LADYBUG ON THE LAMP SHADE FRINGE |
Ziaeddin Torabi is an Iranian-American poet living in Sacarmento. He holds a B.A. in English & Literature and an M.A.in Linguistics from Iranian Universities. Tobari has published more than 30 books of poetry, criticisms, reviews, and translations (in Iran). From 1988 to 1998, he was the head of various literary centers in Tehran Municipal. From 1999 t0 2009, he taught Persian literature at the University of Applied Sciences and Technology in Tehran. He has won many literary awards including the 2010 Iran Annual Book Prize for his poetry collection, Face To Face With Dream. His book was translated into English by Parisa Samady and published by Ad Luman press, Sacramento, 2015. Face To Face With Dream was also nominated for the 35th Annual Northern California Book Award. Some of his poems have appeared in American River Review, Clade Song, Tipton Poetry Journal and Grey sparrow journal. |
Memory
Sitting in a tea-house
drinking a cup of Earl grey tea
to kill the time
in a place where all customers were
house painters
or house builders
Then an old man
entered
ordered a tea
and began to talk
about the eye glasses
that he found in the street
wanted to sale it
All men looked at him
by kind of a smile
After a minute
one man came to him
and asked for a try
Thenhe paid fifty pennies
and bought it
saying that
it was very good
and he could see better than before
It was a great deal
That I will never forget.
******
drinking a cup of Earl grey tea
to kill the time
in a place where all customers were
house painters
or house builders
Then an old man
entered
ordered a tea
and began to talk
about the eye glasses
that he found in the street
wanted to sale it
All men looked at him
by kind of a smile
After a minute
one man came to him
and asked for a try
Thenhe paid fifty pennies
and bought it
saying that
it was very good
and he could see better than before
It was a great deal
That I will never forget.
******
Fishing
It was a long time since we had not eaten any fish
so, one day, my son and his friends
decided to go fishing
from the nearby river.
After a few hours
they returned with some fish
all fresh and fine.
We grilled them and ate them rapidly
with greed
they were very delicious.
I should tell you
next day, they revealed
they could not catch any fish
but since
it was a long time
we had not eaten any fish
and were waiting for them
to comeback with fresh fish
They had gone to fish market
and bought some fish
fresh and fine.
*******
so, one day, my son and his friends
decided to go fishing
from the nearby river.
After a few hours
they returned with some fish
all fresh and fine.
We grilled them and ate them rapidly
with greed
they were very delicious.
I should tell you
next day, they revealed
they could not catch any fish
but since
it was a long time
we had not eaten any fish
and were waiting for them
to comeback with fresh fish
They had gone to fish market
and bought some fish
fresh and fine.
*******
BOBBY Z is a avid writer and Blogger, also has video’s, audio’s a podcast and has Authored the Book Tales Of The Junkyard Dog. A rather abrupt and unusual Collection of Poems providing insightful and comical commentary on life, the Convergence of the past and the present, and the trails and tribulations of Relationships---BLOG https://talesofthejunkyarddog.wordpress.com BOBBY Z THE JYD, 78 YEAR OLD VET, CANCER SURVIVOR, RECOVERING ALCOHOLIC (41 YEARS) AND ORIGINAL JERSEY CITY 50’S BAD BOY WHO TELLS IT LIKE IT IS FROM THE BELLY OF THE BEAST. |
IS THAT YOU
HEY HAVE I SEEN YOU,
MAYBE ONCE OR TWICE BEFORE.
MAYBE YOU WERE JUST WALKING OUT.
OR I WAS JUST WALKING IN THE DOOR.
YOU SEEMED SO DIFFERENT.
YET I KNEW IT WAS YOU.
DIDN,T HAVE TIME TO TALK.
OR OUR PASTS TO REVIEW.
DID YOU EVER WONDER.
WHY IT HAD TO TURN OUT THIS WAY.
FUNNY, THOUGHT I WAS THINKING ABOUT YOU.
JUST THE OTHER DAY.
FADED FRIENDSHIPS.
THAT DISAPPEAR WITH TIME.
CONFLICTING PERSONALITIES.
THAT JUST NEVER DID RHYME.
POSSIBILY WE NEVER MET.
BUT THEN AGAIN I DON’T THINK THAT’S TRUE.
IT’S VERY OBVIOUS YOU DID KNOW ME.
AND I DEFINETLY DID KNOW YOU.
MAYBE ONCE OR TWICE BEFORE.
MAYBE YOU WERE JUST WALKING OUT.
OR I WAS JUST WALKING IN THE DOOR.
YOU SEEMED SO DIFFERENT.
YET I KNEW IT WAS YOU.
DIDN,T HAVE TIME TO TALK.
OR OUR PASTS TO REVIEW.
DID YOU EVER WONDER.
WHY IT HAD TO TURN OUT THIS WAY.
FUNNY, THOUGHT I WAS THINKING ABOUT YOU.
JUST THE OTHER DAY.
FADED FRIENDSHIPS.
THAT DISAPPEAR WITH TIME.
CONFLICTING PERSONALITIES.
THAT JUST NEVER DID RHYME.
POSSIBILY WE NEVER MET.
BUT THEN AGAIN I DON’T THINK THAT’S TRUE.
IT’S VERY OBVIOUS YOU DID KNOW ME.
AND I DEFINETLY DID KNOW YOU.
THE TRUTH
THE TIME HAS COME----TO SEARCH FOR THE TRUTH.
BELIEVE WHAT YOU MAY----IS THERE REALLY A FOUNTAIN OF YOUTH.
WHERE IS IT WRITTEN---WHERE DOES IT SAY.
THAT WHAT HAPPENED----DID HAPPEN THAT WAY.
TRUTH OR FABLE---CAST EITHER IN PROSE OR STONE.
MANY THAT WROTE IT----WROTE ONLY WHAT THEY HAVE BEEN TOLD.
PHILOSOPER’S , SOOTHSAYER’S---ALL HAD SOMETHING TO SAY.
WAS IT WHAT HAD HAPPENED----OR WAS IT THEIR WAY.
SEARCHING FOR ANSWERS----THE TRUTH ALWAYS REMAINS UNKNOWN.
MAY NOT BE AS WRITTEN----MAY NOT BE AS SHOWN.
HIDDEN AWAY BY TIME----UNABLE TO BE FOUND OUT.
HIDDEN AWAY FOREVER----THE TRUTH ALWAYS REMAINS IN DOUBT.
BELIEVE WHAT YOU MAY----IS THERE REALLY A FOUNTAIN OF YOUTH.
WHERE IS IT WRITTEN---WHERE DOES IT SAY.
THAT WHAT HAPPENED----DID HAPPEN THAT WAY.
TRUTH OR FABLE---CAST EITHER IN PROSE OR STONE.
MANY THAT WROTE IT----WROTE ONLY WHAT THEY HAVE BEEN TOLD.
PHILOSOPER’S , SOOTHSAYER’S---ALL HAD SOMETHING TO SAY.
WAS IT WHAT HAD HAPPENED----OR WAS IT THEIR WAY.
SEARCHING FOR ANSWERS----THE TRUTH ALWAYS REMAINS UNKNOWN.
MAY NOT BE AS WRITTEN----MAY NOT BE AS SHOWN.
HIDDEN AWAY BY TIME----UNABLE TO BE FOUND OUT.
HIDDEN AWAY FOREVER----THE TRUTH ALWAYS REMAINS IN DOUBT.
RESTORE THE FAITH
ETERNAL GARDENS. WITH MAGNIFICENT WATERFALLS.
HIDDEN AWAY IN TIME. AWAITING YOUR CALL.
SPARKLING WATER. GARDENS WITH COLORS ABLAZE.
LEAVE YOU WONDERING. IS IT REAL OR JUST A HAZE.
CONSTANT SUNSHINE. WITH A HEAVY MORNING DEW.
NOT EASY TO FIND. AVAILABLE TO FEW.
POOLS OF WATER. REFLECTING FROM THE SUN.
SEEN BY FEW. YOU MAY BE THE CHOSEN ONE.
SEARCHING AND SEARCHING. DIFFICULT TO FIND.
MAY BE LOCKED AWAY. DEEP IN YOUR MIND.
RESTORE YOUR FAITH. PROCLAIM THAT YOU CAN.
RELEASE YOUR MENTAL BURDEN. PROCEED TO THAT EXCHANTING LAND.
A VERY SELECT FEW. WHO HAVE RESTORED THEIR FAITH.
ONCE WITHIN IT’S REACH. CAN NOW UNLOCK THE GATE.
HIDDEN AWAY IN TIME. AWAITING YOUR CALL.
SPARKLING WATER. GARDENS WITH COLORS ABLAZE.
LEAVE YOU WONDERING. IS IT REAL OR JUST A HAZE.
CONSTANT SUNSHINE. WITH A HEAVY MORNING DEW.
NOT EASY TO FIND. AVAILABLE TO FEW.
POOLS OF WATER. REFLECTING FROM THE SUN.
SEEN BY FEW. YOU MAY BE THE CHOSEN ONE.
SEARCHING AND SEARCHING. DIFFICULT TO FIND.
MAY BE LOCKED AWAY. DEEP IN YOUR MIND.
RESTORE YOUR FAITH. PROCLAIM THAT YOU CAN.
RELEASE YOUR MENTAL BURDEN. PROCEED TO THAT EXCHANTING LAND.
A VERY SELECT FEW. WHO HAVE RESTORED THEIR FAITH.
ONCE WITHIN IT’S REACH. CAN NOW UNLOCK THE GATE.
ALL ALONE
Twisted memories, That reveal the past.
Constantly haunt you. And leave you aghast.
Moments of passion, That fail to appear.
Leave’s you searching for answers, Can’t delay the tears.
Spirits that ignite you, Fail to leave you ablaze.
Your heads up your Ass, Lost in a total haze.
Tormented relationships, That contaminate your desires.
Causes you heartache, Extinguishes the fire.
A legend in your own mine, Always full with total confusion.
You view your life, As a total illusion.
All dressed up, And Nowhere to go.
Your lost in time, Your ALL ALONE.
Constantly haunt you. And leave you aghast.
Moments of passion, That fail to appear.
Leave’s you searching for answers, Can’t delay the tears.
Spirits that ignite you, Fail to leave you ablaze.
Your heads up your Ass, Lost in a total haze.
Tormented relationships, That contaminate your desires.
Causes you heartache, Extinguishes the fire.
A legend in your own mine, Always full with total confusion.
You view your life, As a total illusion.
All dressed up, And Nowhere to go.
Your lost in time, Your ALL ALONE.
PRETTY FLOWERS—PRETTY FACES---SWEET EMBRACES
Pretty Flowers.
Pretty Faces.
Sweet embraces.
Leave you breathless and searching for traces.
Searching for traces of forgotten Sweet Embraces.
Pretty flowers Pretty Faces Sweet Embraces.
Sweet Embraces.
Pretty Faces.
Pretty Flowers.
Leave you yearning for gentle Spring Showers.
Gentle Spring Showers for Pretty Spring Flowers.
Sweet Embraces Pretty Faces Pretty Flowers.
Pretty Flowers.
Sweet Embraces.
Pretty Faces.
Leave’s you dreaming of faraway places.
Faraway Places of many Pretty Faces.
Pretty Flowers Sweet Embraces Pretty Faces.
Pretty Flowers
Pretty Faces.
Sweet Embraces.
Have you found them, never stop searching.
For Pretty Flowers Pretty Faces Sweet Embraces.
Pretty Faces.
Sweet embraces.
Leave you breathless and searching for traces.
Searching for traces of forgotten Sweet Embraces.
Pretty flowers Pretty Faces Sweet Embraces.
Sweet Embraces.
Pretty Faces.
Pretty Flowers.
Leave you yearning for gentle Spring Showers.
Gentle Spring Showers for Pretty Spring Flowers.
Sweet Embraces Pretty Faces Pretty Flowers.
Pretty Flowers.
Sweet Embraces.
Pretty Faces.
Leave’s you dreaming of faraway places.
Faraway Places of many Pretty Faces.
Pretty Flowers Sweet Embraces Pretty Faces.
Pretty Flowers
Pretty Faces.
Sweet Embraces.
Have you found them, never stop searching.
For Pretty Flowers Pretty Faces Sweet Embraces.
FOOL ME
The flowers are
not the fool that I am,
rising on a February morning
to the crackle of sun
warm before its time,
thawing and lighting a room
not so long ago,
a safehouse for nightmares.
Nor are you the dupe,
merely the absence
it takes a moment or two
to recognize
and those rays,
an ally a breath ago,
now shine the sheets
somewhere beyond loss.
Then comes the phone call,
your voice, more Indian summer,
as familiar as hunger, desire,
solitude, regret.
You ask “How am I doing?”
“Fine,” I say.
The sun agrees.
But the flowers keep their own counsel.
not the fool that I am,
rising on a February morning
to the crackle of sun
warm before its time,
thawing and lighting a room
not so long ago,
a safehouse for nightmares.
Nor are you the dupe,
merely the absence
it takes a moment or two
to recognize
and those rays,
an ally a breath ago,
now shine the sheets
somewhere beyond loss.
Then comes the phone call,
your voice, more Indian summer,
as familiar as hunger, desire,
solitude, regret.
You ask “How am I doing?”
“Fine,” I say.
The sun agrees.
But the flowers keep their own counsel.
A DARKENING
A smart kid, they said,
but that was never the whole story.
Always up on that tar roof
listening to his tiny transistor radio.
Who remembers them?
Look up and you could see his face,
emerging from the smoke,
sometimes with that dumb kid, Ernie
(the one who stumbled through a plate glass window)
but mostly by himself.
Even come dark,
when mothers cried out for their sons
to come get dinner, he stayed.
Even when his shouted name
sounded like a warning, he stayed.
Because no one his own age
ever said “Come down from the roof.”
But kids didn’t understand,
didn’t figure it was incumbent upon them,
No, he remained up there,
filled with his imagination,
that gathering place of heroes.
Not for him, the ordinary creatures
pushing and shoving on the sidewalk.
He stared at the weakening sun.
the bright syllabus of stars.
And then when the moon rose,
with that smell of car-exhaust and garbage in the air,
he praised his own impending flight.
He jumped
just as the lights blinked on
in the tenements
and his father coughed his way
through the front door
after a hard day at work.
The old man spat cigarette ash
in a puddle on the kitchen floor.
No more, no less,
than a darkening sky would do.
but that was never the whole story.
Always up on that tar roof
listening to his tiny transistor radio.
Who remembers them?
Look up and you could see his face,
emerging from the smoke,
sometimes with that dumb kid, Ernie
(the one who stumbled through a plate glass window)
but mostly by himself.
Even come dark,
when mothers cried out for their sons
to come get dinner, he stayed.
Even when his shouted name
sounded like a warning, he stayed.
Because no one his own age
ever said “Come down from the roof.”
But kids didn’t understand,
didn’t figure it was incumbent upon them,
No, he remained up there,
filled with his imagination,
that gathering place of heroes.
Not for him, the ordinary creatures
pushing and shoving on the sidewalk.
He stared at the weakening sun.
the bright syllabus of stars.
And then when the moon rose,
with that smell of car-exhaust and garbage in the air,
he praised his own impending flight.
He jumped
just as the lights blinked on
in the tenements
and his father coughed his way
through the front door
after a hard day at work.
The old man spat cigarette ash
in a puddle on the kitchen floor.
No more, no less,
than a darkening sky would do.
THIS CHANGE
After all the huge stuff
too much for my hands to hold,
now the little things emerge.
I peep under the winter crust of leaves,
run fingers along the naked branch
in search of new bud speed bumps.
The songs of the warblers
are no longer in addition to something
but are sweet trilled entities in themselves.
My life lets go people
it had no grip on anyway
for what fits easily into the palm
of eye or ear.
Bark sheds nerve ends,
grass ruffles the heart,
earth guides the recycled trip
from old feeling to new footprints
too much for my hands to hold,
now the little things emerge.
I peep under the winter crust of leaves,
run fingers along the naked branch
in search of new bud speed bumps.
The songs of the warblers
are no longer in addition to something
but are sweet trilled entities in themselves.
My life lets go people
it had no grip on anyway
for what fits easily into the palm
of eye or ear.
Bark sheds nerve ends,
grass ruffles the heart,
earth guides the recycled trip
from old feeling to new footprints
DUALITY DAYS
A man can be where he is and where he
is not. Likewise, my cat is crawling
out from beneath, the sofa, a mouse
in its jaw that it hasn't even caught yet.
A magician is pulling a rabbit out
of his hat while that same rabbit
merrily munches a carrot in its cage.
Traffic outside, every car home in
its garage. Boy holding hands.
with the freckled girl, with the TV star.
I kiss you on the lips the same moment
I kiss my grandmother on the cheek.
I pray to God and the New England Patriots
field-goal kicker simultaneously.
People of the inner city, do you hear
the wolf howl as I do? Creatures
of the deep woods, sorry if the cries
of starving children disturb you.
A man is silent with himself while
talking to his neighbors. He's regretting
what he's done though he hasn't done
it yet. And then there's today,
two different days at least,
and that's not including yesterday.
is not. Likewise, my cat is crawling
out from beneath, the sofa, a mouse
in its jaw that it hasn't even caught yet.
A magician is pulling a rabbit out
of his hat while that same rabbit
merrily munches a carrot in its cage.
Traffic outside, every car home in
its garage. Boy holding hands.
with the freckled girl, with the TV star.
I kiss you on the lips the same moment
I kiss my grandmother on the cheek.
I pray to God and the New England Patriots
field-goal kicker simultaneously.
People of the inner city, do you hear
the wolf howl as I do? Creatures
of the deep woods, sorry if the cries
of starving children disturb you.
A man is silent with himself while
talking to his neighbors. He's regretting
what he's done though he hasn't done
it yet. And then there's today,
two different days at least,
and that's not including yesterday.
DAUGHTER BLUES
Roseanne left the church
I used to drag her to on Sundays
and now what:
the road to hell and damnation
lost her soul
to the purple-haired nose-ringed girlfriends
she hangs out with at the mall
not forgetting
mister tattoo
the feckless aimless so called fiancé
and those clothes she wears -
the short shorts,
grubby t- shirts
I plead with her
to come with me
to the big tent,
listen to pastor Jimmy
last week,
he laid hands
on Betty Sue,
cured her warts
damn but warts
sure would suit Roseanne
right about now
I used to drag her to on Sundays
and now what:
the road to hell and damnation
lost her soul
to the purple-haired nose-ringed girlfriends
she hangs out with at the mall
not forgetting
mister tattoo
the feckless aimless so called fiancé
and those clothes she wears -
the short shorts,
grubby t- shirts
I plead with her
to come with me
to the big tent,
listen to pastor Jimmy
last week,
he laid hands
on Betty Sue,
cured her warts
damn but warts
sure would suit Roseanne
right about now
Randal A. Burd, Jr. is a married father of two and an educator who works with the disadvantaged in rural Missouri. He holds a master’s degree in English Curriculum & Instruction from the University of Missouri. Randal is currently the Editor-in-Chief of Sparks of Calliope magazine. His latest collection of poems, Memoirs of a Witness Tree, is forthcoming from Kelsay Books in Summer 2020. |
What Makes Me Happy
Their eyes stare back into my own,
Familiar features long I've known,
Just lately to appreciate
The life bestowed on them by fate
Plus circumstances mine alone.
Idyllic aspirations blown
With every disappointment—prone
To fall far short or much too late.
Their eyes stare back.
Now looking back on how they've grown--
Strong saplings from the seeds I've sown--
As opportunities abate,
I pray my love will resonate.
Most precious gifts I helped create--
Their eyes stare back.
"What Makes Me Happy" first appeared in Rue Scribe
Familiar features long I've known,
Just lately to appreciate
The life bestowed on them by fate
Plus circumstances mine alone.
Idyllic aspirations blown
With every disappointment—prone
To fall far short or much too late.
Their eyes stare back.
Now looking back on how they've grown--
Strong saplings from the seeds I've sown--
As opportunities abate,
I pray my love will resonate.
Most precious gifts I helped create--
Their eyes stare back.
"What Makes Me Happy" first appeared in Rue Scribe
Blue Spacious Skies
Blue spacious skies meet greener pastures’ hue,
Where sleepy woodland creatures rendezvous.
The fragrances of lilac and of fir
Are pungent in the air and would confer
A feeling of tranquility on you.
Your present rather dismal point of view
Is neither flexible nor even true.
You bring the rain; your outlook does defer
Blue spacious skies.
So part the curtains wide; let sunshine through.
Find shooting stars at night with someone new.
Our lives go by in such a hasty blur.
You’ll see things better than they ever were.
And cloudy days might suddenly incur
Blue spacious skies.
"Blue Spacious Skies" first published by The Society of Classical Poets
Where sleepy woodland creatures rendezvous.
The fragrances of lilac and of fir
Are pungent in the air and would confer
A feeling of tranquility on you.
Your present rather dismal point of view
Is neither flexible nor even true.
You bring the rain; your outlook does defer
Blue spacious skies.
So part the curtains wide; let sunshine through.
Find shooting stars at night with someone new.
Our lives go by in such a hasty blur.
You’ll see things better than they ever were.
And cloudy days might suddenly incur
Blue spacious skies.
"Blue Spacious Skies" first published by The Society of Classical Poets
On Better Days
On better days, the scented summer air
Would softly blow and gently tease my hair;
Few news events gave rise to much alarm;
We never felt we'd come to any harm;
The world had problems, but we didn't care.
But now we're told we always must prepare
For darker times ahead. The headlines scare
More than inform—incite more than disarm.
On better days,
My thoughts return more frequently to where
An optimistic child once played, and there
On summer days exploring grandpa's farm,
The future's possibilities had charm,
And we had positivity to spare...
On better days.
"On Better Days" first appeared in The Hypertexts
Would softly blow and gently tease my hair;
Few news events gave rise to much alarm;
We never felt we'd come to any harm;
The world had problems, but we didn't care.
But now we're told we always must prepare
For darker times ahead. The headlines scare
More than inform—incite more than disarm.
On better days,
My thoughts return more frequently to where
An optimistic child once played, and there
On summer days exploring grandpa's farm,
The future's possibilities had charm,
And we had positivity to spare...
On better days.
"On Better Days" first appeared in The Hypertexts
Backwoods Town
The tattered glovebox map did not reflect
The backwards nature of this backwoods town.
I moved here to belong, instead I found
Contempt, which I did not at all expect.
My ancestors once lived here long ago;
The paper said they were respected then.
But no one living can remember when
They saw them here or who they used to know.
I'm cousins with a lot of those I met,
Though it seems not to matter that I'm kin.
I still am from the outside looking in:
Politeness and cold smiles is all I get.
That is, they smile until I turn my back.
And that is when they plan their next attack.
"Backwoods Town" first appeared in The Writer's Cafe Magazine
The backwards nature of this backwoods town.
I moved here to belong, instead I found
Contempt, which I did not at all expect.
My ancestors once lived here long ago;
The paper said they were respected then.
But no one living can remember when
They saw them here or who they used to know.
I'm cousins with a lot of those I met,
Though it seems not to matter that I'm kin.
I still am from the outside looking in:
Politeness and cold smiles is all I get.
That is, they smile until I turn my back.
And that is when they plan their next attack.
"Backwoods Town" first appeared in The Writer's Cafe Magazine
Made in China
“Made in China” reads the label--
Shattered on the coffee table:
Some cheap and broken plastic toys
We purchased for our girls and boys--
Imports purchased which enable
Labor camps that leave unstable
Lives in ruin and can disable
Limbs...but disregard the noise
Made in China.
Are our children really stable?
We disservice and mislabel
All the little girls and boys
Who grow up with cheap plastic toys;
Sold our souls and bought a fable
Made in China?
"Made in China" first published by The Society of Classical Poets
Shattered on the coffee table:
Some cheap and broken plastic toys
We purchased for our girls and boys--
Imports purchased which enable
Labor camps that leave unstable
Lives in ruin and can disable
Limbs...but disregard the noise
Made in China.
Are our children really stable?
We disservice and mislabel
All the little girls and boys
Who grow up with cheap plastic toys;
Sold our souls and bought a fable
Made in China?
"Made in China" first published by The Society of Classical Poets
Sandra Larkin studied poetry at Emerson College with the late James Randall, and at the Fine Arts Work Center in Provincetown. Her work has been published in Evergreen Review, New England Review, and the Bitchin’ Kitsch. Sandra is a member of the Boston Harbor Poets and enjoys coffee, kayaking, and reading. The Atlantic Ocean once tried to kill her, but failed. |
Common Ground
A man turns dirt by hand, makes a brown bed
from lanky grass he should have mowed a week ago,
unearths a dormant seed of memory
not his own: summer morning a century past,
dew on the same patch of earth he is working,
a child digging, dress-hem damp with mud.
Hands picking roses and lavender to set
by the half-empty bed, a son at his desk
penning the first draft of a eulogy,
a man thinking about his coming crop
of squash the woman in the bed will never eat.
The undertaker repainting his black cart.
from lanky grass he should have mowed a week ago,
unearths a dormant seed of memory
not his own: summer morning a century past,
dew on the same patch of earth he is working,
a child digging, dress-hem damp with mud.
Hands picking roses and lavender to set
by the half-empty bed, a son at his desk
penning the first draft of a eulogy,
a man thinking about his coming crop
of squash the woman in the bed will never eat.
The undertaker repainting his black cart.
What We Have Built
Decades after broken ground
cradled the cornerstone, this
cathedral is ill-designed,
buttressed at odd angles.
It will never be complete.
Side chapels lack doors,
plywood screens sliver
glimpses of carved-marble
histories lying on their backs,
arms folded, still. Gargoyles
mutter, disfigured by dull chisels,
ugly even for gargoyles.
Untrained as masons or carpenters,
we were born to the trade
of improvisation, jazz hammers
syncopating granite bells, organ
pipes breathless with wishing.
On the seventh day, we exhale:
full-grown saints unfurl through
open roof-beams. Our tools
lie down, say their own prayers.
Tomorrow, we pick them up again.
cradled the cornerstone, this
cathedral is ill-designed,
buttressed at odd angles.
It will never be complete.
Side chapels lack doors,
plywood screens sliver
glimpses of carved-marble
histories lying on their backs,
arms folded, still. Gargoyles
mutter, disfigured by dull chisels,
ugly even for gargoyles.
Untrained as masons or carpenters,
we were born to the trade
of improvisation, jazz hammers
syncopating granite bells, organ
pipes breathless with wishing.
On the seventh day, we exhale:
full-grown saints unfurl through
open roof-beams. Our tools
lie down, say their own prayers.
Tomorrow, we pick them up again.
TV at 38,000 feet: a triptych
1. News
In the seat next to mine
a stranger sleeps. The tiny
screen in front of him presents
a silent digest of recent dramas.
Someone's house has exploded.
Someone's aged mother is missing.
Somewhere, a crowd fights with armed officers.
The words "Violent Clash" float under the scene.
It doesn't tell me where.
We return to the mother's car,
abandoned beside a field, doors open.
Her smiling photo says
everything was fine
until it wasn't.
2. Weather Channel
A hurricane's color-coded spin
gives way to a ponytailed man
who promises help me learn
to survive in the wild.
Say you break a leg while hiking
alone on a mountainside,
he says. Here's what you do,
to keep it from killing you.
I don't hike alone, or often,
or, to be honest, at all. Tell me
what happens if this plane doesn't
crash: will we land in the rain?
3. Funniest
A montage: quick clips,
people dancing clumsily
the way we do at home,
or at a friend's wedding.
Then, falling.
I am meant to laugh.
Each scene cut off
before the child wails, before
the moment of searing
pain and fear when the man
tries to get u
and can't.
In the seat next to mine
a stranger sleeps. The tiny
screen in front of him presents
a silent digest of recent dramas.
Someone's house has exploded.
Someone's aged mother is missing.
Somewhere, a crowd fights with armed officers.
The words "Violent Clash" float under the scene.
It doesn't tell me where.
We return to the mother's car,
abandoned beside a field, doors open.
Her smiling photo says
everything was fine
until it wasn't.
2. Weather Channel
A hurricane's color-coded spin
gives way to a ponytailed man
who promises help me learn
to survive in the wild.
Say you break a leg while hiking
alone on a mountainside,
he says. Here's what you do,
to keep it from killing you.
I don't hike alone, or often,
or, to be honest, at all. Tell me
what happens if this plane doesn't
crash: will we land in the rain?
3. Funniest
A montage: quick clips,
people dancing clumsily
the way we do at home,
or at a friend's wedding.
Then, falling.
I am meant to laugh.
Each scene cut off
before the child wails, before
the moment of searing
pain and fear when the man
tries to get u
and can't.
fourth
sparks bloom and fade
glitter storm of boom and crack
glowering over a dark crowd
dogs tremble in tune
with a few who know this
drum and hammer-song by heart
we celebrate our freedom to
trust this deafening festival
is not ruin rumbling to meet us
as we wander home
children on our shoulders
in the chilling air
glitter storm of boom and crack
glowering over a dark crowd
dogs tremble in tune
with a few who know this
drum and hammer-song by heart
we celebrate our freedom to
trust this deafening festival
is not ruin rumbling to meet us
as we wander home
children on our shoulders
in the chilling air
William Miller's eighth collection of poetry, LEE CIRCLE, was published by Shanti Arts Press in June of 2019. His poems have recently appeared in The Cumberland River Reiew, Crossways, Dappled Things and Grey Sparrow Journal. He lives and writes in the French Quarter of New Orleans.
A Drink for a Stripper
Right there, on the cusp between
the afternoon and night pole,
she was in street clothes, asking me
to buy her a gin and tonic.
A natural blonde, indigo-eyed
with a Mississippi drawl,
she told me her story, as if for
the thousandth time:
a man, a boy really, a lover turned
pimp, brought her here--
one year on the bricks, then a ring,
white picket fence…“I think
you’ve heard the rest, baby.”
Old enough to be her father
and then some, I was still fool
enough to believe in the tower
and falling hair, a redneck Rapunzel
safe forever in my arms. But I was
also a satyr, born again, wanting
her all day every way in a Creole
cottage off Bourbon. I offered
to buy her a second drink, but
she had to be sober, “sex work
was still work,” the right dance
for the right customer. She wouldn’t
always be young, deadly curved,
bewitching sad men in the stage lights,
a ring of cash around her perfect waist.
the afternoon and night pole,
she was in street clothes, asking me
to buy her a gin and tonic.
A natural blonde, indigo-eyed
with a Mississippi drawl,
she told me her story, as if for
the thousandth time:
a man, a boy really, a lover turned
pimp, brought her here--
one year on the bricks, then a ring,
white picket fence…“I think
you’ve heard the rest, baby.”
Old enough to be her father
and then some, I was still fool
enough to believe in the tower
and falling hair, a redneck Rapunzel
safe forever in my arms. But I was
also a satyr, born again, wanting
her all day every way in a Creole
cottage off Bourbon. I offered
to buy her a second drink, but
she had to be sober, “sex work
was still work,” the right dance
for the right customer. She wouldn’t
always be young, deadly curved,
bewitching sad men in the stage lights,
a ring of cash around her perfect waist.
After the Meeting
An out-of-town visitor, he stood
by the red church door, let in the Pennsylvania
cold. His story was the best and worst
I ever heard.
Three DUI’s earned him a cell
in San Quentin, cold on the hottest day
of summer. He met Charles Manson
on the exercise yard,
the X on his forehead almost faded.
He still had drunk dreams.
In the worst, he killed a whole family,
crashed his car into theirs
head-on, walked away without a scratch.
“Charlie swore he was innocent,”
he said, told anyone who’d listen,
‘I never hurt nobody.’”
Dry, not sober, he didn’t have
a real home, only told his story
in parking lots after closed meetings,
If he told it at all.
He didn’t believe in God or any
of that religious stuff. His higher
power was a child’s last scream.
The X on his forehead never faded.
by the red church door, let in the Pennsylvania
cold. His story was the best and worst
I ever heard.
Three DUI’s earned him a cell
in San Quentin, cold on the hottest day
of summer. He met Charles Manson
on the exercise yard,
the X on his forehead almost faded.
He still had drunk dreams.
In the worst, he killed a whole family,
crashed his car into theirs
head-on, walked away without a scratch.
“Charlie swore he was innocent,”
he said, told anyone who’d listen,
‘I never hurt nobody.’”
Dry, not sober, he didn’t have
a real home, only told his story
in parking lots after closed meetings,
If he told it at all.
He didn’t believe in God or any
of that religious stuff. His higher
power was a child’s last scream.
The X on his forehead never faded.
Revenge Body
She appears, born again,
Venus on the half shell,
flat stomach, wrinkle-free
Botox skin.
His abs belong to a gladiator,
the six-pack dreamed of
and worked for
in the after-hours gym.
Those who dumped them
by text or tweet now
cringe and retreat,
jump off the cliffs of despair.
But the body takes its own
revenge, puffy eyelids,
the spare tire of middle age
no cream or rep can cure.
Beauty’s bones litter the sea floor.
Smartphone selfies mix
with jars of Egyptian kohl,
eye makeup for any occasion.
Venus on the half shell,
flat stomach, wrinkle-free
Botox skin.
His abs belong to a gladiator,
the six-pack dreamed of
and worked for
in the after-hours gym.
Those who dumped them
by text or tweet now
cringe and retreat,
jump off the cliffs of despair.
But the body takes its own
revenge, puffy eyelids,
the spare tire of middle age
no cream or rep can cure.
Beauty’s bones litter the sea floor.
Smartphone selfies mix
with jars of Egyptian kohl,
eye makeup for any occasion.
Waffle House Index
Warning then watch—roof tiles
are peeled and tossed; the first cars
stall in the rush of brown water.
Lights go out, switch pulled or hit
by lightning strikes. Live wire lines
crackle and hiss like snakes.
Cracker Barrel protects its family
patrons, closes for their safety.
Yellow and black signs hum, flicker,
still shelter the long-haul truckers,
chickens or oil pipes. Yet even these
darken in the worst of storms,
the very worst, the measure
of the furry wheel taken by the number
of glass and steel doors locked from
the inside. The myth persists that one
never closes—red vinyl stools,
hot coffee, smoky grease.
Nighthawks ignore in pools of florescent
light the end of everything.
They know its always the end,
train wails or not, metal sheets
scraping by on the blacktop. They have
a place to sit and read a day-old paper,
fork a piece of cold lemon pie bought
with loose change, green pennies,
pretend they’re not alone.
are peeled and tossed; the first cars
stall in the rush of brown water.
Lights go out, switch pulled or hit
by lightning strikes. Live wire lines
crackle and hiss like snakes.
Cracker Barrel protects its family
patrons, closes for their safety.
Yellow and black signs hum, flicker,
still shelter the long-haul truckers,
chickens or oil pipes. Yet even these
darken in the worst of storms,
the very worst, the measure
of the furry wheel taken by the number
of glass and steel doors locked from
the inside. The myth persists that one
never closes—red vinyl stools,
hot coffee, smoky grease.
Nighthawks ignore in pools of florescent
light the end of everything.
They know its always the end,
train wails or not, metal sheets
scraping by on the blacktop. They have
a place to sit and read a day-old paper,
fork a piece of cold lemon pie bought
with loose change, green pennies,
pretend they’re not alone.
Tell the Truth Monday
The Cajun coach, the boy from Larose,
who wide-receivered his way out of the swamp’s
dead water and hanging moss,
crowds the podium.
Red-faced, gray-haired, he has stood there
for two decades, told half-truths,
crazy lies to keep his team’s, his state’s,
his own dreams alive.
This day is the same day, and he a tired
bull netted with lines and lead sinkers,
questions to pull him under,
soon enough to drown.
The truth was always plain enough:
no championship, national wreath,
no cup in the case holier than the one
that caught Christ’s blood.
Even if you won, he sputters,
you’d want “more, more, more!”
Heresy follows, the words no fan
can bear, those who bleed when cut,
purple, green and gold: “Football
is just a game, a damn game!”
Cameras pop, groans mix with threats.
He walks off the stage grumbling
about “guts” and “faith,” like the first
coach who turned his back
on children who worshipped false idols,
walked off the playing field.
who wide-receivered his way out of the swamp’s
dead water and hanging moss,
crowds the podium.
Red-faced, gray-haired, he has stood there
for two decades, told half-truths,
crazy lies to keep his team’s, his state’s,
his own dreams alive.
This day is the same day, and he a tired
bull netted with lines and lead sinkers,
questions to pull him under,
soon enough to drown.
The truth was always plain enough:
no championship, national wreath,
no cup in the case holier than the one
that caught Christ’s blood.
Even if you won, he sputters,
you’d want “more, more, more!”
Heresy follows, the words no fan
can bear, those who bleed when cut,
purple, green and gold: “Football
is just a game, a damn game!”
Cameras pop, groans mix with threats.
He walks off the stage grumbling
about “guts” and “faith,” like the first
coach who turned his back
on children who worshipped false idols,
walked off the playing field.
The Penny Changer at Wal-Mart
The all-morning hot rain stops most
from reaching the pumpkin-colored box
with black vertical stripes that converts
copper into cash. A poor family
from Holly Grove takes a three-stop bus,
a mason jar on the mother’s wide lap
filled with coins rarely spent these days,
dropped on the broken sidewalks
outside bars, in the parking lots
of convenience stores. A soldier walks
through the rain, a cloth bag tied
with a bungee cord slung across his back.
They meet at the same time, crowd
the box while blue lights flash specials
down the near-empty aisles. The jar
is tipped into a mesh bowl; the new
green bills are bickered over: candy,
a video game, anything but school shoes,
“anything!” A beer, a chicken-salad
sandwich, a pack of Lucky’s are all
the soldier needs—a day’s rations until
the VA shelter opens, a bed promised
for three years and six months now,
always by spring.
from reaching the pumpkin-colored box
with black vertical stripes that converts
copper into cash. A poor family
from Holly Grove takes a three-stop bus,
a mason jar on the mother’s wide lap
filled with coins rarely spent these days,
dropped on the broken sidewalks
outside bars, in the parking lots
of convenience stores. A soldier walks
through the rain, a cloth bag tied
with a bungee cord slung across his back.
They meet at the same time, crowd
the box while blue lights flash specials
down the near-empty aisles. The jar
is tipped into a mesh bowl; the new
green bills are bickered over: candy,
a video game, anything but school shoes,
“anything!” A beer, a chicken-salad
sandwich, a pack of Lucky’s are all
the soldier needs—a day’s rations until
the VA shelter opens, a bed promised
for three years and six months now,
always by spring.
“Mystery Date”
The front door opened on promises,
manufactured dreams, the best
of all possible beaus, tall, rich,
tennis handsome.
The unlucky girl turned the knob
and met the “Jerk,” sloppy, bewildered
in his mismatched clothes,
untied shoes.
All in fun, but more real, more sinister
than these 60’s girls knew,
huddled on their knees, giggling
over a popular board game.
The rich, tennis handsome,
sports-car driving ultimate “catch”
was sure to divorce her
in the wasteland 90’s, claim
a trophy wife with feet smaller
than Barbie’s, breasts
even larger. The “Jerk” might have
proved the best of friends,
a man to read in bed beside,
stumble through a funhouse
future with, hand held tightly,
tripping, laughing.
manufactured dreams, the best
of all possible beaus, tall, rich,
tennis handsome.
The unlucky girl turned the knob
and met the “Jerk,” sloppy, bewildered
in his mismatched clothes,
untied shoes.
All in fun, but more real, more sinister
than these 60’s girls knew,
huddled on their knees, giggling
over a popular board game.
The rich, tennis handsome,
sports-car driving ultimate “catch”
was sure to divorce her
in the wasteland 90’s, claim
a trophy wife with feet smaller
than Barbie’s, breasts
even larger. The “Jerk” might have
proved the best of friends,
a man to read in bed beside,
stumble through a funhouse
future with, hand held tightly,
tripping, laughing.
Job’s Children
Below that blue-black sky,
a goat-hair tent collapsed
by a sudden desert storm,
they died together.
A faith test under Satan’s
wings, planned to
seem like an accident,
the storm began in God’s eye.
They dreamed, like all children
dream, they’d grow old,
waists thickened by milk
and wild honey.
Blessed by two fathers,
they set the table for a banquet,
olives and date wine,
not to show one good man
would ever curse his maker.
In Sheol, their shadows
flicker on the cave wall,
prove the Lord’s good will.
a goat-hair tent collapsed
by a sudden desert storm,
they died together.
A faith test under Satan’s
wings, planned to
seem like an accident,
the storm began in God’s eye.
They dreamed, like all children
dream, they’d grow old,
waists thickened by milk
and wild honey.
Blessed by two fathers,
they set the table for a banquet,
olives and date wine,
not to show one good man
would ever curse his maker.
In Sheol, their shadows
flicker on the cave wall,
prove the Lord’s good will.
Jacob Summerlin
The only preacher in my family tree,
the loud bass voice in a church
at the foot of a graveyard
packed with dead sinners,
he held himself apart.
God’s messenger, he lifted
a pair of scales, pans flecked
with dried blood, tipped
easily by foul words, girls
who kissed and bragged
about country lust.
A stroke blinded him between
the outhouse and the killing barn--
he fell like Saul though no
creek water washed away his
sins, blessed him with a new
Gentile name. He kept
a closet filled with shoe boxes,
dates, churches where souls
were saved, the love offering
that paid his rate. He died
in his sleep, the mourners
at his grave few and old
enough to recall a young
man on horseback, a circuit
rider with a tongue of fire.
He never broke a law but gladly
smashed the Sunday tablets.
No love was offered, though
their souls were saved.
the loud bass voice in a church
at the foot of a graveyard
packed with dead sinners,
he held himself apart.
God’s messenger, he lifted
a pair of scales, pans flecked
with dried blood, tipped
easily by foul words, girls
who kissed and bragged
about country lust.
A stroke blinded him between
the outhouse and the killing barn--
he fell like Saul though no
creek water washed away his
sins, blessed him with a new
Gentile name. He kept
a closet filled with shoe boxes,
dates, churches where souls
were saved, the love offering
that paid his rate. He died
in his sleep, the mourners
at his grave few and old
enough to recall a young
man on horseback, a circuit
rider with a tongue of fire.
He never broke a law but gladly
smashed the Sunday tablets.
No love was offered, though
their souls were saved.
Gender Unicorn
School was once a straight ruler,
gender as clear and simple
as a math problem written
neatly on the blackboard.
No more. These students
must take a test more bewildering
than any trial in the hall
or on the playground,
just trying to fit in, survive
until lunch. He smiles beneath
his rainbow horn, gently prods
them to fill in blanks their parents
never dreamed of in starched
collars, pleated skirts. He smiles
sweetly and certain, foreleg
lifted as he marches
in the new world of endless
mutations. Neither boys
nor girls, they lay weary heads
on first-day desks, just kids.
gender as clear and simple
as a math problem written
neatly on the blackboard.
No more. These students
must take a test more bewildering
than any trial in the hall
or on the playground,
just trying to fit in, survive
until lunch. He smiles beneath
his rainbow horn, gently prods
them to fill in blanks their parents
never dreamed of in starched
collars, pleated skirts. He smiles
sweetly and certain, foreleg
lifted as he marches
in the new world of endless
mutations. Neither boys
nor girls, they lay weary heads
on first-day desks, just kids.
Keats in Rome
Still upright on a springboard seat,
rarely coughing blood,
he rode in a post carriage
through the Appian gate.
The city was dead but alive--
he was dead but alive--
goats in the baths of Caracalla,
a poet in search of a grave.
He’d been half in love
with easeful death since Iona,
the ancient Scottish kings
mute in stone, the ruined abbey
he wrote into a poem about
a throbbing star, lovers who escaped
into a storm, breathless.
Deep red chili peppers dried
on poles stacked against
brick walls. Little black-haired girls
sold flowers in stone archways:
“Fiori per morto.”
Mary was no lady without mercy--
a plaster Venus painted
blue and white. Her eyes
were sightless, a plaster baby
cradled in her arms.
He lasted long enough to die,
bled and starved by the best
medical minds.
His plot was a simple square
outside the faithful buried
in rows, saints’ names
on their dying lips. He knew
what flowers bloomed there,
the Roman spring eternal,
like words that lived beyond
the edge, bridges to green fields.
rarely coughing blood,
he rode in a post carriage
through the Appian gate.
The city was dead but alive--
he was dead but alive--
goats in the baths of Caracalla,
a poet in search of a grave.
He’d been half in love
with easeful death since Iona,
the ancient Scottish kings
mute in stone, the ruined abbey
he wrote into a poem about
a throbbing star, lovers who escaped
into a storm, breathless.
Deep red chili peppers dried
on poles stacked against
brick walls. Little black-haired girls
sold flowers in stone archways:
“Fiori per morto.”
Mary was no lady without mercy--
a plaster Venus painted
blue and white. Her eyes
were sightless, a plaster baby
cradled in her arms.
He lasted long enough to die,
bled and starved by the best
medical minds.
His plot was a simple square
outside the faithful buried
in rows, saints’ names
on their dying lips. He knew
what flowers bloomed there,
the Roman spring eternal,
like words that lived beyond
the edge, bridges to green fields.
Polio Vaccine
We stood in a line against
the cinder-block wall,
boys with crewcuts, girls
with bows in their hair,
whispering, giggling, waiting.
Not a shot, a sharp sudden
prick and a cold cotton swab,
this was a sugar cube,
one drop of medicine,
for each assembled child.
The live virus dissolved
in our mouths, spared us
metal braces, wooden
wheelchairs pushed into
into hospital corners.
The nurse wrote down
our names, the date and time,
a woman with a stiffened leg
who never looked up,
never met our eyes.
the cinder-block wall,
boys with crewcuts, girls
with bows in their hair,
whispering, giggling, waiting.
Not a shot, a sharp sudden
prick and a cold cotton swab,
this was a sugar cube,
one drop of medicine,
for each assembled child.
The live virus dissolved
in our mouths, spared us
metal braces, wooden
wheelchairs pushed into
into hospital corners.
The nurse wrote down
our names, the date and time,
a woman with a stiffened leg
who never looked up,
never met our eyes.
Hitler’s Postcards
He hoped for more than any vagrant
on Vienna streets, hoped to set
the black forest, the river on fire.
Artists were born, he believed, greater
than politicians, kings and king makers,
throats croaking with authority.
Rejected by the art teacher’s cold eye,
he was told to find a respectable trade,
cobble shoes for merchants, the world
needed cobblers, shoes. The best were
street scenes, the blonde facades
or ancient townhouses, the morning
sun on an iron park bench. Figures
failed to breathe, stick men and women,
children without shadows—except
for the Jew with earlocks and beard,
his heavy briefcase. The banker,
the diamond merchant was a monster
of success, more real than Sunday strollers
twirling silk parasols, born to rob
and deceive.
on Vienna streets, hoped to set
the black forest, the river on fire.
Artists were born, he believed, greater
than politicians, kings and king makers,
throats croaking with authority.
Rejected by the art teacher’s cold eye,
he was told to find a respectable trade,
cobble shoes for merchants, the world
needed cobblers, shoes. The best were
street scenes, the blonde facades
or ancient townhouses, the morning
sun on an iron park bench. Figures
failed to breathe, stick men and women,
children without shadows—except
for the Jew with earlocks and beard,
his heavy briefcase. The banker,
the diamond merchant was a monster
of success, more real than Sunday strollers
twirling silk parasols, born to rob
and deceive.
Nero
His all-night concerts tortured
Roman noblemen, senators
and their wives, forced to listen
or face banishment, slow death
on a Scythian hilltop. A throne
was beneath him, the stage
his kingdom and colonies,
conquest through beauty,
his stubby fingers on the lyre.
His nasal voice was worth
a heart attack faked at 2 am,
plebes and priests carried out
on litters into the cold night air.
He never fiddled, not even when
the town burned, but sang
“The Fall of Troy” mostly
to himself. His theater burned
to black plaster shards, rebuilt
before the granaries and public
baths. He favored good reviews
over dead Christians, fed on them
like ostrich eyes, lamb livers..
Betrayal dug his grave,
but his hand plunged the knife
into a great artist’s breast.
He pitied the world, its loss greater
than the fall of any warrior king
from the golden age, dead in his
armor, honor intact. His voice,
his music were eternal, though
his bones burned in a hasty pyre,
flames louder than applause.
Roman noblemen, senators
and their wives, forced to listen
or face banishment, slow death
on a Scythian hilltop. A throne
was beneath him, the stage
his kingdom and colonies,
conquest through beauty,
his stubby fingers on the lyre.
His nasal voice was worth
a heart attack faked at 2 am,
plebes and priests carried out
on litters into the cold night air.
He never fiddled, not even when
the town burned, but sang
“The Fall of Troy” mostly
to himself. His theater burned
to black plaster shards, rebuilt
before the granaries and public
baths. He favored good reviews
over dead Christians, fed on them
like ostrich eyes, lamb livers..
Betrayal dug his grave,
but his hand plunged the knife
into a great artist’s breast.
He pitied the world, its loss greater
than the fall of any warrior king
from the golden age, dead in his
armor, honor intact. His voice,
his music were eternal, though
his bones burned in a hasty pyre,
flames louder than applause.
The Motorcycle That Ran Over My Grandmother
Eulogy for a grandfather I hardly knew:
A large cup of bitter tea we shared
No pictures on the wall because grandma burned all the photo albums
Maybe the apartment I remembered wasn’t the place to recall you in
You lived in a cabin in the center of the busy Russian city
No running water
Walking to a camera film factory through dirty Kazan snow
Kicking the sleet off of your creased, muddy boots
Bathing in chemicals that one day broke down your body
Crying for you wife, who died a victim of a motorcycle
Not stopping, the two wheeled murderer rode away through the courtyard
He did not stop
And you didn’t stop:
The shadow widower,
Smiling with effort, getting up off the carpeted couch
Atih
You would grin as you bounced me on your knee
Atih
You spoke in tartar words that slid like mud off my
Atih
You were more than a ghost, and you will always be on that-
Laying place
To be comfortable
Drunk, though I never saw you drink
The toy dog with the Velcro legs that hugged me
Smelling like something like vodka and grey childhood snow
A large cup of bitter tea we shared
No pictures on the wall because grandma burned all the photo albums
Maybe the apartment I remembered wasn’t the place to recall you in
You lived in a cabin in the center of the busy Russian city
No running water
Walking to a camera film factory through dirty Kazan snow
Kicking the sleet off of your creased, muddy boots
Bathing in chemicals that one day broke down your body
Crying for you wife, who died a victim of a motorcycle
Not stopping, the two wheeled murderer rode away through the courtyard
He did not stop
And you didn’t stop:
The shadow widower,
Smiling with effort, getting up off the carpeted couch
Atih
You would grin as you bounced me on your knee
Atih
You spoke in tartar words that slid like mud off my
Atih
You were more than a ghost, and you will always be on that-
Laying place
To be comfortable
Drunk, though I never saw you drink
The toy dog with the Velcro legs that hugged me
Smelling like something like vodka and grey childhood snow
Late Autumn
The last, lasting light
Rings down from the street lamp
Red, like the sound of a church bell
And it is somehow early autumn in mid-January
I strain my ear to hear the hollow knell again
And improbably, I hear the deep echo of red light on dead leaves
It is autumn, a very long mossy autumn beneath my feet
Deep in the hospital wards
Someone is singing
And high on the tower
Another is climbing out the window
Taking only a chair
The song escalates
The singer’s pitch quivers and falls
A person is sitting on the roof,
Counting stars and humming along
Rings down from the street lamp
Red, like the sound of a church bell
And it is somehow early autumn in mid-January
I strain my ear to hear the hollow knell again
And improbably, I hear the deep echo of red light on dead leaves
It is autumn, a very long mossy autumn beneath my feet
Deep in the hospital wards
Someone is singing
And high on the tower
Another is climbing out the window
Taking only a chair
The song escalates
The singer’s pitch quivers and falls
A person is sitting on the roof,
Counting stars and humming along
6000 Times
6,000 times I’ve written you letters
And all I got back was empty parcels
You sent back air, bare paper, empty bottles
You sent things to yourself, then emptied the package and forwarded them to me
You whited out whole letters, except the Dear, ____ and the Sincerely, _____
And left them in my mailbox
You sent me e mails that looked like spam so my filter would delete them
But I knew you were out there, somewhere alone, feverishly writing
Memoirs scrawled on sand you wouldn’t dare put to paper
And tears you wouldn’t let fall from your cheek onto photographs
You were only islands and gusts, tiny polaroid coconuts
I wish you and hunt you, to welcome you home
Wherever you’re thrown
Let me reconcile you with you the photographs’ age
Please come off the page
And all I got back was empty parcels
You sent back air, bare paper, empty bottles
You sent things to yourself, then emptied the package and forwarded them to me
You whited out whole letters, except the Dear, ____ and the Sincerely, _____
And left them in my mailbox
You sent me e mails that looked like spam so my filter would delete them
But I knew you were out there, somewhere alone, feverishly writing
Memoirs scrawled on sand you wouldn’t dare put to paper
And tears you wouldn’t let fall from your cheek onto photographs
You were only islands and gusts, tiny polaroid coconuts
I wish you and hunt you, to welcome you home
Wherever you’re thrown
Let me reconcile you with you the photographs’ age
Please come off the page
Companions that Haunt
Trembling and shuddering
The tremulous huddle close
Bright eyes gleaming
Hiding from the fog and dark
Awake in fear and unable to know:
These are the things that touch souls
As they sleep
The somnolent ghosts of the dead
Who are embodied in flesh made of fireflies
Traversing the misty gullies
In the deep Germanic forests
That can only be described as black
Or other, filled with forgotten dryads
They mourn the light of day
Decaying in fallen logs and in heaps of brush
These are the souls that live but forget
Cannot remember their breathing
Mild dew drops run down the bridges of their noses
To walk these paths at night is a travail
Invasive spirits mist through the cloak
Enmeshing their forlorn thoughts
With those of the drowsy traveler
Inviting him to the great fire at the heart of the woodland
The heart races at each turn,
At each creaking branch, at each sighing oak
This journey is not a lonely one
It is filled with companions that haunt
The tremulous huddle close
Bright eyes gleaming
Hiding from the fog and dark
Awake in fear and unable to know:
These are the things that touch souls
As they sleep
The somnolent ghosts of the dead
Who are embodied in flesh made of fireflies
Traversing the misty gullies
In the deep Germanic forests
That can only be described as black
Or other, filled with forgotten dryads
They mourn the light of day
Decaying in fallen logs and in heaps of brush
These are the souls that live but forget
Cannot remember their breathing
Mild dew drops run down the bridges of their noses
To walk these paths at night is a travail
Invasive spirits mist through the cloak
Enmeshing their forlorn thoughts
With those of the drowsy traveler
Inviting him to the great fire at the heart of the woodland
The heart races at each turn,
At each creaking branch, at each sighing oak
This journey is not a lonely one
It is filled with companions that haunt
Mushroom Love
Love cultivates from a stray spore
Caught somewhere in a knee-bone or elbow
But grows into the organs
And rogue marrow
Until it is in the tissues
It is a sickness that becomes untenable to live without
A touching affliction that draws the infected to merge
To embrace warmly under blankets
It brings bodies together to huddle for warmth
And when the infected are apart it withers
But lives on, immutable, unspeaking yet wordy, crawling
Producing heat and sores
It manifests in mushrooms on the skin that are easily knocked over
But it is there, begging to be nurtured with sweat and milk
The sacred wound the we are not sure how to live without
Touching fingertip to rib,
This must be the spot, I think
The very spot I could grow into you
I feel my fingers melt into your side
Lazy, you reach to my hip and flick off a mushroom
With a wet pock
Caught somewhere in a knee-bone or elbow
But grows into the organs
And rogue marrow
Until it is in the tissues
It is a sickness that becomes untenable to live without
A touching affliction that draws the infected to merge
To embrace warmly under blankets
It brings bodies together to huddle for warmth
And when the infected are apart it withers
But lives on, immutable, unspeaking yet wordy, crawling
Producing heat and sores
It manifests in mushrooms on the skin that are easily knocked over
But it is there, begging to be nurtured with sweat and milk
The sacred wound the we are not sure how to live without
Touching fingertip to rib,
This must be the spot, I think
The very spot I could grow into you
I feel my fingers melt into your side
Lazy, you reach to my hip and flick off a mushroom
With a wet pock
The writer from anywhere and everywhere when ponders on the question ' who am I?',receives some response in a lyric by the Assamese singer Bhupen Hazarika ....
" Ami ek jajabor' ( I am a gypsy ...)
Some of the writings including poems appeared in dissidentvoice.org, Leaves of Ink, Tuck Magazine, Virasam, Velivada, countercurrents.org, counterview.org, counterview.net, sabrangindia.in , etc.
" Ami ek jajabor' ( I am a gypsy ...)
Some of the writings including poems appeared in dissidentvoice.org, Leaves of Ink, Tuck Magazine, Virasam, Velivada, countercurrents.org, counterview.org, counterview.net, sabrangindia.in , etc.
Mortician
Waking up early as usual,
He started the daily ritual
Of going to mortuary
Cutting and stitching bodies with dreary
Mind and expressionless eyes
Not thinking of virtues or vice ....
How many a shattered dream
Of corpses' faded gleam
Did he try to visualize
Which they couldn't realize...?
Yet, he continued his 'thoughtless' job:
Thinking would open tightly closed knob
Of the painful and fearful thought-provoking reality
That cutting bodies is not as easy as cutting vegetables with alacrity
Like a butcher ripping apart animals
He dealt with the lifeless mortals
To earn daily bread for his family
And see them live comfortably and happily
He started the daily ritual
Of going to mortuary
Cutting and stitching bodies with dreary
Mind and expressionless eyes
Not thinking of virtues or vice ....
How many a shattered dream
Of corpses' faded gleam
Did he try to visualize
Which they couldn't realize...?
Yet, he continued his 'thoughtless' job:
Thinking would open tightly closed knob
Of the painful and fearful thought-provoking reality
That cutting bodies is not as easy as cutting vegetables with alacrity
Like a butcher ripping apart animals
He dealt with the lifeless mortals
To earn daily bread for his family
And see them live comfortably and happily
The GM age (1)
Sowing seeds by hands that deftly sprinkle
Cleaning the field with sharpened sickle
The farmers grew crops digging mud
With their toil, bread and blood
The food produced was clean and healthy
Nutritious with vitamins and deliciously tasty
But soon mechanization of agriculture spread
Forced farmers to use GM (Genetically Modified) seed
In quest of higher yields, they applied artificial manure
And began to spray pesticide to make them perfectly sure
The food produced is unpalatable
Less nutritious and mostly vulnerable
Making people suffer affecting with disease
The GM age is spreading with stunning ease!!
1. GM = Genetically Modified
Cleaning the field with sharpened sickle
The farmers grew crops digging mud
With their toil, bread and blood
The food produced was clean and healthy
Nutritious with vitamins and deliciously tasty
But soon mechanization of agriculture spread
Forced farmers to use GM (Genetically Modified) seed
In quest of higher yields, they applied artificial manure
And began to spray pesticide to make them perfectly sure
The food produced is unpalatable
Less nutritious and mostly vulnerable
Making people suffer affecting with disease
The GM age is spreading with stunning ease!!
1. GM = Genetically Modified
Deanne Napurano, a New Jersey native, has been a copywriter for over 25 years. Recently, breast cancer excised its pound of flesh, resetting her writing trajectory. As she healed physically from bilateral mastectomy, she began to focus on more personal expression. Napurano is currently working on a new collection of poems that explore loss and the hope of recovery. Her poems have appeared in Rust + Moth and Writing in a Woman’s Voice. |
Half-life
I am done with your half flush, half look.
I am done being stuck between
your half heart, half lipped, slipped
too deep to easily unthread and
my empty shoe dropped half a mile below – a warning
to stop moving before you take me whole.
I cut my arm free at the shoulder
to loose myself from your half hold, half scold,
half smile, while you queue up the next blue eye
and I half suckle your child, my breasts sawn off
at the chest wall, and your half laugh shadows
her face.
The Gardener
Your hands, careless,
pull weeds and pansies.
Detached from your head,
they pull, unceasing.
Halved earthworms,
dislodged in crumbs of soil –
grass and clover uprooted –
your hands scratch, unseeing.
Your greedy fingers gnaw
with termite vigor. Threads of new silk, translucent,
break easily as you dig
wider. Your hands, mouths
that once dropped seeds
into measured rows,
were watchful angels – now
your hands eat our firmament.
Under the loam, clay
that resists your fleshed palms, yields
when your hands snap off your wrists
and the bones of your forearms hit the taproot.
pull weeds and pansies.
Detached from your head,
they pull, unceasing.
Halved earthworms,
dislodged in crumbs of soil –
grass and clover uprooted –
your hands scratch, unseeing.
Your greedy fingers gnaw
with termite vigor. Threads of new silk, translucent,
break easily as you dig
wider. Your hands, mouths
that once dropped seeds
into measured rows,
were watchful angels – now
your hands eat our firmament.
Under the loam, clay
that resists your fleshed palms, yields
when your hands snap off your wrists
and the bones of your forearms hit the taproot.
You Waited Long
You waited long and I knew it, but it didn’t hurry me, or harass me, or hurt me to know that you waited. You waited. I let the water run longer in the sink watching it swirl in the drain, streaming silver rings, promise rings, that caught the November morning grey in its shadows as I laid my rinsed cup, upside down, on the drainboard. I heard you calling. You had already forgotten my name, but I knew you called me today you called me yesterday you called me yesterday. In between the calls you sighed a swollen cow’s cry to her dead calf, flies in eyes heard your sigh that seemed to come from outside the house, still you waited. When finally I walked to your chair, when finally I stepped into your small whirling world, swiped at your black flecks, saw your chin to your chest, took your hand, you stared past me and kept calling.
Categories
All
BOBBY Z
CASSANDRA CROSSING
CHRISTY JONES
DEANNE NAPURANO
E. IZABELLE CASSANDRA ALEXANDER
EMILY JENNINGS
HANNAH PRICE
IOANA COSMA
JL
JOHN GREY
JOHN MARVIN
KATHRYN STEWART MCDONALD
K SHESHU BABU
LOIS GREENE STONE
LOUIS GALLO
MICHAEL SUMMERLEIGH
NAIDA MUJKIC
NDABA SIBANDA
PRANAB GHOSH
RANDAL A BURD JR
RUSLAN GARREY
SALONI KAUL
SANDRA LARKIN
SCOTT WATERS
TAMSEN GRACE
TRISTAN YOUNG
WILLIAM MILLER
ZIAEDDIN TORABI