To the Violin (3)

Note:  This is the third in a series of six sequential poems by Jack Callan of Norfolk, written upon viewing a television feature highlighting a Spanish woman's dream of becoming a matador, and who has become successful in the Spanish bullring.  Over the next five days, the remaining poems will appear in sequence.

I have strong arms

and fold

     a dainty shirt.

The bull

     has been provoked,

hopefully,

     to kill me.

Maybe I

     will be buried

in this open land,

     maybe not.

a candle

   can be lit

          anywhere.

(c)Jack Callan          2010        

To the Violin (2)

Note:  This is the second in a series of six sequential poems by Jack Callan of Norfolk, written upon viewing a television feature highlighting a Spanish woman's dream of becoming a matador, and who has become successful in the Spanish bullring.  Over the next five days, the remaining poems will appear in sequence.

My mother threw me beneath the bull

           to see if I could escape.

She had bread and salad for dinner

           when I returned.

I was filthy,

alive

so very hungry.

Not handsome

           no one would want me.

The bull was frightening

           it didn't seem fair.

Over and over I jumped the fence

           again and again I returned.

My hat was trampled

           gone forever

but I always came back

           even without rank

I am special.

What is a hat?

The bull is born to die in the ring

           sometimes the matador.

It's never even.

Never.

(c)Jack Callan          2010

To the Violin (1)

Note:  This is the first in a series of six sequential poems by Jack Callan of Norfolk, written upon viewing a television feature highlighting a Spanish woman's dream of becoming a matador, and who has become successful in the Spanish bullring.  Over the next five days, the remaining poems will appear in sequence.

Before the music
the matador dresses
to the violin,
an elegant stretching
to prelude the horns.

This bull has sand
     in his nose
wanting to gore
     and trample (her).

The birds will peck
     at the remains.

You, my dear, must pivot
and follow the horns
past your body
past your soul

the dirt of his nose
is the dirt under your fingernail.

You escape to Spain
breaking your mother's bond

the bull is waiting
   as you float by.

(c)Jack Callan          2010

Squished

I'm in the middle
again.

Only
this time
it's my mother
who is eighty
and my daughter
who is seventeen.

I keep looking up
I keep looking down

If I'm kind to my mother
will my daughter be kind to me?

If I show my daughter
that I ask for what I want
will she do it
when she needs to?

One sister was five years older
One sister was five years younger

I cannot remember my older sister

ever speaking to me

though once

she taught me how to whistle.

I loved my younger sister

the way I wanted

to be loved

though once

I left her alone

on the bed

in the middle

and she rolled off.

(c)Sharon Weinstein

from Celebrating Absences

Road Publishers, Painter, VA

Soundtrack

The entire Sondheim catalog
committed to memory, she's part mimic
part prima donna, knows
what sad ballad works
when the world slips her another
Mickey Mouse man
all squeaky clean and white-gloved.

She's gotten biblical with a few bad boys,
loved and left a little out of whack
and when she loses track of herself
every so often, she always vows
next time will be better.

When she spots a shooting star,
hay truck or genuine red-head
she makes plaintive, sincere wishes,
glances across every crowded room
for improbable strangers
believing happy endings are made
for girls like her, peach and turquoise
bridesmaid dresses filling up their closets.

She yearns to audition
for the better part-
after all, she can cry on a dime,
     -stop-
on a nickel.

Her bag may be Dolce and Gabbana
but the goods are pure Walmart.
Humming Delta Dawn, she taps her foot,
hopes to find the promised man.

It's likely her mansion in the sky
will turn out to be only a double-wide,
but in a real nice part of town.

(c)Shann Palmer     2009

from Dashboard Fire

FlashPaperPublications, Richmond, VA

Going Home - 1949

The train puffs into the station,
exhaling with a long sigh,
like an old man reluctantly expiring.
Steam settles down, surrounding
mother, brother and me.

Through vapor, I look into mother's face,
her chin quivers.  We climb aboard,
emotionally unprepared for a trip
we do not want to take.

The porter, his uniform dark as midnight,
checks our tickets--we're on our way
to Mama Sally's farm, where I was born.

My mother says father is in a special compartment
of the train.  I wonder where that may be.
I don't ask questions, afraid of the answer.

Mother has told us that my father
will lie in Mama Sally's parlor.
"It's the country way, she says,
so friends may call at their leisure."

I see Mama Sally at her churn,
churning productively 'til butter comes to the top,
removing it, shaping it into a butter mound,
with deft fingers delicately forming a design
on top.

I am remembering the long hall that stretched
from front door to back, the hall
that my young brother waxed with lard,
much to my mother's chagrin.

Then troubled thoughts tumble,
not soothed by synchronized rhythm
of turning wheels on the tracks
beneath.

Will this train ride ever be over?
How will we comfort Mama Sally,
when we are not comforted?
How will we stand in the parlor
with father lying still as stone?
Will mother ever stop crying?

(c)Laniere Gresham                     2000

published in Skipping Stones Vol VI

Mindworm Press, Chesapeake, VA

Bookends to Eternity

Holding me up in the now
Stands my mother before me
Facing the past,
My daughter after me
Facing the future,
Continuous line of being,
History and hope.

(c)Beverly Outlaw

published in Skipping Stones Vol VI

Mindworm Press, Chesapeake, VA

Blue

you see my mother was a blue light
cold and warm all at once

if I could paint the mind or tint thoughts,
would a library be a rainbow and why is
the bar that I wander into so sadly
monochromatic and me hungry to be
overwhelmed by the touch of color

waiting, burning quietly red and
sometimes growing just a shade
beyond dark

you see it was this feeling, this feeling
that came every day, a feeling that...I
felt every day, the feeling that surrounds

ice

the feeling that was only a suggestion in a young boy that
happened every day until...until it became the part...the part
in a man that surrounds

ice

that part has brought me to this strange place, perched on the
edge of a forgotten star of white ice, I climb into my dark and
lonely room, I stand at the clear window and see everything
else...

I know the kind of man I am...I have become the man who
fell in love with
everything else
the sweet taste of wine
mixed in blood
heated tones
staring eyes
the art of smooth arms
rosewater and legs
the music world
inside a woman's soul

I am the artist captured by the hues of expressed passion
in the picture, trapped so wonderfully by freedom

but of course my mother was a blue light...

(c)Patrick Carr

published in Skipping Stones Vol VI

Mindworm Press, Chesapeake, VA

Ritual

My mother swore nights
were her betes noires.
Putting the beast to sleep
with pills, she sacrificed
a theater of dreams.

Before she died
at sixty-three she was bitter,
hard as the rock she left me.
There is no pity in a heart-
shaped diamond.

Father liked things light-
a sunny day at Jones Beach.
He never read a word I wrote.
Too messy--my inside stuff
leaking out like menstrual blood.

When fortune frowned,
he shed his past three times.
Wives and work came easy.
At eighty-two he was
a wax figure of himself.

I didn't weep at their funerals.
I'll keep unburying them
in poems until I'm free.

(c)Jane Ellen Glasser

published in Skipping Stones 2007

Mindworm Press, Chesapeake, VA

She Makes Me A Man

She makes me a man
with a turn of her head, the toss of her hair,
the touch of her hand.
While she smiles and hides her true feelings.
She makes me a Man
when I hear her good news, how her day has gone bad
all the intimate details.
I listen and wonder how this could still happen to me.
Like when we lie together in light.
If I could pick the words of this poem off the page
and place them into my mouth
they would be soft, sticky and sweet,
like she becomes when we reach that place
where I make her a woman,
shaking and screaming at last.
When she stays with me throughout the day.
I remember why I believe
in the power of one single thing
indifferent to the whims of the world, beliefs and opinions.
she makes me a Man sitting right where we are on the floor
with purely a simple embrace.

(c)Gregg Libbey

published in Skipping Stones 2004

Mindworm Press, Chesapeake, VA

Princess and the Pea

The damned princess and the pea
haunts my bed
burrowing beneath my sheets
making sleep improbable
every change of position
rediscovers the pea
this unbidden fantasy
kept at bay for several days
has found itself a resting place
holding me hostage in the night
I grump
surrender
reach for a drink
reach for a cigarette

reach for the fantasy

reach for you

with both hands.

I could you know.

(c)Donna M. Campbell

published in Skipping Stones 2004

Mindworm Press, Chesapeake, VA

Chasing Butterflies

The ballet has gone on since dawn

--longer--roles scripted in genes.

She's the graceful butterfly, vibrant,

enticing; he, the hunter, confident, strong,

lured by her rhythm, lumbering in

her rainbow contrail with a clumsy net.

How clever she is, though,

deftly dancing out of reach

while desire climbs its peak

before slyly settling on a leaf,

never betraying surprise

at her capture, letting him believe

their union had something

to do with his choice.

(c)Bill Glose              2007

from The Human Touch

San Francisco, CA

So Sorry

you slumped into the chair
rounded shoulders
soft as the pillows
at your back

mumbled excuses
out of gas    just one time
traffic    death    birth
unavoidable acts of god
roll down the front of your shirt
each one adding a new stain
flat tire
didn't think

no names
no one to protect
no innocents here

a test pattern
thrown out
seeking pardon
to kiss and make out

but I know this story
consider finishing your sentences
having misplaced any outrage
long ago

returning to my writing
silently wonder
when you will leave

(c)Donna Campbell                    2009

published in Skipping Stones, Vol VI

Mindworm Press, Chesapeake, VA

North Street

I was happy in the small neighborhood,
our home wedged between
the other two-story white houses.

Narrow driveways threaded
like ribbons to gardens bursting
with tomatoes, squash, and eggplants.

I rode my bike for salami
and bread past porches heavy
with honeysuckle vines.

My mother, waiting,
retraced her steps over
the worn linoleum floor

as the sewing machine stitched
dresses for me by a grandmother
who spoke no English,

planted jonquils turning
the afternoon air yellow,
tethering me to home.

(c)Ann Shalaski           2007

from World Made of Glass

San Francisco Bay Press, San Francisco, CA

Like Praise

Sometimes I worry a line of poetry
Like a dog hassles an old shoe,
     Shaking the words,
               Pommeling them.
Growling in my throat
Until they tumble out
And rise from the paper
               Like Praise.

Then a word finds the key to my melody,
Singing soft as snow water over stones,
     Murmuring the tune,
               Rushing the rhythm,
Pushing in my mouth
Until they ripple out
And glow on the paper
                Like Grace.

(c)Philomeme Hood                         2003

from Ride Home Through Scented Grass

Pearl Line Press, Zuni, VA

Woman, Witch

"Raven hair and ruby lips, sparks fly from her fingertips.
Echoed voices in the night, she's a restless spirit on an endless flight."
                                                       - The Eagles, Witchy Woman, 1976 -

Moonlight pale skin.
Long, tangled black hair.
Flowing clothes, flashes of silver.
Dark eyes looking into you,
knowing you, and all your secrets.

Considering you for...what?
For a new passion?
A fellow traveler?
A dalliance?  An amusement?
Or a shelter of warm arms, a sage interlude?

The challenge is there.
Take it, if you are man enough.
You know there is a price;
the fire can't be quenched,
It will always burn     and burn.

And that is why they were burned?
In fearful Salem, or in Catholic Spain.
The dark eyes leave a hunger,
it hurts, it consumes,
and sleep is stolen, never to be returned.

So the night becomes yours,
long after she is gone.
To watch the dark, to wait,
to thirst in body and,
in that soul you'd gladly trade.

Give eternity away,
for the touch of those pale hands.
And the lips that are never still.
The fire that burns in porcelain limbs.
Brother, I know,     I wait,     and I tremble.

(c)Jim Meehan

published in Skipping Stones 2005

and in Ripples

Mindworm Press, Chesapeake, VA

Helen

The soft rasp of skin against skin,
hands, waltzing through conversation or
palms like chests,
melding, communicative.

In the Afterwards --
while he, on the edge of the bed,
exhausted but replenished
cradles his temples in his own hands,
droops his head between his knees.
   There is the shadow of sensation
   in the valley of his shoulder blades

During --
those were the palms,
cupping the balls of my hips (inside
that grip my joints rocked,
rotating within themselves like our
flesh within flesh).
Behind me he formed the vortex of our angle --
we felt strong enough
to support walls.
   We could have built the Parthenon
   over and
   over.
And days later --
in the Afterwards --
just talking to men would birth them,
tight flashbacks where
I felt entire cities erecting within me --
memories of our garden of pillars.

Indirectly, in his hands
forms solid as marble were burgeoning
(definite as rhythm or gasping)
Rome and all her colonies like capillaries
beneath my skin,
blooming and inverting
blooming,
stone peonies.

(c)Katie Panateo

published in Skipping Stones 2005

and in Ripples

Mindworm Press, Chesapeake, VA

the cherry picker

steven's cherry was the sweetest because he was.  a silent
afternoon in the stillest apartment, brown furniture and the last rays
of grey winter sun.

steven tanned so thoroughly in summer, with lively hair burnishing
and smooth cheeks matching.  green-gold eyes and long shy
eyelashes.  it seemed he'd never lost his baby teeth; his permanent
ones had the spaces between like a child's, and he smiled lots.

we were quietly crazy for each other; best friends guarding a secret,
but we didn't know what the secret was.  it was a bond of class, of
poor white child and striver brown girl in a crowd of
accelerated-track geometry jewish kids who really liked us but
couldn't really have us over.  we kept each other up on the tele-
phone many nights, daring curfew givers to stem the flow of conver-
sation about
teachers and camping, politics and friends.

such a delicate alliance, and completely unspoken.  i don't
remember ever kissing him before then, full on the mouth, or after.

he was anxious at the beginning, acting as host to his own
coronation -- or execution --
ushering in quite deliberately this critical rite.
and he trusted me to make it painless, harmless, to be his ally.
          laughing a little,
               gasping,
     working,
making our way
          to the other side
we stayed naked under blankets for a long time, knowing that we'd
never lie that way again.  recognizing my need for flashier lovers and
knowing his demons were just at the door.  such a sweet, still time.
sticky and cool.

i told most people everything, but that afternoon was religion,
meditation, and could not be translated to the profane.

i'd like to do it again.

(c)Toni Wynn                    1993

from the place within where the universe resides

the Shakespeare Press Museum

Her Twelfth Summer

- for Jade Nicole Richardson -

In Her twelfth summer
the after shocks of Her birth
still rattled the earth
And the seven waves of a tsunami
made way for the generations
She would soon birth
The hearts of the prophets skipped a beat
which lead to temporary confusion
about Her destiny
But Her bloodline was royal
and the consistency of mercury
Her failure would mean a world calamity
Her fight to regain composure
was like a prelude to the apocalypse
acid rain fell in a futile attempt to
erase Her beauty, the sun and the wind
came to Her rescue

Then on the dawn
of Her thirteenth summer solstice
the universe shifted on its axis
a new moon joined the earth's rotation
and a star born thirteen light years earlier
seemed to appear out of nowhere
on the dark horizon.

(c)Nathan Richardson

published in Skipping Stones 2005

and in Ripples            2007

Mindworm Press, Chesapeake, VA

silent space

words stumble over each other
like children learning to ride a two-wheeler
as we struggle for conversation without confrontation
my heart feels bruised and scarred
we've collided before cold air and hot air
crashing into thunder
angry words tossed about
branches swirling in stormy winds
our hearts split into wedges
trees struck by lightning
when my sexuality took issue
against her religion
from across telephone lines
we stand my eyes scan my living room
searching for a word any word
to place into the silent space
that sits between my sister and me
although we live in the same town
she's never seen my apartment
or any of the furniture i now own
the only words that come to my lips
are used to describe my new bookcase
how beautiful are the brass knobs glass doors
and the mahogany stained wood frame

(c)debbie lass     2003

from gaily forward

Keith Enterprises, Inc

Lola Weeps

She shakes as if her
bones were dice tumbled
from the gambler's hand
tears spurt like blood from
a sliced artery
her face swells into
a revealing mask
she turns from the lamp
though she's alone.
Darkness breathes
around the house like
the stomach of
Jonah's whale.  The clock
hands march with loud clicks
but her sorrow won't
scab   she weeps the
river in which
Ophelia drowned   she
weeps the acid brewed
in her uterus
she weeps flames and
the night burns.

(c)Serena Fusek          1991

from The Color of Poison

A Slipstream Publication

Niagara Falls, NY

Must We Break Our Hearts Again?

Here
There is nothing     to uphold     or hold back     or fear

Something so easy     as making love
So so good
Eyes     your eyes     swim in mine.

Hands     on skin
Warm     on warm     on warm
And yes and yes     yes.
This moment     we are so much greater
This place     arrived at together.
This     Now
This brilliance
Wide awake
Our horizons break     open
To glimpse     something     on the other side.

Don't write a song about it
There aren't enough words.
Words only complicate.
Trust
We will remember the way back
To each-other          ourselves.

(c)Amanda Hart Cravotta          2008

published in Skipping Stones, Vol VI

Mindworm Press, Chesapeake, VA

The Last Love Poem for the Love of My Life

When we would lay
like we used to lay
your cheek would rest over my eye perfectly
matched
like we were once Siamese twins in a womb
our heads molded to one another

Shockingly the most important thing I learned from you
is not related to love or marriage
It is not emotional
because smoking is a habit
not an emotional response

If you let the cellophane slide through your
forefinger and thumb as you hit your
palm, just so
You'll hear a smack
like the tobacco is
screeching its last breath
If you do this six or seven times
turning the pack in your hand each stroke
the paper will form a dust ruffle around the tip
It burns right off
but you won't lose your cherry when driving

You taught me how to pack my cigarettes
and our sleeping cheek filled
my eye socket
That is all I remember about our intimacy
That is all I remember about the love I had for you

(c)Cheryl Snow White     2007

from snow white lies

New Car Smell

When love's touch was new
It was a treasure that came for a while,
Like puppy's breath or new fallen snow,
When every touch was limned in fire
And every conversation an orchestrated symphony,
When I would drink your spirit
And live upon your sweetened kisses.
Then was when you heard what I said
And we slid our thoughts together into one note.
Then was when you pondered my emotions
And caressed my heart with fingertips dipped in love.
Then was when words were always tempered with reverence
And the sharpest disagreements dissolved like sugary candies.
"Love lasts forever," you're not the first to say--
So intense was your gale
Beating upon the doors and rattling the windows--
"Love need never change;
It's the people who decide not fate nor time."
That was when our love was new.
Yet no matter how clean you keep it,
No matter your energy and fervor
Nor good intentions of bottling it up forever--
The magic of that new car smell always fades away.

(c)Lisa Kendrick                    2009

published in Skipping Stones, Vol VI

Mindworm Press, Chesapeake, VA

One Less Color

dedicated to Lib

Furniture fills the house
carpet paves the floor
lamps flood the rooms with light.

So many things
and the house is yet
empty.

Material things
are simply the silent mediums
of a world of memories.

How many stories
inspired laughter?
How many gathering
filled vacant evenings?

Once vibrant mirth,
sent from this house
by unforgiving silence.

In times yet to pass
this will be forgotten
by the names and faces
of the future.
This will be unknown.

Unremembered memories
aborted before possible
conception in the heart
an unlived past
unwittingly haunting
shadows of the future.

Courses change
and with them
change the
venues of potential.

Raindrops of the past
soon evaporate into
rainbows of the future
with one less color
to brighten the sky.

(c)Allyson Jacobs

published in Skipping Stones 2004

Mindworm Press, Chesapeake, VA

Mount Fuji Blues

The saying goes that one who never climbs
Mount Fuji is a fool, because its views
are glorious--breath-stopping majesty
awaits the traveler to its ice-kissed peak.

But so also the saying goes, that one
who climbs Mount Fuji twice is twice the fool,
because it's painful and exhausting work:
too hot, then cold, and hellfire on the heart.

So that is why, my dear, I leave you now;
we tried our hands at love, and it was grand,
but scaling once that dizzying height was too
soon followed by the treacherous descent.

You say that next time we'll enjoy it more,
But I say, Darling--I've been there before!

(c)M. Lee Alexander     2007

from Observatory

Finishing Line Press, Georgetown, KY

Tuesday Morning Breakdown

She saw it black and hard
through the air before it hit
her face, a smacking thud
pancaking her packwards
against the wall, her ear
splitting open on the picture
framing a farmhouse, a meadow
green, where fluffy white sheep
were grazing, peacful.  Splotched
now red molasses-wet,
it etches a new scene
of heavy breath and vacant eyes.
Lucidity loses in a time warp
wavering before her, the cast iron
frying pan dangling, useless,

until it's time to cook the eggs.

(c)Nancy Powell          2007

from How Far Is Ordinary

Mindworm Press, Chesapeake, VA

The Cinnamon Peeler's Wife (2)

I did nothing but think of cinnamon, searching
for that insistence, the fragrance of a word
I never found, delirium.  You knew nothing.

When we arrived home from the airport
we made love that late afternoon,
dusk light.  Fear slowly settled around me.

"Do you smell cinnamon?"  "Yes," you said,
"it's a surprise."  Downstairs, in the kitchen,
you removed the bread from the oven--

cinnamon-raisin.  butter melted, we took our first taste.
I told you about the Cinnamon Peeler's Wife.
Then it happened again.  After I left home for my office,

what would I need to survive the day?  I hurriedly picked
out several stems:  daisies and one black-eyed susan
for  five dollars.  While I saw my first patient,

the florist delivered a basket of daisies
with your unsigned note:  I forgot to tell you
how good you smelled this morning.

(c)Elaine Walters McFerron     2004

from Double Solitude

Green River Press

My Ancester's Voice

Lately I've been withdrawn,
trudging the realm of identity.

Wacha, my ancestors, it is your
ash and manna that intimately

unveil the words of Torah.
I open my eyes, eagerness still

shines through.  Fig, almond
in bloom.  Curled at the edge

of my bustan, a starved soul
full of fragrance, so pretty!

(c)Michal Mahgerefteh               2009

from In My Bustan  [In My Garden]

Poetica Publishing Company, Norfolk, VA

Music for the Living

In Vietnam it is said
music is for the dead.

1.
From grief came a vow
to keep her voice low,
attuned to memory
of duets in G.

So unmelodic years
stretched, like a wound
steel string, silent and
unfretted over ebony.

2.
Once prone in shadows
of loss, rosewood and spruce
are again vibrant in deft hands;
a perfect tone is releaseed

from sorrow's restraint,
and rises up to console
the living mother
of another lost son.

(c)Allen M. Weber                  2009

published in Skipping Stones, Vol VI

Mindworm Press, Chesapeake, VA