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Thursday, March 27, 2014

Tanka --- Karma Tenzing Wangchuk

Untitled Tanka                        by Karma Tenzing Wangchuk

A soft rain
falls on your porch,
the door left open
to let the sound of it
join us for supper.

Not much Spring
in my step these days
except maybe
on the way to her place
and on the way back.

While she's away
I water her houseplants,
bring in her mail
(mostly bills, reminding me
I owe her everything).

She hugs me
so long and tenderly
I'm lost in her,
and for an anchor 
forced to plant a kiss.

Waiting for her
to get out of the shower,
of every drop of water
touching her.

Sometimes the wind
will strip a branch bare
of flowers--
a thought that came just now,
knowing you're leaving soon.

A Facebook friend
tells me her favorite flower
is the dandelion--
I think she must be
a good person, don't you?

everything hinges
on a word--
poets and lovers 
know this.

Wednesday, March 26, 2014

Two Poems --- Julie A. Dickson

A Feather    [A Mirror Poem]            Julie A. Dickson  

On this, a day of perfect weather,
Against the pale blue sky - a feather
Streak of white as clouds pass by,
Appears as sketched from artist’s eye
After which the canvas clears
When in the noonday sky appears,
Imaginary shapes portray
A moving picture, vast array
As if to entertain and show
The world – a ceaseless, timeless flow
                  ~ ~ ~
The world – a ceaseless, timeless flow
As if to entertain and show
A moving picture, vast array
Imaginary shapes portray
When in the noonday sky appears,
After which the canvas clears
Appears as sketched from artist’s eye
Streak of white as clouds pass by,
Against the pale blue sky - a feather
On this, a day of perfect weather

Known by Many Names                  -- Julie A. Dickson

Gaia speaks as Mother Earth, whispers softly to her child
Child answers Isis, goddess of trees and forests wild
Pachamama swaddles babe and holds him to her breast
Babe at the vast hillside, snuggles Demeter’s ample chest
Nokomis feeds a bounty, daughter of the moon abides
Longs for Earth sustainable, Jord the mother, life provides
Danu nurtures fauna, she walks upon majestic plains
Call we must to Maka, Earth Mother known by many names
Anu hangs her head dismayed, a sadness wells up in her soul
Children cease to honor earth, wilderness since the times of old
Mother Nature, Goddess weeps a flood eternally
Feels the loss of nature, the Earth not what it’s meant to be

Saturday, March 15, 2014

George Held -- Four Poems

Four Poems                                                                               George Held


Nature gave us names for our flaws,
Like a harelip or buckteeth,
both of which can be corrected,

that is, made correct in the view
of the community at large.
But before surgical or dental

technique made such corrections
commonplace, the hare-lipped
and bucktoothed suffered.

My dad once dismissed my sister’s date
As “pigeon-breasted,” but we knew
Dad’s mulish behavior was a reflex.

He disparaged our mom as birdbrained
But he enjoyed the humor of Judy Canova
Despite her buckteeth and faux birdbrain

And he laughed at Lily Tomlin’s horse laugh.
He’d made a silent self-correction.

Speeding toward Oblivion

Another birthday
And the days speed us
Toward Oblivion.

The older we get,
The faster our expiration
Date zings toward us.

Hang on to the arm rest—
This bus is out of control
On the highway to Oblivion,

Pop. 20,000,000,000
And counting. Can’t keep
That dang sign up to date.

Wave goodbye to the gang
Who saw us off—off
The cliff to Oblivion.

Come Back, Shame

What’s the color of shame?
Envy is green, fear is white,
embarrassment red,
but shame?

Is shame colorless as spit,
translucent as quartz,
invisible as a glass pane?

Can the Too-Big-to-Fail feel
shame for any act
they initiate? Can they feel
shame more than a beet?

Still, when someone
shames himself,
we can smell it.


I watch my step on every step
as I descend the subway stairs

like old Hephaestus on his way
to the hearth, gone in the legs,

scull more scalp than hair,
once-cancerous ear sporting new lobe,

yet I still hear well enough
to tell bad poetry at readings;

my one sighted eye has a plastic lens,
corrected to 20-20,

my yellowed teeth still bite and chew,
though most are capped or filled;

my crooner’s voice is now a croak,
and my beard grizzled;

my lungs and heart still sound
and my weight steady, though

my lower back often aches,
though I stretch daily and hope it cooperates;

my cock still stirs, sex still thrills,
but once a week gives me my fill;

my hands unsteadied by an “essential”
tremor, my skin wears a hundred tags;

my legs, uh, the stiff legs that started me
on this journey: won’t they ever be

limber again? How they would drive
me to the hoop and propel me

down the court and let me leap
for a rebound, but “rebound”

is now a word from the past,
on which I will not dwell,

since each day brings promise
of some new nourishment

or ailment—which brings me to my feet:
may they bear me long as my legs can creep.