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Someone, a friend or lover perhaps, might ask
if I’ve written any poetry today.
I would have to answer that I had
rekindled the fire in the stove,
gone for a walk with the dog
as far as the jack pine stand, made breakfast,
split firewood enough to replace two days’ heat,
and made tea. I read Flaubert before getting out
of bed, and Bly before napping on the futon.
That is enough poetry writing for one day.
The miraculous December flies
awaken from hibernation and swarm
window-framed blue sky to quibble
with me. They buzz electric lights all night.
They crawl invisible barriers all day
in search for what?they do not realize?
would freeze their souls solid and leave
them little hope of resurrection;
yet they seek this escape.
We seek the miracle of a December birth in poetry.
A log by itself burns poorly; an ember alone goes out.
The tea is named Council of Elders?
“Speak Through Tradition”
INGREDIENTS: Cherry Bark, Blackberry Leaves, Hibiscus,
Rose Hips, Natural Flavor CAFFEINE FREE.
I burnt the mochi for breakfast slightly.
By the jack pines, the wind caught my breath
and stiffened my face. Wood split after
the solstice cracks like gunfire.
Without these bifocals, I cannot see poetry.
?Michael Dickel
naked, I stand before you all
as a new day rises amidst
shadows and colors of dawn
on a quest of love and growth
a path of pebbles and stones.
I sing my song
upon a gift to belong
lets dance the morning in
with the quick step
I move between roles
and coffee breaks
seasons and soccer games
transfixed in a world of words
wondering
how I got here- where I stand
39 with a cane in one hand
hooked arms with my man
watching
my child turn distant teen
remembering when it was me
punked out with the same fight
now I sit with flashes of old dreams
fitting for the adult I forget I am
images of houses to find
and travels yet ventured behind
hidden rooms and trips by theme
dreaming of a midnight waltz
through main street.
-River Urke
naked, I stand before you all
as a new day rises amidst
shadows and colors of dawn
on a quest of love and growth
a path of pebbles and stones.
I sing my song
upon a gift to belong
lets dance the morning in
with the quick step
I move between roles
and coffee breaks
seasons and soccer games
transfixed in a world of words
wondering
how I got here- where I stand
39 with a cane in one hand
hooked arms with my man
watching
my child turn distant teen
remembering when it was me
punked out with the same fight
now I sit with flashes of old dreams
fitting for the adult I forget I am
images of houses to find
and travels yet ventured behind
hidden rooms and trips by theme
dreaming of a midnight waltz
through main street.
-River Urke
Give me needles in the eye
and razor blades to lips
so I might kiss this corner
where I sleep. Read to me
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while I nibble nails and dream
of a better childhood; wish
for a different now.
The words in this book are not mine,
but yours. Maggots and trenches
and others that people dont want to read
or hear (fear) all jump on me
like fleas, and I scratch
and it feels
so
good
until
jugular splatter speckles the bedroom wall
and my mind goes blank.
I stare
at the black
pulsating cursor
on my white
stagnant screen,
Redrum.
Redrum.
Redrum.
Redrum.
Sometimes blood spills
for no other reason than
an open wound being
too close
to a beating heart.
-Sheila Moore
Note: Redrum is murder spelled backwards; taken from the 1977 horror novel, The Shining by Stephen King.
photo source
A river runs gently caressing the sands, reaching out to touch the shore
her moods changing with every bend and turn, leaving you wanting more
as the windblown tree’s whisper their serenade to the purple sky
a dream of her dancing to the natural song occupies your inner eye.
An innocent touch sends the heart screaming like the hawk that’s free to glide
the sounds of the river cause butterflies to flutter from deep inside
beautiful rocks caressed and transformed with her soothing touch
the sweet smell ,the bubbling words sometimes seem too much.
A journey of passion winding through the forest to a never ending abyss
a rivers voice, a rivers touch, a rivers scent is what I miss
the soft nurturing flow of the river, if only I were the sands and shore
I’d be fulfilled I would want no more.
-Tommy Blackwolf
In solitude she walks the dead of night ;
darkness enveloping her very soul
as she searches for the howling moon
found in the darkest corridors of her mind.
Soullessly sleeping;
wandering restlessly
from grave to undying grave,
greeting the undead
with whimpering sadness -
that even they feel compelled to dwell ,
sauntering the meadows
that once bore reminiscent laughter
before life drowned in torrential sadness,
gathering her shreds of soul –
leaving her :
no more…
© William Gaylord 2012-12-07
Forged
in my mind,
a skewed memory, a time that I
was almost screwed, relentless
stress accrued.
It’s a bit foggy now,
but I was sitting on a park bench
hoping to rejuvenate serenity,
my bejeweled hat the main attraction
amid winter’s bland countenance.
I watched you skitter through the jungle gym
no place to hide in this open space
when out of nowhere, an old lady
plopped down next to me. Idle
conversation ensued, but I
kept my eyes on you.
Suddenly the lady I thought
delicate, but in fact was
an innate athlete, grabbed
my hat and rampant as fire ants
ran in one direction, while you
in the other slipped out of my periphery.
A tussle-scuttle-bustle stirred
the dirt, a spectrum of dingy colors
against blingy-bling until I
heard you say the coast was clear,
my hat a trophy on your head.
-Laurie Kolp
