POEMS of EIGHT POETS
(Fall 2015, Volume 3)
(Fall 2015, Volume 3)
Charles Theilman
Family Farm Hot wind a coarse brush through black manes and cut hay. Dusk absorbs sunset's plaited gnosis into its deep blue wings. What survives this season turns its back to the sky, rests on dark arms and lets dry yellow stones fall into buried deltas. Lantern glow on wire coil, hooves plant crescents in loam while bales, lined up at arm's length, release their last green to starlight. Wagon, rein and halter, sweat crusted necks to sun-burned hands, sky a promise of more dust, of hot yellow light edging the shadows of five oaks. The swing-set chains and seats sway. The kitchen window becomes one beacon. Peer inside dark blue dusk. Biographical information, favorite public domain poem. |
Sara Karim
Boubacar Drame In a brown paper bag Boubacar Drame kept his spinach Bushels of bunches, his only splurge Crumpled and tucked and stashed He took his coffee black Because he loved the taste of bark and bitter From the splintered wooden stirring spoon He grabbed at the counter every morning He wore a tracksuit to work And matching shoes, black with white stripes It was "knocked-off" as he said "It's better than nothing," he said You could not escape the heat in Addis Ababa It lingered even in refrigerated conditions You could not escape the humidity either With every breath you felt like drowning Boubacar Drame did not leave from the heat or the humidity He escaped from becoming a corrupt soul And coal-black heart. From conforming as a means to cope. "We never had spinach this fresh" he said. "All we had was wat and injera. We could never have coffee either: The raiders took the beans to flavor their smoke" Boubacar Drame settled in the Bronx Driving a taxicab in his tracksuit Addis Ababa calls him, in the heat from the coffee, In the warm humidity of the brown paper bag. Biographical information, favorite public domain poem. |
John Stocks
George He was elsewhere when the angels came, Lost in some long-forgotten garden, Where old fragrances of flowers teased, And she was somewhere-just out of reach. Thank God! They made him a cup of tea, Then shivered in his half-heated room, Three spoonfuls and his old heart fluttered. Deep in his crunched underbelly He felt somehow their beauty. And he was pleased they took the trouble To pause briefly in their flight. 'Three sugars George, you naughty boy!' He marvelled at their blessed ministry. Alone again, he would swallow his tears, His world shrunk to this solitary space Of diminished possibilities. The girls would know him only when he died, At his funeral they would hear of his service For king and country. Discover the journey of his life, Learn that he had been a teacher, a husband, a collector of antiques. Biographical information, favorite public domain poem. |
Lucas Smith
The Lines after Les Murray Street sign of mileage why should it go well with you? Snake-crack in bitumen why should you be stepped over? Tram at the crossroads, In the middle of the hill, How force, why run? (Warm clouds, early summer, legs come out, going down to the tram stop that is under the buildings.) I am now a verb scratched in the fence etched on the rain window, jump-seat, timetable, stop number. An MP's office lurks opposite. safe trucks pass metres away with taxis under the catenary vines. To be waiting here, at the middle of the hill watching your traffic, look up to the the golden angel to think, Is it possible that cathedral was erected in the service of untruth? What about the office next door? Or the train tunnels below? Which untruths? Scenes of conquest, Port Jackson—Tenochtitlan-- Yerba Buena—Capistrano—Teotihuacan, Battlefield sand grain—why should you be free? Rolling south along tracks, strolling through turnstiles, clacking down escalators encased in cool pipes, to be catching this train thumping the platform, erupting commuters, to be filtered by your thoughts, understanding the city that is normal dreaming, that won't be won by allegation or heavenly eye to know the train may not come, to believe you may live and die in unlicensed times. Biographical information, favorite public domain poem. |
Rosa Walling-Wefelmeyer
Brief Encounter It’s all taped out now – white lines curving where our bodies lay blue lights keening intimating grave emotion somewhere in the distance …coming or going? You were always going graduating even before Graduation. I watched – the quiet lane burst with us gasping wheels elated skins yellow and green then still again as if feeling could be arrested bypassed as if somewhere in the distance was nowhere at all. Biographical information, favorite public domain poem. |
George Moore
Hill Towns on the Portuguese Border It’s clear these castle towns were built to define an older limit. They stand like sentinels over the quiet vineyards, cut into the tops of hills like crowns. Their decorative display hides a rougher purpose, the ribbons and bows, jests over lintels and thresholds, like the marble steps worn through to dull stone. But the Gothic rhyme of round buttresses, of portals on a late thinking, are good for museums of old instruments of war. Some are simply empty. The truth for tourists who would be travelers, lies somewhere in-between the quadrangle rooms and orchard groves below. No one cares to live on either side, and so the churches too are fortified. Each presenting its small windows where you can shoot down on your enemy. Biographical information, favorite public domain poem. |
Maxfield Lydum
Lip Stick Car Contrary to popular belief, Wild times abound when you cruise the valley in a Mormon Mary Kay car. See that car slice through the fog and leave lip stick stains on your asphalt cheek? It’s heading to the chandelier town near the river where high school girls walk 7 white huskies kids shoot hoops. Mormon Mary Kay squeals stop and dumps contents into the glass delicate night. Out comes pearled beauty of the night lip stick kisses and tight red dress dripping with intuition. But who can say why she doesn't come home to a bright chandelier? Who can wonder why she’s lonely in the Cadillac? Where can she go if her heels snap on the concrete? It’s really an urgent question. Biographical information, favorite public domain poem. |
Des Clark-Walker
Mortal Moon Just as the sun sets the full moon rises deceptively large on the horizon but each night, decreasing. Monthly mortal moon. On the water your soft light lingers, briefly, as intangible pearls dropped by a beautiful goddess, while amongst the sea’s creatures the nautilus, by growth rings on its gleaming shell has been recording your proximity. Influential orb, without you there would be no tides no myths, no legends, no superstitions or terrifying eclipses predicting imminent disaster sweeping all away. Now mystery and enchantment are diminished by astronauts placing a mirror on your surface for precise distance measurement. Receding satellite, slowed by tides, but ultimately, mortal moon. Biographical information, favorite public domain poem. |
Explanatory note from the author: "Mortal Moon" poem alludes to the curious observation that the growth rings on fossil nautilus shells are linked to the day or night length that depends on the proximity of the moon. For an explanation of this phenomenon, that has been occurring for the past 500 million years since these creatures evolved see:
http://news.softpedia.com/news/The-Terrestrial-Day-of-10-Hours-the-Terrestrial-Month-of-10-Days-54106.shtml.
One could also take a look at:
https://www.physforum.com/index.php?showtopic=53238.
Also relevant is the observation that accurate measurement of the earth-moon distance has increased by about a meter since astronauts installed a mirror. Romance has certainly gone from the moon since astronauts landed , but that is progress. Des Clark-Walker
http://news.softpedia.com/news/The-Terrestrial-Day-of-10-Hours-the-Terrestrial-Month-of-10-Days-54106.shtml.
One could also take a look at:
https://www.physforum.com/index.php?showtopic=53238.
Also relevant is the observation that accurate measurement of the earth-moon distance has increased by about a meter since astronauts installed a mirror. Romance has certainly gone from the moon since astronauts landed , but that is progress. Des Clark-Walker