004 by Phyllis Johnson. All rights reserved. Reproduced by Poetry 360 with permission of the author.

The Barachois*

2004-02-23T17:26:00.000-05:00

Here we do not seek the sea,
for it a level presence, beyond
persuasion, cold and articulate
in motion like the sinking
of a dark moon, impossible
to touch, but for the briefest
stroke.

Instead, we find the lakes,
sun-warmed and glistening, between
the patches of tuckamore and flattened
rocks that radiate yellow light. We
see in their shallows the perfect
melting of form and idea,
the blue-pocked water reflecting
bare, circled suns.

On their banks,
people listen to the sea, distant
by a thought, and wait for the
revelations easiness offers in
the intricacies of warmth. Maybe,
we plunge into its sheltered depths,
translucent water streaming from us,
and shudder at the hints of coolness
below the turquoise surface.

Oracles could have prospered here,
offering scant words for dull coins,
telling us what we feel in words we
can not sound but as the moon
moves predictably across the
foam-pocked, level ocean;
Telling us again and again
that things have meaning,

that we are.

* As the seawater temperature in Newfoundland is forty-five degrees even in high
summer, locals swim in shallow fresh water ponds which are usually within sight
of the sea or sound.

Copyright 2004 by David King. All rights reserved. Reproduced by Poetry 360 with permission of the author.

Wars

2004-02-08T14:45:00.000-05:00

The Old Masters worked
With no more intensity of perfection
Before a vast scene of carnage
Getting each detail of man and beast
Just so in oil and tempera,

Than my brother
Ranked his legions of plastic men
In our room, setting each olive-toned soldier
In such a position that he could fire
But be exposed to no fire on the oaken floor,
Though we didn’t see the need for camouflage,
So each one lay naked and alone.
And, besides, the color itself was wrong;
Every man a naked thumb of dull green
On that flat, waxed surface would
Have been blasted to oblivion by the artillery
Placed commandingly on the looming heights
Of toy chest and bed.

He did better when we found a threadbare carpet,
Making ripples like hills and trenches
In the tangled, thick background,
So the grateful troopers could hunker down
Exposing only their weapons
And the tips of their helmets,
Establishing a field of death without standing out
Like frightened immobile rabbits
In some imaginary meadow, thinking
They are invisible to all-seeing predators.

He would set them in long lines
And curves following the run
Of that day’s terrain from one length of the room
To the corner and then start at some random point
Hammering one side against the other,
All the while making sharp noises
Of shots; some men miraculously missed
In the hail of fire, others mercilessly slaughtered
At the first volley. But one side, usually those
Who held the high ground of the bed, would
Prevail in a field mathematical possibilities,
And find glorious victory.

Plastic faces
Took on no despairing looks of fear,
No mercy was implored, no prisoners
Were taken, though in an hour or a day
The implacable, faceless foes would
Find themselves elbow to elbow with
Those who had fought most bitterly
Against them:

There is no
resurrection from this oblivion,
from the dark necessity to live
again and again.
Copyright 2004 by David King . All rights reserved. Reproduced by Poetry 360 with permission of the author.

She moves with water grace

2004-02-01T23:17:00.000-05:00

She moves with water grace,
a waterfall in motion
predictable but each moment different,
a twist of movement
each droplet
like the next
but not like the rest
building upon the next,
one after the other.

I could stand under
water washing my soul
each drop bringing sweetness
to my lips.
I want to dive in
stand under
raise my arms high
uplift my face
be enveloped in wet sweetness.
Copyright 2004 by Peter A. Stinson. All rights reserved. Reproduced by Poetry 360 with permission of the author.

Two hours after midnight

2004-01-26T18:41:00.000-05:00

Your lips,
  pursed and puckered;
a blush on your cheeks
  soft with youth.
The light
  tender and gentle.

Copyright 2003 by Peter A. Stinson. All rights reserved. Reproduced by Poetry 360 with permission of the author.

Jazz and Poetry

2004-01-18T20:47:00.000-05:00

Jazz and poetry
hits me like arctic air,
a bite across the calm waters,
breath stolen and cheeks brushed cold.
Shipyard lights reflect in the black shadows,
the dull roar of city life
deadened by winter’s chill;
scent of fireplace smoke
takes the edge off.

I can only imagine,
the warmth of your southern breath,
flame of desire,
a tenuous flickering,
heat seeking heat,
body seeking body,
a goddess watching over me,
eternity still

all cocooned in the melody
of the wind,
jazz and poetry wrapped together,
heat building.

Copyright 2004 by Peter A. Stinson. All rights reserved. Reproduced by Poetry 360 with permission of the author.

The Cricket Box

2004-01-11T00:00:00.000-05:00

A Southern Christmas Poem

Cool as bunny paws in a winter's snow
old as a horn that missed its cue
the old cricket box sat
kissed by midnight
until its brassy sheen
had grown to a darkened hue.

It sang a song of winters long ago
of innocent young maidens
and their courting beaus.
It sang of cold winter nights
by the kernel spitting hearth
as it soaked the warmth like a sponge.

Oh, for days gone by
for winter nights, for winking eyes
for crescent moons and twinkling stars in the skies,
for frozen ponds and taffy pulls
and laughter in the air.
for days gone by.

For Christmas nights under a harvest moon
and front porch swings and swarm
carolers singing to a cricket's tune.
for city folk that yearn with passion plea...
that again shall come that feeling of
Christmas country,
with mint fresh air
and swirling snowflakes everywhere
as yuletide fall
with cricket call
oh cricket box.

Copyright 2004 by Phyllis Johnson. All rights reserved. Reproduced by Poetry 360 with permission of the author.

Deinstitutionalization

2004-01-09T08:45:00.000-05:00

They made me leave
The church too soon
Again this morning.
I left at seven,
Already hungry, wanting to stay a while and pray.
God knows I need to.
"Come back at noon for sandwiches," the man said. Baloney.
"Baloney and cheese," he said.

They give each of the men
Two sandwiches at midday.
So many men shuffling
Reaching up in helplessness and shame
Reaching up to a tiny open window, each for his two baloney sandwiches
With no mayonnaise and no lettuce,
Then trying hard to keep studying what's left of his shoes.

But I'll be too hungry at noon for just two slices of bread -- too hungry
For baloney
With no mayonnaise.

Oh my God it's starting again.
The fear
That makes my hands and feet hurt every time.
My mind a set of wheels that's left the track, now flying,
Going a hundred and forty miles an hour, even more,
Threatening my mind with its own insanity, as I just try to drive the thing
Coming at me with rage and fury I can't hope to control.

My belly an angry, a ravenous, really ugly cat,
Hissing at me furiously, angrier now than before,
Telling me all day and all night that I need to eat need to eat need to eat.

My corduroy dress
Is dirty now,
Shapeless and worn out,
It had a hem once; the dress and I were proud, neat and pretty together.
I loved wearing that dress
That's a now a torn blanket I wear to cover me.

Adhesive tape holds my glasses almost together,
My short hair shaggy and ugly and long,
Loafers worn sideways, now useless,
No wonder children are afraid of me.
Oh my God the children are afraid of me.
Just how does one ever change such a thing as that?
How does one make such a thing no longer so?

Fear becomes terror,
And terror's now anger; now deep down angry rage.
And I myself am the terror. I'm the rage; I'm the terror,
Rage and terror are who I am and they're what I am.
Neither leaves me; I never stop being what or where or who I am.
All that I am, I'm bound here by life and by necessity,
Having no money at all, and no decent way to get money,
I can't just stop being here where I am
And go where life is good.

But now I'll find a way to
Get myself some chili -- or a plate of meatloaf
Or something equally beautiful.
Maybe I can do that; I mean I absolutely have to.
This looks like a spot. This corner will maybe work for something good.
People hurrying by seem happy to be going where they're going.

"Excuse me Sir, excuse me, Ma'am,
Do you have a couple of dollars to spare
That maybe you don't really need?
Something you've maybe sort of tossed into one of your pockets?
A dollar or two you could give me,
So that I'll be able to keep on living, too?
I'm just so absolutely, so totally, really unbearably, hungry"

"But thank you both so much! The world's a better place now,
At least it is for me, and that's all
Because of you two. Blessings on you both forever!"

I wish I could never again get hungry, never have to be humiliated and beg again.
I'd never ever ask for money from strangers, if I could just find a way.
But I'll get hungry again for sure. I'll have to beg again.

I wonder if that church
Will let me in again tonight so I can hope to sleep there again.
I want a home of my own so bad so bad so bad.
I was brought up in a family -- well brought up and truly educated once,
Always, especially, to live and run a well-kept home of my own.

But that can never be -- will never be for me to have a home,
Sleep every night in my own bed.
I'm the woman I've become.
But there must be some sort of reason
My life's now the painful, angry, ugly thing it is.
There just must be some reason. I keep wishing I knew.

Copyright 2004 by Diana Allen Strelow. All rights reserved. Reproduced by Poetry 360 with permission of the author.

An Ode to Rap

2004-01-02T20:36:00.000-05:00

They can't be bothered with grammar or phonics;
ain't nothin' wrong with talkin' ebonics.
They word up a rap, monophonic
to music nowheres near harmonic.
Some play da gangsta, act demonic,
show off a gun and break sardonic.
Their fans won't think that they're moronic
'cuz most of 'em are catatonic.
Most got no talent and it's ironic
that they get rich off their histrionics.

I'm sure the world will never hear
a rap that comes remotely near
to a metered line, crisp and clear,
that holds the English language dear.
A poet elicits a sigh, a tear,
or a thought to cherish and revere.
A lilting verse that brings you cheer
when read aloud to please the ear,
or the little jest that you see here,
a poem is a gift, sincere.

The differences between a rap and a poem?
They're obvious but some don't know 'em.
Rapping is talking with rhyme, not reason,
but words have souls and the poet frees 'em.

First published in Poem Kingdom, 2002. Copyright 2002 by John Bushore. All rights reserved. Reproduced by Poetry 360 with permission of the author.

Retreat

2003-12-26T22:43:00.000-05:00

echoes across empty spaces
bugle calling evening to return.

Copyright 1984 by Peter A. Stinson. All rights reserved. Reproduced by Poetry 360 with permission of the author.

Wanderlust

2003-12-24T16:16:00.000-05:00

I wish to whisk you away, whispering
(my words caught in your ears)
holding tight your soft hands,
falling blindly into your eyes
(thunderbolt bright with a hint of summer).

Faith, I put my trust in the wind
to lead me, the sun and wish alive.

Hope, I yearn to hold more than the air
alive with the thought of you.

Charity, to give back the greatest gift of all,
uncensored, unequivocal, repentant of the past,
embracing the future,
the memory of your hands touching mine
(the touch still felt).

Copyright 2002 by Peter A. Stinson. All rights reserved. Reproduced by Poetry 360 with permission of the author.

A Man And His Time

2003-12-15T20:40:00.000-05:00

A man walks the Earth
  Through all of his days,
Touching so many lives
  In so different ways...
No one may govern
  What he does with his life,
Only he may cope
  With his trouble and strife..
He begins as a child
  Until life makes him grow,
He'll live through experiences
  Sometimes high, sometimes low...
Upon maturity he finds
  The Earth's not his kingdom,
He bows to authority  Accepts the government's wisdom...
Through mid-life he'll ride
  With all of its woes,
He lives life for today
  As it comes, as it goes...
Time will pass quickly
  His stiffness sets in,
He is always aware
  Of the slowness within...
Each day is now golden
  He will fight to survive,
He will fight to live on
  For each day he will strive!
For slowly, so slowly
  His days on Earth end,
But his time is not over
  He is remembered by friends...
Though he may now be gone
  To those close he's still near,
He walks among all of us
  We all hold him near...
For him, life is over
  He's outwelcomed his stay,
For us, life goes on
  We all live, day by day...

Copyright 1987 by Shawn P. Madison. All rights reserved. Reproduced by Poetry 360 with permission of the author.

Nothing in front of me seen

2003-12-11T21:39:00.000-05:00

Snow coming down so much
the interstate has disappeared:
I haven’t driven in snow
like this for more than decade,

last time was in Kansas
looking for shoes. Now I look
for something, unknown;
at home in my bed

another woman, belly burgeoning.
And night sky surrounds me,
headlights doing little more
than turning the way white

with heaven-sent flakes,
a covering to mask uncertainty.
I wish for quiet times,
the still of the city stopped

in the first snow, but now
I drive on to raging fires,
the crackling tender
of emotion and life

alive with the flames fueled
by the winds driven with the purpose
of fanning each red tongue,
an orange consuming the yellow,

green turning to black,
a melting away as I drive straight,
praying the road continues,
blind faith the snow leads me

home. In front of me, pure
whiteness and black, a study of contrasts.

Copyright 2003 by Peter A. Stinson. All rights reserved. Reproduced by Poetry 360 with permission of the author.

Mare Insanitatus

2003-12-08T18:07:00.000-05:00

A crazy crew of lunatics sailed to the moon in schooner ships.
They flitted over lunar seas and littered them with lunacies.
All pitched their schizophrenias, made jetsam of their manias,
and split their personalities, then ditched them like banalities.

Soon they felt an eerie presence - spooky to the very essence.
With one blue eye, luminescent, 'round a pupil, incandescent,
he stood like a beaky vulture, dressed in duds that reeked of culture.
Beneath his hat of kiwi fruit, he wore a pea-green leisure suit.

Like sharpened knife, he flashed his gaze, and from his eye shot dazzling rays.
He mesmerized those wary folk; he hypnotized them ere he spoke,
"You're not from here; just what are you?" And, minds unclear, they answered, "Who?"
So these were hoos, he wrongly guessed, and then he shooed them to his nest.

Deep below the crater Tychos, he boldly led the zany psychos,
to his retreat, beneath the ground, where they perceived tink-clinking sounds.
The begging, hungry beaks of chicks? Their fate to be cheep menu picks?
But, bright and hot, his eye lit up; they spied a pot and nine chipped cups.

His mate was there, 'bout eight-foot-three, and, gaily, she was making tea.
They eased a bit, the tension slacked; at least they hadn't been attacked.
Enjoying tea, their hostess kind, they couldn't see their host behind,
who honed his beak for easy cuts. He hoped to eat a meal of nuts

Beak filed, he leapt right at those hoos. He'd smile at death, fight not to lose.
He came at them, sharp beak slashing, but the madmen started laughing.
His razor jaws met naught but air; they played as if he was not there.
And then he grokked their source of mirth; they'd left their bodies stored on Earth.

Published on the web in The Martian Wave, Sept. 2002. Winner of the independently judged 2002 James B. Baker award for poetry by Sam's Dot Publishing. Copyright 2002 by John Bushore. All rights reserved. Reproduced by Poetry 360 with permission of the author.

A Kiss

2003-12-05T17:49:00.000-05:00

A kiss. A smile.
I have felt your lips brush mine,
have felt the soft curves of your waist
beneath my hand
before.

Your lips caress mine for a moment
and in my mind, like a flash, is a vision,
a vision of you
as a southern belle.
This first vision is followed by a
second – as real, as brief, as fleeting
as the first:
You and I
old,
very old, sitting together on a swing.
It is the dusk, the sun setting behind a slight ridge,
your body, old and
frail, wrapped by my bony arm.
It is the dusk
and the sun, sinking, will rise again soon.

Copyright 2002 by Peter A. Stinson. All rights reserved. Reproduced by Poetry 360 with permission of the author.

Displaced

2003-12-03T10:48:00.000-05:00

Here
in this place I find myself drowning
in a sea of emotions not knowing
where I am.
Displaced in time, lost in love, knowing only
you can replace this loneliness I feel
inside. If you would come back
to this place I know
I would no longer feel
displaced
in this place .

Copyright 2001 by C.Lee. All rights reserved. Reproduced by Poetry 360 with permission of the author.

Killers in the Mist

2003-11-30T10:30:00.000-05:00

Disguised as of the human race, evil strolled into the glade.
You know the place, cloaked in grace, one that God has made.
Then as an oak, a sentry spoke, a protector of liberty,
and extended a welcome to these blokes, into the land of the free.

"Hello, Arab. Or are you Jew? Though origin doesn't matter.
We've had quite a few, since our land was new; they mix into the batter.
Are you Polish? Chinese? Irish? Please don't bring your quarrels here.
Sure, we've got problems, more than we wish, but we've been working our way clear."

Throughout the land, the soldier trees protected all below:
the chickadees, the mice, the bees, fawns hidden by the does.
Smart songbirds knew, as rumors flew, what the Devil had in mind,
but his devious ruse was something new, of a cruel and nasty kind.

Far out in the seas, the leviathans gave a shield beyond belief.
The fleet so brave was riding the waves, keeping villains beyond the reef.
Engines roared and eagles soared, staunch guardians of the air,
warning off the evil horde, their screams proclaiming, "Beware."

But a demonic lord, vaingloriously proud, sent killers into the mist.
His black-hearted crowd hid in silver clouds, treachery in their midst.
Then the Twin Trees fell in a fiery hell and worker bees shriveled and died.
Rescuers rushed to answer the bell and hundreds were killed in their pride.

The Star of Power, though built to be lasting, was burning and rent in despair.
Without thunder crashing, or lightning flashing, destruction rained down from the air.
While on a captured bird those of courage would gird to save unknown fellows below;
calling down to their mates, they gave out the word that the unarmed would challenge the foe.

Evil incarnate cannot be denied, even when it surpasses belief.
Innocents died as the watchers cried, uniting in anger and grief
All had been sure that the glade was secure, a bastion of invincible power.
Such insidious terror was hard to endure; it seemed the darkest of hours.

Devils danced in the streets in eastern lands, hailing the carnage with glee.
But the glade still stands and the bereaved hold hands, proud that the fallen died free.
And true to the accord, though oft hard to afford, one must pay the price to be free,
from the scabbard of peace was drawn the sword that was forged to fight tyranny.

Copyright 2001-2003 by John Bushore. All rights reserved. Reproduced by Poetry 360 with permission of the author.

Parallel Roads

2003-11-27T23:12:00.000-05:00

They meet and fall in love. It is in their plan to enjoy each other, to work diligently to expand their horizons and, to minimize disagreements.

A love relationship is cemented by a promise to love, honor and obey before GOD and man. Still, it is the actions and inter-reactions among two separate beings that signal the success or failure of that union.

Before marriage, two people travel through life on their pathway. Rarely does one person rely upon the other for reasons beyond social amenities and amorous enchantments.

Few couples really prepare for the step they take. Most think that a union brings forth a oneness with both persons occupying the same space, or stated another way, the same road; But, this is not only impractical, it is by nature and the laws of science, impossible.

When people marry, they travel a road that, under constant attention and concern causes both roads to run parallel through life.

As most roads are, there will be bumps and patches and temporary detours;but, most likely when one road has bumps, the other road is free of such;the fact that both persons share a common destination should guarantee a positive and happy ending.

Still, without a constant comparison of where both persons are on their road of life, with respect to each other and their common goal, simple changes in direction or speed will go unnoticed.

Timely changes in direction or speed causes virtually no alarm. But, left to chance, the distance between roads and resulting conflicts increase in scope until all reference to the goal is gone and the relationship is no more.

There can never be a single road for two unique individuals. Each have their own personality, each contributes at a different rate and responds to specialized drives.

Because a marriage is a union of two people, it takes both to constantly travel the parallel roads of life -- together.

Copyright 1980-2003 by Charles B. Whitehurst, Sr. All rights reserved. Reproduced by Poetry 360 with permission of the author.

At the end of Hanover Street

2003-11-24T13:07:00.000-05:00

Crumbs on the table.
Crusty bread breaks apart, ripped
leaving crispy brown remnants
spread across the white table cloth,

thick, starched, cotton.
The waitresses, tall and bronze in the soft light
(a flickering of table-placed candles),
white collared shirts popping open

across ample breasts pert with youth,
buttons strained,
and black pants accentuating round fullness,
white aprons pulled tight,

dim shadows hiding bright eyes,
and a practiced sway of hips.
Cappuccino, cinnamon dusted foam,
draws bitterness inward, hot on the tongue.

Copyright 2003 by Peter A. Stinson. All rights reserved. Reproduced by Poetry 360 with permission of the author.

Three dreams

2003-11-20T19:52:00.000-05:00

I dreamt of us, together, old and weathered,
rocking in a porch swing,
gnarled hands holding one another;
your eyes still soft.

I dreamt of us, together, under Asian skies
green rolling hills spread out,
a splash of blue in the form of a pagoda,
beckoning us to come forward,
our destinies or purpose,
peaceful in turbulent times.

I dreamt of us, together, and of a sun drenched room,
a golden glow seeking shadows,
and we, nestled and showered by the light,
a nurturing closeness in each other’s arms.

Dreams they are.
I don’t dream now,
or at least the morning light
steals the memory
of them;
as I drift from sleep to wakefulness,
wrapped in the quilt you made for me,
those images
find me.
I push them away
like I’m breaking up a bar fight,
pushing with my full strength and dreading the punch;
I wish them away
like a wish for a circle of light while walking
a dark, city street;
I run from them
as if a monster pursues me,
intent on stealing my soul or my heart or my mind.

Sheets damp from my sweat:;
crisp winter air cutting through the cracked window.
Memories of dreams I may have had drift in the draft.
Captured like dust, they float,
turn, and reflect
the light.
In the draft, dreams drift
as the wind chills me.

Copyright 2003 by Peter A. Stinson. All rights reserved. Reproduced by Poetry 360 with permission of the author.

Open Skys

2003-11-17T14:24:00.000-05:00

I think atop my head there lies
An opening to evil skys
Cruel spirits rushing too and fro
They see my aura's erie glow
A channel to a mortal place
And silently they take my space

I feel the presence cold as ice
A cloak around me as I go
The tunnel size is now twice
As evil's mantle does grow
In some past life I must have caused a massive painful woe
For in this life each breathe is pain and peaceful bliss dies oh so slow

In silent night the spirits stir and whisper words in my ear
I don't believe their peaceful sounds, the safety of my soul I fear
All I possess, that which is mine
That mortal man can not buy or sell
My silken chord, my spirit free my open channel to Gods line
Or my entrance pass to fiery hell

The soul is what true makes the man, his honor or his cruel defeat
Titans clashing right and wrong the wounded dieing in the street
I guard it well but aura's glow
And mindless devils always know
Where open channels cross thru hell
And endless grief and sorrow dwell

Copyright 2003 by Linda Arena. All rights reserved. Reproduced by Poetry 360 with permission of the author.

Life with you

2003-11-12T16:11:00.000-05:00

Life with you
is the warm fuzzy blanket
I draw across my shoulders
to keep out the January chill.

Life with you
is an endless evening out,
the submarines plying the still
waters, breaking moon shadows.

Life with you
is the soft glow of candles
burning long in the cool of evening
as practiced lovers touch as if for the first time.

Life with you
is the thump of waves against the hull,
sails straining in the breeze,
the rig groaning with passage.

Life with you
is the soft laughter of children
running, spinning, dancing:
the park full of joy.

Life with you
is the heart beating
a rum-tum-tum, rum-tum-tum,
knowing that the heart

Keeps all promises.

Copyright 1997 by Peter A. Stinson. All rights reserved. Reproduced by Poetry 360 with permission of the author.

Choices

2003-11-10T22:12:00.000-05:00

Fate watches as each soul is born
She ponders how much time
This is your allotment, she'll warn
Use it well, don't whine
Each of us is given a life of precious days
To bend or mild, twist or fold in many different ways
The impact of our actions time will let us know
In the evening shadows when life's fires burn down low
If we used time wisely, we've touched others hearts
And left a soft imprint that remains when we depart
If we squandered our days and touched no other soul
There will be no legacy when the death bell tolls
Use your timeshares wisely our earthly walk is short
And when it ends, make your amends not a second more can be bought

Copyright 2003 by Linda Arena. All rights reserved. Reproduced by Poetry 360 with permission of the author.

Where rock and sky and water meet

2003-11-06T00:00:00.000-05:00

Six sunsets
and with each
a mist of orange
spreads across the bay.
Where rock and sky and water meet
my eyes tear
with the loss
of something to hold on to,
as if all has become the wind
curling my hair
and keeping me warm
with the hope that something lies beyond.
Sinking quickly like an evening sun
my tongue tastes the harsh salt
stained with the sweat of the sea
puckered by the lips of Poseidon.
Under sail, the edge of the horizon
meets fast with the wind.
The meeting place
becomes the self centered soul.
I reach up to hold the sun
and grasp nothing,
nothing but the air,
nothing but the wind
tempting me with the salt of the sea.

Copyright 2002 by Peter A. Stinson. All rights reserved. Reproduced by Poetry 360 with permission of the author.

Two Steps and Down

2003-11-03T00:00:00.000-05:00

You visit me smiling,
while hiding behind bright colors
and pink ice cream.

Once we wandered the
mirrored rooms of Bloomingdales
looking for a spring hat. And
we walked, fingers just touching
fingers, through the graying crowds
of Manhattan.

We walked city streets
and went nowhere together,
feet stepping out
as if one mind guided us
both. On wooden horses we
became children,
your pink cotton dress
showing knees and flowing
in the Wurlitzer wind.
In the shadows
we brushed lips
good-by and allowed eyes
to dim with tears.

It was in the heat
of September that I
loved your green eyes.
They flew wild with every
hint of my caring.
You disowned me, saying that
I was too similar. I never
gave up. In the cool of
November, we made love with
fingertips and never touched
flesh.

The meeting of lips
was always well timed and
reserved for moments of
coming and going.

And your visits continue today;
pink is your favorite color;
and I imagine
what you are really like.

Copyright 1980-2003 by Peter A. Stinson. All rights reserved. Reproduced by Poetry 360 with permission of the author.

Dark Side of My Heart

2003-11-02T00:00:00.000-05:00

In the dark side of my heart, where the sun dares not shine
Are locked away in veils of tears, precious memories of mine
In this place of endless pain, I visit in complete dispair
For I know I'll never see the family members locked in there
My heart is broken, never whole, missing pieces tear it deep
Dreams replay visions of old, I cry out loud in restless sleep

I will love my missing heart strings, untill my lifeforce ceases to be
Until then no earthly creature can take my memories from me
Shadow people will I know them as the years do change us so
Everyday missed from their presence makes the monster heartache grow

I do try to lock that part up, where my heart breaks with each beat
But the aching and the anguish sometimes cause a vast defeat
I will never be whole again until we can reunite
Until then I wait to embrace and hold on so very tight

In the dark side of my heart where the heartaches wail and moan
Is where I play over and over pictures, places times to atone
Human fraility, points to ponder, wishes for a heart to heal
Praying reconciliation touches each soul with vast appeal

Copyright 2003 by Linda Arena. All rights reserved. Reproduced by Poetry 360 with permission of the author.

Flushing, New York

2003-11-01T00:00:00.000-05:00

The quick scent of November
brought back the memory of you.

I am small, the foyer is bare
and smells of oak and polish
and the faint remains of pine cleaner.
The glass in the door,
bright, sharp, and as much as it is,
reflects the afternoon light
through prism eyes.
If I stand still, I can hear
the traffic, the water running in the kitchen,
and the absolute quietness
of this small room with doors
into two worlds.

Copyright 1982-2003 by Peter A. Stinson. All rights reserved. Reproduced by Poetry 360 with permission of the author.

Niagara at my house

2003-10-31T08:47:00.000-05:00

The drip in the bathroom
echoes. The splash each droplet
makes as it hits the tub
is joined by the sound of a slow leak,
water escaping the toilet tank,
the makings of a percussion
orchestral movement.
There’s a conspiracy for everything
to fall apart at once.
In the morning, I’ll wake to the sounds
of the sink faucet adding to the cacophony,
a crescendo building until finally
like Niagara, a rush of waters,
an overtaking.

Perhaps that’s why I don’t drag out
the tools, the wrench and other unnamed
instruments of the Mr. Fix-it set; I’m waiting
for the flood of water
to overcome and pour down my stairs.

Copyright 2003 by Peter A. Stinson. All rights reserved. Reproduced by Poetry 360 with permission of the author.

Poem for my sister

2003-10-30T00:17:00.000-05:00

Flatness gives way to a deep horizon.
It is dusk and the red light
is fading fast into the fire
of autumn. The sky and the earth
are both in flames with the red
of battle between the sun and moon.

Mayolie lives under
the canopy of Arizona skies –
big and blue
and broken with billowing white clouds
bursting
all the way
to where heaven greets the earth. The horizon. Where
life would be different, she
suspects.

It is this evening in the realm
of fire that Mayolie reaches
for the bottle. Cheap whiskey
once named firewater
and brought west. It is like
every other night, while
in the sky there is a new
star, bright and not flickering in the purple
between day and night. This night
will be different.

Once the cool has crept down
from the mountains, and the mounds
of earth and wood become quiet,
Mayolie struggles to sleep beneath
a wool blanket weaved in someone’s
front room. In her sleep she sees past
the new star…

With her dreams, Mayolie becomes
a she-wolf in the hills and lives in the safety
of a space between three rocks. But she is hunted
by large men with gleaming eyes
and red hot rifles. And the men
are the leaders of the village
and she sees the hatred in their faces
and she sees they laugh
when she is cornered. And they shoot
her and leave her cubs
to die.

In the morning, Mayolie remembers,
and she knows the place for her child
is not in the flatlands, but in the world
of the horizon.

Copyright 2003 by Peter A. Stinson. All rights reserved. Reproduced by Poetry 360 with permission of the author.

Invisible Forms

2003-10-29T00:00:00.000-05:00

Why do you hide your soul from me, am I not part of you
You look at me, speak at me, but I am not in your view
I've known not a day that you seemed glad I was born
Ever a stranger there are times I think you still mourn
The very day I came into your world
And into fatherhood you were hurled
Your heart's been closed like a cold steel door
Of yourself you cannot give more
Into your heart I cannot pass
Sadness is all I amass
You don't know me I don't know you
How very cheated are we two
To never know our hearts to share
Our common heritage, it's some where's there
Why can't you free feeling if you feel
I'm part of my mother that's very real
Twilight is coming one day
Words will die with us, never to say
Kindness, encouragement, hope or love
How wonderful to embrace all the above
How sad to leave so much unsaid
For silence rules the world of the dead

Copyright 2003 by Linda Arena. All rights reserved. Reproduced by Poetry 360 with permission of the author.

Colonoscopy

2003-10-28T00:00:00.000-05:00

“And so from day to day we ripe and ripe,
And then from day to day we rot and rot.”
From Shakespeare -- A Winter's Tale

This is how it happens, here:

small things lead to great things,
things inside tell of things outside;
the quick speak of the dead
inside us, stalked and silent.

Cells decay and grow
in their own cycle, but decay
and growth have the frail sound
of voices that fail at sunset,
softly carrying over lakes
until only ripples remain.

Beyond our knowing; roseate,
scoured, our bodies are traitors,
filled with the substance of
corruption. Bravely we stand it,
we stand it bravely, until the day
of reckoning, when all things
shall be brought to light..

Tears are not enough,
prayers are silent as water at evening.
pleading is as dark as the sun
in storm, whose spots mar its energy,

What have I done, what have I
said, where have I been silent that
I should be so? God’s bowels move
on the firmament while lakes ripple
quietly as wings of bats, but say nothing,
do nothing.

Space is space, time is always time,
matter is singly and simply matter,
but I, who are not of them,
corrupt from day to day
and hour to hour.

Copyright 2003 by David King. All rights reserved. Reproduced by Poetry 360 with permission of the author.

We.

2003-10-27T00:36:00.000-05:00

a poem for a.m.a.

In the autumn when the light
walks through the window of the late afternoon,
the shadows are unlike any other
shadows.
In
this late afternoon, we two sat
together talking about meaning.
We sat, our hushed voices slipping into
the sounds of the wind blowing leaves
past cars. But for the falling sun
whispering pleasant good-byes through
the old imperfect glass, the room was dark,
shadows building on shadows
in the wood-paneled luster. We,
talking truth, were like a flash
of white light filling a darkening day.

Copyright 1983-2003 by Peter A. Stinson. All rights reserved. Reproduced by Poetry 360 with permission of the author.

Two hours after midnight

2003-10-25T00:00:00.000-04:00

Your lips,
    pursed and puckered;
a blush on your cheeks
    soft with youth.
The light
    tender and gentle.

Copyright 2003 by Peter A. Stinson. All rights reserved. Reproduced by Poetry 360 with permission of the author.

Mass at Saint Stephen’s

2003-10-24T19:36:00.000-04:00

Glorious color splashes
downward, sun struck glass
ablaze,
vibrant notes of organ pipe
competing with the light,
filling the nave,
the sweetness of a baby held.

Anthems echo
a resounding, firm foundation,
faith fulfilling.

Light and color,
sound and texture,
a cleansing baptism,
a wish for water.

Copyright 2003 by Peter A. Stinson. All rights reserved. Reproduced by Poetry 360 with permission of the author.

Uncertainty

2003-10-23T23:23:00.000-04:00

Uncertainty swirls about me
like the a cappella sounds
of a cathedral choir, clear notes
wrapping around me, a blanket

of safety, a warmth. The unknowing
is a coldness, a draft,
the antithesis of the choir’s beauty
drifting upward in the colored sunlight

speckled with the dust of ages.

Copyright 2003 by Peter A. Stinson. All rights reserved. Reproduced by Poetry 360 with permission of the author.

Long you’ve waited for me

2003-10-22T00:00:00.000-04:00

Long you’ve waited for me
to put words on paper.
For months,
white, crisp bond has stared my way,
unblinking as the sun has run its course.
The paper is stacked, neatly, on the oak,
waiting for me to spill
my very essence
onto slips of the pale sheath.

Last night, the city sounds subdued by
maddening rain on the metal roof above us,
you said my passion was dead.
Passion, perhaps. But a friendship
has taken root,
like the old oak tree which spread its branches out
and protected my childhood;
has taken flight,
like geese striving for south
in the autumn air, each contributing to the pull of the flock;
has taken hold,
like my son’s grip on my fingers
as he made his first steps.

Last night,
in the pull between life and sleep,
nestled like a baby against
mother’s warm breast,
it came to me:
while passion slumbers bear-like in the dark recesses,
our friendship floats like a hot air balloon,
quiet, drifting with the currents of wind,
full and ripe,
a journey to places unknown.

Copyright 2002 by Peter A. Stinson. All rights reserved. Reproduced by Poetry 360 with permission of the author.

How do I tell you?

2003-10-20T23:22:00.000-04:00

The letter tucked neatly
inside the crease of the desk
hides away from the present
life. Crisp,
it is the past,
harsh, it is the evidence
of youthful play and adult hurt.

Anna, oh Anna
sometimes we don’t talk;
I know,
sometimes we don’t talk.
But I am trapped within my flesh,
I am trapped within my flesh;
I am forever trying to break
out of my skin tight prison.
Anna, oh Anna
sometimes we don’t talk;
I know,
sometimes we don’t talk.

The letter slips
so easily into Anna’s hand.
The wood has parted,
the place of concealment
opened
and the past slides
into view.

Anna, oh Anna
I wish for us
to lie together.
I wish for us
to lie together at night.
Anna, oh Anna
I wish for us
to lie together this night.

The words are bitter
and Anna swallows hard;
the taste is not fresh,
but it is tinged with sweet
from the hiding place in the oak.
It is strokes
from the unspoken past
and it burns her fingers.

Anna, oh Anna
how do I tell you?
How do I tell you that it was different
in that life?
How do I tell you that I
have learned?
Anna, oh Anna
how do I say
“I will not hurt you”?

Palms still hurt
from the heat,
she slides the letter,
flickering still,
back into the secret crease.
The pain of each ink drop remains.

Anna, oh Anna
please,
I plead.
Anna, oh Anna
you have withdrawn and
my bone tight cell
keeps me
from following.
Anna, oh Anna.

Copyright 1982-2003 by Peter A. Stinson. All rights reserved. Reproduced by Poetry 360 with permission of the author.

Lipstick Personality

2003-10-19T21:57:00.000-04:00

One look at her lipstick tube can tell you volumes,. How
can this be? I ask myself. Eight distinct types
Of women, each one clearly
Different from the rest. A sort of lipstick test........

Tube types, flat top, sharp angles both sides
Sharp angles, but curved tip, rounded, smooth tip
where it touches the lip....

This certainly indicated a need for closer inspection
And served much fodder for conversation.
Women with flat top tubes
(not to be confused with tube tops)
are to the point, very moral, conservative, and
very dependable
Those with rounded smooth tips
Are generous, easy going peacemakers
And even tempered. I study my lipstick tube
And read the chart.
Sharp angled, curved tip, I smile and bite my lip.
It reads: creative, enthusiastic, talkative, helpful
And energetic. I read further and think,
This is fun.
It also says I love attention
Fall in love easily and need a schedule
But really dislike one. Those with a rounded tip to a point
Are exaggerators a bit stubborn
Give orders easily and are domestic.
Sharp angled tips reveal opinionated
High spirited, outgoing argumentative
Types.
There was also flat top concave
Such women are complex,
Exciting, inquisitive adventurous and
make great detectives.
I think to myself.... So much revelation
From a little lump of color.

Copyright 2003 by Phyllis Johnson. All rights reserved. Reproduced by Poetry 360 with permission of the author.

Day Twelve of the War

2003-10-18T21:04:00.000-04:00

The bright arched caverns
of the Metro fill
with a hushed conversation.
We stand in ones and twos
and a cluster of tourists
all seeking shelter under lit arches
waiting for the rush of the train.
The sounds of a European tongue
echo off the concrete
walls. The city may not be alive
but it is filled,
a peoples intent on the everyday
while the newspapers declare
victory assured.

I am convinced, only of this:
we in ones and twos,
a cluster of humanity there and here,
are the saving force,
a touchstone to a peace
in this temple to technology.

Copyright 2003 by Peter A. Stinson. All rights reserved. Reproduced by Poetry 360 with permission of the author.

From three thousand miles

2003-10-17T00:01:00.000-04:00

Words strike hard
as I rip envelopes open
glancing only briefly at contents before
tearing wide the next.
No happy news – just cries
that life
bites hard into ankles.

Jimbo is experiencing what he calls
culture shock:
like malaria, not painful but all consuming.
He window shops in Norfolk
at the Dillard's of Life.
‘Lizbeth doesn’t even window shop;
she is stagnate, her writing flat.
From three thousand miles
she has lost her shine. And Anne
sends a sensuous card titled
Sax Fantasy. She wonders
why people change.

Snow falls through the
orange of street lights.
I kill flakes by
breathing skyward.
I yell
Be!
and feel a nibbling at my ankles.

Teddy is a living poet.
He doesn’t write letters.

I am huddled in a corner.
Relax! Teddy cries.
He wears red sneakers:

No nibbling there.

Copyright 1983-2003 by Peter A. Stinson. All rights reserved. Reproduced by Poetry 360 with permission of the author.

Forgotten

2003-10-16T00:01:00.000-04:00

Like lips from long ago.

I want to claim it was a different life.
But I cannot.
Granted, that was then
And this is now,

Yet it is the same life;
I am the same person, older,
Still young with
Life. Lips from so long ago.

I can remember one
August afternoon:
My lips
Wanted to touch yours for eternity.

I threw myself onto the roof of your car
And wouldn’t let you go, kissing you
As you drove, foot on the brake,
Down the drive.

I think about your lips
And for some reason my eyes moisten.
It is because I think about what I
Lost, like a September cloud over the Sound:

Beautiful and full and not really mine
But belonging only to the sky.
Not waiting for anyone.
It is there, hanging as a bubble

In the bright sky, tugging toward
The far beaches of speckled islands,
Dreaming of forgotten Atlantis,
That I feel the loss and grasp

Only the memory as it escapes to catch
The cloud. There’s no holding on.
There is only the memory
And the forgotten touch.

Like your lips from so long ago.

Copyright 2002 by Peter A. Stinson. All rights reserved. Reproduced by Poetry 360 with permission of the author.

Like canolli

2003-10-15T11:24:00.000-04:00

Like a crunchy pastry shell, ricotta oozing,
a dusting of sugar and a sweetness untouched,
I tried to contain you, to keep your smile
from touching every corner of Hanover Street.
I wanted it all to myself:
to keep your soft cheeks as they touched mine in greeting,
to wish upon your hands as they brushed sweet cheese from my lips,
to honor your insight as you peered into me,
a view uncluttered by years of familiarity.
With a smile, you carved out my soul,
delivered with biting commentary and pointed questions;
at the same time, ricotta sweetness spilled over my plate.
I used a fork,
but wanted to swipe with my fingers,
to capture every bit of texture and have it melt in the moistness of my mouth;
and, I sat wanting to know,
while the whirl of a foreign tongue wrapped around us.

Was this night of lights and feast
merely a cameo in some greater play?
Or was it one of a series,
whereby we tease and dance, connecting in the web we’ve chosen,
similar paths converging,
ricotta sweetness holding us both to one thought?

Copyright 2003 by Peter A. Stinson. All rights reserved. Reproduced by Poetry 360 with permission of the author.

Your lips brush mine

2003-10-14T12:34:00.000-04:00

Your lips brush mine
a kaleidoscope of colors pass in front
of my closed eyes
like Orion bursting forth from the primordial
forces of nature
with colors and clouds
where creation starts and eternity rests.

Your lips brush mine
and my heart flutters
like a thousand geese filling the late autumn sky,
flocking south to warmer climes,
wings beating with grace the crisp
soundless
air
while golden light sets ablaze their bodies.

Your lips brush mine
my body tingles as a waterfall
Victoria at the head of the Nile
an awesome drop to the turbulent pool below
shuttering, twisting, curling, dancing
in a free fall
to the earth
reality
below.

Your lips brush mine.

Copyright 2003 by Peter A. Stinson. All rights reserved. Reproduced by Poetry 360 with permission of the author.

Perseus and Andromeda

2003-10-13T00:00:00.000-04:00

Are we to understand they believed
A fish monster the size of Zeno's Delicatessen
With arms half a block long
Rose out of the sea foam once a decade
And was satisfied with the flesh of a virgin?

Was their faith in the gods so
That they didn't founder on such a rumor?
Or had they seen the deep grotto
Beneath the jutting, flat rock
And wanted some way to comprehend
The flighty workings of fate
As the blue water churned and roiled
In that looming space?
Maybe a fisherman,
Not too bright you have to conclude,
Tried to launch his boat there on a rising tide
And was caught before he knew it
In a sudden wave and sucked over,
All the while cursing the whore he'd met
Last night in the grimy village delicatessen
and regretting
The too strong wine that left him unbalanced
And vulnerable, not on his watch or prayers.
He was just there one minute and the next gone
Without a chance to clear his wits or call on
The distant gods.

The boat was the only clue, left floating and alone,
Lightened of its passenger and thereby unsinkable,
Circling between the blue-black shade and the
Sudden shafts of sunlight that almost blinded
The lookers.
A woman and a barely walking child
Out for a seaside walk found the skiff and ran
Up to the village, she carrying the babbling child, and told
The other men who brought a rope and a hooked pole.
The boat was pulled to shore and everyone talked
For the morning about the tragedy, and no one
Knew that Demetrius had just had a few too many
And toppled in. One said that he had seen the man
The night before, sodden with half-made wine and
About to spend his last few pieces of silver on a
Used woman. But she wouldn't say anything.
She answered
That she had talked but not slept with him,
Thinking of the business she would lose,
And trade wasn't good that year.
Then the boys who were sitting on the uneven bank
Saw something, there, in the water. It was Demetrius
Dead and whitened by the brutal immersion,
His eyes open and his mouth seeming to say something
As he moved back and forth in the salt-clouded water,
Suddenly cleared by the risen sun so every detail
Was visible, though blurred by depth and distance.

They fished him out with the hook, and he lay
On the yellow rock in the clear sunlight
Like a spoiled gefilte fish pulled out of its jar.
The people talked some more. Then they
Noticed the marks on his back, brought about
No doubt by his thrashings in the grotto, but in the
Light of their faith, they saw it differently. Someone
Was responsible and there was a reason. He didn't
Seem like a bad man. A woman and a good drink weren't
A sin, what was sin anyway? He had worked hard,
Not taken the spoil of another man's net,
And never gotten in an ill-mannered brawl .
But, he was awfully chewed up round the back,
Like something had been at him.
No one had seen a fish of any size in that pool for
Years. So. The gods were angry or maybe just bored
Enough to send a message,

Believe in us. We'll
Send you a reminder like random death every
Few years. If you heed it, your life will be controllable
But if you fuck with us, we'll smash at you in ways you
Will never be able to guess at.
You could be walking
Along a sunlit road with your girl on your arm and
Your gleaming sword in your trained right hand
Ready for anything, and a lightening bolt will flash
Out of the blue and kill you both. You'll be found
With your arm still around her and nothing changed
In the rosy looks of love on your faces. But you'll both
Be dead. The sword will be blackened and half melted,
And your ignorant families will assume that you insulted
Us in some strange way. They'll carry the bloating remains
Back to the burial ground and look over their shoulders
As they say the obsequies, nervous from a brief exposure
To the two who did something to arouse our wrath. Then
They'll scurry home. The priests will keep the sword
And hang it in the temple of Zeus for all to see.
But
We're just bored. It's easy to scare you with some
Simple trick, and better that rotting away for all eternity
In the echoing halls of empty Olympus.

Or maybe you'll be out fishing, trying to pull a meager
Living out of a played-out sea, and we'll let you fall off
Without even the chance to cry out. You'll not know what
Happened, and you'll try to figure it out from pieces of
Yesterday or last night. But there won't be enough time
And there is really no reason at all. None at all.

Then one of the old men sees a darker patch of water
In the streaming sunlight and cries out. Now everyone
Sees it. Down there the kelp fans back, and what seems
Like a huge fish with four arms and an unbelievable tail
Moves in from the sea through the only opening. Clouds
Cluster over the small town pelting sudden rain. The old
One says to throw Demetrius back in. Whatever it is down
There wants him back. So they roll the still dripping man
To the pool and pitch him down. He makes an unheard splash
And disappears. They never see him again. Some people
Do some thinking. The village priest, who was too busy
To go down to the scene himself, notes it in the tablets
And guts some birds. The gods are happy, maybe just
Well fed for a space.
That year the crops are good.
The rains come early and hard. There is enough grain
To last for seasons and the cattle are fat and sleek.
The wine vats are full of whitened froth and life continues.
Everyone has forgotten the fisherman. What was his name?

Good fortune continues a score of years
And the village grows and prospers. People pass
And the crops grow. Nothing really.

But one day
Or one season the rains stop. Like that. One day there
Is a rain and the next day there isn't. The land dries
And the wheat fields look like someone has scattered
Broken potato chips on a plate and gone home, without
Leaving a proper tip. The boys who
Saw the fisherman and the shadow beast flicker
Are now men and have lost their fear of the gods.
They have cultivated vices and struggle from day to day,
Thinking their fates are their own. Most are married,
However unfaithfully, and have children. The olive groves
Bear silent fruit, and the sea is a little better
Than they remember those days.
After a few seasons
When the grain is dwindling and the tuna have disappeared,
They begin to worry. A wife or two starts to complain,
Nights, that the children are getting thin, that the
Olive oil is cloudy and rancid, that the supply of
Trade goods has gone.
There will be no more money for bronze mirrors
Or red arsenic and perfume.
There will be less comfort and little joy.
The wails of the young and old ones will fill the night
From slack bellies and flagging faith.
A group of women
Visit the temple, burn some wheat and a sickly
Goat. The god answers, well, the priest says that's
What happens.
You have angered us, and we've been
Waiting in sterile Olympus for your supplication. We sent
You good fortune and you have forgotten us. The oil jars
Of your village are full, and the corn fields flower
Year after year in waving brown arms, soon reduced to stubble.
The people find creatures in the sea and linger in markets and
Delicatessens day after day. Why are the temples empty?
Do you not remember Demetrius the fisherman, the one
Who forgot the gods so many years ago?. We sent you
The beast as a message, "Heed our words and fill our temples!"
But now it's too late for all that. We want blood and flesh.
Go to the grotto once a decade and give us a virgin.
We will see to the details.
The village women whiten with fear
And fly to their homes, quite glad that they have children
And are not virgins. Those with girls of marriageable age
Stay indoors. There is talk and argument on the docks and
In Zeno's Delicatessen about who must go. The old one,
Ancient by now, recounts the story of Demetrius and advises
That the girl must be found soon. After all the fisherman
So many years ago was taken suddenly. They must have a
Sacrifice before the next tide.

Then, unlike us, they saw something in its depths,
Not the shallow kelp beds fanning out again
Or the blue of colder water surging in through the
Hidden openings far below sight. A fish with the head
Of a man and limbs stout enough for any oak rises
And falls a hundred feet down. It gestures to the people
Gathered at the sandy opening and breathes in the jet blue
Water through gills suspended on its head like
Kosher pickles steeped in brine, with wrinkles that
Swell out and out until the flesh seems impossibly
Ancient and withered.
The people rush back
To the village and take the first girl, Apollonia,
Who lives in the yellow house by the square and
Drag her screaming to the grotto. The beast,
Who certainly now is not just a shadow, rises and takes
Her in his briny arms with a single movement. He
Devours her in an instant, first biting off her head,
Catching the spurting blood in his pursed lips, and then
Devouring the flesh in strips that he unwinds like
An onion, eating layer by layer. He swallows the
Bones last and sinks to the bottom with a contented burp
That winnows to the surface in a myriad of bubbles.

After this the village is changed. Every ten years the
Young girls disappear and a search has to be made.
Finally the priests scour the countryside for eligible children
And they are kept in the temple, under guard, of course
For their own protection. Each decade a girl is chosen and
Taken to the grotto. The village prospers and grows.
Wheat rises in the fields until the gentle winds
Ripple the heads of grain in the yellow light of August.
Fish limber in the sea and fill the nets each season.
The fishermen, in fact, find the catch too easy. They
Grow accustomed to slow mackerel and fat tuna
Sagging in the nets and lose their skill at reading the ocean
And finding the secret ways of the deep.

Then there are no young girls for five years and the
Village elders worry that they will not be able to feed
The monster inside them. Left with nothing else
They choose the tyrant's daughter, the wizened spinster
Andromeda and keep her pure. She doesn't blanch at the
Sacrifice, thinking it noble and her duty.
But things get
Complicated. A man meets her at the temple one day
And falls uncritically in love. He swears to fend the monster
Off and save her, that they'll marry and run away.
It doesn't occur to either of them to run just now
To some foreign city where they don't speak good Greek
And open a small deli anonymously. No, they think
That he must kill the monster and do everything in the open.
No one explains why a good-looking young man falls
So hopelessly in love with a barren king's daughter,
So lacking in charm that nobody has had her yet.
So the young man visits the temple and begs for a sign.
The gods answer,
To save the girl you must kill the
Creature with you r own hand only. The beast is,
By plan, invincible, so it will be a fruitless effort
And you will die after, held in the left hand of the creature
As he devours her layer by quivering layer, lingering on
Her as a hungry man cracks and peels a soft-boiled egg
Cupping the dripping remains of the white cracked
Shell half and sucking the still living liquid in tightened lips
With a small trickle of the thick yellow yolk staining his
Slime encrusted chin.
But we'll give you a way out, a
Slim way, but one that will amuse us. Go to the temple
At the edge of the sea's curtain. Find one of the creatures
Who so long ago was turned from fragile beauty to
Perfect ugliness. They had too proud a look and disdained
To bow low enough in the temple. For this, we
Changed them to some snakelike thing from tail to
Top. Oh, the head is a graft of writhing snakes with
A fiery gaze that turns a man to stone in an instant.
Their blood is a mix of ichor and acrid wine
That eats through any substance except a diamond.
She alone can kill the sea thing with her gaze. Bring
Her head and turn in on the monster and you can defeat it.
Remember you can't look at her. Have a good journey!

Perseus takes his sword and thinks a bit,
Kisses Andromeda's dry lips and sets off
Toward the edge of the world, trusting in the future.
The sun sets beyond the first hill, and he has to stop
Within sight of the village where he makes a fitful fire
And has a dream. A statuesque goddess appears in a white
Cloud and speaks. He stirs in sleep and mutters,
"Find the shield of Argos in a far village and a sword
Of charcoaled iron beside it. With these you can kill the
Monster if you keep from looking. Have faith,
I am the goddess of reason, sprung from Zeus' forehead,
And care for your spirit above that of all men."
A few followers join
Him from day to day until he has a handful of helpers
Like a jumble of sausages in a jar of vinegar.
Perseus and his crew wake and
Walk nights. One dawn he finds the shop of Argos
And takes the arms. Argos does not like it, but perhaps
The goddess spoke to him, too, the other night. He follows
Perseus to check on the precious gear and at last
Falls in with him. They sleep that night at an inn
Where all there is to eat is day old sandwiches, and find a boat in
The morning that takes them beyond the sunset
To the island of blue stones. Argos stays on the dock
And leaves Perseus and a few others to fight the brutes.

Three men enter the dank hall, the temple of Medusa,
Finding statues of stone that once were men.
Perseus uses the shield and the
Sword. Looking never, he mirrors the head and slices
Cleanly, slaying the thing he dare not see. Even
In reflection, it sears his eyes so that he can not see
But has to be led from the island when Argos grudgingly comes.
He grumbles at the corrosion on the blade and tries
To clean the mirror, but can't get the pocks of
Blood off it. After a few days' rest Perseus’ sight returns
And he has another dream. He sees a grove far by the river
Shining like the glass on a cold-cut counter and beyond it
A white horse that rises in the air. Following it,
Perseus wanders until he finds the place and, waiting
The night, leaps on its back, taming it with soothing words.
It takes the day to master the beast, but he finally
Gets it so tame that it eats from his hand. Walking
With Argos and his men, he leads it to the city
And hides it in the suburbs.
Except for that,
The walk back is uneventful. They become tired of
Hard beds and cold food long before they return
To the village. They have been out so long no one quite
Recognizes them. Perseus pays off the few men left, but
Argos stays behind to see if he can get his weapons
And armor back or at least get decently paid for them.
Back at Zeno’s delicatessen there is talk. Gawkers
Have begun to arrive, and there are no rooms, so Perseus
And Argos have to sleep out in the courtyard on old
Sheepskins. When he tries to see Andromeda,
He is turned away without even the courtesy of an audience.
The guards are not accustomed to let anyone with
Sun burnt skin and such ragged clothes in the tyrant’s
Presence. And the stranger seems too rough and direct,
An out-dweller. Besides his eye is too clear and his manner
Too abrupt. Perseus does manage to sneak to the balcony
Late one evening and, sitting like a bag of pretzels
Just on the edge of a linoleum counter, he promises his love
And more importantly his sword arm. When she is chained
To the pillar in the grotto, he’ll come to fight the beast.
The dream has told him what to do.

The couple mope separately for the few remaining days,
Each dreaming of the other and not a little nervous
About the plan, for the gods like to tell half-truths
And watch a man deal with the whole of them.
All in all, they are not to be trusted any more than
The braying of a bull or the jangle of bird song.

The day of the sacrifice arrives clean and sudden.
Andromeda is dressed in a bright shift, and the whole
Town gathers to watch her march off. She appears
Quiet and dignified and needs no soldiers to hold her
As they did the last virgin, who screamed and clawed
The way to the grotto. No, she just walks, rather straight,
But in complete control, and nods to the passersby who
Admire her as they hear her footsteps echo
Down the chilled, white streets. She even stops
At the delicatessen and asks for a cream soda
Which she carries and swigs as she strolls down
The empty wharf while the crowd grows larger
And larger till it fills half the way. Finally, they
Reach the grotto, and everyone watches the water
Surge and shimmer in the blue cavern. Two old
Soldiers carry her down the edge where the
Townspeople have erected a pillar, looking for all the world
Like an upright ketchup bottle, and chain her
To it. Then all but the girl in her gold-trimmed dress
Scramble to the other side of the pool and
Wait. The sun reaches its height, and the grotto
Becomes clearer blue. All wind stops, the air
Slowly stagnates, and everyone can smell the
Salt and stale seaweed. The water rushes up
And down in languid circles.

Now there is a stir on the surface. White-tipped waves mount
And fall in the heat, and a dim shape appears far down,
So far that it seems no more than a speck of dill. But it
Grows larger and larger until it takes the full shape
Of the monster. The people drool in fear and anticipation.
Andromeda smiles a bit and pretends to struggle against
The bonds. She does seem a bit worried when Perseus
Doesn’t appear as the creature looms closer and closer.
But finally, those on the other side of the grotto see it,
A small, black spot against the sun that hovers and
Then swoops downward, no bigger than a mustard seed.
Light flashes from something,
And then it becomes vividly clear. A man on a winged
Horse carrying a dripping sack and a brilliant shield
Thrills down and circles until he finds the grotto.
He floats between the monster and the pale girl,
Suddenly closing his eyes while pulling out a
Hissing head of snakes and blood-stained teeth.
The monster wrenches its head and reaches upward
As if to grab a tongue sandwich proffered to him,
But when his eyes meet the head, he stiffens and shudders,
Freezes suddenly to stone, his arms outstretched
In an arc like ribs on a side of barbecued pork.
Slowly, from the middle outward, he changes color
From deep green-blue to yellow and becomes part
Of the rock.
As for the lovers, Perseus slants down
To Andromeda and catches her in his arms with a
Crushing embrace. He takes her, pushes her on
The horse, and streams for the delicatessen. There the two
Alight and stand in a deep, lingering kiss. The townspeople
Swarm to the street front, cheering, and sing praises to
The spectacle they have witnessed. Who would have
Believed it unless he saw it, a brilliant figure out of the sun
On a winged horse so incredibly swift?. They want to
Dedicate a temple to him, Perseus, but he refuses.
He rants and accuses them of cowardice, asking why
They put up with the creature for so many years,
Doing nothing, fearful of their own shadows.
They are big at talk in the delicatessen but don’t ask them
To stand up for anything. The tyrant arrives and
Grudgingly stands for the marriage of the two.
He orders cold cuts and soft drinks for all, fearful
Of the mood of the crowd if they get sotted on cheap wine
Or a few cold beers.
But
By this time the couple are so disgusted that they
Start out, this time on land, and say to hell
With them all. They set off down the path
Hand in hand and disappear over the hill, the horse
Following tamely.
At the end,
Perseus is heard to say the gods be damned,
He’ll do what he pleases. It is, after all, to Athena,
Not the other band of bloodthirsty fools that he owes his victory.

We hear all and see all. The least
We expect is a burned goat and a few humble words.
Heroic as the couple is, and we do admire their
Victory, there are limits.
Besides, they have publicly flouted us. What will
People say at the delicatessen?

“The gods? Oh, that lot is an outdated child’s tale.
Just like the Hebrew writing on that carton of
Matzo balls. Children believe such rumors. As for us,
Any man is enough to do anything. Just look at
Perseus. He found what he needed by himself. Didn’t
Need those fools on Olympus for that, did he?
Everything he did, fantastic as it was,
We could have done ourselves with a little pluck.
How much do the priests of Zeus want this year
As tribute? Too much for me!”

This won’t go! Olympus is too tepid without
Some manipulated excitement. We need fear to feed us like
A chili-dog needs extra onions.
An example must be made.

Now the couple is beyond the hill, but still
Within the town limits on a dusty patch of road
Where there is a slight depression where the sun
Beats hotter without the sea-wind to mellow it.
Perseus, happy at his new bride, turns and holds his
Sword up to the sky, not sure whether he wants to
Strike at heaven or salute his good fortune.
Suddenly, the sky clouds, and there
Are some who swear they saw the outline of a face
In the pressing vapor, like the figure set in relief
On a bottle of Ajax root beer. The skin tingles as the
Force builds and, there, over the hill from where
The crowd is still milling, there is a yellow flash
And a clap of thunder.
They find the couple still rosy cheeked
And smiling, hand in hand. The temple was full for
That nightly sacrifice and the collection plates full.

It’s said if you visit the village, an old man
Will take you to the grotto just out of town
And tell you a story. There he points out
A part of the wall that looks like a sea monster,
Huge with outstretched arms threatening
To engulf you and a surprised look on its face,
Though you have to stretch to see it, and the
Yellow-brown rock that makes up its trunk and ribs
Is crumbling and falling slowly away like
A loaf of rye bread cut with a dull knife
Will shed bits of dough and caraway seeds
From the middle, though the crust is whole.

Copyright 2003 by David King. All rights reserved. Reproduced by Poetry 360 with permission of the author.

At the Scottish Rite Temple

2003-10-12T00:01:00.000-04:00

The hall of the Scottish Rite Temple bops
with swing, one hip cat
singing beneath a fedora
backed by five guys named Joe.
The dancers, fluid,
float like a wisp of fog beneath crystal sparkles.
My feet are too carefree, never having learned
the confines of set dance beyond mandatory waltz.
No swing. No west coast. No jitterbug.

I am sent back;
she (strawberry
blonde hair, apple
pale skin, peach
glistening smile); we dance
as one,
movement to movement, hips to hips, connected
at the eyes. We were so young.
A playing off each other, a teasing
and a joy. The bump of rock and pop, the bass beat
providing cues in the upstairs dance
hall. When the music ended
we stood flushed together, a leaning in as one.

Under the Mason’s torch,
I’m off to the side, watching, a distance drawn
between me and them. My observer self has taken hold, rooting
me against the wall as couples twirl
and the band plays on, horns blowing, a wind
stirred up around me.

Copyright 2003 by Peter A. Stinson. All rights reserved. Reproduced by Poetry 360 with permission of the author.

Lunchbox Memories

2003-10-11T00:01:00.000-04:00

I wipe the dust, with a hesitant brush of my fingers, from the green lunchbox. It has sat for over a year atop my bookcase where it was gently and reverently placed on my return from college. It still looks new. Emblazoned across the front is GI Joe: A Real American Hero, and although I am not fond of war, death, and much of what GI Joe stands for, I am fond of this Thermos-made lunch box. It was a gift from Suzanne. And, although she, too, was not keen on war, she felt I needed a lunchbox. This was the best she could find. And here it is, many months – almost a lifetime – later. I hear she is in love and happy and on the verge of the ultimate act, in my eyes: marriage. I once claimed marriage was very much like death – except worse, because you’re still alive.

I may have been very wrong.

When I open the box, I am taken back to the third grade. I can small the banana that has been roasting all morning. I can see the peanut butter and grape jelly sandwich on white Pepperidge Farm bread. The bread is hard with form, unlike Wonder Bread which always looks and tastes like sugary air bread. Who could ever see making a PB&J on a slice of air? But this box before me is clean and smells exactly like it did the day it was bought, exactly like the day Suzanne gave it to me. I do not remember the day she gave it to me. Was it my birthday? Or was it just a regular day that Suzanne made special with a gift, a smile, or a hug? All three were always treasured.

There was the time, after one of our luncheon rendezvous, when we were wandering through a drug store and bought magic pens with invisible ink. We were two college kids – and I place the emphasis on “kids” – who sent messages to each other in unseen writing. Ours was a relationship built on friendship and fun: of pinkie balls, collapsible dog puppets, invisible ink, and long talks. We were children in our innocence.

And children we remain. When we left college, we not only packed our bags and moved away, but we packed up and out of each other’s life. Now I can only sit, here in this place I call home, and think of the way it was. And I am reminded of the maxim a good friend once decreed on me: Things never were the way they were supposed to be. I can sit here now and conjure the vision of us together, basking in a self-indulgent glow at a restaurant, focused on each other as the bustle of the city passed around us. But can I – at this late hour, at this late time, with this silly lunch box – feel her, laugh with her, be with her? Almost, but not quite. It is a memory lacking form. It is like soft bread, full of air, lacking true substance.

Recently a mutual friend told me about their mutual stay in Rome. They were in Rome under the guise of studying and were to return home after six months. In those six months, they did their laundry as seldom as possible. And when they did the laundry, they would sort their clothes into piles – one pile, one washer. Our mutual friend had whites, colors, and darks. Three piles. Suzanne had just two: whites and blues. The whites were absolute highs – of which there were many. And then there were the blues – a melancholic intensity wrapped around her and anyone nearby.

Being quite enamored of both white and blue, I had a fine time.

And a fine time we both had, deep in the white folds of innocence. Of kisses, we never shared more than hellos and goodbyes. We never spent time enthralled in late night bodily passions. Oh, we shared passions, and we shared ourselves, but it was innocent, like children. We had not need for our bodies to find each other – although I thought of it more than once. And I can hope, at least, Suzanne did too. But in truth, I didn’t want to darken the white, destroy the innocence, and give up the child in us both.

I feared it could never be as good.

So now, many months and many miles later, I am left with a lunchbox full of images. I can hear her laugh rolling down the hall. I can see her eyes, brown and uncluttered like a newborn’s. And I can feel her touch, hesitant, soft with form and substance. It is the touch of a five-year-old on discovering the heart.

We were merely children, loving in a world not meant for children, loving in a world I did not understand. It was a love I did not understand.

Copyright 1985-2002 by Peter A. Stinson. All rights reserved. Reproduced by Poetry 360 with permission of the author.

Filming the Boys of Company H

2003-10-10T00:01:00.000-04:00

The dress was 36-27-36
mint green with a fringe
came with a purse and gloves
custom ordered for me
part time actress, writer, poet.

The movie, set in the 40's
the scene, an old train station
in a small town,
my old stomping ground
Show up by ten p.m. they said.

Be prepared, they warned me
May film well into the night
I took a deep breath
and a heavy sigh,
wondering what lay ahead.

The night of the shoot arrived
I hooked up with Terry,
a neighbor I've just met
I rode, she drove
twenty-five minutes to the set.

I see it, well lit at night
the old train station
a sight I've known so long
I recall a train ride
The memory is strong.

Now it's a museum
filled with antique trains
old timey candy,
Nostalgic thoughts are with me
If just a little while

We wait an hour,
maybe more
Finally the costumes arrive
we anxiously peruse boxes
checking for our size.

Slipping into our garb
time for makeup and hair
time to leave the present behind
and step into the past
into that 1940's looking glass

I adopt the persona
leave my playful self behind
as lock after lock
is pinned to my head
in a look that is not me.

But a woman from the 40's
meeting soldiers from a train
that's come home from the war
bearing scars and wounds
and things that break my heart.

A window on a rail
with a camera moves
as billows of smoke curl
the view, a welcoming crew
made up of women and a girl.

Hearts fluttering,
flags waving,
we'd smile and cheer
just as the train drew near...
excitement in the air.

The train stopped
the smoke cleared
and everyone there switched gears
soldiers, wounded,
are missing limbs.

How did we act?
Our flags drooped,
the band stopped playing
even a nearby dog paused
and turned to look.

In hushed breath,
I gazed at the faces
of two soldiers,
one missing an arm
the other missing a leg.

Wondered to myself how
they are feeling now
in the scene we've shot.
And five days past
The feeling that lasts...

Is this desire to hug
both young men
who found it within
to act in this film
in a part that's so real.

How did our backwards glance
and look of sorrow
really touch their souls
even though just a role
how did it feel.........

Copyright 2003 by Phyllis Johnson. All rights reserved. Reproduced by Poetry 360 with permission of the author.

Reflection

2003-10-09T00:01:00.000-04:00

Looking at my father’s face, I must confront
my own mortality. I marvel at his silver hair,
the wrinkled skin, his blue Paul Newman
eyes that sparkle still. Antiquity has stolen Dad.
Although insurance tables tell me he’s
in overtime, and my clock’s running down,
I don’t feel so old. It’s like a jug of water
leaking. I’ll bet a bigger jug would make
no difference. Suppose instead
of eighty, the tables topped a hundred
sixty years. My wife’s dad died
at eighty-five, but he had failed to live
a day past twenty-five. But then,
I’ve read about a Russian guy who lived
a hundred thirty-three, still active
to the end. Dad’s raised three
of us pretty well successfully,
outlived two wives, and married
a third; he’s traveled some and saved
enough to live a comfortable retirement.
That must say insurance tables don’t
mean much — just tell how fast the average
jug will leak, but not how well a life’s been lived.
I look again into my father’s face, smile,
and wonder at his silver hair, his aging skin,
and blue, defiant eyes still full of expectation.
I splash hot water and smear the lather,
then lift the razor to my cheek and chin.

Copyright 2003 by Pete Freas. All rights reserved. Reproduced by Poetry 360 with permission of the author.