Musical Musings

Simon and Garfield were right:
I am indeed a rock, an island.
The bell tolls only for me.

Where is my bridge to grant me
safe passage
over the troubled waters of life?

Silence is a sound--
it echoes in my mind,
filling my heart.

Where is the home for which
I am bound?
The comfort there?

Goodbye, love...

(c)Melissa Beebe                              

published in Skipping Stones 2007

Mindworm Press, Chesapeake, VA

Nothing?

Nothing has changed,
     But everything has...
You never phone or come by,
     But you were always there, only a jump away.

Where are we now?
     You say we are here.
But I don't see --
     Maybe I'm the ignorant one?

Isolation is a lethal state,
     (as if you saw it at all);
Together we were one,
     But all that has faded.

I was the believer, your disciple,
     You, the chosen one, my leader.
And there was life, excitement
     Until yesterday when the fog fell.

Somehow, I don't know how to pretend,
     We are still the same,
When nothing has changed,
     But everything has.

(c)Anne Gray                                   

published in Skipping Stones 2007

Mindworm Press, Chesapeake, VA

Joplin

From my speakers
her voice shrieks
a blues shout
ripped from her guts,
a starving animal
that claws her throat.
Spawned in the hollow
of white-trash suburbs
that raged in her ribs,
its hunger numbed
by a needle,
nursed on Southern Comfort,
shivering, sweating,
bleeding into my skin
it bawls
a romantic lament
  "what else can you
       count on?"
Nothing.
The voice
screams and slashes
cries
itself to sleep each night
forsaken
when Janis nodded off
never came down
left it snared
in the tape's loop
to wail alone.

(c)Serena Fusek          2009

published in Skipping Stones, vol VI

Mindworm Press, Chesapeake, VA

Portrait of a Woman in Stained Glass

inspired by Portrait of a Woman in Pergola with Wisteria
by Tiffany Studios
Chrysler Museum of Art, Norfolk, VA

Her gown cascades down her body
          Waterfall    of shimmering folds: turquoise and
violet
Golden breasts glow
One hand gently holds a cluster of wisteria,
Their scent: the essence of warm spring evenings, purple
sky

She gazes through me    and beyond.
Gathered, as she is     into herself
She is pleased.

(c)Amanda Hart Cravotta          2009

published in Skipping Stones, Vol VI

Mindworm Press, Chesapeake, VA

Loss

Drowning in a river of memories,
caught in a dam of stunned disbelief,
empty arms numbed, pierced heart,
left breathing stale air of bereavement,
lost in a deluge of dreary days
          getting up,
          lying down,
waiting for you to change
black and white to Technicolor.

Oh God, only you can make me whole
again!

(c)Laniere Gresham          2009

published in Skipping Stones, Vol VI

Mindworm Press, Chesapeake, VA

Jewel of the Crown

The family that survives generations
for generations to see does so
not on its own, but through the woman
whom God has blessed to be its mother
She who is the vehicle of life
also leads us by example to eternal life
She is the Jewel of His Crown

And when worldliness weighs
her family down, she cushions it
with faith and trust
When framework falters
she holds it together with commitment
and when complexity has us in awe
her prayers spark communication
and understanding

The family founded in His word
is the crown trimmed in gold, forged
from elements of nature and love
The crown is eternal, immortal, invisible
But she is the jewel that gives it
virtue and light.

(c)Nathan Richardson          2005

from Likeness of Being

Raggedy Ann on God

O God, who art a pushover,
loves rubber  babies
and any clay-soft,
tit-adoring thing:
Why have you forsaken me?
Is it my arrowbones?
The scars I see with?

Go on, honky, try me.

Stick your son like a gun in my ribs.
It's flesh you smell, not wax,
and believe me, daddy,
these wings are no prayers.

I will claw your dimpled hands
and rake your eyes,
and twist that plushy image
like a dove's neck.
I will not have you amused
and babbling with your play-doh:

I'm shaped too like a cross to let you off so easy.

(c)Suzanne Underwood Rhodes

from A Welcome Shore          2010

Canon Press, Moscow, ID

A Young Woman's Introduction to Color and Death

In the old-folks home I changed

bed sheets for this white lady.

She was real old, but she liked me

anyway. She’d tell 'bout the days

she was young and the things she’d done.

Said she wrote for a paper back

when most reporters were men.

When she was ready to sleep,

she’d reach up to hold my face—

her hands would always shake—

she’d pull me down to kiss my cheek.

One night she said to me something

like “You know what little girl?  I’m going

to die this week.”  Well, I didn’t know

what to say, felt like a fool standing there

smiling at her, too young to imagine

anyone could plan for  such a thing.

               Can’t usually tell with black people

               till their breath comes fast and shallow.

               But old white folks turn blue before

               they die, like their tired blood stops

               flowing along with their will

               to be the last of their kind.

               It starts at their toes—

               got about two weeks to live

               with blue toes.  As the color flows

               up their feet they’ve got a week,

               maybe less.  When it’s to their knees

               that’s the day they’ll pass away.

Next day when I got to her room she was

lying down—I’d never seen her do that

in daylight.  She hadn’t even pulled the covers

back.  Then I guess she didn’t see the need

to muss up the bed.  She was all dressed up

except that she wasn’t wearing shoes.

She didn’t speak.  That was different,

she always spoke before.  This time

she just smiled as I came close

enough to see her feet were blue.

(c)Allen M. Weber               2010

published in 2010 Fall issue of

the Naugatuck River Review

In the Company of Poets

The threadbare jeans
and coffee-stained pullover
proclaim my profession
as much as the dancing pen
and pad of foolscap.

The pennies in my pocket
are never enough for a tip,
so I arrange them by my saucer
in connect-the-dot portraits
to entertain the waitress.

She'll understand.  I've seen her
scribbling stanzas on the backs
of order tickets, pink tongue tip jutting
from the corner of her mouth
while she sifts words
for a golden phrase
to flawlessly describe--

--the woman sitting by the door
tearing perfume samples
from a magazine,
swiping them on her wrists

--her friend, who teases that
she'll have to rub her arms
beneath her husband's nose
before he'll notice

--or, perhaps, me,
sitting here
searching for a way
to describe her.

(c)Bill Glose                    2005

published in The Poet's Domain, Vol 22

Live Wire Press, Charlottesville, VA

Sense of Scents

I smell rain on a hot slate sidewalk of summer
I smell pine needles on a cold Christmas morning

scents not in my nostrils but in my mind

popcorn at a Saturday cowboy matinee
perfume on a girl at the eighth grade dance
          and on women who perfumed for me
baby powder on my babies and their babies

and more
                        and more
                                                    and more

I smell the fragrance of the nurse's shampoo
as she leans over me to adjust my IV

I smell life

I smell death

(c)Frank Kozusko                   2010

from The Man in the Moon has no Testicles

Poetica Publishing Company, Norfolk, VA

Golden watch

Summer returns as a memory of a childhood,
as a shadow of the time when we were able to wonder
to be surprised and to love,
without apprehension.
While I am like Crusoe exploring the vicinity
in search of a private spot with a river view,
the calendar announces June.
I hope for a day of solitude, for the corridors of a hotel
where I can slide unnoticed like a ghost,
a lunch in a cafe, where no one ever speaks,
a walk in a garden
abandoned centuries ago,
a nap under open windows
with aroma of steaming fields.
I hope for a day which I can make as long as I desire,
as long as it would take me to get bored
not because of its length but because of its content -
a day that can't be measured with any known device.
I hope to dress in white and open tall glass doors,
walk outside in the boiling air of noon
take my golden watch from my wrist,
place it on the burning surface of the parking lot
and step on it
with my
high
heel
shoe.

(c)Irena Flowers              2010

Anesthesia

Lying there naked, draped in white cotton muslin.
For a moment she was an Egyptian queen,
Preparing for her daily ritual, of bath oils and Eucalyptus.

So still, she could see her own heart beating.
Its song echoed loud into the room
Thump-thump! fast and deep, whispering sleep.
Then:  Enter the King!

She could not move, but her eyes followed him,
Trying hard to calculate his thoughts.
He was the King, and surely, this was his kingdom.
With the roar of a Lion he called order to his subjects.

In unison they began to work, much like a fine-tuned turbo.
White lights and sterile incense.
"Am I the lamb on his sacrificial slab?" she thought.
Her thoughts flickered to a whisper.

Sleep, dear Queen, and fear not.
Time will take you into the late hours,
But you'll awaken to a garden of flowers
And dance like a princess once more.

(c)Donna M Kalinski          2010

Lament of Charmian

In Rome my mistress was mistook

And never a harlot was.  Married

               to Caesar, what cared we that he

            had a wife in his foreign

       barbarous land, a ritual we did not know,

Great Isis blessed us here.

Then Caesar died, and Antony came,

My lady was not beautiful,

From an Alexandrine line

               The nose too figured.

              And much too fair.  But my papers,

               my curls, made her--

Blackened, braided, lacquered

          Golds, purples . . . ah my craft

--what she was

               fit for Queendom.  She ruled, but

so did I. . . . We died together

              by that good omen.

       The work of twenty dynasties to bring her

               to that perfection.

               And together we

Made a story for all time.

Myreen Nicholson                   2005

published in The Poet's Domain, vol 22

Live Wire Press, Charlottesville, VA

Choose Something Like a Star

When the heart needs
something to hold on to--
an anchor to cling to--
a safe place to regain peace--
I'd like to choose a star
as Frost advises,
but I find them, first of all,
too far away.
I'd rather something to look at,
feel, hold, or touch--
you can't always see the stars--
undoubtedly human frailty
on my part.
I sought advice and was told
to speak to trees.
Out loud.
Okay.
I've done worse.
I found three trees,
planted in a triangle.
I stood in the middle
and spoke my heart.
They said I was the first person
to speak to them.
They took my tale and carried it home.

They are black locust I fund,
the bark of which is used
herbally as a cathartic;
metaphorically--letting go.

The city has decided
to down these trees
to make the street wider.

Maybe a star . . .

(c)Patricia Adler                              2009

published in The Poet's Domain, vol 25

Live Wire Press, Charlottesville, VA

Take a Look at Your Life

When I was in my forties, a beautiful woman

of 24 fell in love with me.

We worked together and got to know

each other's ways.

She could have had any guy around.

I was married, with three kids

so I don't know why she picked on me

Over a cup of coffee, one morning,

she asked if we could be lovers.

Things weren't going so well at home,

and God, she was gorgeous

but I said no

Later, I thought it over and approached her.

If the offer is still on I say yes,

and so, yes, we became lovers.

Yes, it was like nothing I'd ever known before.

They were writing

good love songs in those days

and I felt like I knew them

from the inside out

I thought our joy would fill the earth
and last til the end of time

We'd meet at her place,
smoke grass, listen to Roberta Flack
and glorify life

One day, she said we should spend
the rest of our lives together.
I said, Look, Ellie, I'm an old man
and you are just starting your life.
She took me in her arms
and made me young once more.

The next day she brought a record
by Neil Young and read the lyrics

Old man, take a look at my life
I'm a lot like you are

She said, I've been thinking,
we have thirty years.  That's all I want.
I said no one more time
and didn't come back.
She went on her way

Twenty-four and there's so much more

this afternoon I was driving into Norfolk
and turned the radio on.
The jazz station playing a piano version
of that old Neil Young song.
God, I almost had a wreck.
Been over thirty years.
I'm in my seventies now and take a look at my life.
It's been a good one.
Those few months with her hang 'round

forever young

(c)Robert E. Young                              2005

published in  The Poet's Domain, vol 22

Live Wire Press, Charlottesville, VA

Objects on the Tray

The Maidservant, Camille Pissarro

The Chrysler Museum of Art     

Is someone not well?  The spoon in the glass
makes me think of medicine.  And her somber
third of a face, as she is walking away, shows

tight lips and gaze looking down, toward, but not
seeing, the objects on the tray she carries
servant-style, no thumb over the edge.

Perhaps it had been ice cream in the glass,
but I doubt it.  And i'm curious about her.
Her abdomen has gone soft and full as a spoiled

cat under the thousand-pleats apron.  The dull
butterscotch dress, how hard it must be to pull
that on every day, no matter how bright,

how white the pretty lace and ruffle collar
with matching cap--and straps, as if
she could ever get away for a walk, say

on the breezy coast and have need to tie it.
Where is the knot for her
apron strings?  I guess it's been worn so long

the knot, unbowed, has disappeared.
She looks too old in posture for that soft,
full cheek and high, modest curve of breast,

and dark (if it's lifted) eye.  The dappling sun
puts a hand through the walkway, despite
the walled enclosure of green, and rests

on her cheek, her dress, the back of her neck
as kindly as it does upon the walk,
the bench, the spoon.  does she feel it?  She is

no one and she knows it.  Almost disappeared
within herself, but useful.  Like the bench.  So why
does my heart ache, right in the center, like heartburn,

for a person I cannot touch, could never
reach; she has already gone ahead, already
rinsed the spoon.

(c)M. J. (Lanehart) Kledzik                         

published in Western Humanities Review, Spring 2000

I Rejoice in Being What I Am

How long did it take me to rejoice
in being what I am?  For twenty-two
years, I'd been looking, searching
for that elusive being who
I felt was there, but I couldn't
quite get a hold of it--or them.
I tried when my children were in school,
I hid it in dresser drawers, beneath
bras, slips, and pantyhose.  When
they were gone, when housework
almost got me down, I'd take it out,
scrutinize it, and put it back, gently.
Now, there is no need for that;
My time is in my hands alone.
I can sit, dream, and write
to my heart's content.  I have
found what I looked for:
I Rejoice In Being What I Am.

(c)Marvel N. Mustard                    

published in The Poet's Domain, vol 22

Live Wire Press, Charlottesville, VA

Adventure

My bare feet climb the prickly rope ladder,

backpack clinging to my shoulders,

heart beating fast.

Pinpricks of perspiration dot my forehead.

I reach between the rope strands

and touch rough, mottled, brown sandstone.

Don't look down!

The canyon floor, covered with scented silver,

sage brush, lies far below.

I crawl over the top.  In front,

are crumbling dusty Anasazi cliff dwellings,

which shelter secrets of the past.

A deep pit, a kiva, with faintly painted walls,

was a sacred place where elders ruled

and discussed the laws of the tribe.

I find a small translucent skull,

surrounded by turkey bones,

gray and black pottery shards

and bits of corn.  The skull,

perhaps exposed by desert scavengers,

rests in my hands:

I see a laughing, bronze skinned child,

dressed in soft skins and plaited yucca sandals,

running from her parents on the canyon floor.

My descent is perilous,

feet feel hesitantly for the next step.

At last firm ground is reached,

my journey is ended.

I look up:  the deep turquoise blue of the sky,

and the silence permeate my being.

I breathe deeply and feel content.

(c)Elizabeth Urquhart                    2005          

published in The Poet's Domain, vol 22

Live Wire Press, Charlottesville, VA

Femininity Cannot Be Lawed

Femininity cannot be lawed,
Nor womanliness voted out of fact.
I would remain a woman, flesh and mind,
Were I to wield a hammer, wrench, or hoe.
The skies would smile and breeze the plane no less
Were I to man the levers and controls;
Yet life could reach a height as deeply felt
As exaltation sweeping a proud father
When he sits down to rock his new-formed child.
I could see myself, still soft with wonder,
Using a welder's torch, or hauling nets;
Or, with a love for all live things, life-risking
To save a burning home and those within.

But I could never see myself in arms,
Tigress tense, prepared to take my toll.
Never!
     Recalling emptied mother arms,
Long centuries and countless banners old,
In empathy I would refuse to go.

(c)Shirley Nesbit Sellers                    2005
published in The Poet's Domain, vol 22

Live Wire Press, Charlottesville, VA

I Rejoice in Being What I Am

How long did it take me to rejoice
in being what I am?  For twenty-two
years, I'd been looking, searching
for that elusive being who
I felt was there, but I couldn't
quite get a hold of it--or them.
I tried when my children were in school,
I hid it in dresser drawers, beneath
bras, slips, and pantyhose.  When
they were gone, when housework
almost got me down, I'd take it out,
scrutinize it, and put it back, gently.
Now, there is no need for that;
My time is in my hands alone.
I can sit, dream, and write
to my heart's content.  I have
found what I looked for:
I Rejoice In Being What I Am.

(c)Marvel N. Musgtard                    

published in The Poet's Domain, vol 22

Live Wire Press, Charlottesville, VA

Le dejeuner sur l'herbe

I'm not embarrassed.  No, my fixed stare
suggests only that you're interlopers on the scene.
Oh years ago, I could rouse a media storm.
Today my nakedness seems nominal.  Clean

country air; a tipped basket of fruit,
a knot of bread; for cloth, the sweet
summer grass--this outing is a holiday from
my cramped flat, heat-swollen city streets.

A friend came with me.  By the sun-lit bank
you'll find her, just risen from a bath,
slipping into a white chemise.  Surely you've
entered into places like this, where faith

distills your life to one shimmering afternoon
and lets you rest there.  But Manet tried
to warn us about opposites.  Since you've
stayed, baffled by the canvas, I'll confide

there is something indelicate here.  Business
suits at a picnic!  Our dates refused to remove
their jackets and cravats.  One stares off, bored,
into the distance.  My suitor in the hat reproves

critics of the latest exhibit at the Salon
des Refuses as if I weren't here.  Their
presence makes me more naked than I am.
Visitors to the museum can't help but stare.

(c)Jane Ellen Glasser               2010

Balcony

She never sought anyone by phone
or mail or happenstance at a store.
Yet here they come, January thaw,
mud kissing rubbers and overshoes,
picking their way over slipperiness
that's no joke to their bones, the shrinking
congregation, feeling not so much
like a body at ease--a puddle,
say, in a hole--but afloat: a slick
and with precious little coloration.

How long had she been an article
in another section, too little
reason to rustle through the paper!
Now she is one to linger over,
wonder what it was like the last night
counting, waiting for sleep to flicker
down the long track, then without warning
a block signal--only it was blood
flashing, beneath the translucent skin
by her ear, the absoluteness of red.

Never one to listen willingly,
she now waits quietly, what they have
of her, but which of them, faces up
(glasses aglint) and lifting into
the parlor of the funeral home,
which fretful one hovering near her
could speak as the occasion requires?
Besides, the pastor has the collar
to comment.  So they lean--the entire
three-sided balcony of them leans over.

(c)Jay Paul                         1999

from Going Home in Flood Time

The Inkdrop Press, Painter, VA

In the romance of grief

In the romance of grief, there are rooms that remain
closed, & for this, the house closes in on the living.

What of the light outside?  What of the bird lighting
on the green clothesline near the shirts & pants?

One summer, the mother walked out into the backyard
& hung damp clothes on the line.

A deer appeared at the edge of the yard & then slowly
walked toward her.  The doe was nervous, its breathing

moving quickly underneath its coat of fur, & the mother
did not move as the animal approached the line

& licked the cool water dripping from one of the shirts.

(c)Jon Pineda               2004

from Birthmark                     

Southern Illinois University Press

Carbondale, Il
for Larry Levis

40

(Love Song to a Young Woman, 1960)

On the first day
In the low green and sacred hush of leaves
The light was keeping its own company

And on the second day
Did I imagine you here breaking the water's dark
Or was it light that was moving from tree to tree

And then, long ago, on the third day,
The river was flowing
And the white birds flying were paths of autumn

and you were my children on the fourth and fifth
     day

All hands and faces and knees of them like light
     releasing
Through the sixth day to tender callings

Out past the grave on the final day

As if to old men who adore you so
That heaven seems less dear than light they know

(c)Robert P. Arthur               1993

from Hymn to the Chesapeake

Road Publishers, Painter, VA

Nothing but a Hat and Chanel #5

Surprised Hubby the other night.

Had a ladies night meeting,

ate out with friends,

came home late--

He was asleep

until...

Surprised Hubby the other night

had a red hot greeting,

started a new trend

that he thought was great.

He WAS asleep

until...

I kicked his gear

into over drive...

nothing but a red hat

and Chanel Number Five.TM

(c)Phyllis Johnson              2007

from Hot And Bothered By It

Community Press, Virginia Beach, VA

First Kiss

for Lips

Her mouth
fell into my mouth
like a summer snow, like a
5th season, like a fresh Eden,

like Eden when Eve mad God
whimper with the liquid
tilt of her hips --

her kiss     hurt like that --
I mean, it was as if she'd mixed
the sweat of an angel
with the taste of a tangerine,
I swear.  My mouth

had been a helmet forever
greased with secrets, my mouth
a dead-end street a little bit
lit by teeth -- my heart, a clam
slammed shut at the bottom of a dark,

but her mouth pulled up
like a baby-blue Cadillac
packed with canaries driven
by a toucan -- I swear

those lips said bright
wings when we kissed, wild
and precise -- as if she were
teaching a seahorse to speak --
her mouth     so careful, chumming
the first vowel from my throat

until my brain was a piano
banged loud, hammered like that --
it was like, I swear     her tongue
was Saturn's 7th moon --
hot like that, hot
and cold and circling,

circling, turning me
into a glad planet --
sun on one side, night pouring
her slow hand over the other: one fire

flying the kite of another.
Her kiss, I swear -- if the Great
Mother     rushed open the moon
like a gift and you were there
to feel your shadow finally
unhooked from your wrist.

That'd be it, but even sweeter --
like a riot of peg legged priests
on pogo-sticks, up and up,
this way and this, not
falling but on and on
like that, badly behaved
but holy -- I swear!  That

kiss, both lips utterly committed
to the world     like a Peace Corps,
like a free store, forever and always
a new city -- no locks, no walls, just
doors -- like that, I swear,
like that.

(c)Tim Seibles               2004

from Buffalo Head Solos

Cleveland State University, Cleveland, OH

I Am Anne--

youngest rabbit in Burras' Burrow,

A creature far removed from harbor towns,

I'm shaped by seasons. Winter caps dry on

stacks of kindling beside our kitchen fire.

Expanding lines of light lift horizons;

then roll back December dark, March rinses

snowy drifts to welcome prim violets.

While Sister works wonders with her sewing,

I wrestle stubborn nettles from sheep dogs.

Paws pain free, they whine to win rescue runs.

Motherless lambs on moors bleat to be found.

Gardens sound water thanks with greedy gulps.

Pestle pushed inside a heavy mortar

scatters blister blossoms on aching palms.

Forgetful, I miss meals while hunting herbs.

Brother John, daydream fed, climbs cloudy sails

to find islands.  My berry basket fills.

I meander, gather isolated

hills, quiet meadows.  Hidden back behind

my heart, they shelter lambs without voices;

lagging snails with lovely whorl-twirl houses.

(c)Patricia Flower Vermillion

from Lady's Maid

Live Wire Press, Charlottesville, VA

"Orelena's" 100th Birthday Wish

(Groundhog Mountain:  Floyd, Co. VA: June 22,1937)

Each morning I awake
on this mountain,
discovering the new sun
flashing its long rays
down into the valley,
showering diamonds
in the fog,
lighting up
a jeweled promised land,
just for me.

Some bright morning
I want to enter death,
sailing on a sunbeam,
wearing my best blue dress,
with my eyes wide open,
with my arms wide open
in welcome,
ready to hear
the voices
of my waiting children,
introducing me
to God.

(c)Jason Lester Atkins

published in Skipping Stones 2005

and in Ripples     2007

Mindworm Press, Chesapeake, VA                                           

Dress Rehearsal

theater in the Round

My father dyed

his hair red for the Claudius Play

(or so I called it, wanting him

to be the star--till mom told me

he was a bad guy--then I cried

and called it Hamlet).  He would

come home from rehearsal

orange-headed, my father and yet not

my father, almost like a clown I watched

him practice falling.  We went to see

the make-up place before the play where

mom said, It's OK, the knives aren't real,

but my father reaching for his rust-stained comb

dropped the stageprop dagger, and his toe bled.

I got to stay up late that night,

look down through shining dark

to watch Claudius rolling over,

my father and not my father

on the wooden O stage below.

His crown slipped down

and his head lay bare and still.

Now flying from Orly into O'Hare, where

the river's dyed green for St. Patrick's Day

and the stores are full of Shamrock hats,

I've been called home to the funeral home

too late to watch Claudius rolling over,

my father and not my father,

his hair not even gray.

(c)M. Lee Alexander          2007

from Observatory                    

Finishing Line Press, Georgetown, KY

Reaper

Pushing the roaring mower through heavy, wet grass,
raising it up on its hind legs, bringing it down
like a mouth over the fluid green to sever
morning glories, nightshade, a ganglia of vines.
Spirits of mint swim upward from shock.
Nothing escapes the power
that scathes the lawn.  Nothing
but the white, sunken face
where Emily's pool was.

(c)Suzanne Clark Rhodes               1999

from What A Light Thing, This Stone

Sow's Ear Press, Abingdon, VA

One Birth

...all the parts, though many, still making up one

single body...and all the parts share its joy.           

(1 Corinthians 12)

          Let us suppose once more:

The ant has scurried back

into earth's loins,

sweetness on its back.

It hurries past; we recognize

its coveting, the white-gold burden

of its satchel -

and we bundle ours more diligently,

twice.

          A scattered fall

has given way to tight, appointed

frost.  Our workshoes press

a lode - the gopher's tunnel, dragged

time and time again, bloodless

and bloodletting in its maze.

     Once more we recognize

the corridor, purest

always when our heel strikes hard

and opens up a vent.

The burrow air will wish its way

unchecked, zealous in its ache

for exits, smooth or rough-

edged at the ends.

          The breeze relies on them....

          All that seeps in will outpour,

manifest in fresh aroma, sour

in a bone's delay,

the consummation real

in each death.

          Let us suppose we all consume,

will be consumed, and consummate

our living with the heart pressed

hard against the freeze.

A child cries quietly.

We cannot hear the call,

unless an icicle, drawn-out and

patient, close to mouth, melts

with the rush of heartwarm particles

puffed free.

          Their carom crazes the cave -

all shells, all crystal, carbon,

lode of iron hidden in the shaft,

gem and no-gem breached

and treated to the same birthing.

          The wall is clean eruption,

burst of steam that thaws a single

glacier, single stream -

a single exodus of people....

          Ah, how they tug; how we

tug: open at the wrist, digit and thumb,

yolk and tip fingering each other -

tender now, most tender.

          And the nerves band into one

          ascension, out to spring.

(c)Sofia M. Starnes     2008

from Corpus Homini

Wings Press, San Antonio, TX

Strangers in the Wind

They keep
mimicking
the seasons,
volatile fragrances,
elusive winds

with gentle, but
heavy hands.
She,
          she,
she,

          them,
sentimaental lights
burning in child-
hood dreams, past
landscapes with

innocence's fruits.
They place their
visions in time's
unearthly possession
and distrust man's

intentions.  I'm
surrounded by fleshly
angels that don't
recognize the origins
of my wings.

(c)Synnika Lofton                    2005

from The Burden and the Gift, Vol 3

The Poetry Juggernaut Movement

The Turning Time

My friends talk of recipes
and clothes, swirl ice in frosted
glasses, whisper of affairs.

Idle men are so divine,
they confide.  I pause, toss
it all off with a braceleted wrist,

and as easily as breathing slip
into thoughts of you; coaxing
me down winding paths,

resurrecting me like a vintage
champagne.  The improbability
bewildered me.

Such a feeling can only come
once.  It's the turning time,
my friends say, sipping

white wine spritzers.  Intoxicated,
I see you in everything, feel
the same flush of heat that passed

between us when I wrapped
myself around you, all too
ready, unbuttoned my blouse without

a care.  The beauty is,
you'll soon forget.

(c)Ann Shalaski               2007

from A World Made of Glass

San Francisco Bay Press, San Francisco, CA

A Place Apart

I lit the votive candle
in front of the plastic Virgin Mary,
hung with rosary beads this morning;

the morning after I buried my father.

Watched the wick lick
the air, a hot flame dot
holding in the blessing it gives.

the morning after I buried my father.

Aged furniture creaked,
musty dust filled my nose,
someone else's life,
lying loosely on bones.
The day grayed itself into the window,

the morning after I buried my father.

I mourned like the dove
singing itself into the world again,
tasting the trickle of dew,
and willed myself to walk in the daylight.

The morning after I buried my father.

(c)Nancy Powell                    07

from How Far Is Ordinary

Mindworm Press, Chesapeake, VA

Ithaca, 1945

My love, some evil wind blew you astray.
We carry on alone, my son and I,
Watching, each night, Apollo's horses die
Across the western sea, I can't betray
The anger in my heart at being prey
To unknown armies, horrid in their pride,
Taunting me with fears that you have died.
We know the gods must blow you home some day.
These three brief years alone can seem a score,
Weary waiting with a heart of stone.
Your son and I yearn for some God-sent sign
Saying the sea-spent sailor comes ashore,
Bearded and brown, wind-whittled down to bone.
My absent love, you list too long a time.

(c)Philomene Hood                                2003

from Ride Home Through Scented Grass

Pearl Line Press, Zuni, VA

Thoughts of the First Apple Tree

(It is highly likely that this view of the fruit comes from a medieval     
pun:  the Latin for "evil" is malum and the Latin for "apple" is malus.

--Paul Edwards)

The lonely first apple tree of all time
     [grew from seed?--too hard a question]
     [maybe from another species' seed--apple trees
     are sluts--everyone knows that]
had a decision:  where should I stash my seeds?
Should I stick 'em in my fruit
or shoot 'em from my leaves?
     [apple trees appear from 8000 BC
     in the Tien Shan mountains of eastern Kazakhstan]
     [the apple invented gravity--everyone knows that]
I'll stick 'em deep down in my core!
Why?  Protection from predators?
Or bribery of the very same
squirrels, horses and monkeymen
so the devious tree's seeds would be branched
     [with free fertilizer] around the world?
Damn slut apple trees [always naked] keeping
doctors away with a big scoop
of Cool Whip liqueur and a porn flick
of Ron Jeremy with Granny Smith.
The "first" apple tree of all time took Eve down
     ["translated" into English in 1382]
has a bad rep because she was sweet and thoughtful
and just wanted to be loved.

(c)Daniel Pravda                    2011

A Bird in The Hand Is a Dumb Bird

Poetica Publishing Co, Norfolk, VA

Do I Really Know Who I Am?

So long I have wondered
Now I know - I am a misplaced person.
Things around me are dissonant and strange,
I seem to belong in another time, another century.
I cannot imagine how it happened...
Someone else's skin encloses me-
I dont think I can give it back.
All right, I will accept this body
But my mind is what
I really want to keep as me.
My ideals for this space I occupy
Stay with me, hopefully to nourish changes
And foster respect one for another.
Oh, I enjoy being who I am-
Born to play the part of a thorn.
My convictions cause a lot of laughter
And disagreement when I speak
Of how I wish we would present ourselves.
Ah well, this old body
May not last long enough
To see my young friends become misplaced, too.

(c)Beverley Isaksen     2007

from I'm Not Leaving Yet

9.5 on the Richter Scale

He curled
opposite-ended from me
his head to the foot board
his body on top of the covers
mine tucked below
and we became the San Andreas Fault
the re-enactment of an earthquake
forms that had just touched
accidentally beautiful
tragically timed

Left with the perilous topography
of a queen-sized bed
and our natural tendencies to avoid embrace
our mutual denial of anything that could be stable
upright everlasting or secure

We avoided the center as if it had become the Grand Canyon
I almost whispered feelings aloud
knowing that the echoes would reach him
because my arm span can only conquer single beds
But I feared sound could
reawaken the ground
knocking Richter to his knees
and my fragile heart into the river rapids of sheets that
separated my skeleton from his exposed brick facade

I had never seen him as vulnerable as then
Legs pulled to his chest, fetal position
as if crouching below his desk at school
like they taught him to do in case of an emergency

I wanted to spoon him--hold him
like he had always wished someone would

But I do not know his wishes
and I have saved all my sudden movements
to get me out the door
before alarm clocks and aftershocks
threaten my internal structural system

Sadly, I am not insured for earthquakes or
breakfast in bed

(c)cheryl snow white     2007

from snow white lies

For a Man She Never Knew

In her nightgown,
she stood by the sink
washing mint leaves
for a fresh cup of tea,

and while sipping
the morning news
died in an ambush
caught her attention.

The Israeli flag flew
at half-mast as his body
lowered to El-Maleah
Rachamim prayer.

Mother took into her
heart the ancient words,
seared with pain, for
a man she never knew.

(c)Michal Mahgerefteh     2009

In My Bustan                        

Poetica Publishing Company, Norfolk, VA

My Sister's House

My sister's house sits by a pond,
a mirror to the woods;
from the deck we listen to the birds
chat with the ducks and geese,
our favorite alarm clocks,
raucous and reliable.

Arriving here is to dip into
a warm relaxing bath,
preamble to exchanged massages
after sunning our nude bodies
in green country privacy,
soft breezes our sweet music.

At my own house I can never
sleep quite so peacefully
as here with lavender morning light
as backdrop to friendly crowds
of tall deep purple trees,
nature's calm protective fence.

Her gleaming hardwood floors reflect
my sister's shining spirit,
her timeless beauty lingers longer
than the full grown pink hibiscus
blooming by the guest room window
blessing my sleep.

The beavers in her pond could never
be fonder of their lodges
than am I of my sister's home
where love and conversation
are more tasty and satisfying
than her gourmet meals and wine.

My city house cannot compare
in terms of natural beauty,
but I'm hoping when she visits
her heart will feel the welcome
radiating from my hearth
as I always do from hers.

There is no sibling rivalry
in my dear sister's house,
her mother was not my mother,
'though it often seemed that way
through these many treasured years;
this sister was my heart's choice.

(c)Mary Curro                                  2009

published in Skipping Stones Vol VI

Mindworm Press, Chesapeake, VA

Church Ladies

Ladies of a certain age
listen to the sermon,
Nod heads in approval
Of the preacher's words,
As if their assignation
Gave the Lord permission
To multiply the fishes
And heal the leper's wounds.

(c)Beverly Outlaw)                      2006

published in Skipping Stones 2006

and in Ripples

Mindworm Press, Chesapeake, VA

As I Fell Asleep

My mother screamed while smashing my daddy's face
With a chipped plate she had to stretch to reach
I know I saw her fingers dancing to reach it
lThe one plate on the edge of the table
My mommy smashed my daddy's face
And I stood still in the corner
Seeing words coming out of
My daddy's face
his words were bleeding
Flying streams of blood
I turned and ran over my tears
My mouth opened wide
But only silence came out
So I went outside cried
While walking in circles
Pulling my hair
I hurt but can't find the hurt
Then something wonderful
Something strange
Happened to my tears
Falling to the earth
I paused at the strangeness
At the tears falling
Tears falling
Changing into rose petals
The more I cried
The more rose petals
Fell into a heap
Of softness
Beneath my feet
I covered my ears
As I fell down
Burried myself
Into the mound of petals
I covered myself in rose petals
Clung to their slippery sweet smelling
Fragrance then smiled
As I fell asleep

(c)Joaquin C. Richardson                    2009

published in Skipping Stones Vol VI

Mindworm Press, Chesapeake, VA

Cute

I saw her in the train station
Outside of Prague

Elated; much to my American surprise
She smiled and I smiled back
Oh my what remarkable teeth

Her significant shadowed other clubbed me
Aside my head with a pipe
Broke my jaw
And then roughed me up; stole my things and wallet
not that I was aware

I woke up the next morning
In a foreign hospital

Damaged, much to my American surprise
Not knowing where I was
I looked around and thought

Man
she was cute
As cute as a cobra

(c)Patrick Carr                                      2009

published in Skipping Stones Vol VI

Mindworm Press, Chesapeake, VA