tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-79521971388829783912024-03-13T06:34:15.949-04:002010-WomanPoetryProjectA full year of poems, a new one every day, from the poets of Virginia (radiating out from Hampton Roads) on the theme of Woman - who she is, who she is not, who she ought to be, her essence, how she sees herself, how women see her, how men see her, how children see her, how the classics see her, how different cultures see her, how history and cultures and mythology see her and have seen her, and on and on ...the mindwormhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12059000238231708875noreply@blogger.comBlogger392125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7952197138882978391.post-72522064653413993792010-12-31T08:39:00.000-05:002010-12-31T08:39:14.426-05:00The UnravelingThe point of the needle<br />
enters the cloth<br />
pops out again<br />
moving the silver metal<br />
pulling the thread<br />
binding seam to seam<br />
shoulder to shoulder<br />
bodice to skirt<br />
than down the sides<br />
front to back.<br />
and finally<br />
with delicate motion<br />
it forms a hem.<br />
All done, finished, complete<br />
until something grows,<br />
or something shrinks.<br />
There is a feeling<br />
of unraveling<br />
and it is all gone.<br />
<br />
The point of the needle<br />
is forced to begin again.<br />
<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: right;">(c)Doris Gwaltney 2008</div><div style="text-align: right;">from <b><i>The Poet's Domain</i></b>, Vol 23</div><div style="text-align: right;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">Live Wire Press, Charlottesville, VA</span></div>the mindwormhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12059000238231708875noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7952197138882978391.post-87959507175412379172010-12-30T19:40:00.001-05:002010-12-30T19:42:21.978-05:00She Was Who She IsAline, mother of friend, Barry,<br />
died this morning in her sleep.<br />
2:30 <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">A.M</span>.<br />
He cared for her at his place<br />
fed her, bathed her, stayed<br />
close to the house<br />
watched the Alzheimers grow meaner<br />
watched her gather the small<br />
paper bag of personals<br />
and sit by the door<br />
waiting to go home.<br />
I'm Barry, he'd say, your son.<br />
You <i>are</i> home, he would say.<br />
<br />
She'd smile sweetly<br />
and turn to her room.<br />
Those last days<br />
He bought her a hospital bed<br />
to help with the pain<br />
even when softly he lifted her<br />
to hold off the bed sores,<br />
a woman, who,<br />
in eighty some years of life<br />
was likely the first to rise.<br />
<br />
He laughed with her<br />
as he bathed her in the tub<br />
splashed water and made her giggle<br />
taking care to gentle all the private parts<br />
just as she had done for him and her boys<br />
when they were little guys.<br />
At the end, surrendered,<br />
she squeezed his hand<br />
and thanked him.<br />
<br />
She had nursed her husband, Fred,<br />
through the dark days of his early death<br />
and now had no one left to take care of.<br />
Not even her ownself.<br />
<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: right;">(c)Robert E. Young 2008</div><div style="text-align: right;">from <b><i>The Poet's Domain</i></b>, Vol 24</div><div style="text-align: right;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">Live Wire Press, Charlottesville, VA</span></div>the mindwormhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12059000238231708875noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7952197138882978391.post-1893167922279157022010-12-29T23:24:00.000-05:002010-12-29T23:24:26.401-05:00Bowl of Cherries<div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">Stay with me</div><div style="text-align: center;">spellbound in laughter</div><div style="text-align: center;">believing tomorrow's miracles.</div><div style="text-align: center;">With you I take no notice</div><div style="text-align: center;">of lightning. Really you say</div><div style="text-align: center;">only Fourth of July sparklers</div><div style="text-align: center;">with chuckles of thunder</div><div style="text-align: center;">minor considerations to the young.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">Death grins but stays</div><div style="text-align: center;">on the sidelines</div><div style="text-align: center;">nothing discriminative</div><div style="text-align: center;">just keeping an eye on me.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">Oh yes, that old cliche</div><div style="text-align: center;">I'm young in heart</div><div style="text-align: center;">fooling myself.</div><div style="text-align: right;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: right;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: right;">(c)Doris Baker 2008</div><div style="text-align: right;">from <b><i>The Poet's Domain</i></b>, Vol 23</div><div style="text-align: right;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">Live Wire Press, Charlottesville, VA</span></div><div style="text-align: right;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: right;"><br />
</div>the mindwormhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12059000238231708875noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7952197138882978391.post-10636211477669797322010-12-29T20:24:00.001-05:002010-12-29T20:25:07.322-05:00RachelHer name when spoken<br />
was always in hushed tones.<br />
Her name was Rachel.<br />
She was my aunt.<br />
My mother's older sister.<br />
<br />
My mother, six sisters, brother,<br />
and grandmother emigrated from Russia.<br />
Mother was four.<br />
The year 1907.<br />
<br />
My grandfather had come before.<br />
<br />
At age sixteen, Rachel was put<br />
in the crazy house.<br />
Her name became more hushed.<br />
Sometimes still.<br />
<br />
At age forty, she committed suicide.<br />
<br />
My grandmother is buried near Rachel.<br />
It was her last wish.<br />
She felt no one would visit her daughter<br />
if she were alone.<br />
<br />
My grandfather is buried on the other side of town.<br />
<br />
When Rachel died, some wondered if<br />
God would open the gates of Heaven to her.<br />
Or would she have to climb hand-over-hand<br />
on a celestial ladder--for eternity.<br />
<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: right;">(c)Betty Maistelman 2008</div><div style="text-align: right;">from <b><i>The Poet's Domain</i></b>, Vol 23</div><div style="text-align: right;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">Live Wire Press, Charlottesville, VA</span></div>the mindwormhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12059000238231708875noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7952197138882978391.post-70619913896724044572010-12-27T11:27:00.000-05:002010-12-27T11:27:49.828-05:00Drive InsAt drive ins<br />
We'd not go to see<br />
The movies,<br />
<br />
But park<br />
In the back row,<br />
And abandon ourselves<br />
To each other's pleasure<br />
<br />
In a TR3 so small<br />
We couldn't do<br />
Anything serious<br />
Over the cupped<br />
Bucket seats and<br />
Interfering shifter.<br />
<br />
Later<br />
we practiced the full<br />
Rites of love again<br />
And again<br />
<br />
Learning<br />
The habit of pleasure<br />
For year after year,<br />
<br />
Until we wore<br />
Each other<br />
Like old jackets<br />
Molded to our curves.<br />
<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: right;">(c)Dave King 2010</div><div style="text-align: right;">from <b><i>This Side of Forever</i></b></div><div style="text-align: right;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">Poetica Publishing Co, Norfolk, VA</span></div>the mindwormhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12059000238231708875noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7952197138882978391.post-15924993107719607002010-12-26T21:55:00.003-05:002010-12-26T21:57:22.477-05:00Beloved (or: The Legend of Noah's Wife)<div style="text-align: center;"><i>Instead of "Is there a God?" </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>the question becomes: "Will I see God?"</i></div><div style="text-align: right;">Peter Kreeft: <b><i>Love is Stronger than Death</i></b></div><br />
Through the mildest<br />
or wildest of mornings, through the impossible<br />
<br />
autumn come swift, in its switch<br />
from nasturtiums to ice, an old longing lives out<br />
<br />
its devotion, always a wife.<br />
In a wrinkle too ripe for her skin, in her aging:<br />
<br />
a luminous lurker, a bright absentee, night-<br />
fall zeroed in haste, period-fire her desire cinders into --<br />
<br />
Ash to salt-ash, her tastebud implies,<br />
and she washes her lips.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><i>Where is he whom I've loved incompletely?</i></div>The long deck dips undead, blue-wake<br />
<br />
under her ribs; the bowsprit points at risk,<br />
while a pigeon sorts weeds on the mopped boards.<br />
<br />
Algae-loose, touch-and-go<br />
is her hope in their land-smell and the smell<br />
<br />
of a hand who knolled grass at odd hours, knuckled<br />
after the flood just to cradle<br />
<br />
her newborns, squeezed<br />
wisely her heart-valve, worn heart, where it flip<br />
<br />
flopped...followed tempest and time-waste,<br />
the red river home,<br />
<br />
all is love, all its fishes.<br />
Ah, the inadequate shoremud as platform to pleasure,<br />
<br />
the inadequate boulder in blossom.<br />
Inadequate love<br />
<br />
for a god slipping westward, clandestine,<br />
all done.<br />
<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: right;">(c)Sofia M. Starnes 2003</div><div style="text-align: right;">from <b><i>A Commerce of Moments</i></b></div><div style="text-align: right;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">Pavement Saw Press, Columbus, OH</span></div>the mindwormhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12059000238231708875noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7952197138882978391.post-33471283522993919622010-12-25T00:35:00.000-05:002010-12-25T00:35:55.249-05:00Vision of the FutureAmid the frolic of giggling children<br />
is an old man sequestered on a park bench,<br />
<br />
his loneliness a linen suit, creases<br />
crisp as creeping moan of evening.<br />
<br />
Nannies cast suspicious stares, steer charges away<br />
while paper-thin teens in sagging shorts<br />
<br />
point, laugh, know age will never sink claws<br />
into them. Wary pigeons peck<br />
<br />
at breadcrumbs he tosses like lost years.<br />
My daughter, 6, spins circles in a field<br />
<br />
of purple phlox, yellow Easter dress belling<br />
like a tulip, strawberry hair wild, white stockings<br />
<br />
smudged green at the knees. Ten years from now<br />
when I hear the creak of a windowsill betraying<br />
<br />
a foot sneaking outside, I hope I trust the sweetness<br />
of her heart, think of today, see her approach the bench,<br />
<br />
a ladybug in cupped hands cracked open<br />
for rheumy eyes filled with wonder,<br />
<br />
spring blooming on a face<br />
lost in winter far too long.<br />
<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: right;">(c)Bill Gloss 2007</div><div style="text-align: right;">from <b><i>The Human Touch</i></b></div><div style="text-align: right;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">San Francisco Bay Press, </span></div><div style="text-align: right;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">San Francisco, CA</span></div>the mindwormhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12059000238231708875noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7952197138882978391.post-27633605804590710832010-12-24T02:17:00.000-05:002010-12-24T02:17:38.709-05:00"every Spark is numberedOn scraps, over backs<br />
and sides of torn<br />
squares, pinned<br />
into fold of dress<br />
or tucked down<br />
pocket, delivered<br />
in secret--<br />
<i>Open me carefully</i><br />
Emily writes<br />
to her sweet muse.<br />
<br />
Dropping<br />
task at hand, stopping<br />
to catch the quick<br />
appearance, quicker<br />
retreat of vision or<br />
image, igniting<br />
missive after<br />
missive in<br />
hot assault,<br />
full pursuit sent<br />
burning over<br />
snowy fields<br />
or blazing through<br />
New England June--<br />
<br />
the poet's body<br />
breaking into<br />
fiery verb<br />
singing to one<br />
of similar<br />
essence--<br />
passion for one<br />
sparking<br />
passion for<br />
all the world,<br />
its many daily<br />
dark or bright<br />
amazements:<br />
<br />
"O One I cannot love enough<br />
O One beyond all touch:<br />
I will then seduce<br />
your soul, delight<br />
your mind--my words<br />
will surpass those of any,<br />
each verse asking<br />
faithfully to the last<br />
<i>Will you</i><br />
<i>wholly be mine</i>,<br />
each stanza answering<br />
faithfully<br />
to the last, <i>You wil</i>l<br />
<br />
I will write yes and<br />
yes over and<br />
over, each line<br />
shaping you<br />
immortal, making you<br />
divine, divinely Mine:<br />
Love, Beloved, Lovely<br />
Only One, Only World:<br />
my slashes and syllables<br />
stand bold, unbreakable<br />
against any Zero<br />
for all time."<br />
<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: right;">(c)Vivian Teter 2007</div><div style="text-align: right;">from <b><i>Edge by Edge</i></b></div><div style="text-align: right;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">toadlily press, chappaqua, ny</span></div>the mindwormhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12059000238231708875noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7952197138882978391.post-48435089401012397632010-12-23T10:50:00.000-05:002010-12-23T10:50:53.834-05:00Wednesday, January 12, 1944<div style="text-align: center;"><br />
A homemade dance frock</div><div style="text-align: center;">with bow at center</div><div style="text-align: center;">takes center stage in your desires.</div><div style="text-align: center;">Supple and limber</div><div style="text-align: center;">you become,</div><div style="text-align: center;">as flexible as</div><div style="text-align: center;">Margo's attitude</div><div style="text-align: center;">toward you.</div><div style="text-align: center;">You, who examines</div><div style="text-align: center;">your own role in</div><div style="text-align: center;">relationships, see yourself,</div><div style="text-align: center;">sometimes the rose,</div><div style="text-align: center;">sometimes the weed.</div><div style="text-align: right;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: right;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: right;">Phyllis Johnson 2009</div><div style="text-align: right;">from <b><i>being frank with anne</i></b></div><div style="text-align: right;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">Community Press, Virginia Beach, VA</span></div>the mindwormhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12059000238231708875noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7952197138882978391.post-26403101253163997712010-12-22T10:41:00.000-05:002010-12-22T10:41:02.967-05:00AdolescenceMy daughter won't let me touch her<br />
We used to curve together<br />
Our bodies speaking<br />
The language our voices could not.<br />
<br />
Now, she has moved away<br />
Though she sits next to me.<br />
<br />
I can wait;<br />
I can wait<br />
For the embrace<br />
That would fill me.<br />
She will come back to me, again.<br />
<br />
She is preparing herself to love.<br />
<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: right;">(c)Sharon Weinstein 1995</div><div style="text-align: right;">from <b><i>Celebrating Absences</i></b></div><div style="text-align: right;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">Road Publishers, Painter, VA</span></div>the mindwormhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12059000238231708875noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7952197138882978391.post-35077789568131467102010-12-21T13:54:00.000-05:002010-12-21T13:54:31.848-05:00Big BarbieIt's time we had a real-life<br />
Barbie, a doll that looks like me<br />
and you.<br />
<br />
One with thighs that swish<br />
when she walks, and fat that sticks<br />
to her hips like glue.<br />
<br />
No make-believe cuties, eyebrows arched<br />
just right. No tiny twiggy dolls, nipped<br />
tucked, everything pulled tight.<br />
<br />
Give us a plus-size Barbie, someone round<br />
and warm. An ordinary female with a less<br />
than perfect form.<br />
<br />
We want her to look like us, with mismatched<br />
outfits that are fraying. Somewhere between 39,<br />
and a senior discount, hair slowly graying.<br />
<br />
No need for another bronzed Barbie,<br />
wind blown hair all over her head.<br />
Just give us a big gal with cleavage,<br />
<br />
one who has hot flashes and night sweats.<br />
Put a stash of dark chocolates under<br />
Big Barbie's queen-size bed.<br />
<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: right;">(c)Ann Falcone Shalaski </div><div style="text-align: right;">published in <b><i>Skipping Stones 2007</i></b></div><div style="text-align: right;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">Mindworm Press, Chesapeake, VA</span></div>the mindwormhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12059000238231708875noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7952197138882978391.post-63810282553285576402010-12-20T10:48:00.005-05:002010-12-20T11:33:46.145-05:00Anniversary<span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 20px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><i> for Anne since before 1970</i></span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 17px; line-height: 20px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 17px; line-height: 20px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Your photograph seduced the sun, projected</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 17px; line-height: 20px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br style="line-height: 1.2em; outline-color: initial; outline-style: none; outline-width: initial;" /></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 17px; line-height: 20px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">on the windscreen of my car your presence,</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 17px; line-height: 20px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br style="line-height: 1.2em; outline-color: initial; outline-style: none; outline-width: initial;" /></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 17px; line-height: 20px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">slashed the span from here in Hampton Roads</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 17px; line-height: 20px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br style="line-height: 1.2em; outline-color: initial; outline-style: none; outline-width: initial;" /></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 17px; line-height: 20px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">to California as our letters had</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 17px; line-height: 20px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br style="line-height: 1.2em; outline-color: initial; outline-style: none; outline-width: initial;" /></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 17px; line-height: 20px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">the distance to he war in Vietnam.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 17px; line-height: 20px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br style="line-height: 1.2em; outline-color: initial; outline-style: none; outline-width: initial;" /></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 17px; line-height: 20px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br style="line-height: 1.2em; outline-color: initial; outline-style: none; outline-width: initial;" /></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 17px; line-height: 20px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Our love and dining out and working out</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 17px; line-height: 20px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br style="line-height: 1.2em; outline-color: initial; outline-style: none; outline-width: initial;" /></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 17px; line-height: 20px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">our differences reduced the distance from </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 17px; line-height: 20px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br style="line-height: 1.2em; outline-color: initial; outline-style: none; outline-width: initial;" /></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 17px; line-height: 20px;">our youth t</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 17px; line-height: 20px;">o parenthood as traveling </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 17px; line-height: 20px;">the world and settling in </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 17px; line-height: 20px;">one place</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 17px; line-height: 20px;"> had cut</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 17px; line-height: 20px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">the distance from</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 17px; line-height: 20px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> our youth to our maturity.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 17px; line-height: 20px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br style="line-height: 1.2em; outline-color: initial; outline-style: none; outline-width: initial;" /></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 17px; line-height: 20px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br style="line-height: 1.2em; outline-color: initial; outline-style: none; outline-width: initial;" /></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 17px; line-height: 20px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Although we never knew what might become,</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 17px; line-height: 20px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br style="line-height: 1.2em; outline-color: initial; outline-style: none; outline-width: initial;" /></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 17px; line-height: 20px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">we'd never doubted we'd mature together,</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 17px; line-height: 20px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br style="line-height: 1.2em; outline-color: initial; outline-style: none; outline-width: initial;" /></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 17px; line-height: 20px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">though I have no intention to grow up.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 17px; line-height: 20px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br style="line-height: 1.2em; outline-color: initial; outline-style: none; outline-width: initial;" /></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 17px; line-height: 20px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Although I may have mellowed some, 'tis you</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 17px; line-height: 20px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 17px; line-height: 20px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br style="line-height: 1.2em; outline-color: initial; outline-style: none; outline-width: initial;" /></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 17px; line-height: 20px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">who've anchored our relationship with grace.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 17px; line-height: 20px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br style="line-height: 1.2em; outline-color: initial; outline-style: none; outline-width: initial;" /></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 17px; line-height: 20px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br style="line-height: 1.2em; outline-color: initial; outline-style: none; outline-width: initial;" /></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 17px; line-height: 20px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Nor time nor distance ever shall impose</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 17px; line-height: 20px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br style="line-height: 1.2em; outline-color: initial; outline-style: none; outline-width: initial;" /></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 17px; line-height: 20px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">between us. We are one together; and</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 17px; line-height: 20px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 17px; line-height: 20px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br style="line-height: 1.2em; outline-color: initial; outline-style: none; outline-width: initial;" /></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 17px; line-height: 20px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">when we have shed this earth-bound suit, we shall</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 17px; line-height: 20px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 17px; line-height: 20px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br style="line-height: 1.2em; outline-color: initial; outline-style: none; outline-width: initial;" /></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 17px; line-height: 20px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">be one, together for eternity,</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 17px; line-height: 20px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br style="line-height: 1.2em; outline-color: initial; outline-style: none; outline-width: initial;" /></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 17px; line-height: 20px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">with God, and angels and the universe.</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 17px; line-height: 20px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 17px; line-height: 20px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span></span><br />
<div style="text-align: right;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 17px; line-height: 20px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">(c)pete freas 2007</span></span></div>the mindwormhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12059000238231708875noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7952197138882978391.post-88845478828169524482010-12-19T08:23:00.003-05:002010-12-19T08:26:17.132-05:00Hunting Healing Herbs on James River Banks<div style="text-align: center;"><br />
Remote and awkward legs weak-wobble-walk.</div><div style="text-align: center;">Dear mistress cannot swallow or sit up,</div><div style="text-align: center;">Our voyage carved thin limbs, sallowed her face--</div><div style="text-align: center;">but herbs and roots will speed recovery.</div><div style="text-align: center;">My brother questions workers about springs</div><div style="text-align: center;">where rushing water spurts a growth of cures.</div><div style="text-align: center;">Distracted colonists continue on</div><div style="text-align: center;">until a man called Laydon stops to talk.</div><div style="text-align: center;">A carpenter, he searches timber sites.</div><div style="text-align: center;">He brags of watercress with rounded lobes;</div><div style="text-align: center;">then names a wondrous tree with magic bark.</div><div style="text-align: center;">And he keeps turning, turning toward me.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">Just a layer herbs between the dampened moss,</div><div style="text-align: center;">just lower head and never look at him.</div><div style="text-align: center;">This sawer calls my name and I respond</div><div style="text-align: center;">to one who tries to tease me into smiles.</div><div style="text-align: center;">I focus on his face, his twitching ears.</div><div style="text-align: center;">I stand and stare him down but have to stop</div><div style="text-align: center;">befor a strangeness that I've never seen.</div><div style="text-align: center;">Green eyes hold visions of a form and face.</div><div style="text-align: center;">No lake or mirror shine such imagery.</div><div style="text-align: center;">This man reflects a me who turns around</div><div style="text-align: center;">to grasp my brother's arm and walk away.</div><div style="text-align: center;">All night I hear his laughter--in my dreams.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"><i>* In medieval times, girls were warned never to look into a man's eyes. If you saw your reflection in his eyes, you were destined to marry him</i></span>.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: right;">Patricia Flower Vermillion 2008</div><div style="text-align: right;">from <b><i>Lady's Maid</i></b></div><div style="text-align: right;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">Live Wire Press, Charlottesville , VA</span></div>the mindwormhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12059000238231708875noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7952197138882978391.post-82830048620947569822010-12-18T06:27:00.000-05:002010-12-18T06:27:09.132-05:00ExpectationWhile peeling peaches<br />
I think of my breasts swelling,<br />
a sign of seed,<br />
but I fear my age<br />
like rot next to the bone<br />
and I can't finish in time<br />
all the peaches in the box<br />
turning leprous with mold.<br />
I wonder at the juice<br />
running down my wrists,<br />
how heaven stabs<br />
when you are in the kitchen<br />
on August 15,<br />
working away at night<br />
with sore breasts<br />
and a sticky floor,<br />
how a summons comes up<br />
from the fruit,<br />
reckless and sweet.<br />
<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: right;">(c)Suzanne (Clark) Rhodes 1999</div><div style="text-align: right;">from <b><i>What A Light Thing, This Stone</i></b></div><div style="text-align: right;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">Sows Ear Press, Abingdon, VA</span></div>the mindwormhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12059000238231708875noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7952197138882978391.post-77148804852672178112010-12-17T13:09:00.000-05:002010-12-17T13:09:23.564-05:00InertiaYou wake in my arms.<br />
I am the gray wool<br />
of dawn,<br />
the dream that lingers<br />
as you rise<br />
sinking<br />
from my weight.<br />
<br />
All day<br />
I am thick<br />
walls or air,<br />
mud<br />
that sucks at your feet,<br />
dried seeds<br />
rattling in your head.<br />
<br />
How you fight me,<br />
lugging uphill<br />
sacks of wet sand<br />
as I steal<br />
your breath.<br />
<br />
At night<br />
I am the cool earth<br />
and the quiet stars<br />
<br />
Rest in my arms.<br />
<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: right;">Jane Ellen Glasser 1991</div><div style="text-align: right;">published in <b><i>The Poet's Domain, vol 3</i></b></div><div style="text-align: right;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">Road Publishers, Fairfax Station, VA</span></div>the mindwormhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12059000238231708875noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7952197138882978391.post-54059545519631183732010-12-16T05:33:00.000-05:002010-12-16T05:33:20.936-05:00Solidarity MissionShe spoke no Hebrew nor<br />
knew the city's history while<br />
<br />
riding secretly in a tourist<br />
bus around Jerusalem's streets<br />
<br />
recently quieted by a suicide<br />
bomber at Ben Yehuda market<br />
<br />
taking pictures of walls coated<br />
with memorial plaques, mementos<br />
<br />
that can be looked at in the<br />
safety of home in Virginia,<br />
<br />
like a foreigner so deeply immersed<br />
in exile she can no longer relate nor<br />
<br />
enter into the unsettling rapids<br />
of terror, daily resonating the past.<br />
<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: right;">(c)Michal Mahgerefteh 2009</div><div style="text-align: right;">from <b><i>In My Bustan</i></b></div><div style="text-align: right;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">Poetica Publishing Co, Norfolk, VA</span></div>the mindwormhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12059000238231708875noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7952197138882978391.post-50353839515149724132010-12-15T14:12:00.001-05:002010-12-15T14:13:58.237-05:00The Bedroom ClockReads 2 a.m.<br />
Red digital lines<br />
of today.<br />
<br />
The day closed,<br />
still as a locked church<br />
before even the stained glass<br />
<br />
has come to life;<br />
shut against the sunlight<br />
and the news that will<br />
<br />
break into my life, a thief<br />
who steals my time<br />
measured out<br />
<br />
in pieces.<br />
They make no sound,<br />
except to breathe,<br />
<br />
intake of air so silent<br />
my lungs hurt to stay quiet,<br />
and then, rise only by degrees,<br />
<br />
inches that cannot be heard<br />
for fear the news will be bad,<br />
and the alarm will sound.<br />
<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: right;">(c)Nancy Powell 2007</div><div style="text-align: right;">from <b><i>How Far Is Ordinary</i></b></div><div style="text-align: right;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">Mindworm Press, Chesapeake, VA</span></div>the mindwormhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12059000238231708875noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7952197138882978391.post-23924793589744656402010-12-14T14:12:00.002-05:002010-12-14T14:15:14.511-05:00Thoughts of the First Apple Tree(It is highly likely that this view of the fruit comes from a medieval<br />
pun: the Latin for "evil" is malum and the Latin for "apple" is malus.<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">--Paul Edwards)</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">The lonely first apple tree of all time</div><div style="text-align: left;"> [grew from seed?--too hard a question]</div><div style="text-align: left;"> [maybe from another species' seed--apple trees</div><div style="text-align: left;"> are sluts--everyone knows that]</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">had a decision: where should I stash my seeds?</div><div style="text-align: left;">Should I stick 'em in my fruit</div><div style="text-align: left;">or shoot 'em from my leaves?</div><div style="text-align: left;"> [apple trees appear from 8000 BC</div><div style="text-align: left;"> in the Tien Shan mountains of eastern Kazakhstan]</div><div style="text-align: left;"> [the apple invented gravity--everyone knows that]</div><div style="text-align: left;">I'll stick 'em deep down in my core!</div><div style="text-align: left;">Why? Protection from predators?</div><div style="text-align: left;">Or bribery of the very same</div><div style="text-align: left;">squirrels, horses and monkeymen</div><div style="text-align: left;">so the devious tree's seeds would be branched</div><div style="text-align: left;"> [with free fertilizer] around the world?</div><div style="text-align: left;">Damn slut apple trees [always naked] keeping</div><div style="text-align: left;">doctors away with a big scoop</div><div style="text-align: left;">of Cool Whip liqueur and a porn flick</div><div style="text-align: left;">of Ron Jeremy with Granny Smith.<br />
The "first" apple tree of all time took Eve down</div><div style="text-align: left;"> ["translated"] into English in 1382</div><div style="text-align: left;">has a bad rep because she was sweet and thoughtful</div><div style="text-align: left;">and just wanted to be loved.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: right;">(c)Daniel Pravda 2011</div><div style="text-align: right;">from <b><i>A Bird in the Hand Is a Dumb Bird</i></b></div><div style="text-align: right;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">Poetica Publishing Co, Norfolk, VA</span></div>the mindwormhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12059000238231708875noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7952197138882978391.post-65855578162696898662010-12-13T23:02:00.000-05:002010-12-13T23:02:59.337-05:00Grandmother's FuneralHow the casket gleams<br />
At this shiny funeral<br />
In full sun<br />
<br />
With your small laughs<br />
With the birds who know your name<br />
<br />
Above the morning pall, you fly<br />
Beyond this tree<br />
Of relatives who assemble here<br />
<br />
A burst of sun drives the rain<br />
From the atmosphere<br />
<br />
It's high time, Grandmother<br />
To hear your sparrow's tongue<br />
<br />
In the afternoon<br />
You rustle the flowers of my plate.<br />
<br />
I spy your eye in my napkin ring<br />
<br />
With your small laughs<br />
With the birds who know your name<br />
<br />
Your wings sweep past the parlor door<br />
And dust the air between<br />
Soul and brain<br />
What better fate than yours<br />
To be clean adroitly<br />
<br />
Grandmother, my dreams are made of less and less<br />
They simplify...with time<br />
<br />
Then evening rushes darkly<br />
About the sky and farm<br />
Lighting lamps and in the barn<br />
<br />
Hurrying ghostly horses<br />
<br />
With your small laughs<br />
With the birds who know your name<br />
<br />
The chords of sleep make music<br />
...of creaking wheels and slapping reins<br />
<br />
Who would ever shoo you?<br />
The scarecrow wears a beaming face<br />
And swears that joy lies in the haunting<br />
-- with your small laughs<br />
-- with the birds who who know your name<br />
<br />
And for you, old Wren<br />
That's true, as rain.<br />
<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: right;">(c)Robert P. Arthur 2006</div><div style="text-align: right;">from <i><b>Vijas War and Other Poems</b></i></div><div style="text-align: right;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">San Francisco Bay Press</span></div><div style="text-align: right;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">San Francisco, CA</span></div><div style="text-align: right;"><br />
</div>the mindwormhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12059000238231708875noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7952197138882978391.post-64229967752752476542010-12-12T16:18:00.001-05:002010-12-12T16:18:03.152-05:00MonarchsI don't want to know<br />
The mysteries of Monarchs<br />
Clothed in rainbow raiments<br />
Ready for flight to a winter sojourn as<br />
Cool winds of autumn whisper invitation.<br />
<br />
There are those who say<br />
Circadian rhythms stir them to flight<br />
I prefer to ignore scientific research<br />
And would rather believe<br />
A lover awaits in Mexico.<br />
<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: right;">(c)Beverley Isaksen 2007</div><div style="text-align: right;">from <b><i>I'm Not Leaving Yet</i></b></div><div style="text-align: right;">her chapbook</div>the mindwormhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12059000238231708875noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7952197138882978391.post-87976035132763338602010-12-11T08:58:00.000-05:002010-12-11T08:58:43.534-05:00Common LanguageSilk with strength of steel<br />
Bamboo swaying in the wind<br />
Pliant bodies that must bend<br />
Eyes behind shuttered veils<br />
<br />
Quiet eyes that own the world<br />
Inner fortress never scaled<br />
One common language all<br />
The daily lives of woman<br />
<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: right;">(c)Anne Darrison </div><div style="text-align: right;">from <b><i>Poet's Domain</i></b>, Vol 25</div><div style="text-align: right;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">Live Wire Press, Charlottesville, VA</span></div>the mindwormhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12059000238231708875noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7952197138882978391.post-72320559373178748702010-12-10T11:04:00.001-05:002010-12-10T11:06:40.794-05:00Harbors<div style="text-align: center;"><i>for Joanne</i></div><br />
We reach them as a cat reaches, rolled<br />
as long as it can stretch and yawning. We want<br />
the air--by which we mean the resonance<br />
of the slat and breeze and any mammal leaping<br />
too far away to hear--want that great space<br />
against our pores. Windows? Want them open.<br />
Clothes: off. Do we think film lurks everywhere<br />
we have skin? Photograph that one, we say,<br />
and that, that. It's possible in a village<br />
laughing with gulls to forget the way we walked<br />
or pedaled and gasp toward a laugh of our own<br />
that, as often as we turn, we'll never<br />
account for the long choosing that's kept us.<br />
Remember the old man selling pastry<br />
and fudge, the one who'd climbed the steeple<br />
and seen the destroyer erupt, the U-boat<br />
surface? He had that to tell, sprinting the sand<br />
and street of oyster shell, and still had,<br />
counting the coins and bills back to us. One day<br />
we'll riffle through our common purse for who<br />
knows what to hand as change when someone asks.<br />
<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: right;">(c)Jay Paul 1999</div><div style="text-align: right;">from <b><i>Going Home in Flood Time</i></b></div><div style="text-align: right;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">The Ink Drop Press, Painter, VA</span></div>the mindwormhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12059000238231708875noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7952197138882978391.post-51740105749821736142010-12-09T08:59:00.001-05:002010-12-09T09:00:42.502-05:00If I Could Stretch a Dream<i>For a moment</i><br />
<i>I believed I could</i><br />
<i>stretch a dream</i><br />
<i>from surreal beginning</i><br />
<i>to surreal end.</i><br />
<br />
She is a Montreal<br />
midnight, bright,<br />
exotic, with eyes<br />
the color of a high-<br />
way constellation<br />
<br />
we pass inhaling<br />
Canadian haze.<br />
I touch her flesh<br />
with my mental<br />
fingertips hoping<br />
<br />
to cross ancestries,<br />
an African-Chinese bop<br />
for the ages, a celestial<br />
pulse vibrating beneath<br />
our skins with<br />
<br />
expansive, feathery<br />
wings. I smell her<br />
reluctance, a feminine<br />
defense mechanism<br />
for sun-worshippers,<br />
<br />
rebels with heaven's<br />
residue on their<br />
lips, and Genesis<br />
in their hands.<br />
<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: right;">(c)Synnika Lofton</div><div style="text-align: right;">from <b><i>The Burden and the Gift, Vol 3</i></b></div>the mindwormhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12059000238231708875noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7952197138882978391.post-54344888201221127102010-12-08T08:22:00.001-05:002010-12-08T08:25:03.029-05:00DMV Diaryshe sat on her stool, a throne<br />
for the queen of DMV window E3<br />
waiting to hear the petitions<br />
of the pitiful peasants<br />
soon to be granted an audience<br />
<br />
he sat in a bucket seat, a holding cell<br />
for a prisoner of the bureaucracy<br />
waiting to present his<br />
probation papers<br />
for approval<br />
he was number 11<br />
<br />
she hated her job, a dead end<br />
9 to 5 boring routine<br />
that provided a living<br />
while draining away the days<br />
of her life, youknowwhatImean<br />
<br />
he hated this chore, an infringement<br />
on his liberty, stealing his time<br />
even if just a few hours<br />
<br />
as they both waited<br />
the electric sign above<br />
window E3 flashed the number 11<br />
a mechanical female voice<br />
announced: <i>"Now serving number eleven</i><br />
<i>at window E three"</i><br />
<br />
Responding to the voice, he jumped<br />
to his feet, his eyes searching<br />
for window E3, thinking<br />
that the word "serving"<br />
was a nauseating euphemism<br />
<br />
barely awake despite<br />
recent drug infusions from<br />
coffee and cigarettes she<br />
watched him walk hesitantly<br />
toward her window, he<br />
must be number 11<br />
<br />
the "good morning" greeting<br />
that he was able to manufacture<br />
almost sounded sincere, which<br />
in was not,<br />
and it was not a good<br />
morning for either of them<br />
<br />
she responded with an accusatory<br />
"May I help you?"<br />
he could smell the distaste<br />
on her breath for the irritation<br />
standing before her<br />
<br />
he lost his registration<br />
and needed a new copy<br />
what an idiot she thought<br />
displaying her superior knowledge<br />
of DMV forms she told him he had<br />
not filled in section C of DMV 4017<br />
filled it in for him, directed him to the cashier<br />
now she was puffed<br />
on her own petty power<br />
<br />
with that feeling you get<br />
after confession and five Hail Mary's<br />
be approached the line at the cashier's window<br />
while a mechanical female voice said<br />
<i>"Now serving number fifteen at window E three"</i><br />
<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: right;">(c)Frank Kozusko 2010</div><div style="text-align: right;">from <b><i>The Man in the Moon has no Testicles</i></b></div><div style="text-align: right;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">Poetica Publishing Co, Norfolk, VA</span></div>the mindwormhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12059000238231708875noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7952197138882978391.post-33033804389500988072010-12-07T23:18:00.002-05:002010-12-07T23:23:40.482-05:00MiscarriageWe'd been trying for months<br />
when one night, we heard<br />
what sounded like a baby,<br />
its cries sharpening outside.<br />
Our neighbors had gathered<br />
in the backyard and stared<br />
high into one of the trees<br />
where a young raccoon clung<br />
to a branch bending slowly.<br />
There were holes in the trunk<br />
where its mother had nested,<br />
and this one, no bigger than<br />
your hand, it seemed, flashed<br />
its eyes in fear when spotlight<br />
ricocheted through leaves.<br />
I think about this animal's<br />
face, how it was taken away<br />
from the tree boarded up<br />
now, its mother long gone.<br />
I take comfort in forgetting<br />
the details and hold our son.<br />
<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: right;">(c)Jon Pineda 2004</div><div style="text-align: right;">from <b><i>Birthmark </i></b></div><div style="text-align: right;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">Southern Illinois University Press</span></div><div style="text-align: right;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">Carbondale, IL</span></div>the mindwormhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12059000238231708875noreply@blogger.com0