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Monday, October 15, 2018

A drinking poem by John W. Gorski

Anyone for a Beer?

On that silver chalice Sunday,
his thoughts sometimes clunked
upon hearing the sermon after
waking from a black-out drunk.
It had been another kegger
the night before with Mark and Squi,
in their suburb east of D.C.,
where he and his dark-knighted jock friends
apprenticed their male ideal
by jumping on young women.

He studied hard at Georgetown
all week, dreaming of Yale law –
this football playing, hormone-robot
preppy named Kavanaugh.
On weekends, he would break loose –
downing drinking horns of Michelob
while joking of his black-robed
quest to slay Social Security
and leave the minion realm to quaff
their poor cup of misery.

Now, he’s not playing Saturday
night drinking games anymore
or reveling in the beer blast suns
along the Maryland shore.
These days, he’s an agent from
the Federalist Society –
a parasite self-righteously
burrowing into the judicial
system to infect the civil rights
of unprivileged people.

So, he will climb to the high court
and allow industries’ pall
of chemical smoke to suffocate
the skies that once shone on all.
Then when all the televisions
are playing the channel of fake news,
the judge will serve his good friends brews
and they will break into evil cheers
and then toast him – their drinking horns
brimming with gold, Lo-Cal beers.

2018                                        John Gorski

Monday, October 1, 2018

Julie A. Dickson ----- five poems

Weather the Storm

Shift thinking toward major change
to rearrange, no more head shaking
or dreaded loneliness impending,
but together we will weather
the storm of locusts, never torn from
one another’s arms, we hold fast
as life’s tempest tosses our souls,
like balancing a bowl on our knees,
we seize every moment to embrace,
to chase the worries of the world
until a calm smoothes the lines
from my weary face, wind declines
leaving a rainbow of colors,
we revel in the yellows and blues,
we choose to weather the storm,
laughing at the sea; it will not
dislodge the mast, will not cast
us into deep waters, we will swim free.

Julie A. Dickson 


Hot Days Farewell

Away with stress, the things of man
down the road, a plan to drive far,
along highways on our way to fields
of green, where cows nod heads,
bow their hello from pastures
yet to mow, harvest still a-ways off,
looking forward to falling back,
when Autumn equinox hums a song,
bidding hot days farewell, dog days
give way to crisp apples in fall air,
I declare my favorite time of year.

Julie A. Dickson


Almost Full

Above the trees haunts,
as in a scary tale,
skeletal branches
like arms beckoning -
come closer;
almost full moon,
eerily lopsided,
warped in its beauty -
stares out of night sky,
questioning why I
would ever think, even
in the absence of stars
moon would not shine
its hello to the pre-dawn.

Julie A. Dickson

Haiku Triplet

Beneath scudding clouds
Feel vertigo motion
Despite solid ground

The world intervenes
Un-meditated, I sway
Hearing mind clutter

Surrender to sky
Consciousness finally wanes
Contemplate silence

Julie A. Dickson

Poetry and Shrimp
[Reaction poem to The Prince of Tides by Pat Conroy]

Before I knew of the prince
in an unfamiliar low land,
I already loved poetry and books.

Then I heard his words spoken
like whispers at low tide,
a fishing net was thrown over me,

dragging me into the boat
with writhing shrimp and cod, but
while they struggled for air

I breathed for the first time.
The melody of his story wrapped me
in a rough-weather foulie.

Brine permeated
my thoughts, though my skin
shed the water like an oil skin.

Now that I know the prince’s tidal pools,
fluid, the language of poetry and shrimp,
I feel the rope burn my hands and salt on my tongue.

Julie A. Dickson

Friday, September 28, 2018

Simon Perchik ----- five poems

East Hampton, NY  11937

Lost and you watch the sun worsen
already falling as the nights
too weak to warm your shadow

though you read only in the afternoon
crouched under this kitchen table
with nothing on it that could sag

and without a sound weigh too much
let you open the mail, return to life
the window left in this small room

–you can tell from the stamp
it’s easy to fear
–so frail is its darkness

only your hands can be seen
holding your forehead, pushing it back in
to remember where you live.

By yourself though the sun
still needs more water –all that land
dried for just one afternoon

sent back alone and every morning now
you let the coffee try, boil
the way this table is spreading out

become the dirt for what’s in store
ready made as that small mouthful
that swallows you whole

to look for thirst inside a cup
side by side this one kept full
as if it was at home.

And though this pillow is enough
you still come by at night
safe from sand and salt

–with both elbows on the bed
your clothes in a heap
–what you can’t say

is soaking in sea grass
and her clothes too
no longer moving, piled close

for encouragement, lift your head
–on a dark bed, stroking an empty dress
Mickie, Mickie, Mickie

as far as it can reach
with her hand over your mouth
one sleeve at a time.

You no longer dig for shadows
as if this hillside depends on you
for water –what you hear

is trapped between two suns
one circling the other till nothing’s left
but the afternoon and beneath

letting its pieces fall off –you dead
are always listening for the gesture
the lowering that sweeps in

those pebbles mourners leave
as words, overflowing, certain
now is the time –it’s not the time

this dirt is afraid to open
become a rain again, be a sky
let it speak by throwing the Earth

and over your shoulder, eyes closed
though there is no grass
and your arms a Weber, Miller, Marie.

Even as silence you dead
favor knots, brought here
the way each grave is tightened

counts on constant gathering
and the arm over arm
that hold the skies together

as if some nesting bird
would fly out from this hillside
and leave behind its wings

spread-eagle, letting go
those small rocks mourners bring
for your shoulders –you want rope

not for its name but the weight
still taking shape inside, kept empty
and all around you the lowering.

Saturday, August 25, 2018

Lisa Yoon Les -- poem in three languages

사계절 (부제:장례식)
 -  by Lisa Yoon LES 

내 섬에 음악이 내렸다.
- 아름다운 선율로

내 섬에 꽃이 내렸다.
- - 눈부시도록 더디게

내 섬에 그가 내렸다.
- - - 잔인한 황홀함으로

나, 이제 떨리는 사람 내려 두고 
한 줌 햇살 가슴에 품은 채
겨울을 비상하는 새가 되련다. 

Four Seasons (subtitle:Funeral) 
 - by Lisa Yoon LES

Music came down to the isle of spring
- With a beautiful melody.

Summer flowers descended on the island
- - Dazzlingly and slowly.

He landed on the islet of yellow leaves.
- - - Wearing cruel ecstasy.

I, now left my beloved behind
Holding sunbeam in heart.
Be a winter bird flying high in the sky.

Quattro Stagioni (sottotitolo:Funerale)  - by Lisa Yoon LES

La musica è arrivata 
all’isola della mia anima
con una bellissima melodia.

I fiori estivi sono scesi 
sulla isola del mio cuore
elegantemente e lentamente.

È atterrato sul isolotto della mia vita,
indossando un incantesimo crudele.

Io, ora ho lasciato la persona amata dietro
avendo un po’ di raggi di sole 
nel mío cuore,
diventerò un uccello invernale 
che vola alto nel cielo.

Tuesday, August 21, 2018

Hamish Todd ---- two poems

A Wedding Prayer

This prayer is a river
It leads to the ocean
And has no end

This prayer is a river
It leads to the ocean
And has no end

Ask for nothing
A bird in flight
Is giving thanks

Love is a blessing
People dancing
Another chance

This prayer is a river
It leads to the ocean
And has no end

Ask for nothing
A bird in flight
Is giving thanks

The Sea Gulls of Alcatraz

The Sea Gulls of Alacatraz
Don't have any fond
or Bitter memories
They're glad to have a rock to stand on
To watch the city
Across the Bay

                        For my girl,
                        because every day's a gift

Saturday, August 11, 2018

New poem by Julie A. Dickson

The Curve

It is wise to knock down pedestals of power,
wipe away entitled glances, the way they glower
at those deemed less worthy
in a world where straight is perceived as best,
where the curve of alternatives is frowned upon.
Caucasians compete for supreme power
over those berated for belief or race;
they remain blind , refusing to face diversity,
in a world where white is becoming a minority.
Their narrow views are firmly rooted,
while others yell, “me too”.

Victims long silent, skewed justice prevailed
under guise of religion or truth; assailants of the curve -
non- straight or dark complexions hated,
no ability to accept or assuage fear,
that women and people of color will persevere.

With demographic information to peruse,
clear statistics stated, but some still choose
not to see countries that surpass white by far.
Those in power, deluded by grandiose illusions,
in cloud-minding towers- look down
at the masses they deem below them.

We, the curve - seen as Troglodytes
who speak in foreign tongues,
walk among them…waiting.

Julie A. Dickson
Exeter, NH

Sunday, August 5, 2018

Poems by Liam Roche

Untitled by Liam Roche

It hangs upon angelic
architecture, upon the lonely prayer,
upon all our hard-earned art and literature
as it hangs delicately upon the butt of the half-smoked cigarette
flicked with a curse before the bar fight.

Poem by Liam Roche
Untitled by Liam Roche

Where shall we meet, sweet ghost father?
In the quiet contemplation of an empty church?
In a drunken sprawl?
Or when tossed to the edges of this earthen bowl
in the embrace of the deepest dive?
God follows me everywhere and so can you.

Poem by Liam Roche
Untitled by Liam Roche

Ease into your instincts of death, of meaningful life, lust,
God’s paternity and the kinship of evil.
Let these things raise up your spirit and give you some small
dominion in this large space.
These are yours alone and all that is required.

Poem by Liam Roche
In the Spirit of Whitman by Liam Roche

I now take upon myself the name “enemy.”
Suspect any man and suspect me.
Degrade any man, I am degraded.
Torture me in western civility and
I weep western tears.
I will channel all our long-buried American insurgents:
Our dark slaves, our natives, our Chinamen.
Irish and Italian and Poles and Russians
Flesh given, and flesh taken.
The colors of their flags
Mixed with blood
Make industry and stars on a blue field

Poem by Liam Roche
Untitled by Liam Roche

Good father, release me!
I’m not learning or becoming.
Silent, warm and descending,
No harm in my nature.
Make me mud again!
My nature.

Poem by Liam Roche
Untitled by Liam Roche

You will be ridiculed,
roughed up,
You will be alone most of the time with our ideas.
Now, instead of some bitter man,
I stand here with you
and share in the gold you made.