Stefanie Bennett has published several volumes of poetry, a novel & a libretto. Of mixed ancestry [Irish/Italian/Paugussett-Shawnee] she was born in Queensland, Australia. Stefanie’s latest poetry title (2015) “The Vanishing” is available from its publisher Walleah Press, Amazon & Fishpond Books. NETWORK NEWS – Moscow 1915 “I know the truth -give up all other truths! No need for people anywhere on earth to struggle.” M. Tsvetayeva I've not destroyed myself although They said I would. I've run my race, but never crookedly: The diversions, on occasion, were necessary. And, I've not measured fate. Lady Luck Had other plans. Familiarity, fame - It's the same forgery when You get down on all fours to look at it. As for that plasmic boy, the one who Deals out icons and The wearing lands of the senses: I read him as best I could. We lived separately. He – in his fine house Scattered with bronze eagles, unicorns, And fire-wheels. I, in my Trench-coat; total. Conventionless. Mentor aside, the path was stony. At every Fork an ambush or reconciliation. Through the twin births of opposites I chose – always – what lay between. After me comes death in her doomed chariot. I pause long enough To kiss the living back to life. I've learned Destruction can be tender, the process Ongoing. The writing of it: seemingly natural. RELIC Picking up shells on Long Island I'm remembering a displaced people As the thin sea's edge draws the firmament In streaks of pale violet. Trade-goods would have been exchanged here. Copper kettles for wild game, Squash, and field fruits awaiting The scorched Metacom's advance. * I dig my heels into quick-silver sand Wet with the tide's ebb And reel at a faint earth pulse. All around are distinctive Indentations: moccasin shaped. *Metacom = King Phillip WILLOW DREAMING Drought's my season. Red earth The soliloquy. Even This creek bed's cut its losses. Moribund crab-apple, you recognise * My skull – your old playmate - Gone dissonant with haze. Churlishly, I once believed I could douse fire up And fan it back again But – I am no overlord. The odd Monsoon puts quiet to that. Born victims, let's not forget Our origins. Too adroitly fate's Equated to obstinacy; Deliverance grounded on hearsay. Still, the moon's stark full of mystery, And land's aging evermore. I salute us with dust; with passion - Watch the miraging rivers run. *crab-apple = desert fruit, Australia
0 Comments
Lynn White lives in north Wales. Her work is influenced by issues of social justice and events, places and people she has known or imagined. She is especially interested in exploring the boundaries of dream, fantasy and reality. Her poem 'A Rose For Gaza' was shortlisted for the Theatre Cloud 'War Poetry for Today' competition 2014. This and many other poems, have been published in recent anthologies including - Stacey Savage’s ‘We Are Poetry, an Anthology of Love poems’; Community Arts Ink’s ‘Reclaiming Our Voices’; Vagabond Press’s, ‘The Border Crossed Us’; ‘Degenerates - Voices For Peace’, ‘Civilised Beasts’ and ‘Vagabonds: Anthology of the Mad Ones’ from Weasel Press; ‘Alice In Wonderland’ by Silver Birch Press, and many rather excellent on line and print journals. https://www.facebook.com/pages/Lynn-White-Poetry/1603675983213077?fref=ts lynnwhitepoetry.blogspot.com Rabbit A rabbit ran out from the rocks and looked up. Bright eyes caught in the glare of my headlights. I swerved and braked. Probably should have done one or the other. Should have made a choice. There's hindsight for you. Did I hit it? Don't know. But was only a rabbit, a little furry thing with big ears. Insignificant. I drove on. Poor little furry thing. It might be lying there stunned. The next car up would run over it. Finish it off. OK, not much traffic going up here at two o'clock in the morning. But something has to be next and before too long. Should I turn round and check… No, it's only a rabbit, drive on. But perhaps it was a mother rabbit. All the baby rabbits would be waiting for her return, whimpering, crying, not knowing yet that they were going to starve to death. And it was my fault, my responsibly, the death of all those baby rabbits. Where's safe to turn? I know! The garage. There it is. Sheesh.. That did my tyres no good! Here I go back to the scene. Stop. Get out the car. Walk back in the dark, no torch, of course, searching. There it is, one dead rabbit, ears sticking up. Squashed. Ah well, in the midst of life and all that. Back in the car. Off up the hill. Nice glass of red waiting for when I get home. Straight up the hill. And then.. A rabbit ran out from the rocks. A furry bundle with big ears and a white tail. I caught it's frightened eyes in the glare of my headlights, braked and swerved. Another squashed rabbit. Was probably the dad. G. Louis Heath, Ph.D., Berkeley, 1969, is Emeritus Professor, Ashford University, Clinton, Iowa. He enjoys reading his poems at open mics. He often hikes along the Mississippi River, stopping to work on a poem he pulls from his back pocket, weather permitting. His books include Leaves Of Maple: An Illinois State University Professor’s Memoir of Seven Summers’ Teaching in Canadian Universities, 1972-1978, Long Dark River Casino, and Redbird Prof: Poems Of A Normal U, 1969-1981. He has published poems in a wide array of journals. A Restless World Of Transformation It is June. The air is fragrant with honeysuckle, mimosa, and jasmine. White star blossoms adorn the catalpa trees, their delicate custard scent pleasant to passersby. The summer grows dense and rich. Soon petal by petal, leaf by leaf, it fades. The dogwoods flame red. Alyssum grows brittle and marigolds wilt. It is a restless world in flux, a timeless natural odyssey. I wonder what it might mean to be ageless, to live outside Time. I could explore every detail of this world in infinitude. I could follow my passions to unlimited depths. Time, Eternity, and I would be a Trinity of Infinite Self. The green of leaf and grass, the vivid color of flowers, would grow restless as Self and Nature merged in unbroken circles of harmony. The Forest Mirror I took my looking glass into the forest. The rustling of leaves, the sound of water filled my ears. The sight of a hunter appeared behind me as I peered into the glass. I turned round to see antlers of a moose sticking from the leaves. I returned my gaze to the mirror. The hunter was gone, edges of my reality tilted. I turned again, saw a moose rising from the antlers with perfect grace. He moved calmly into evening’s long shadows, a phantom. Running to the mirror I could see images of the hunter, moose, and myself dancing to the music of the stream. As I Die Sorrow glimmers in their eyes as they gaze on my misshapen flesh. A shadow has fallen across my family’s faces. I see the souls behind but they see not mine. My hair has faded white. My skin has lost luster, stretches tight across my bones. I fade fast. All is so gray to my poor eyes. I close them to imagine the air around me blooming dense with flowers, a greenhouse of comfort. I run their images through my mind like beads through my fingers. I am puzzling things out. I have moved toward this moment a lifetime. The present grows from the past and holds it fast. Their condoling chatter ceases. The world is pausing. It is getting so cold. My balmy summer breeze is dying within winter’s curtains. Nicholas Antoniak, is an 18 year old emerging Australian writer. He writes both creative fiction, creative non-fiction and poetry. He has been included in the 2015 Lane Cove short story anthology and will be published in the 2016 Questions Literary prize later this year. In July he will commence a bachelor of arts majoring in philosophy and sociology and hopes one day to become an author/poet/philosopher. Feelers. These soft gentle feelers weave around my rocky garden beds where dirt clumps and crumbles and crows come to sing. They engulf me these feelers as I close my eyes and lay there half asleep. They stroke me with fragility, and cold, silent warmth. I don’t mind. And no, I would not change it. No, not a thing. For although grotesque, these feelers and I, have comfort, in the dirt, the world, and the wind. Something About Nothing And we’re not sure what it meant, I guess we never were. A palate of colors confusing. While I lost everything in high-rise apartments, late nights and bars, and became oh so blue. So I sped down freeways towards the starlit cities imagining the rush could take this away. It didn’t. And when you finally asked, what’s this all about? I chuckled and turned spoke, quite plainly "I do believe, it's something to do with nothing" And we laughed Oh, How we laughed We are the gods now I stream along empty highways arms spread, eyes open wide and the sun greets me running its warm fingers through every crevasse in my skin, as if saying hello, I have missed you. And when the sky turns grey and tiny balls of ice hurtle into my body, I realise, in their own way they are merely extending a hand of friendship through awe-inspiring power and grace. People ask "why?" and I respond "why feel, why be?" I searched through millions of bones to find my ancestors, my tribe yet they were here all along beneath our ageing horizon. The dawn does not break heavy but smooth, do not mistake me. I scream at nobody, for why need to expose ourselves to greatness, in order to feel great. Is it not simple? We are the gods now. The Joke Explained I drive down these twisted roads with the blue moon grinning into my bottle of gin. Do not judge, you stranger. A claustrophobic night filled with stillness and fullness of deep purple skies and the one star who glanced awkwardly at the moon. I think of Rome, upon realizing that its’ grandiose empire was falling apart at the seams would it have reached for a mobile and called? Saying “I am not ok” “It is falling apart” I would have responded, in a cynical style “why?” Rome would sigh and talk nonchalantly about the weather and everything that started falling apart when the walls came down crumbled and fell. Build new ones I’d offer, for they’re only walls and never-the-less you’re ok, because beyond the structures, of these great beings, these emphatic offerings to reverence beyond the shell of the quiet tortoise lies us all. Like Rome I had built up a house of cards, the fragility of which was hidden behind the illusion, of strong, gentle grace But now the blue neon clock smiles nakedly, teasing me, provoking me as I rush down these roads. “I can see you,” he says “we can see you” they say “that’s it” they laugh “that’s it” and the blue moon, keeps on sharing the joke with my gin my book and I. But I’m happy for them, and their sick love affair. The understanding, the jokes they couldn’t share with me but I will not stand still in the jungle of night or the jungle of desolate alone The gin tells the moon of where he grew up his molten glass melding into something more, something great. The moon is refreshed by his youthful honesty, I’ve been here for a while, she says seen these things come and go Rome rise and fall, and I’ll be here a while soon. I smirk at the moon while I kiss my gin forcefully and entereing willingly into the void, yet the moon just shakes its’ head wistfully at my ignorance and my rage in knowledge and understanding more infinite than I could ever hope to comprehend. “You know nothing, I am here, and I am whole. I refuse to fall.” the obscenities they fly from the back of my throat like birds, they attack but powerless, they reign, to the skin of the moon and she laughs they just laugh. The glass is cracking my windows are cracking black acrid smoke spews from every corner of this metal coffin, spews with disgust I take the bottle, now silent and hold it up to the moon like a battlefield trophy “I matter. I matter” and out of the window it goes. “Murder” It cries “Murder” they cry. Merciless anger is here and it's’ now. The moon revolts the stars revolt and the car revolts sending me downward into the trees. The bottle gleams on the road under the blue moon and the moon gleams back. The awkward star slightly north of the sky, sheds a single tear for me. Sorrowful Sympathy. And now, only now I look to the sky and I grin and I laugh at the joke explained My name is Moses Chukwuemeka Daniel, I am from Nigeria, Africa. I'm a teenage poet, I love writing and I sing too. My poems have been published in some online journals and magazines. Who said poetry is not artistry? Poetry, a part of art, painted with vocals, drawn with lines of rhyme, giving colour to odds, unlike art in portraits and sculptures, poetry flows in written and spoken words. Poetry, an ancient of beauty, gives meaning to life, shaded in charcoal of absurdity, where truth hide in mediocrity, but awoken by attention, those ears that love, if poetry can draw a person, why can't it be called artistry? I have seen arts, i have seen lines, i have seen colours in words, i have seen picture that talks, and words that portray a picture, imagery, i have seen ambiguity, i have seen well drawn zigzag rhymes, and floating lines.... Poem:Death I have searched to the depth of the earth, and i've found nothing as sick as death, a man without a heart, a man without a time, he comes and leaves with a sign. Oh death what good doeseth thou possess, leaves your family,friends and loved ones in tears, and smile becomes an enemy to thy face, like a dream a man has no fate. Oh death you find no love in change, you are worse than just your name, one thing pains me more, the good die young,and the bad stay more than a decade, our loved ones get an early lay to grave. Oh! Why have thou no shame? Why does thou choose to bring pain? But! sometimes you bring joy tears, and you grant some wishes to get an eternal rest, and sometimes you teach us to get prepared, so we live our lifes without grudge or hate. Everyman has a role to play on earth, love and passion is what we possess, live in peace and quarel free, find joy in every good deed, for death comes without regret. 'SOLDIER' You said you would tell me a story, When you turned and left me with nothing, You said you would come back with plenty of money, Today all I have is your pictures to keep me warm in the mornings. Mr soldier i can't count how long you left, I still see the prints of you boot behind your steps, The grin of an intelligent young cadet, And the will behind the arms you used to wipe my tears. Mr soldier come fight my desire for your arms at night, I know you are now an adept with guns and knives, I wish you were here to watch me stare at your eyes, But you are not near while I sob with your heart. Your promises i wrote on a clean sheet in my heart, I carried your words all day with pride, 'I will be back' you said, 'I will be back' you left. I salute you my soldier, You left to serve your country without fear, You are my pride for life, You are my soldier in this fight. Poetry when my heart was cold, my flaws went bold, my treasury was sold, friends turned and said no, i needed truth untold, change with a 'new' a night dark and blue, with stars playing with much confidence and crude, i needed a friend to talk to, someone who reads my eyes, who studies my sad, who share in my plight, someone with the attitude, with an aptitude, an aptitude of halting solitude, a natural soluble, that night i found you, that blue night i was intoxicated, i spoke in the tongue of cyclical, i crunched on them with much selfishness, i bathed in the rivers of foolishness, i was not myself, in the mornings were mad calmness, in the evenings were calm madness, i felt the proximity of a friend, my fall has just begin. My words; when darkness show its ugly side, all i could do was cry, when my heart was rough and dry, when the desert was cool and ripe, who cheered me up all through the night? POETRY... 'Indigenes of no nation' With agony in my heart, I write this piece, Yesterday was so fly, Today I hold my pen with anxiety, I am scared of what tomorrow would bring. Our youths are being sold to anarchy, Our parents now hide in melancholy, Now guns are being presented as gifts, We pick bullets in the street, We serve a walking corps country, Where leaders lead their priorities. Boys murder their conscience, Girls slaughter patients, Money supersede love for convenience, Die hard a society so ruthless. No room for education, No change for transformation, No love no nation, No peace but commotion. They create no writer, They promote no media, they just control their area, Where the sword speaks louder, indigenes of no nation. With sorrow in my heart, I tell this story, People no longer say thanks, But a loud sound of sorry. The mornings once bore freshness, The noon then brought goodness, And the evenings engage sweetness, But now they show resentment, Harbouring so much coldness, coldness and wickedness of men, Trading their hearts for gold, Trading their cool for cold, Indigenes of no nation. They are sycophants, They are cynical, They are onions to the eyes, They smile When you cry, They laugh at your plight, Their black clothe cover their black heart, They tell you they love you, They turn and they bite you, Indigenes of no nation. SAMSON RAITI MTAMBA Is a Zimbabwean poet of Malawian extraction (b. Harare, Zimbabwe, 1959).He has published both poetry and prose in Australia, in the United States of America, Germany, Ireland, and South Africa among other places. He has been practising the art of poetry since primary school. He studied at the University of Malawi, Chancellor College and was active in its Writers’ Workshop ending up editing the English Department Critical Broadsheet THE MUSE from undergraduate years to postgraduate. Briefly at Dalhousie in Nova Scotia. New Left. Interested in Poststructuralist Theories and Children’s Literature. Taught in Zimbabwean high schools and the Zimbabwe Open University (ZOU). Now independent researcher into the writings of J.M.Coetzee and Ayi Kwei Armah. CURRENT: “DISABILITY, DEFORMITY AND DISFIGUREMENT IN CHILDREN’S LITERATURE: THE CASE OF BEN HANSON’S Takadini AND CLAUDE MAREDZA’S Harurwa”, JOURNAL OF AFRICAN CHILDTEN’S LITERATURE VOL 1 No.2, February 2013 PERHAPS IF WE LIVED NEAR THE SEA Perhaps if we lived near the sea Or in the smouldering desert I would have felt loss Real blood gushing from my heart into the grass When she stormed away and melted into the twilight. Hosts to capricious weathers throughout the year We have no past of cavalier heroes Who killed or died for love and land Or fell off horses defending profligate cities of gold. We have no chronicles of gods who could actually speak to mortals Making the earth tremble with the cadences of their dreadful edicts Against tyrants and swashbuckling braggarts. Our poets do not declaim verse that drains water from wells Being only simple peasants waiting to be hired on farms Owned by harsh landlords, masters of droughts and spectres of floods. Our maidens do not bestride the air riotously borne on the wings of song Fired by a mad passion for godly suitors in fierce argument against unjust men. No one here has ever trodden a burning bush and lived to tell the story, Trollops and goblins live only in the minds of vain dreamers and adventurers Writing to anxious families on the wintry heaths of the Cold North. No. No blood oozed out of my heart And I did not follow her shadow Beauty without presence Love without memory A history without romance And children without a credible heritage Far from any desert, sea or sacred mountain The fate of all my compatriots.. ANTI-IMMIGRANT ATTACKS, DURBAN, SOUTH AFRICA, APRIL 2015 Dare be surprised only if you are stranger to yourself. It is only the time and the place that you are reacting to Shedding shocked tears Over the dismembered bodies of babies, men and women Whom you grieve to see perish But whose deaths are deemed necessary solutions To itchy problems by others not unlike yourself. Decimation and division These we have always worked for subtly Against pullulation For we are overwhelmed to affliction by numbers of others Rather than our own Threateningly worming the streets below our ivory towers Black or yellow ant-like aliens drifting like avalanches of grime Under the votive microscope And like all pests, they instantly turn into terrible sceptres To be instantly liquidated Before harm to our well-being and futures The jobs in the banks The green of our parks And of course our nice boys and girls, young men and women Social security and pensions. Here in the streets and alleys of Durban They use crude boulders and machetes to pluck out and crush human guts Like so much useless muck to the ground Where the slick ones have quietly used the pill Anti-migration laws, gas chambers or napalm To snuff out perceived menaces. It is ourselves that we must know, restrain and tame Before the next Nagasaki, Hiroshima, Auschwitz Gaza or Rwanda springs up before our stunned eyes. SOMETHING ABOUT OUR SUN Have you noticed something about our sun? The big crimson ball transfixes his gaze upon us all day Only to crucify himself in apparent self-immolation across the msasa trees His blood-splattered face reflected in resplendent tints On the window panes, the curtains And the oily puddles where the children play every evening A sin for which we must all forever atone. He crucifies himself and bleeds In the thorn bushes every evening Causing us nameless fear and anxiety That he will not rise again tomorrow And with the usual habit of a befuddled people, We can only weep about life, land and loss Amidst this spectral artifice Which we must pay for dearly all the time. William C. Blome writes poetry and short fiction. He lives wedged between Baltimore and Washington, DC, and he is a master’s degree graduate of the Johns Hopkins University Writing Seminars. His work has previously seen the light of day in such fine little mags as Amarillo Bay, PRISM International, Fiction Southeast, Roanoke Review, Salted Feathers and The California Quarterly. I ASKED MY YOUNG SON I don’t expect an answer anytime soon, but I asked my young son why it had been so drop-dead easy for me to fall in love with a girl I caught searching the internet for the best glue anyone could use to put fallen leaves back on their original branches, and I had confided in his tight little ass that I hoped the glue she settled on would work equally well to pin me to my chair and thereby stop me cold from straying somewhat south of here, from homing toward an Australian widow with thighs the size of a cylindrical mailbox, a Canberran tart just reeking of jasmine mashed with clover in equal measure. LOOKING FOR CHERRIES IN GUATEMALA El Sombrerón: a cautionary bogeyman dressed almost entirely in black I sent myself to Guatemala to look for swell bing cherries, and while it’s true I did find several beauties, it became obvious as I was hopping near the Caribbean, or strutting beside the Pacific, or stooping down to futilely tongue the nation’s private parts in-between, I had a greater chance of straying into a producing steel mill than I had in rubbing up against a singleton fruit tree or chalking up a bounty within a tidy orchard. But I thought then and think now my cherries failure had little or nothing to do with antagonizing Guatemala’s natural guardians, spooks like the Spirit of the Corn, though this pudding-soft girl I latched on to during my travels loudly disagrees. She screams El Sombrerón has had me sighted since my plane touched down at La Aurora International, and that any urchin from the furnaces or fields can foresee the day I’ll be drawing my last breath mashed in-between her squishy, red-tipped breasts. THE MIDDAY EXERTIONS I watched a sweaty amazon Lifting flyweights in full sunshine On the roof of a savings bank. O She did her curls and achieved her squats In series of sixty-some repetitions Before dropping whatever she was lifting, Taking a gulp of spring water, and then Moving on to something lighter weight. Eventually it came to pass that a fingernail Of newspaper replaced a sparrow feather, And following that, my gleaming amazon Stood back to watch big clouds drifting overhead And to listen to cash transactions occurring ‘Neath her feet. Then she abruptly followed My lead and swaggered onto the canopied Escalator and rode down its countless metal Steps to meet me by the tellers (Where we were hooking up to go out For a fishcake lunch with alcohol). I felt obliged as I watched her descend To yell up and ask if after all her midday exertions She wouldn’t rather take a break And shower down before we went to dine, But she screamed back she’d far prefer Relaxing in the here-and-now With a dry Rob Roy, tilapia, and me. MY CRUELTY I went into my hall closet for this one, and I think I made it pretty well overall (‘gave it lots of flourishes and paint and catamaran edges along the rim), but in the long run, my cat won’t come home no matter what I‘ve crafted for her as a bribe to re-cross the hearth. Oh, I can put up a fair scrap and argue that what with all the fucking coats and scarves mashing in on me and cramping from every side and angle, I had insufficient work space in the hall, and therefore, important artistry got boxed out of my results, I was denied aesthetical opportunity to decorate and personalize my sincerity. Yet, beyond this one occasion, my pet’s turned me down paws-down before, and anyone of any demeanor would have to suspect there’s something more at play here than simply what I’ve shown. I mean, look: just as some outrigger, untied and let loose in a storm, might decide on its own to chart a weird and scrambled course ‘neath nighttime Pacific skies, so to I think my calico’s gotten wise beyond her pacing, and now has opted out of bunking with my cruelty. ON SEEING A STAND OF TAN BAMBOO SURROUNDED BY GREEN LEAVES ‘You keep putting your hand down there, and we’re going to be driving serpentine between the pylons, though I think then we’ll finally lose worrying over whom your uncle left his silver moola to. I kind of see the old fella dying prone and in his briefs, and at an hour of the day we’ll not know much about, except that he had the time to place a fluted copy of his will inside a half-full syrup bottle. But importantly, importantly, his widow at last will get the chance to yank nonstop on Juarez shepherds journeying to her daybed, and if she surprises me and tires of that, she’s gonna bury your pet pug alive in soil where hardwoods grow wild and tall. Scott has rediscovered his passion for tennis and dreams of one day looking like he knows what he's doing. He hopes to fly a helicopter and a hot air balloon in the future and recently had the opportunity to fly in a Piper Cherokee. He enjoys writing articles for Flight Training magazine while continuing to work on his next children's book. Midnight, Halloween The candle still flickers inside the carved face. It was made to scare, but only for amusement. The night's voices have slowly disappeared with the exception of a soft purr from a stray cat. The smell of candy and pumpkin bread still fresh in the air. Soon, the monsters will once again wait under the bed until it's time to play again. A child's costume hangs in his closet next to his bed. Chocolate and marshmallow still teasing his tongue. As October fades into November the air turns hauntingly cold. Winter is coming. Tonight the air is still warm. School Bus The sound on the bus is full of naivety and curiosity. A girl asks a boy a question he doesn't know he'll remember for the rest of his life. The driver scolds a girl for hitting another even though she hit her first. Soon, the bus will be empty, waiting for morning. Now, it makes its way through the village where boys and girls will grow up and decide to move to a better place. A place where there's adventure and excitement. Some will have kids of their own. New families will move here and their children will ride the school bus. A teacher they've never met will inspire them to believe in the unbelievable when they've become too bitter to believe in such childish things. A boy will tease a girl and she will hate him for it until she learns he's loved her all along. It will be too late then. She will cry in her mother's arms, and her father will never let another boy hurt her again. A son will ride the school bus for the last time, not knowing it was the best time of his life. His sister will save his seat after graduation, until she meets her future maid of honor. They'll talk about books and boys and argue about things they won't remember the next day. A boy will cut his hair despite his father's protest to stop another boy from making fun of him. He will lie and drink and drop out of school. He will recite something about sticks and names and hurt and lose himself in a bottle against time. A girl will be invited by a boy to the school dance and she will say no because he looks like a potato. And that boy will cry in his pillow and curse every girl in the school. The next day on the bus a girl with different color skin will ask him to help her with her homework and he will kiss her that night. Years later, their children will ride the very same bus to the very same school in the village where they fell in love. They will never move away. For them, there is no better place than home. Blue Lake at Sunset The colors reflect off the cool water like crisp fruit, sweet and delicious. The silence is so loud it's as if I've lost my memory. The sky is a color I cannot name, for I do not understand language well enough to describe such a sight. As the light fades into the shadows and tucks the land asleep I can't help but wonder how it's all possible. It is a consequence of imagining the real against the impossible. The warmth against my back. I do not want to look away. But I must. McMaster Street, 2:04am I heard their voices from my bedroom as they grew angry. The street light lit them up like they were part of the final act of a play. I parted the curtains and watched them scream at each other and wanted nothing more than to help them. The air around them was surprisingly calm. The ground soft. I closed the curtains and went back to bed. Several hours later I could still hear the yelling. But the voices were not the same. Gary Beck spent most of his life as a theater director. He has 11 published chapbooks, 10 published poetry collections, 5 more accepted for publication. He has 3 novels and 1 accepted for publication. 2 short story collections and 1 accepted for publication. He lives in NYC. Recurrent Dream I sleep a tortured sleep and do not dream sweet dreams, possessed by fear and anger Inimical forces pursue me. I flee in terror, captive of apprehensions as monsters of imagining draw closer as I run, but cannot escape the imminent doom. Sweat pours off me, my body twitches, trembles and just before capture conscious recognition of emotional peril compels me awake, once again rescued from my tormented self. Curfew Time flows an elastic current invisible inexorable, freezes, melts, thaws, measured by mankind to order events, counting the days that pass faster until the clock stops. Closed Doors Children grow up in the projects with the same dreams as advantaged youth, punctuated by tv offerings of goods and services they will not possess. But desire fuels the appetite for material things only acquired by crime, sports, education, never enough opportunity to sate more than a few. Instructions Pre-school children walk down the street tethered together adults holding the leash controlling their wards like domestic animals linked together to protect the herd, reminding us we are akin despite all efforts to be different from other creatures. Intermezzo I sit in the plaza at lunchtime watching the workers, tourists constrained by time, snatching a few moments of idling engines before resuming pursuit of the dollar, pursuit of the bargain. J. K. Durick is a writing teacher at the Community College of Vermont and an online writing tutor. His recent poems have appeared in Social Justice Poetry, Record, Yellow Chair Review, Madswirl, and Haikuniverse. Dun Duchathair, the Black Fort The Aran Islands This is the mystery of place The overlay of past events The hint of time’s passing, like a mist rising, The whisper of things we miss Of things to come, Of things we have no part in, the things that pass by without us. That’s the appeal of this place Why we’re here slipping on The stones they carried, the lives They led in their distance of time Of ages we’ve turned into books Books we’ve filled with our absence. That’s the charm of it. This is the mystery of place Of place beyond us, outside the Little bit of minor history we are That minor bit we’ve smudged or Polished, built walls for and stone Staircases, pantries or dungeons -- Shabby battlements at best. This is the mystery of this place A place we attend to only now As we step away from the single day We’ve make of our lives and space. Now we hear the screams of gulls, The rumbling splash of waves, And the tick of a place waiting, ready to go on without us. |
ArchivesCategories
All
|