Gerald McBreen ------ poem

BLUE NIGHT

Gerald A. McBreen

When you're not near

the night is dark

misty and blue

I lay on pillows

that once held your hair

I still feel you there

My lonely heart

cries out for a love

I knew

not long ago

Don Gasperson ----- poem

the examined man 

the reflective mind 

knows some of the facts 

acts on what seems reasonable 

and explores different possibilities 

and it's all so plausible 

one awkward misstep 

and the ankle gives 

a startle reflex 

a fortunate stumble 

and remains upright 

a tea candle can 

light the entire room 

but mindfulness will 

light the whole world 

"the examined man "

Lange Woon ----- poem

Surprise Again, Not Really.

Look for it.
illusively.
But It touches you.
Unfathomly.

You got that parking spot once again.
You smile. Certain.
A pat, on the shoulder.
A tap, on the knee.

You can laugh that day, even in the hospital.
Intensive Care.
Near death’s door.
Just another door.

Walking back.
Dark and cold.
Damp.
Rain still glistens.
Refreshingly.

I’ll have to remember
to water Dad’s bamboo
on the window sill.
Maybe I’ll eat more fish.
At least some greens.
 

 Lange Woon

Marjorie Rommel ------ four poems

Think of it!

How musicians hold sound

inside their heads;

how they rev it up, pour it out––

a temperature inversion

blasted into the balconies.

What if you could see

Rachmaninof’s Variations

shimmering before you,

Ed Meyer raising havoc

with Giovanni Bottesini’s

Concerto in B Minor––

music made at this moment,

tweaked from the bridge

of a double bass, plucked

from the beard of the man

with the violin? 

What if you could see

the fat notes rising, rowdy

corpuscles careening

through the veins of his arm

and into the concert hall

––a tapestry richer than

anything Croesus owned.

Wouldn’t it change your life?

Think how music slides into

our bodies, funnels down

through our intricately

folded ears––how we

cradle it deep inside––

and when the concert ends,

carry it into the rainy streets:

A hot front rising.

            ––for Stewart Kershaw

                with thanks and love

The heart of the beet is black

Each fall in the Skagit where roadside

farms form oases among flat brown fields

stretched to the horizon, beets come out of

the winter ground bedraggled as bag ladies

gone to moss, their goblin faces suffused

with wine––dark knobs piled in hills that

spill out over tire-patterned soil and rain-

wet roads. Where storms wash the dirt away

they glow like coals, like the red spot on Jupiter.

Choose one. Wipe off the mud, weigh it

in your hand, assess its volume, its density.

In these round vaults, Earth keeps her darkest

secrets. Cut top to bottom, held up to light,

each slice reveals a stained glass window,

flying buttresses, a bloody aurora. The beet is no

valentine. Its heart is so red it is almost black.

––Seattle Weekly Produce Calendar (revised 1/1/13)

The heart of the beet is black

Each fall in the Skagit where roadside farms

form oases among flat brown fields that stretch

to the horizon, beets come out of the winter ground

bedraggled as bag ladies gone to moss, goblin faces

suffused with wine, dark knobs piled in mountains 

over rich soil intricately tire-patterned out onto wet

roads. Where rain washes the dirt away, they glow 

like coals, like the red spot on Jupiter. Choose

one. Weigh it in your hand, test it for volume &

density – this is the vault where Earth keeps her

dark secrets. Cut top to bottom & held up to light

a slice reveals rich-stained windows, flying

buttresses, a bloody aurora. The beet is no

valentine. Its heart is so red it is almost black.

Submitted 3/28/19 to Seattle Weekly Produce Calendar

Hanna Raskin <hraskin@seattleweekly.com

The grandmothers go to war

            for Katherine

We are the strong ones.

Bumptious, blue-haired,

rip-handed and dangerous

in defense of our grandchildren.

We are an untapped Power,

furious, disciplined, manipulative

and sly––lessons learned

in a half century of service

to quarrelsome men far more

gimlet-eyed than the children they

would leave us to keen at night,

and we won’t have it!  We will not

lie quiet while generations are turned

in a moment to scattered ash.

We have nothing to lose

but our grandchildren:

Send us.

Send us instead.

We will shroud ourselves

in burqas, cast down our angry eyes,

pack ferocity around ample waists,

under lymphedemic arms,

strap books to our cottage cheese

buttocks, poems to our fulsome thighs.

Unobtrusive as ghosts, we will slip over

the false borders and into the strongholds

of those who would enslave us.

We are old hands at this.

  

Black ships laden with riches, we will

bring to our sisters the perfume

of knowledge. We will bring them bright

mirrors to show them their beauty.

We will show them the strengths

we share with our daughters.

We will show them our scars,

and invite them to join us, for this

is a holy war fought by all women.

Together, we are invincible.

In the names of the children,

we are relentless and unafraid.

Poets Against the War (online)

Poets Against the War

Poem of the Day 3/27/03

Alcala de Henares, Madrid, Spain 2004

Mothers against War (online) 2005

Grandmothers Against War

(online) 2005

In my favorite field

All summer in this field only cattle,

& grass & the heron, & buttercups scattered

like buttons tossed on a double bed;

the cows content to be what they are,

so many dark planets drifting outward

at morning, west & inward at dusk.

But in November the sky turns lead

& the creek runneth over, far over,

 covering the grass & at twilight

the farmer goes about in his boat

among the flat gray of the barns,

the gray silk rain & the cattle standing

chest deep in gray water, shivering

with cold. He rows steady among them,

herding them, reaching far over

to lay his hand on them, soothe

them onto higher ground. Even

when they have gone, sometimes,

the farmer rows out alone, the yard dog

sitting up at attention before him,

& looks down through the flood 

to the green hair of summer

waiting, moving slow, & the buttercups,

so many quick yellow stars.

In this final hour there is no sound

but boatwash, the hull creaking,

oars in the oarlocks, the dog

in the stern, his short sharp bark,

a lantern shining over water

in the early dark.

An earlier version appeared in National Wetlands Newsletter 2003

Ann Mackenzie ------------ poem

Caught

I saw her swinging

in her freedom

under my trees.

Her innocence

from four houses down

had drawn her there.

She appeared like

the rabbits and deer

treating nature

like a gift.

Her blonde curls

catching light

creating a halo.

She caught my glance

as I snuck out on

the deck

too late

to go back.

I wanted her

to stay and take

in the green.

Yet, she tiptoed

through the grass

away from the flowers,

away from the hammock,

moving into her life

and away from mine.

Lenora Good -------------------------- three poems

 The Silken Dreams of Kubota Sama

                                    soft

                                    bright hues

                                    hand embroidered

                                    tiny stitches

                                    puckered

                                    shadows of love

                                    purples     blues     pinks     goldens

                                    four seasons

                                    seventy-five kimonos

                                    a dream

                                    a life

                                    a reality

                                    flaring

                                    when the wearer turns in

                                    unAsian haste

                                    western clothes shriek

                                    from underneath

                                    modern

                                    loud     garish

                                    kimono

                                    from a time of samurai

                                    and chivalry

                                    gentility with a sword

                                    and seppuku

                                    poetry and pain

                                    sewn together in

                                    narrow bands

                                    simple

                                    elegant

                                    regal

                                    kimono

(previously published, 1996, Arnazella Literary Magazine)

zorro in the boardroom

you stare across

    the conference table

           eons wide within this room

  your warm hazel-brown eyes

         bespeak a Moor

     in your ancestry

i see harem secrets

     you have always known

           and never had to learn

   languidly you lift your pen

        to write slowly

  your long    fine

          fingers dance a ballet

      upon your notepad

in my minds' eye

    i see them curled behind the hilt

            of a swift moving rapier

   strong   defender of virtue and nobility

unashamed   i match your stare

    and wonder

           if those fine-boned

                long and tapered fingers

             coax classical notes

                        from an old and rare

               Spanish guitar

           if you played those strong

                patrician hands upon

             my body  

                        how long before it danced

               flamenco passion

           can you read the desire

                in my return stare

             do you know i weaken

                        at the fantasy

                 of being impaled upon

                                                                                                your sword

(previously published 2010, Issue #10, Origami Condom_

The Healing Hands of Doctor Rhett [hybrid poem/prose poem]

                —by Lenora Rain-Lee Good

I just turned 17 when I started Bible College. Dr. Franklin Rhett, our Pastoral Counselor, stood tall and ramrod straight, his hair a shock of white atop his tanned and craggy face. He pierced my soul with eyes the blue of eternal skies, and his voice rumbled up from the depths of the basement. He told me, and I knew, that

I was a sinner who needed his healing touch.

Touch me, Doctor Rhett,

And I shall be healed,

I cried aloud,

'Cause I have the faith!

I told him I needed to be healed, and he suggested,

his beatific smile showing his straight white teeth, that I come to his office that very night, after classes. I asked if he didn’t want to touch me right then, in the chapel, and he smiled and said, “No. It will be better tonight. When there will be fewer … distractions and time to allow the Holy Ghost to come upon us in His Fullness and Glory.” Oh, how I looked forward to being cleansed and healed by his touch!

Oh, Doctor Rhett,

I silently begged,

Touch me! Touch me!

Heal me! Heal me!

I could hardly wait

for my healing.

Outside his office, I hesitated. I could see no one besides Dr. Rhett was in the room, and we are taught never, ever, to be alone with a man outside the sacrament of marriage. But Dr. Rhett, he just smiled, took my hand, and brought me in, closing the door behind me. "Come," he said. "Let us have a little Holy Communion, and a Prayer to invite the Lord to heal you with His Loving Power." He held a glass of red wine to my lips until I drank it all. We then knelt on the floor next to his large sofa and the Holy Ghost did Come Upon Us. At least, that's what Dr. Rhett said as he lifted me to the sofa and took off my blouse. My skirt stayed on the floor.

And Doctor Rhett,

He touched me

        He touched my lips with his

        He soothed my brow

        And kissed my eyes

        He stroked my neck

        He cupped my breast

        Sucked my nipple

        Rubbed my belly

As I writhed beneath

His fingers.

And I knew he was

Gonna heal me,

Oh Lordy, yes!

A moan escaped me

And heat spread

Throughout my loins

And, lo! I was healed!

Dr. Rhett says it will take a long time to completely heal me, to be patient, and to come every Tuesday after class.

(accepted for an anthology, not published)

James Rodgers ------------- poem

A Green, Green Tree

Shakespeare’s love

may have been like

a red, red rose,

all perfume and beauty,

but by the end of the summer

they’re withered,

brown,

moldering

on the compost heap.

Our love

is like a Shore Pine,

Pinus Contorta,

strong,

a little twisted,

but true

and resilient,

able to be battered

by life’s gale force winds,

storms,

the ravages of survival,

and even under

intense heat and pressure,

grows and thrives.

Shakespeare

can keep his roses,

relish

their short-lived blossoms.

I

will breath deep

our resinous fragrance,

continue to grow,

with you,

taller and taller,

watching the flowers,

and others,

come and go,

while we dig our roots

a little bit deeper,

bend but not break

at what comes our way,

and enjoy the view,

the waves

roaring to shore

below.

James Rodgers    05/19/15

Connie Walle -------- poem

Duplicitous

“A lie gets halfway around the world before the truth has a chance to get its pants on”.   Winston Churchill

Lies pile up

harden like plastic

even a joke

can’t take off

the shine.

If you tell the truth

you don’t have

to remember

anything.

I'm not upset

that you lied to me,

I'm upset that

from now on

I can't believe you.

Don’t be sorry.

I trusted you.

My mistake,

not yours.

I lie to myself

all the time, but

I never believe me.

     Connie Walle, President
        Puget Sound Poetry Connection  

My thanks to Mark Twain, Friedrich Nietzsche, S.E. Hilton, & Veronica Roth

Brendan McBreen ---- Cento

Cento 1

            Brendan McBreen

It’s the dream we carry

From the Northern lakes with the reeds and rushes,

for the thoughts we share

not ready to give it over

to the eternal surf, to Time!

Swallow this, it will make you well.

Come stand with me, look forward, not back,

For this is love and nothing else is love,

            A Cento is a form where each line is taken from another poem.

            Olav H. Hauge, Borealis, translated by Robert Hadin

            Andrew Barton Paterson, The Black Swans

            Nikki Giovanni, A Poem of Friendship

            Naomi Shihab Nye, Boy and Egg

            Pablo Neruda, Always, translator not named

            Ogden Nash, Adventures Of Isabel

            Oodgeroo Noonuccal, Let us not be bitter

            Robert Frost, A Prayer in Spring

Carl Papa Palmer

An American Appetite        

Eating here stateside is hard to define,-

much more than cheese wedgies, veggies and meat,

or drive-thru fast foods on most any street.

Choosing food from signs while waiting in line,

we “dress to the nines” with waiters and wine,

snack between meal treats of anything sweet,

on a bar stool seat, sit waiting to eat.

It can be fine not to dine by design.

We eat with our hands at hamburger stands.

We graze the buffet while filling our tray.

From various brands, from various lands,

from breakfast soufflé, to evening sorbet,

our waists expand as we “munch on demand.”

We eat “our way” here in the USA.

~ Carl "Papa" Palmer

University Place, WA

George Held ----- five poems

Total Eclipse

(August 28, 2007)

Chasing the blue moon

entering total eclipse,

down West 11^th Street

toward the river,

passing Schnabel’s coral-red tower,

eclipsing the view

of the Hudson and the horizon,

and “Thar she blows!” –

about 20 degrees

above the buildings

on the Jersey shore,

the elusive eclipse

dragging in the dawn

as the moon sets

behind Jersey City

and the sun lightens

the broad river

and tugs a smile

from my sleepy face.

Meaningless as eclipses go,

this one sticks

in my memory

like a Vincent

van Gogh.

Menses

When a blue moon or a black

moon occurs—two full moons

or two new in one month—

              

I’m likely to have two menses

that month, and why not? –

my periods are powerful

as the moon’s. Think I can’t

influence the tides or drive

men mad? Ask my lovers.

How many

of your friends,

these days,

would you

entrust

with your life?

With your wife?

The Gone Moon

       for Cher

What if the moon disappeared

and left us bereft

of its cyclical luminosity?

What if the new moon

stopped renewing and left

the sky black:

no more crescents, halfs,

fulls, or lunar eclipses:

no more moonlit walks,

reflections on the pond,

companion in the night sky?

But those born after

would never know the difference:

and the poets among them

might be more, er, down-to-earth.

New Moon

The man in the moon

Isn’t there anymore:

Since the first moon landing

Cast him into deepest space

There’s no room at the inn

For him or other fanciful figures:

Little kids now fixate

On the star-spangled pixels

Of a black sky-like screen

That bright images fill

Like stars the night sky

Of the new moon.

Julie Dickson ----- four poems

First on the Scene

Over the crest of a hill, I drove -

first glimpse through a fog-veiled light beam,

headlights illuminating a field of diamonds,

glittering the bejeweled roadway, but no…

My approach revealed broken glass, strewn,

cut-edged shatters reflecting the light.

High beams joining the moonlit sky

across a mostly barren landscape

and beyond the sea of broken glass – a car.

Transfixed, slowing almost to a stop,

my eyes moved suddenly to the tire.

How obscure, the vision straight ahead,

a spinning tire thrust into the air.

Escaping my lips, an abrupt sound, incredulous

as my mind began to grasp this scene.

The initial imagined beauty, crystalline

shimmers against the dark highway

fell away  like a fading smile.

A twisted hulk lay diagonally across my lane;

feeling a black foreboding welling up -

I parked, sensing the unfolding nightmare.

Was I asleep?

All night driving, an endless journey

etched into my thoughts like a deep chasm.

Engine finally quiet, I opened the door

and emerged into the night, listening.

A sharp sound forced my head to turn

to a lone tree by the road; I squinted to see

a wide-eyed sentinel, silhouetted against the sky.

The owl sent a mournful message.

The scene opened silently before me;

I stood unmoving, taking in the macabre.

Seconds passed as hours, powerlessness

to move or to react, I finally called out.

Hearing only the echo of my own voice,

eyes fell again on the owl, who stared,

a perceived messenger of death.    

                                           

Julie A. Dickson

Exeter, NH

--------------------------------------------------

Lucius

He carried a bronze, hand carved caduceus.

His long robes billowed and swayed as he walked,

though none dared utter, his name was Lucius;

the people stood in stark fear when he talked.

His fiercesome staff was far worse than a sword;

Lucius- the nobles, he held in suspense.

The power he wielded brought him reward;

from kings and bishops he sought recompense.

In dismay the monarchs plotted revenge,

the serfdom was searched, through village and town.

The king sought a champion, brave to avenge;

in secret, the plot was to bring Lucius down.

By morning the king felt relief, plan deployed.

Throughout the kingdom they heard Lucius’ cries.

In crux of passion caduceus destroyed;

the truth- a fair maiden caused Lucius’ demise.

Julie A. Dickson

Exeter, NH

-------------------------------

No Longer in Deference

Passersby in forced adulation

bowed deeply with heavy-lidded eyes;

felt his demonic representation,

heavy wool top coat worn in disguise.

Ironically, no adoration,

sought after, of course – his preference,

ridiculed by their hidden laughter,

avoided his gaze by happenstance.

And when by all certainty they learned

his inappropriate and untimely abuse;

the masses no longer in deference bowed,

now celebrate freedom from beyond his ruse.

Julie A. Dickson

Exeter, NH

 --------------------------------------------

Walk Away

Wrenching sadness, pulled through a gaping wound -

self-inflicted, but how else might one heal from a loss?

Once exposed to light, the thing might just fade away,

whither from lack of gloom, the dark whispers of grief.

One might notice a slight curling of edges, a subtle graying

on the former blood-red, crimson scar – yes

it’s a start, a new beginning if you can take a chance,

walk away from abysmal fortitude - embrace anew.

Julie A. Dickson

Exeter, NH