POEMS of SEVEN POETS
(Spring 2014, Volume 2)
(Spring 2014, Volume 2)
Des Clark-Walker
Interfaces Restless ocean, wind over, gusty splashy-crested swells, white wavering free falling foam then, upwelling. Reflecting sea, a molten mirror breeze enlivened, sparkling, light leaping and flash dancing to the horizon. Resisting land, eroding, tidal flooding, wet ebbing, slow thrumming surf a turbulent three-phase contact zone. [Note: Poem first appeared in Balliol College's Annual Record, 2013] Biographical information, favorite public domain poem. |
Allison Grayhurst
Our children are orchards By the door we wait for the end of school, for the long day to bloom to lay to rest the tricks of superstition and our obstinate ache to be carried to the next fertile shore. Blocked, but that too must be an answer to the polished space that compresses and invades our waking hours. Risk that comes out of despair as a last ditch effort to not give up has been told in chronicles, as surrendering stories that rain away dust and heal the hunt of weighted hunger, nourishing spiritual belonging. Leaves and feathers we collect with our children, graveyards we visit to look at lost names, where our hands seed deeper into the Earth, rise higher than the hawk-bird into the stratosphere of grace, grace as wind we depend upon to navigate our footsteps, to quilt together our four-way love, cooling the cut of arduous days and pilgrimage. Biographical information, favorite public domain poem. |
Julie Finch
Beacon Burn as if the mountains will not last forever, Shine as though the farthest star were not but A fiery homage to its former self, Dead now, and yet still a beacon Illuminating this dream, this sky, this space. Be the flame that refuses to dim, The ache of every arching doorway That longs to summon someone home, Stand tall as the tree before it is felled, Arrive like the arrow as it pierces skin To bone, be the steady rock and water That whiles its edge to smoother stone. We are here to give ourselves away--- Incandescent, yearning, vast in our capacity To bear what is and what must be done To save each other, to save each other. Be the light, the stream, the sun Cast yourself upon the water and stretch Like the ocean to its most longing shore, Giving, silent, awakened, and truly alive. Avail yourself to miracles. Biographical information, favorite public domain poem. |
Dr. Ernest Williamson III
Peeling Gray Apples acid from my eyes melts the snow. hemlock and bonfires erupt in mid-air. spoken word poetry has lifted callow bricks, brick red dead roads leading to what we reap; inside I've wrestled with terrorists germs inebriated coughing deep bursting ash from broken ties. why must we bomb the earth again! in the same places places common with grinding grit. pulse feeds no man in these days poets fill up Abbey Road to find no red wine just drips of water making rhythm with one too many crackled smiling sinks. the trees have titled downwardly moaning for fruit for logic for law for order for God. Biographical information, favorite public domain poem. |
James G. Piatt
He Resides in Shadows Memories lost, in the Scarlet-laced shadows Of all his yesterdays, The voice of a cold world Cries to his soul: The old man Searches his graying past for That, which was light When love and life were so Very young; now fading trails Of bygone times, lead him To a motionless emptiness: A scarred apartment door opens, Revealing a barren loneliness, He wonders where the time Disappeared while he played With life so casually: Only old Cardboard boxes filled With the sad broken relics Of his vanishing life remain: He now follows lonely paths Searching, searching, for ever Searching, for that which . . . Is now forever gone, never finding Those happy hours, that once Give solace, to his yearning soul. Biographical information, favorite public domain poem. |
Charles Farrell Thielman
A Painting, An Early Morning Walk, and All the People Faces of this age, inbound, transit under city towers. Tip of paintbrush inside canvas rivers. My eyes wander in a white sky, drawn as human to our magnetic stutter, hands in pockets. Distant jackhammers cube the air. Trees wanting a wet gray shine, the strokes of a sable brush lay cart tracks down on canvas gravel, through pools of water reflecting November overcast and the skies of a seagull's cry. Let the vandals worship their statues. At the bus-stop, I stand back and watch children make churches with their hands. Biographical information, favorite public domain poem. |
Avgi Meleti
Romel Forks I am this weird lady sitting by the window in black clothes. When I grow up, you will be able to see the feathers around my neck And the shadow that’s strangling me to death every night, in the darkness of my room. It may be the black lake of my spirit, but I cannot be sure. You see, my beloved Romel, the wind is blowing and ravens are coming. Ravens make me feel nervous and excited. I am really excited Romel. I cannot even describe to you why I decided to wear these old shoes. Do you remember my grandmother? The tall lady with the long plait And the sculptures in her breast pockets. She always cooked birds for you and these shoes are hers. You cannot fool me; I know she had given you all her forks. The ones I wanted. And I know where you keep them, but I am not a thief. Don’t call me a liar. When I grow up I will kill you to get the forks back. Look out of the window. Yes, now. Do you see the green valley? Spreading like a velvet leaf, I can hear it whispering to me every evening. The soil talks to me, the grass, the air, the weeds and the rain Even this old wallpaper talks to me, if I sit here with my pheasant. But these black crows scare me a little. It’s a different fear I feel. As if these birds can take my soul away. Grandma had never cooked a crow for you. I am not able to explain everything Romel and you are too dumb to understand my secret breaths, my whistling words and my rolling eyes. Do you want to paint me Romel? Biographical information, favorite public domain poem. |