Poets and Poems - Peter Newton

 

 Joy Ride

It’s my first day on the assembly-line outside Detroit. The job -- bore holes in steering columns for Winnebagos. Day-in and day-out I will thread the metal blocks in front of me. I will wear my goggles. I will be on-time. A white oily lubricant splatters everywhere. It’s noisy. I don’t fit in here. But I’m home from my freshman year of college with something to prove. And I need the money.

                       morning drive-thru exhausted sparrows

The guys on either side of me are street-wise ex-husbands with restraining orders. At  lunch, they like to swap stories about their various run-ins with the law. Their B & Es alone-- breaking and entering-- could fill a book. And they’re quick to remind me what a real education is.

Life on the street, man. They’ve got the scars. And like to show them off. I’m no one to them. They take turns calling me “College Boy.” I am someone to look through. Talk at. Teach what tough is.

“Welcome to the joy ride,” Tiny says, his gut shakes like it’s full of Jell-O.

                       shop-talk
                       the Tigers and Miss June
                       staring back at me

Poets and Poems - Merrill Ann Gonzales

What a marvelous place to be
where the day falls away
in an easy walk
and the soul rushes over
every rock and weed
in its symphony
under the hawthorn tree!

Merry Christmas
GOD Bless us every one!

     Merrill Ann Gonzales...written 12/9/10

Poets and Poems - Priyanka Bhowmick

IN THE SILENT WIND

Swarming up to my spine,
The lusty fingers,
As I walk,
In the silent wind.
Singing the eternal elegies of life,
My mind crumbles with the bygone years,
Played in the tattered strings of seclusion,
Provoking my core with an enormous thrust,
Cracking up my heart with ablaze,
I can hear my blood seethe,
As I walk,
In the silent wind.
The fate of my survival,
The spill of the fiery memoirs,
Tormenting me brutally,
Stabbing my soul second by second,
Tears that streamed down my eyes,
Turned acidic today,
I hear them still bawling,
As I walk,
In the silent wind.

(Published in the Cynic Mag- Aug 2010)

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Poets and Poems - Neal Whitman

Ode to the Monterey Peninsula

We love…

to stand on Lovers Point in the early morning
   watching when the waves break
   how water droplets rise to form fleeting rainbows.
to walk by Hawk Tower in the early evening
   imagining Robinson Jeffers atop
   as he waits for the rise of Orion over Carmel Bay.
to sit on the Old Monterey Wharf
   spooning seafood chowder in bread bowls
   while we wait for our whale watching charter.
to sip wine in a Carmel Valley tasting room
   the world looking better
   through bottled poetry.
to picnic on Point Lobos at China Cove
   half-cursing that seagull who steals
   half a tuna sandwich right out of my hand.
to sit by the Carmel River
   listening to the symphonic river run
   as water moves over its pebbled bed.
But, most of all,  we love to meet tourists
   vowing "Some day we will make this our home."

   As we once said. And did.

Poem by Neal Whitman
Photograph by Elaine Whitman, "Asilomar Sunset, Pacific Grove"

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Poets and Poems - Pravat Kumar Padhy

 

SONGS OF LOVE

On each page of night
You compose the poem of love
Shyly dawn knocks at your door.
As you are still
In the half way of your song,
You request the beauty night
To stay with you
For a little long .
… … …

The waves of warm feeling
Spread over
Slowly on the sands
Of your aspiration.
Smilingly your shyness
Mingles with a new skyline
Murmuring another moment
Of ecstasy of union.
… … …

Throughout night
Your smile gathers
The petals
Of the blooming buds.
I discover
Every morning
Your freshness
Becomes the garden
Of my life.
… … …

In your cosmic love
I search the
Cause of the creation
And wish
I could discover
Adam and Eve
… … …

I sleep on the waves
Of your shyness
With your deep signature.
On the rolling edge
Of sweetness,
The music
Of the tides of the night
I closely remember.
… … …

We climb many heights
Embodying soul to soul.
Our love,
In your richness valley,
Silently brims
As the imprint
Becomes awaken
Like a tender leaf.
… … …

Our life scripted
A new stanza.
Like spreading branch
And sprouting flowers
We all grow, and
Imprints of life carry
To another
Generation of tree.
… … …

I go back to the
Pages of time
And read the poetry again.
I plunge to think how
Time shapes our mind.
With beauty and bliss
It is more to
A celestial journey indeed.

Brief biographical sketch

Pravat Kumar Padhy born in India, professionally a Petroleum Geologist, Holds Masters and Ph.D from Indian School of Mines, Dhanbad. He lives with his wife, Namita and two daughters, Smita and Rupa. Poems widely published and anthologized including “Contemporary Indian English Love Poetry”. Literary work referred in Spectrum History of Indian Literature in English, Alienation in Contemporary Indian English Poetry etc. Short Poems, Haiku and Tanka appeared in number of literary journals (both print and web) in India, USA, UK, Japan, Australia, New Zealand, Africa including Poetry Time, Poet, Creative Forum, Poetcrit, Kritya, World Haiku Review, LYNX, Akita International Haiku Network, Poetry Pages, The Notes From the Gean, The Four Seasons of Haiku, Poetbay, Anglo-Japanese Society (Tanka Online), Ambrosia, Sketchbook , Atlas Poetica, Kokako, Berry Blue Haiku, Simply Haiku, The Houston Literary Review and others.

Poets and Poems - Richard Krawiec

waiting to be beaten

an old rug hangs
from the wires
before the Royal Inn
a stucco wound
masquerading as comfort
for the perpetual hopeless
men of bag-sagged eyes
and 4-days beards
women bound with barbed wire
and rose tattoos on wine-
flaccid thighs
even the rip
of cocaine
or a bloodied fist
fails to move them
beyond this

dust-laden hairball bed
to a streaked window
where the rising sun
glistens yellow
then white

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Poets and Poems - Curtis Dunlap

love poem

sometimes
I like to imagine
that she's
googled me;
she'll read
a few
of my poems
in an online
journal,
remember
the one
I penned for her
decades ago.
she'll rise from her chair,
retrieve an old shoe box
from a closet,
sit down
at the kitchen table
with a cup of coffee,
tenderly lift
and unfold
a yellowed scrap
of notebook paper,
read that love poem
aloud,
smile,
look wistfully
out the window
into
her rose garden
and say,
"I'm glad
I didn't marry
that poor bastard."

The Wild Goose Poetry Review Volume 4, Issue 4 Winter 2009

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Poets and Poems - Charles P.R. Tisdale

Winter’s Last Snowstorm

It is too cold for argument, and yet, teeth chattering,
You would have me, walking down this country road,
Explain the reasons for my silence. Winter’s last snowstorm
Lashes past the budtips on the trees, stinging my wrists
At the point between pocket and cuff,
The Achilles heel of all casual talkers caught
Empty handed, quite content to let a wincing eyelid
Become the numb imposter of response. Nevertheless,
A few words are in order, and I give them readily,
To resolve the differences, sticking the orange plug on
What for me was a snowman, for you, apparently,
A ghost without a tongue.

Forgive me. I would not presume upon the future
So confidently if this were October and the snow
Falling deeper than my boots. Then we must have talked
A life measured by the words. As it is, barely a tenth
Of an inch scuds like beachsand across the roadway,
Clings on the forsythia and the flowering quince,
Weighs upon their branches the ice sculpture of memory,
Melting – lightest of canvas – beneath the season’s warmer pigments,
Its yellow streams of sundrops, firepinks of read.

In this whirlwind of spring, how can you ask me for my word?
I verge near the surface, paying lip service
To the sedative of speech, choosing other than the sound
The certitude of blooms. There is no use for answers
When you and I both see this is winter’s last requirement.
Up the road a dog sniffs the shoulders, lean and lonely
For a bone.

"Winter's Last Snowstorm," in New North Carolina Poetry: The Eighties. Ed. Stephen Smith, Green River Press, 1982, p. 89.

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Poets and Poems - Steve Roberts

EVERY  FEBRUARY  THE  SUN  FLIES

My water bottle empty, I’m too exhausted
To haul my surfboard to the ocean.
Creatures persist; or don't.
Too many species already extinct,
Which alternate facet of energy
Will take their place -- ?
Could molten lava have shaped
Abundant water into a heart:
Vessel, vein, and chamber, bubbles for lungs . . . ?
Inside tree-like bellows flames roil.
( -- Would I dream the unrecognizable creature
From which I was produced . . . ?)
Feet not barefoot since summer
Submerge into the water, warmer than the air.
The cloud bringing a sudden chill,
A couple of seagulls glide  
Beside my wind-sheared, tearing eyes.
My flimsy hat’s rim flaps as I stumble north. Impossible
To make headway like the gulls. I zigzag
Until a thousand invisible
Leg-biting sand piranhas turn me back
The direction I came from.
My legs like shock-absorbers, a gust of wind thrusts me forward.
The horde of surfers drips out
Of the white-capped chop.
I would glide, were I a gull,
Molt like an up-&-down-&-in-&-out sun.

~  ~  ~

Read about Steve's collection of poems entitled Another Word for Home via the link below:

http://www.mainstreetrag.com/SRoberts.html

If you would like an autographed copy, email Steve at poetsroberts@gmail.com.

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Poets and Poems - Jack Brae Curtingstall

The Unknowable River

No more can you know its flow than the flow
of blood in your wrist, the branched veins that show
before bedding into the palm of your hand:
the mountain streams that cut the higher land,
that hide the arrowed fish that go where they go.

So you'll climb to the place where the sun's glow
betrays the gravelled channel of springs. No
map is detailed enough or fully planned.
No more can you know

the clear dream of water that moves so slow,
where mountain trout hug the anti-shadow
of speed, the nemesis of ground stone, sand
so fine it niggles deep, grits in your mind
to the eeled spawning-beds of fear below.
No more can you know.

Jack Brae Curtingstall

[Originally appeared on Politely Homicidal]

Photo by Gerard Sexton

Poets and Poems - Joseph Milford

ALABAMA GRANDPA

He would walk out to the garden and eat an onion like an apple.
He wore the camel's hair and leather but did not sup on cicadas and tupelo honey.
He would take the buttermilk in a tall glass and stir in the cornbread.
He would take dead birds and taxidermy them and put them on the mantelpiece.
He would cut wooden swords for you from plyboard, shields too.
He would use the hearing-aid faltering as a way to ignore usual bullshit.
He would shoot up insulin in a matter of fact way, talking of football.
He would let crows fly out of his crow's feet around his watery eyes.
He would not comfort you--he would reassure you--hand you a set of tools.
He would plant the okra plant the squash plant the 'maters husk the hewn.
He would never complain he would never swear he would never part his hair.
He would not own a gun or talk bad about my mom or abandon a friend.
He would not cry when rattlesnake killed Snowball the cat but he cried for Fred the terrier.
He would never leave the table without a burp and he loved those Cheez-Its.
He would claim only once to have seen a UFO, and it was only real for me in his voice.
He would build miniature cities and dollhouses and sheds that were replicas of his shed.
He would become the bear that talks to me in my dreams, and he would be stern.
He would walk with a walker towards the end he would levitate he would hover.
He would always answer the phone when I called and say, "Hey Buddy-Ro!"
He would whittle, never spit--he would not cantanker--he was even-keel.
He would build a tire-swing for anyone--he would comb his hair back smiling.
He would fix a railroad track in the knick of time and steal two seconds for himself.
He whittled toothpicks of the next nonchalant moments, birds stealing splinters for nests.

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Poets and Poems - Pris Campbell

Jump Start

You jump-started my heart.
It beats a forgotten rhythm.
Resurrected are old passions,
hid behind that fake indifference
I wore like a favorite dress.
Tossed are blindfolds I hastily tied
whenever couples kissed.

Aging now, my past
slid over the mountaintop,
a new sun has risen.
I imagine you inside me,
bodies creating our own
1001 nights as we shed
any veils left between us.


Pris Campbell

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Poets and Poems - Michael Dylan Welch

Flowers on the Roof of Hell

in this world
we walk on the roof of hell
gazing at flowers
                —Issa (1763–1828)

Today Issa came over for dinner.
Nothing fancy, just Thai take-out from the place down the road.
He came on foot, carrying a satchel.
I welcomed him at the door, and he removed his sandals.
The low evening sun sparkled
through the tall glass of water I gave him.
He admired it before he drank it in one go.
I showed him to the living room, where he sat on the couch,
almost delicately. Then, as if conscious
of his bare feet, he curled them up under himself.

We talked of poetry all through dinner,
stray noodles landing on the plain wooden table as we ate.
We talked of favourite poets and poems,
and the challenge of writing freshly about old subjects.
We talked of writing one’s joy in a fiercely crushed world,
of flowers on the roof of hell.

When he told me it was time for him to go,
I asked if I could give him a ride
but he declined, as I knew he would.
He had a long way to travel,
but held a finger to his lips and gently shook his smile.
Then Issa took his sandals in hand
and padded off into the dark.

I opened the satchel he left behind.
Inside it bloomed white asters.

Michael Dylan Welch

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Poets and Poems - Gene Murtha

Directions

Let us walk for awhile. Bring along the pick ax, spade and knapsack hanging in the shed. You will find them on your right just inside the split barn door.

Walk through the trellis in the rear garden, it is the trailhead that leads through the forest. Be careful, there are roots to your left sticking up from the grade from an old pin oak—I don't want you to spill me, well, not yet.

Follow the trail until two paths merge, then stop. Take the pick and break up the hard pan. You will find ribbons of clay and sand. Mix them together with the shovel to create loam.

Add the ashes from the velvet bag that you will find inside the sack, this will improve the soil too. If you feel inclined to say something over my remains, then, that is fine, but it is not important, since you have done enough.

It will be spring soon. Already, you can hear the chickadees.

recycle day
a washed out worm
in the rain puddle

[Originally published in contemporary haibun online]

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Poets and Poems - Raffael de Gruttola

pen and ink drawing

from an open window
a woman
watches the world
of butterflies
transparent waves
of sun and air
in her gaze
a certain wistfulness

the landscapes
change
the soil is still
deep red
on the cement walls
staid epitaphs--

from her brush
black paint
drips...
from her lips
the memories
that mix
today with yesterday
trees with trees
and an occasional song

Poets and Poems - Bouwe Brouwer

Nepal


a stray dog
chases his own tail
prayer wheels rattle


sunset
losing time
at every toll booth


village square bustle
the flies
on my balcony


buddhist chants
far above the stupa
a direct flight


devotion
the flies in the temple
on the light bulb


--Bouwe Brouwer

[Photo by Christa Bouwmeester, taken while traveling through Nepal this winter at a temple in Kirtiput, Kathmandu Valley.]

http://www.deoudezeeman.web-log.nl/

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Poets and Poems - Christopher Herold

One Drop of Rain

Beneath an azure sky
I enter a stand of maples
on a path concealed
by fallen leaves.
There
a leaf full of holes
stops me.

One round hole
through a leaf full of holes
on a path concealed
by fallen leaves
in a stand of maples
stops me
beneath an azure sky.

The stone
seen through a hole
in a leaf full of holes
stops me
on a path concealed
by fallen leaves
in a stand of maples
beneath an azure sky.

The slight impression
in a stone
under a hole
through a leaf full of holes
on a path concealed
by fallen leaves
in a stand of maples,
stops me
beneath an azure sky.

I stoop
and discover the raindrop
from last night’s storm
which filled an impression
in a stone
under a hole
through a leaf full of holes
on a path concealed
by fallen leaves
in a stand of maples
beneath an azure sky.

It stops me.

Reflecting
from a raindrop
which filled an impression
in a stone
under a hole
in a leaf full of holes
on a path concealed
by fallen leaves
in a stand of maples . . .
There!
The azure sky.

—Christopher Herold

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Poets and Poems - Naia

All That Remains

Of all the seasons
it is, perhaps, winter
that seeps in the deepest
holds on the longest
faces the struggle to let go
with a tenacity for staying,
the lakeshore a self-portrait
sculpted with her icy fingers-
one of the last she relinquishes-
waning now in these
lengthening days.

The old jack pine bears
her touch still, the way
a lover might, yearning
for one last glimpse,
as if he alone
could keep her here,
the few snowy clumps
on his drooping branches
all that remains before
the first crocus.

[Poem written August, 2009 upon viewing "The Jack Pine" by Tom Thomson, oil on canvas, 1916, on display at the National Gallery of Canada in Ottawa, Ontario.]

Photo credit: Deborah P. Kolodji

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Poets and Poems - Paul MacNeil

HAIBUN

under the lotus

- Paul MacNeil

A river flows through the lake. One tributary joins very slowly through a broad delta called Duck Cove. There is no channeled entrance to this cove -- no sandbar from a heavy current. A mile across, the marsh is filled with silt from little streams and organic muck at least deeper than a paddle's length. Methane bubbles jostle but don't alarm the frogs.


cupped in white --
water lily perfume
floating


under the lotus --
salamander eggs
in jellied chains


I move the canoe through the outer screen of aquatic plants to an inner channel. Underwater, more plants wave in the current. Hiding there are schools of minnows, tails pointing back to the lake.


lost
behind pickerelweed walls
paddling through flowers


canoe’s slow glide
a column of gnats parts
and re-forms


Grasses in the middle of the cove surround rocks and the remains of trees, giants of past centuries.


a snapping turtle
rests in the sun --
merganser leads her brood


Several permanent and many seasonal streams enter the cove from Barren and Benson Mountains. Taking a right fork of the channel leads to a stream from far up between the two. Again the current becomes unnoticeable as the shallows of the marsh give way to the bushes and trees of land. In the swampy woods, I walk past clumps of green rushes still depressed where deer rested beside the path. The ground rises a bit to a decaying clearing with the remains of a tarpaper shack. A retired railroad man, an accident victim, once lived here year-round. With only one arm, Louie wielded with good effect both an ax for his firewood and a shotgun for his poaching. The trail leads past a rusted stovepipe, elbow joint and cap toward the sound of moving water.


beyond the brook
pure tones of a hermit thrush
a flick of brown


Spencer Brook flows down the slope through moss-covered boulders, emerald, bathed by the water. Ferns fill the damp gullies entering on either side. It is not wide. I can usually cross it in one or two steps. The woods encroach and cover it well.


leaf canopy
the green light
of filtered sun


In the deepest pools I fish with the smallest hook in my box tipped with a little bit of earthworm. Instantly a brook trout attacks it. I lift a three-incher from the water. It wriggles off. The immature trout is beautiful with bright spots of color among its vertical, dark-blue bars. The bait isn't needed at all. Another strikes at the shine of the hook but is too small to be really hooked. A quick splash and right back to the spillway or in under the overhang. This small place is nursery for a race of wild trout; this water from the high mountainsides is purity itself. After climbing more than a half a mile with the brook, I find it forks several times -- each branch petering out within several dozen yards. A hunting trail continues on past the divide of the watercourse down to an unnamed deadwater bog and Indian Pond.


The Notch --
mountains come together
and change names


behind the mountains
more green ridges
becoming blue



*** ***

This haibun was first published in Modern Haiku, 29.1, 1998, slightly amended

photo credit: Yu Chang

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Poets and Poems - Dannye Powell

Before John Died

he asked a group of friends
if we’d bake cookies for the gathering
after his funeral. The men
looked down at their black shoes
and shuffled, one, two. The women
were already flipping through
their recipes, trying to decide
what kind. While he still breathed,
we prepared a feast for his sure death.
Creaming the butter and sugar, alternating
the ghostly flour with the pulsing milk
situated us between here and there,
now and then. How like John
to invite us to a place
where nothing is as it‘s going to be
while everything still is.