Desecration
I placed it like a reminder
in the corner of my computer screen;
all day I kept coming back to it:
the web cam a mile underwater
recording clouds and plumes of filth
expelled like an explosive diarrhea
from the bowels of the earth,
convulsive, unstoppable,
polluting the soft, blue-green waters
and pure white sands
of the warm, salt sea,
its rich, teeming, varied life--
dolphins playing at dawn,
stealthy, sinuous sharks,
fish the colors of the rainbow,
vibrant corals and seaweeds,
mollusks and crustaceans,
the most magnificent birds
and intricate shells--
fouled and mired in the earth’s shit.
The very substance of our greed
come back to contaminate the world,
until the last fires of internal combustion
are quenched.
-Anne Whitehouse
in the corner of my computer screen;
all day I kept coming back to it:
the web cam a mile underwater
recording clouds and plumes of filth
expelled like an explosive diarrhea
from the bowels of the earth,
convulsive, unstoppable,
polluting the soft, blue-green waters
and pure white sands
of the warm, salt sea,
its rich, teeming, varied life--
dolphins playing at dawn,
stealthy, sinuous sharks,
fish the colors of the rainbow,
vibrant corals and seaweeds,
mollusks and crustaceans,
the most magnificent birds
and intricate shells--
fouled and mired in the earth’s shit.
The very substance of our greed
come back to contaminate the world,
until the last fires of internal combustion
are quenched.
-Anne Whitehouse
The Pink Parade
Some images stick for a lifetime,
like that of cherub-cheeked Joey Fitzpatrick,
4th grader, Rockwell red, a wad of pink
Bazooka Bubble Gum
on the bridge of his freckled nose,
Sister Lucilla, Principal and Mother Superior,
clamping the crook of his elbow.
This is what you get if caught
with gum in your mouth at my school,
Mother Superior said and then whirled him
into the hall and paraded him
and that wad of gum on his nose
room to room, eight in all,
and I wondered
whether every classroom had the same reaction
as we did in third grade:
the headshaking, the finger-pointing,
the snickering.
Was he still sobbing?
Later, I wondered: did that intense
pink taste still linger
when Joe was longhaired and full-bearded,
homeless,
when death took him by the crook of the arm?
-Robert E. Petras
like that of cherub-cheeked Joey Fitzpatrick,
4th grader, Rockwell red, a wad of pink
Bazooka Bubble Gum
on the bridge of his freckled nose,
Sister Lucilla, Principal and Mother Superior,
clamping the crook of his elbow.
This is what you get if caught
with gum in your mouth at my school,
Mother Superior said and then whirled him
into the hall and paraded him
and that wad of gum on his nose
room to room, eight in all,
and I wondered
whether every classroom had the same reaction
as we did in third grade:
the headshaking, the finger-pointing,
the snickering.
Was he still sobbing?
Later, I wondered: did that intense
pink taste still linger
when Joe was longhaired and full-bearded,
homeless,
when death took him by the crook of the arm?
-Robert E. Petras
All That Glitters is Not Gold
I met Elisha Dorado at a party.
When I flashed him my all American, white teeth beautifulest smile,
He let me blow his famous GOLDEN gun,
For free.
All night long, it lasted.
In the morning,
My teeth were yellowed,
Nicotine-stained,
And I wondered if I had caught
Lung cancer.
-Alain Marciano
When I flashed him my all American, white teeth beautifulest smile,
He let me blow his famous GOLDEN gun,
For free.
All night long, it lasted.
In the morning,
My teeth were yellowed,
Nicotine-stained,
And I wondered if I had caught
Lung cancer.
-Alain Marciano
One Day
One day you will rise and know
How beautiful you are,
Why heads turn when you walk in the room
And other eyes gaze, entranced.
Or, if not blessed with beauty,
You may still be blessed,
By wonder or kindness,
Wit and intelligence.
Discovering as you grow
How your soul can glow,
Bloom with mystery;
Then draw from a well of wishes
A dazzle of ecstatic bliss.
One day you will yearn for something
Scarcely known or understood,
Then ache with torment; transient sorrows,
Feel the first ice of terrible regret
Of losing joy; too beautiful to own.
One day you will learn
That all good things must end,
That change must craft the shape of lives
With forces beyond the reach of reason.
And one day you will understand love
Be sure of this.
-John Stocks
How beautiful you are,
Why heads turn when you walk in the room
And other eyes gaze, entranced.
Or, if not blessed with beauty,
You may still be blessed,
By wonder or kindness,
Wit and intelligence.
Discovering as you grow
How your soul can glow,
Bloom with mystery;
Then draw from a well of wishes
A dazzle of ecstatic bliss.
One day you will yearn for something
Scarcely known or understood,
Then ache with torment; transient sorrows,
Feel the first ice of terrible regret
Of losing joy; too beautiful to own.
One day you will learn
That all good things must end,
That change must craft the shape of lives
With forces beyond the reach of reason.
And one day you will understand love
Be sure of this.
-John Stocks
Untitled
Comp Poem
Here I sit not a care in the world
The sun washes my face clean
My big hairy beard makes me look like a man of the sea
but I have never been on a poop deck and known its name.
I am totally free
Not one thing can come and upset me not today
Not one the day is mine.
Thoughts of yesterday and long ago swept well under the carpet for now.
God that carpet is getting high though
Touch the ceiling soon.
Thoughts don’t trouble me only remind me.
A tasty tea smells good passing through the clean autumn air
Not mine though.
No tea for me. I hunger as I always have and always will.
Well it would take me more
More than one dayand one poem to work that one out.
See you tomorrow. More poems from home.
-Marc Carver
The sun washes my face clean
My big hairy beard makes me look like a man of the sea
but I have never been on a poop deck and known its name.
I am totally free
Not one thing can come and upset me not today
Not one the day is mine.
Thoughts of yesterday and long ago swept well under the carpet for now.
God that carpet is getting high though
Touch the ceiling soon.
Thoughts don’t trouble me only remind me.
A tasty tea smells good passing through the clean autumn air
Not mine though.
No tea for me. I hunger as I always have and always will.
Well it would take me more
More than one dayand one poem to work that one out.
See you tomorrow. More poems from home.
-Marc Carver
The Book of Twilights
We sat below the neon-lit palms like we always did when
you were small, a rose and gold colored sky between us and
the lightening crackling down a hundred miles away,
columns and hives of black cloud rising, rising upward like
gods atop the horizon of the ocean off in the distance,
I remember your young and frightened eyes looking up at me
for comfort before you out grew me--
that brittle sound of the clamshell road in the moonlight
on our way home every night.
-Jéanpaul Ferro
you were small, a rose and gold colored sky between us and
the lightening crackling down a hundred miles away,
columns and hives of black cloud rising, rising upward like
gods atop the horizon of the ocean off in the distance,
I remember your young and frightened eyes looking up at me
for comfort before you out grew me--
that brittle sound of the clamshell road in the moonlight
on our way home every night.
-Jéanpaul Ferro
A Glance Back
On a trip to the grocery store,
framed in the rear-view mirror,
an old woman drives behind me,
her cheeks lined like sandbanks
after heavy spring runoff, clear
blue eyes, glasses on a thin nose.
Not that she’s so much like Mom,
but enough, just enough, and tears
well up before I can even think,
ache down-shifts the gears, how
she rides in my passenger seat,
how tightly I still grip the wheel.
-Jerry Kraft
framed in the rear-view mirror,
an old woman drives behind me,
her cheeks lined like sandbanks
after heavy spring runoff, clear
blue eyes, glasses on a thin nose.
Not that she’s so much like Mom,
but enough, just enough, and tears
well up before I can even think,
ache down-shifts the gears, how
she rides in my passenger seat,
how tightly I still grip the wheel.
-Jerry Kraft
We Were Wild Things
We were wild things, hungry for passion and meaning, navigating through the jungles of life in the treetops.
We were wild things, howling at the moon with a newfound vigor, our veins alive and pulsing with unburdened joy.
We were wild things, huddled together in the dead of night with nothing but the heat from our conjoined hearts to keep out the blistering cold.
We were wild things, inhaling our lust in the form of smoky spirals left to drift through the night into oblivion.
We were wild things, our love of existence dwarfed only by the powerful bond we shared.
We were wild things, caring not for the constraints of time and embracing every moment given to us, with a childlike innocence that gave us ultimate freedom.
We were wild things, dancing gracefully under the covers, entwined together as the trunks of two trees wrapped in a singular growth.
We were wild things, rulers of our own personal heaven, fit to wander the streets of gold to our hearts' content.
We were wild things, and our songs were laughter, sung at the top of our lungs until we were out of breath.
We were wild things, rejoicing under the cover of darkness, staining the night air with our raucous jubilation.
We were wild things, embracing the unknown, shielded by the purity found in the simple enjoyment of each other and the world around us.
We were wild things, and together we rekindled a raging fire in our hearts that had long been extinguished.
We were wild things, and history shall never forget us.
-Cody York
We were wild things, howling at the moon with a newfound vigor, our veins alive and pulsing with unburdened joy.
We were wild things, huddled together in the dead of night with nothing but the heat from our conjoined hearts to keep out the blistering cold.
We were wild things, inhaling our lust in the form of smoky spirals left to drift through the night into oblivion.
We were wild things, our love of existence dwarfed only by the powerful bond we shared.
We were wild things, caring not for the constraints of time and embracing every moment given to us, with a childlike innocence that gave us ultimate freedom.
We were wild things, dancing gracefully under the covers, entwined together as the trunks of two trees wrapped in a singular growth.
We were wild things, rulers of our own personal heaven, fit to wander the streets of gold to our hearts' content.
We were wild things, and our songs were laughter, sung at the top of our lungs until we were out of breath.
We were wild things, rejoicing under the cover of darkness, staining the night air with our raucous jubilation.
We were wild things, embracing the unknown, shielded by the purity found in the simple enjoyment of each other and the world around us.
We were wild things, and together we rekindled a raging fire in our hearts that had long been extinguished.
We were wild things, and history shall never forget us.
-Cody York
Tempting
Nobody loves me more than Miss Hooker,
not even my parents, not even my
dog. Not even God. I never see Him
anyway, but to be fair, Miss Hooker
--she's my Sunday School teacher--says that
He's
everywhere. Well, no wonder I can't see
Him if I can't pick Him out from trees and
toys and cars and telephone poles and sand
on the beach, not that I've ever seen one.
It's the principle of the thing. I love
Miss Hooker, too, and want to marry her
but she's not ready to love me that way
so every night I pray like Hell that God
will prove He loves me and make her younger
and me older so that one morning we'll
wake up the same age, 18, just about
the average of our ages, 25
and 10. Miss Hooker says Thou shalt not tempt
the Lord thy God. That's a Bible-ism
or maybe she got it off the TV.
I think it means I shouldn't dare to dare
Him to do anything I wouldn't do
myself. Or maybe it means I shouldn't
ask for favors just for me--that's being
selfish. Or maybe I just shouldn't push
Him too far or He'll push back with a shove
that might knock me over, even kill me.
Then at last I'd see Him up close but
I kind of hate to go that far. I don't
know what I'd say, or if I'd have a mouth
to say it with. Maybe I'd introduce
myself but of course He knows who I am,
He made me, at least kind of--He made me
through my parents though I'm not sure how, we
don't learn about babies in Sunday School,
save Jesus, Whose mother was a virgin,
whatever that is. Maybe that's someone
who's never been kissed. I'm one of those, too,
never been kissed by a girl, that is, who
wasn't my mother or grandmother on
both sides or sister or cousins. Hello,
I'd say to God--I've heard a lot about
Thee, and try to shake His hand, if I still
have hands up in Heaven, and if He
has them, too, I guess He does--I was made
in His image, but if neither of us
has them then that squares us so we'll shake them
anyway, unless He won't take mine. And
I really won't be in Heaven yet, just
close enough to see the entrance sign, as
I stand before God and await judgement,
but if He lets me in I guess we'll shake
them and if He doesn't I'll show Him what
a good sport I am before I'm off to
Hell. No hard feelings, I'll say. I'll mean it,
too--I'm not a sore loser. Miss Hooker
loves me more than He does, I can feel it
when she calls on me, as she sometimes does,
to lead the class in the Lord's Prayer, and
her eyes are closed and she thinks mine are, too,
but I peek to see what she looks like when
she's asleep and her head's bowed like she's too
tuckered to stay alert and needs a nap
--that really clutches me, I want to go
over where she's sitting in her big chair
and kiss her smack on top of her head
and try not to wake her but if I do
there's at least a chance that she'll kiss me back
and if she does she'd better dismiss class
and we'd better get out of town before
it's too late, though I'm not sure what too late
means in that case, something about a law
being broken and maybe its spirit
too. I expect that God will rescue me
and maybe it will mean that He really
does loves me more than she does, or it's close,
or she's God herself. That's what you might call
blasphemy but I don't care, I'll risk it
all for the chance to be right. If I'm wrong
then when my time comes I'll go to
Hell but that's the breaks, somebody has to,
we can't all live with God. That's sacrifice.
Who knows but I'll see Miss Hooker down there.
I hope not and I hope so. I won't lie.
-Gale Acuff
not even my parents, not even my
dog. Not even God. I never see Him
anyway, but to be fair, Miss Hooker
--she's my Sunday School teacher--says that
He's
everywhere. Well, no wonder I can't see
Him if I can't pick Him out from trees and
toys and cars and telephone poles and sand
on the beach, not that I've ever seen one.
It's the principle of the thing. I love
Miss Hooker, too, and want to marry her
but she's not ready to love me that way
so every night I pray like Hell that God
will prove He loves me and make her younger
and me older so that one morning we'll
wake up the same age, 18, just about
the average of our ages, 25
and 10. Miss Hooker says Thou shalt not tempt
the Lord thy God. That's a Bible-ism
or maybe she got it off the TV.
I think it means I shouldn't dare to dare
Him to do anything I wouldn't do
myself. Or maybe it means I shouldn't
ask for favors just for me--that's being
selfish. Or maybe I just shouldn't push
Him too far or He'll push back with a shove
that might knock me over, even kill me.
Then at last I'd see Him up close but
I kind of hate to go that far. I don't
know what I'd say, or if I'd have a mouth
to say it with. Maybe I'd introduce
myself but of course He knows who I am,
He made me, at least kind of--He made me
through my parents though I'm not sure how, we
don't learn about babies in Sunday School,
save Jesus, Whose mother was a virgin,
whatever that is. Maybe that's someone
who's never been kissed. I'm one of those, too,
never been kissed by a girl, that is, who
wasn't my mother or grandmother on
both sides or sister or cousins. Hello,
I'd say to God--I've heard a lot about
Thee, and try to shake His hand, if I still
have hands up in Heaven, and if He
has them, too, I guess He does--I was made
in His image, but if neither of us
has them then that squares us so we'll shake them
anyway, unless He won't take mine. And
I really won't be in Heaven yet, just
close enough to see the entrance sign, as
I stand before God and await judgement,
but if He lets me in I guess we'll shake
them and if He doesn't I'll show Him what
a good sport I am before I'm off to
Hell. No hard feelings, I'll say. I'll mean it,
too--I'm not a sore loser. Miss Hooker
loves me more than He does, I can feel it
when she calls on me, as she sometimes does,
to lead the class in the Lord's Prayer, and
her eyes are closed and she thinks mine are, too,
but I peek to see what she looks like when
she's asleep and her head's bowed like she's too
tuckered to stay alert and needs a nap
--that really clutches me, I want to go
over where she's sitting in her big chair
and kiss her smack on top of her head
and try not to wake her but if I do
there's at least a chance that she'll kiss me back
and if she does she'd better dismiss class
and we'd better get out of town before
it's too late, though I'm not sure what too late
means in that case, something about a law
being broken and maybe its spirit
too. I expect that God will rescue me
and maybe it will mean that He really
does loves me more than she does, or it's close,
or she's God herself. That's what you might call
blasphemy but I don't care, I'll risk it
all for the chance to be right. If I'm wrong
then when my time comes I'll go to
Hell but that's the breaks, somebody has to,
we can't all live with God. That's sacrifice.
Who knows but I'll see Miss Hooker down there.
I hope not and I hope so. I won't lie.
-Gale Acuff
Waking Up Together
Barely awake, we float
across our bed like clouds
over undulating dunes
and valleys of lush loam.
Sleep-mist lifts over parched lips,
and our feet move like nomads
toward the warmth of each other.
Our most secret places
have buried their keys
inside the swirls of our fingerprints,
and we slip into each other’s hands
promising suggestions--
unopened letters carried by envoys
returning to their homeland.
-John Middlebrook
across our bed like clouds
over undulating dunes
and valleys of lush loam.
Sleep-mist lifts over parched lips,
and our feet move like nomads
toward the warmth of each other.
Our most secret places
have buried their keys
inside the swirls of our fingerprints,
and we slip into each other’s hands
promising suggestions--
unopened letters carried by envoys
returning to their homeland.
-John Middlebrook
