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

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

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

Margaret Roncone ---- four poems

 Language is a Flame

I burn rosebuds,

bergamot

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

concertos

I simply ask

please warn against potholes

please retract sharp

instruments

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

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