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Thursday, December 29, 2016

New poem by Koon Woon

The Murder at the End of “F” Street

One must get beyond the mind of winter
to view the murder at the end of “F” Street,
and to cast a stone straight into its fierce wind
when memory yields no clue.

We've come to the abyss
and the abyss resents our intrusion,
while the murder at the end of “F” Street
was roundly denounced as a delusion.

Greater minds have rested here –
at the nadir of two cycloids,
when a priori we know as certain
that its logic is refutable by school boys.

And so goes it without reporting,
the murder at the end of “F” Street,
like fish glimpsing surface of lake,
and pussiwillows now buds indiscreet.

So one must get beyond the mind of winter
to denounce the murder at the end of “F” Street,
where tell-tale signs of the gratuitous deed
will follow us, will drag us by our feet.

Koon Woon
December 26, 2016

Saturday, December 17, 2016

Julie Dickson ---- three poems

You Are the Author

If life is yet to be written

does it mean that

you are the author?

Can it be composed

on a blank slate, such that

no pain occurs?

Then I choose for my story

to be wonderful –

full of joyful times.

No? It’s not happening?

Resigned, then I will write

the realistic life I lead.

My trials are personal –

you don’t share my life

or my pain – it’s mine alone.

You may have a different pain

and in the story of your life,

you are the author.

Julie A. Dickson
Exeter, NH


Her Mark

I couldn’t drink coffee for years.

The aroma of coffee co-mingled

and conjured the memory of smoke,

her cigarette leaning precariously

on the edge of a blue blown-glass ashtray.

I stared at the glowing tip, waiting

for it to fall, to mar her highly polished table

but no…instinct drove her hand forward

to pluck it up, butt burnt close to the filter.

I watched it go to her lips, bright red –

lipstick left on the filter end,

quickly snuffed out.

My eyes darted to the coffee cup,

half-full of tepid, milky liquid and

Suddenly I realized the rim bore

her mark as well.

As if corrected with a teacher’s red pencil,

I couldn’t bring myself to drink coffee then.

Even now, I can still smell her cigarette.

Julie A. Dickson

Exeter, NH

Night Out

It wasn’t at all comfortable

sitting atop an old crib mattress

my father had jammed into the back seat.

Too high we sat, heads brushing the ceiling,

my brother stretched out, purposely

pushing his feet into my legs.

The sound emitted from a scratchy speaker;

it hung awkwardly on my father’s car door,

tinny music too loud, dialog too soft.

We had to share popcorn, my brother’s hand

plunging into the box, butter smeared his face.

I ate daintily, despising my greasy fingers.

Two films were shown, after a cartoon short.

That Darn Cat first, we peered over the front seat,

shoulder-to-shoulder, my brother shoving me.

My parents demanded silence and we obeyed,

only the close proximity betrayed our conflict.

Intermission sent a stream of us from cars

Into public restrooms, our sneaker soles tacky

on sticky tiled floors – then running back to cars.

“Take off your shoes”, my mother chided.

Wide awake, we were impossibly required

to settle down as the adult feature began.

We wrestled in twisted blankets, head to toe

on the mattress, straining to see, trying to

follow the movie plot only by the sound track,

slowly relaxing, we gave in to sleep.

I never heard the ending, didn’t feel my father

ease the car out of the crowded drive-in lot,

the ride home, never woke when my mother

carried me in her arms from the car to my bed.

Julie A. Dickson
Exeter, NH


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