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Thursday, August 27, 2015

She Thought ------ poem by Koon Woon

She thought

She thought maybe she could love me
But she was caught between comfort and chaos

She thought she could have it and eat it
In both ways she could affirm and also assimilate

But the upshot was not what it seemed to be
The invisible constraints keep one in place

She couldn’t decide to be Alice or to be the Queen

But no matter, the importance of it all unraveled at the seams.

Saturday, August 8, 2015

Julie A. Dickson -------- three poems

Moose  [A True account]

Standing still three feet deep,
with river at low tide,
head dipped as he ripped
weeds, and then he chewed.
The town from each bank
viewed an unusual beast
enjoying his feast from the river.
But then they came along,
those from Fish and Game,
we all nodded and agreed
our young moose bore no blame.
He [the moose] was made to go,
tranquilized without much bellow,
taken far up north to graze,
hoisted, as we pondered
it this the best way to raise a moose?

Julie A. Dickson
Exeter, NH



The outline of an older man
shadows across a chalky sidewalk.
A young boy stands atop the shadow,
looking up, his small fingers clasped firmly
but softly held in the age-mottled hand
of his white-haired grandfather.
They cross the street hand-in-hand
on their special weekly excursion,
the boy brightening when approaching
their favorite ice cream shop.
Grandfather always orders a Spanish sundae,
enjoying each salty red-skinned peanut;
in contrast to the boy’s pink-hued
strawberry shortcake, mounded whipped cream
and a cherry, saved until the last.
The boy savors each bite in
the shadow of an older man.

Julie A. Dickson
Exeter, NH


Misalona Smile     [Anagram – Mona Lisa]

Misalona, a solitary jewel -
uncut stone, in precious diamond dark.
Possesses a deep tonal fortitude;
inside her dwells a well-hidden spark.
At times her dark brown eyes have glittered
with vast propensity of visions viewed,
her solemnity seems almost stoic,
although she’s quite resolved in attitude.
Watches from a wide- angle stance,
witnessed images seen as phrases;
words structured into free verse and prose,
compiled silent questions she raises.
When he enters her field of vision
Exquisite jeweled clarity does release;
somehow scene changes to fill her void
Misalona smile exemplifies her inner peace.

Julie A. Dickson
Exeter, NH

Monday, August 3, 2015

Shannon P. Laws ----- three poems

Death’s Dip
of Confession of a Mattress
            by Shannon P. Laws

FREE mattress. A queen size pillow top
Took it home, laid it in the frame
First night—I rolled into a dip
a body shaped dip
on the left side

A person taller than me, wider than me
created a dip that I roll into
a bedridden, sickly person
left a death dip

No problem, I think, I’ll just sleep on the right
every night to even things out
Yet, every morning I wake in the dip

My bed, now a metaphorical display
divides my psyche down the middle
The dip is comfortable, soft, form fitting
It feels like a hug in my lonely bed.

It is as comfortable as my father’s depression,
a heavy-known feeling of failure,
like a person reluctant to leave their bed
Successful people are not children
Few people achieve success
Those that do are vain and far from God
My familiar spins tires, set on park.

This I confess to you:
            I sleep with death

                        —and I like it

Skin Suit Sewn Too Tightly
          By Shannon Laws

As a doctor sucks poison from a bite
the red rock of Bisbee calls out ghosts
The dead come back to walk again
Reincarnation of secondhand spirits
as secondhand furniture

The dresser is painted now
The couch new cloth
The set of chairs split apart
The headboard used for vines

In your years of living
the painting under the painting
a past covered over and over
with false stories of forgotten moments
Moments made to fill the gap of time
the hungry use between reading
the menuordering the meal

Fat of the present melts off
dead blood returns moisture
to the air, dries your muscles tight
Tight as new couch fabric
White as the dresser
Your sets of ribs pull apart
Your head a plot of vines

 Leaf Tattoo
          by Shannon P. Laws

You can you feel it
in my city
the change of air
as wind folds in
fall’s weather.

Orange leaves appear on
the sidewalks of Holly Street.
No worms to dance them back to soil.

Cement laden, laid on
the roadside in random patterns
leave a tattoo, imprinted on the stone.
Five pointed stars tree hand
pressed by feet and rain
bleed orange ink for all to see.

By winter the marks wash away
By spring, bright green babies wave
at us from their mother’s arm

born back into our memory.

Saturday, August 1, 2015

Two Prose Poems by John Olson


The sky leans over the water and rides the meaning of the waves. The windows are splattered with rain. An angel of the morning throbs with apprehension. I continue my research on the harmonica. The silk of listening necessitates the sparkle of words. No thought is so obscure that it doesn’t in some fashion flirt with description. My sad green desire swarms with expectation. How many sounds fill a single day? One of them is the sound of a cat eating, smacking little gobs of wet food chicken or turkey against his upper palate. There is warmth in prayer. The day is without precedent. It’s time to gather up all the shadows and make something blaze into reality. Something like thread, or need, or a pain suckling the headlight of a jaguar for the milk of paradise. Isn’t that why people go fishing? There’s a treasure in your eyes called seeing. Can you see it? Can you see seeing? Seeing is easily seen through. Sewing is different. Sewing is more like seesaws. I saw myself see a seesaw and sagged into prophecy with the burden of my testament. Life is often sticky this way. Sometimes I just ramble on for hours saying whatever comes into my head. It’s a lot like swimming. I have to keep moving to stay afloat. Meander. It’s what rivers do. Ripple and riddle and rupture into resplendent aqua. The light is swollen with color. There is so much more to a chair than a chair. Is that a door in your head or just an epiphany? There is so much more that I would like to show you. But the words don’t exist. They smolder like mirrors at the bottom of a swamp. Infinity goes around in a brass hat going on and on about language and how it smells of consciousness and weighs as much as a mathematical logic teased into eighty three eels and a football. The hotel lobby crawls with meat. The air is warm. The incongruities are raw and the grapes are delicious. What more can be said? When it comes to a seesaw there is up and there is down and up and down are interchangeable. What does not exist exists in its non-existence. And that, my friend, is a suitcase. Let’s pack it with whistling and go. Travel the highways make fun of the law. Make memories out of pins. Mythologies out of straw. 

Reality Is Hard to Describe with Bicycles

Reality is hard to describe with bicycles. But why even try? There’s so much of it around. There’s as much reality as there are people. Everybody’s reality is unique to them. But doesn’t that sound glib? I mean, we have to agree on some things, or there wouldn’t be any reality at all. There’d be nothing but sloppy solipsistic anarchy. Crazy people. Morning would arrive every morning in a sweat. You’d never know what to expect. Maybe that’s why some people need jobs. It helps to structure the day. Sometimes I like to run water over a fork. Hold it under the kitchen faucet. It fascinates me. I see a little reality happening there. The reality of water. The reality of a fork. Stainless steel. Tines. And then along comes a religion and it all unravels and becomes a fantasy again. Darkness at the break of noon.  Some religions are helpful. They’re full of singing and glories and deliverance. Fat men in sleighs. Reindeer. Angels. Peculiar attitudes toward money. Me, I believe in the religion of incongruity. Things that don’t fit. Or look like they don’t fit and then you discover holy cow they do fit. If you look hard enough you can always find relations between things. For instance if I imitate a cardboard box it isn’t long before someone comes along and tries to put something into me. An extension cord or sweatshirt. Can I do a metaphor for you? Personality is eye spice. Writing is propagation. Reality is a hatband. Or schnauzer. I don’t know. Let reality be reality, said Lao Tzu. Let things flow naturally forward in whatever way they like. Right now nothing is flowing, except my mind. My hands. My wife’s hand as she draws a wolf. The cat as he stares at the floor. Ok, that’s not flowing, I know, but his form is flowing, the form of the cat is flowing, trust me, it’s flowing. Like I said. Reality is hard to describe with bicycles. So why not use hands? Cats? Metaphors? Asian philosophers? Western philosophers? Hungry philosophers? Any kind of philosopher you can find that isn’t drunk or horny. Desire can skew one’s sense of wisdom. That which is wise and balanced and sensible and sane. Or what? Get on a bicycle and go for a ride. That’s what.