Waking up on the Beach
Squint the ears
against bright traffic
and see calm caves
swim the breaking air
Taste the night-howl’s breath
above table-tapping-smoke-talk
and steady the rising tug
of belly-fingered songs
Touch the waves’ salt-wet smiles
as they lap the funeral shore
and earn the ocean’s spread
receding into blue
-Eric G. Muller
against bright traffic
and see calm caves
swim the breaking air
Taste the night-howl’s breath
above table-tapping-smoke-talk
and steady the rising tug
of belly-fingered songs
Touch the waves’ salt-wet smiles
as they lap the funeral shore
and earn the ocean’s spread
receding into blue
-Eric G. Muller
Distraction
A man walks down the street
reading a book,
so absorbed
he does not notice
his fellow citizens
walking down the street
text messaging,
so absorbed
they do not notice approaching disaster.
-Gary Beck
reading a book,
so absorbed
he does not notice
his fellow citizens
walking down the street
text messaging,
so absorbed
they do not notice approaching disaster.
-Gary Beck
Brief
Early morning
Ice already melted to dark wet
On slate roofs
Except for
An elongated shadow of white
On the shaded shingles
Behind our auburn chimney
Am I a fading shadow?
-Daniel Wilcox
Ice already melted to dark wet
On slate roofs
Except for
An elongated shadow of white
On the shaded shingles
Behind our auburn chimney
Am I a fading shadow?
-Daniel Wilcox
Stress Dream
56.
During his moment in the spotlight
he announced his itinerary
to an audience that included luminaries
from various walks, fashion to literature.
Among those present was his wife
(her full recovery still some time away),
who remained seated throughout the day.
Meanwhile, over cake and lemonade,
the man of the hour confirmed
his intention to motor west--
though he would not follow the route
outlined in the song.
He would instead take the backroads
and see America one farmer’s market at a time.
-Thomas Cochran
he announced his itinerary
to an audience that included luminaries
from various walks, fashion to literature.
Among those present was his wife
(her full recovery still some time away),
who remained seated throughout the day.
Meanwhile, over cake and lemonade,
the man of the hour confirmed
his intention to motor west--
though he would not follow the route
outlined in the song.
He would instead take the backroads
and see America one farmer’s market at a time.
-Thomas Cochran
Water Burial
His skin was translucent,
full of fish gliding underneath.
Crustaceans groped veins,
begging for support,
for fibrous anchors.
He was a walking aquarium,
with seaweed and rocks
collapsing like sand castles,
each step a balance of water.
With a sigh he passed by,
trailing sand like a train,
salt a wave of clear scent,
a cloud above him.
His eyes full of water,
staring straight ahead.
-Valentina Cano
full of fish gliding underneath.
Crustaceans groped veins,
begging for support,
for fibrous anchors.
He was a walking aquarium,
with seaweed and rocks
collapsing like sand castles,
each step a balance of water.
With a sigh he passed by,
trailing sand like a train,
salt a wave of clear scent,
a cloud above him.
His eyes full of water,
staring straight ahead.
-Valentina Cano
Wishing a Zero
From the altar a tulip
falls upon my tensed brows.
A fillip gushes though my veins
longing for divine bliss.
The temple priest smiles
and I fail to articulate my wishes.
Enough of running with
the bag of wealth with
pythons trying to coil
me at each turning of road.
I wish for zero now.
God! Only God and my life
will be a Godly one.
-Sonnet Mondal
falls upon my tensed brows.
A fillip gushes though my veins
longing for divine bliss.
The temple priest smiles
and I fail to articulate my wishes.
Enough of running with
the bag of wealth with
pythons trying to coil
me at each turning of road.
I wish for zero now.
God! Only God and my life
will be a Godly one.
-Sonnet Mondal
The Poet Speaks of the Drought
Curtain of Flame
Your curses, your orthodoxies, you
who breed hungry vines
behind a curtain
of flame
how can I love you, my tongue
lacerated by blades
of wind?
Who is stronger than your rage?
Who bakes this tasteless bread
and refuses us salt
or seeds? Whose words drown
in some nightly pretense of disease?
How small, oh how tiny
and pulled down we are, how little
we know beyond the endless
drifts. Torches and eyes through these
buds of snow. We shall sing in the storm, raise
voices and hands, an old
song about horses in the meadows
of spring. Violets and a cool
stream, and everywhere butterflies and broken
cocoons. This heat: a curtain
of rustling flame.
-Steve Klepetar
who breed hungry vines
behind a curtain
of flame
how can I love you, my tongue
lacerated by blades
of wind?
Who is stronger than your rage?
Who bakes this tasteless bread
and refuses us salt
or seeds? Whose words drown
in some nightly pretense of disease?
How small, oh how tiny
and pulled down we are, how little
we know beyond the endless
drifts. Torches and eyes through these
buds of snow. We shall sing in the storm, raise
voices and hands, an old
song about horses in the meadows
of spring. Violets and a cool
stream, and everywhere butterflies and broken
cocoons. This heat: a curtain
of rustling flame.
-Steve Klepetar
La Bandera
You heard me calling in the numbest corner of night
from beneath the broken bedspread
with rusty springs
summer afternoons
dust bunnies gather till Easter
and the clocks have all been dead for years
yet a bell chimes atop a Mexican cathedral
Hidalgo runs through my veins as children play futbol
on nameless streets
cars roar day and night in careless dust
unaware that they are dirty, and this makes them
purer than you and me,
we can see our flaws and try to feebly mend the breaks
in the butterfly’s wings,
caterpillars die and green mota paves the road toward gold dust
and coca
the zoo is the semen-stained mattress and the hole
that keeps calling you back.
-Matthew Dexter
from beneath the broken bedspread
with rusty springs
summer afternoons
dust bunnies gather till Easter
and the clocks have all been dead for years
yet a bell chimes atop a Mexican cathedral
Hidalgo runs through my veins as children play futbol
on nameless streets
cars roar day and night in careless dust
unaware that they are dirty, and this makes them
purer than you and me,
we can see our flaws and try to feebly mend the breaks
in the butterfly’s wings,
caterpillars die and green mota paves the road toward gold dust
and coca
the zoo is the semen-stained mattress and the hole
that keeps calling you back.
-Matthew Dexter
A Survey of the Land in Utah
In Utah, everything is so flat.
Sometimes, I piss in the dirt to dig trenches and carve dimples in the ground
like the earth is smiling.
-Ryan Poynter
Sometimes, I piss in the dirt to dig trenches and carve dimples in the ground
like the earth is smiling.
-Ryan Poynter
The Perfect Body
It's in me, it's part of who I am,
it's something I just can't help.
It makes me see no beauty
and have a feeling I wish I never felt.
Hiding away, my biggest fear being the mirror.
Thoughts in my mind just won't leave
with my face soaked from tears.
There's always something that needs changing,
so much I think I lack.
I don't compare to others, the "perfect" person
with blonde hair, blue eyes and not an ounce of fat.
-Megan Hendricks
it's something I just can't help.
It makes me see no beauty
and have a feeling I wish I never felt.
Hiding away, my biggest fear being the mirror.
Thoughts in my mind just won't leave
with my face soaked from tears.
There's always something that needs changing,
so much I think I lack.
I don't compare to others, the "perfect" person
with blonde hair, blue eyes and not an ounce of fat.
-Megan Hendricks
Wish Fulfillment
Imagine being tone deaf
to what everyone else can hear--
he’s standing on stage
in front of an orchestra
rehearsing a symphony.
The orchestra soldiers on,
though his cues are wrong,
and he's out of touch.
When they fail to follow,
he flies into a rage.
He threatens to tear up
the stage, break instruments,
rip sheet music to shreds,
topple music stands--
king of the stage at last.
In my fond wish he flees
at the performance,
banished by the audience
that listens in the way of all audiences,
in recognition and surprise,
following the golden thread of pleasure
wending its way through rills and valleys.
Behind each melody, a fainter melody--
music is time outside of time.
One moment, ever remembered,
is never lost, while always lost,
like sunlight on a flowing stream.
This is the paradox,
the crux of art.
The winds blow warm, and sigh, and cease;
summer comes, the sun is full and rich,
and the music seems to go on by itself.
The audience’s response
touches us like sunlight.
It dances on my sleeve and bow;
I feel and know it
and keep on playing.
-Anne Whitehouse
to what everyone else can hear--
he’s standing on stage
in front of an orchestra
rehearsing a symphony.
The orchestra soldiers on,
though his cues are wrong,
and he's out of touch.
When they fail to follow,
he flies into a rage.
He threatens to tear up
the stage, break instruments,
rip sheet music to shreds,
topple music stands--
king of the stage at last.
In my fond wish he flees
at the performance,
banished by the audience
that listens in the way of all audiences,
in recognition and surprise,
following the golden thread of pleasure
wending its way through rills and valleys.
Behind each melody, a fainter melody--
music is time outside of time.
One moment, ever remembered,
is never lost, while always lost,
like sunlight on a flowing stream.
This is the paradox,
the crux of art.
The winds blow warm, and sigh, and cease;
summer comes, the sun is full and rich,
and the music seems to go on by itself.
The audience’s response
touches us like sunlight.
It dances on my sleeve and bow;
I feel and know it
and keep on playing.
-Anne Whitehouse
After Irene
After the storm passed,
and the rain stopped,
and the wind at last died down,
night fell, warm, velvety,
and moonless.
In the morning,
the sun gilded all it touched
in cleansed and glistening air,
and the plants of the earth
sprang back to life.
Lying about
were fallen trees and broken branches,
downed power lines and wrecked buildings.
The waters no longer raged,
the floods were receding.
We went about repairing the damage,
finding what was essential,
how to survive.
-Anne Whitehouse
and the rain stopped,
and the wind at last died down,
night fell, warm, velvety,
and moonless.
In the morning,
the sun gilded all it touched
in cleansed and glistening air,
and the plants of the earth
sprang back to life.
Lying about
were fallen trees and broken branches,
downed power lines and wrecked buildings.
The waters no longer raged,
the floods were receding.
We went about repairing the damage,
finding what was essential,
how to survive.
-Anne Whitehouse
