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Thursday, December 8, 2016

Margaret Roncone ---- four poems

 Language is a Flame

I burn rosebuds,
to find
the birthplace
of my grandmother
who understood sorrow,
nylons wrapped
around ankles
potatoes boiling
on an ancient stove
a man who misunderstood
even the food
she placed before him
nothing warm enough
soft enough
only the wreck of a car
sitting useless
under the old cherry tree.

In This House

I move from room to room
balls of my feet
flapping against wood
refrigerator hums
its numb song
dusk air passes
its invisible hand
as the porch’s slatted ironwood
holds  plant debris
deer come and go
leaving nothing
but a spot of cropped grass
green laces of cedar
open and close mouths
of branch
I am in awe of everything
whether it has lungs
or a soul of wood.

What I Hear

Smoking or fainting
are not allowed
on the vessel
my mind often
plays tricks
to protect me
from damaged people
from the upside down moon
with no tether
from silver spoons
pretending to create
I simply ask
please warn against potholes
please retract sharp
please display
silence sign
so all can see.

The Father as Artist

tell me again how your father instructed you into the language of food
how you      his first daughter    learned to balance an egg
on morning's shifting edge

learned  mustard was a color 
to shade sky   and trunk of trees
cream     a luxury  found
in stealing glances    a neighbor woman pruning roses
an ankle teased beneath her dress

tell me again how your father spoke without anger
stood at the window     watched
as the winter moon rose like the silver dollar stolen
from your grandfather's nightstand

he placed it in your hand
told you to trust your instincts with strange men
never leave questions unanswered like an open door.

new poem by Koon Woon

At a Hostel

She danced me to the spare room,
Then swallowing the key, said
“If you something need however late,
Tap on the ceiling.”
Pigeons cooed under eaves.
And she winked a snow petal.
Train whistles before entering dark tunnel.
The key churned and tingled in her belly;
Smiling, she turned and tip-toed up the stairs.

Such luck was not for me.
I could not be startled into start.
Motionless, only my thoughts climbed with
A half-step moon.
So like a dingy in choppy water,
The sheets fought me in two consecutive dreams.
But when morning came as I gave mourning to
Badly spent night,
She laid out fruits and coffee as my
Eyes open to obliterate the false picture of night.

Koon Woon
December 8, 2016

Wednesday, December 7, 2016

Poem by Koon Woon

To Begin where the Road Ends

Does this road end
where wind is desolate breath?

Is this where the water begins
bounded by tidal crash?

Is this soggy man’s laugh
any match for death?

Death un-clocked
but ebbing past.                                                                

I  say:
as I walk to end of day,
my energy ebbs
when this road diverges,
I choose the “less-traveled path.”

And when you too have traveled its length,
We shall dance upon the virgin grass!

(poem using 5 arbitrary chosen words, underlined)

Koon Woon
December 6, 2016

Saturday, November 12, 2016

New Hope

When hope is undone, the world just seems wrong,

can’t allow hate a voice within this throng.

Turn your back as a sword covers the pen,

won’t take my will to write, not even then.

Advice from the wise, throw hope a life-line.

Feathered hope, Emily wrote in her time;

a way through is hope, according to Frost,

or Yeats’ daughter of hope when all seems lost.

Remain alive, your hope must rise supreme,

Poe described as “A Dream within a Dream”.

One path followed, even one less traveled,

hopelessness must fade, its cause unraveled.

Remember your voice, when choices are found,

Mem’ries of joy now, let new hope resound.

Julie A. Dickson

Exeter, NH

Tuesday, October 4, 2016

Three New Poems ---- Julie A. Dickson

The Telling
Once I made a necklace blush
when I was in my prime;
the necklace was my grandmother’s
until she made it mine.
On her final birthday she
took it from her neck;
placed her arms around me
lest I not forget.
She told me many stories,
one hundred years of skin;
the necklace worn upon her chest,
stories she had kept within.
Her own grandmother had worn
the necklace I wear now;
when I was young, she gave to me
the memories she kept somehow.
Once I made a necklace blush,
to youth I was akin;
soon the stories I will tell,
one hundred years of skin.
Julie A. Dickson
Exeter, NH


Cutting [Tanka]
Silent heat, heavy
stagnantly weighted stillness
cut by blades of air,
pensive propellers whirring,
a most pleasant blur of breeze.
Julie A. Dickson
Exeter, NH

Summer Singing [Triolet]
“One of these mornings/You're going to rise up singing/Then you'll spread your wings”
 [George Gershwin: Porgy and Bess]
The day I awake to singing
I know I’ll be spreading my wings
Praise to the sun I’ll be bringing
The day I awake to singing
Echoes of harmony clinging
The fragrance of violin strings
The day I awake to singing
I know I’ll be spreading my wings
Julie A. Dickson

Exeter, NH

Wednesday, June 29, 2016

Poem ----- Julie Dickson

Listen to the Dragon

Quiet, I said to the dragon after a while;
He kept speaking well beyond the moment
I had stopped listening.
He went on, as if he had more to say…
Was it important for me to hear his words?
I sighed and began to listen intently
to the wisdom he imparted patiently,
he, who was the designated scribe,
he, the chosen to chronicled the lore
of dragons, before and after the millennia,
when humans did not walk among them,
at the time when the realm was young.
If humans had not ventured across the great blue,
landing in wooden ships, building their castles,
how different our history might have been.
Previous to this, we lived by the dragon code
hunting, feeding ourselves and eventually
humans arrived and we watched our realm change.
I nodded as if he had spoken aloud, but
Suddenly looked down at his still form –
Tattooed upon my skin, his frozen gaze,
outstretched claws and wings, a warning?
Ah, so you do listen to my words after all –
perhaps there is hope.

Julie A. Dickson [Based on Ragethe: Chronicles of Dragon Lore - Trafford Publishing, 2006

Tuesday, May 17, 2016

Poem ---- Joanna Sit

Soldier, Night
                                                                                    In memory of Danny Chen                   
By mountain night moon he reads
            his future, the distant fire
seems close but he knows it can never be
reached in time, that he can
not be saved, that he will dissolve
                        but his bones, blood will run

towards it anyway, even as all promises multiply
even if they will say he couldn’t endure
    the gravel he had to crawl through
                           those sharp rocks those small missiles daily
curse cutting across troposphere tracking
           his foreign body his immigrant scent

there will be no witness
                           except his people’s memory
skin torn to mend someone else’s universe
to be a man apart
to keep another child safe in night
                        lights, shapes of seashells

or octopi, each bulb an eye in the tip of tapered tentacle,
cut like candles that never flicker
            never waver until its circuits break
  until its flow interrupted
               like the life he used to have
in a city he used to know

    when he was the child who opened
            his eyes midnight facing
                         East he’s here now
under mountain night stars brimming
he’s alone in the tower facing up
to the wheel of fire, the magic spokes
            tangled to varicose madness

and he won’t wait
                        for the rose to open
                        for the gun to weep

and he won’t wonder
about the boy who lies
            about the wolf and now lies bleeding

     in this motherless season

he won’t tell anyone
            when the sky falls down

he won’t worry
about the wheel of fortune
or the sound of the one clapping hand

by the mountain night stars, the October silence
            opens like a door
that he drifts through
                        after fire water light