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Friday, November 24, 2017

Larry Blazek ----- poem



FORGETTING


You are laying in the 

grass against some saplings.

You seem to think that it is 

important that you do not 

roll over into the gravel.

You open your eyes to 

discover that you are laying
 
by the side of a road.

You start walking.

Cars occasionally drive by.

You realize that your

 slippers bathrobe and 

pajamas are not the best 

attire for a hike.

You cross a yard

of a tidy house.The woman 

there asks if you are all 

right.You smile and nod.

More houses appear.

They give away to business 

structure and a sidewalk.

The sidewalk has a 

temporary roof to protect

 pedestrians against falling 

debris from a construction

 site.People wearing helmets

are busy at their tasks.

You find a compass in

 your pocket.

You emerge in an 

alley.You enter the back door

of an old-fashioned hardware 

store.

A man speaks to you.

At first you think that he is 

the clerk.You reralize that

he is a policeman.

You speculate that 

someone may have put 

something in your drink.You 

ask for your suitcase which 

you can not recall the 

location of.

The policeman goes 

off to interrogate local 

motel clerks.

You sit upon a bench

and talk to some of the 

people that are sitting 

around.They are playing some 

sort of game.

You speak of your

 fondness of tiny towns

like the scenery on

an elaborate model railroad

 display.

You move your game 

piece which is shaped like a

 tiny animal.

Tuesday, November 14, 2017

poem by ann reitan

Somehow Radiance

Somehow a moment
Of Spring will come
Easing a glimmer of radiance
This barren-cloud day

Some day the trees
Will be more than shadows
Standing skeletal-erect
Their branches fragile fingers
Grasping resistance-defeat
On Winter's mute end

Somewhere out of
The opaque lies
The stars of mild evening
Will glint their secrets
Knowing their light

As the moon
Like a somber eye
Will glow within
Its silence

Saturday, November 11, 2017

Julie A. Dickson --------- four poems


Frozen Words


When, so to speak, your pencil glows red-hot,
opening warm words like roses.
When your pencil grows cold,
it floats as upon arctic ocean waves.
The pencil has two lives, warm and cold.
Roses bloom in thoughts echoing embers,
the flames dance and whirl around,
dropping petals of brilliance.
In the cold, I struggle to hold
onto the pencil, to inceptive ideas.
My words slip and shift
as I blow warmth onto my hands.
I wish for my fingerless gloves
and lose my grip.
The pencil drops to the floor,
my words frozen, never put to paper.




Julie A. Dickson

Exeter, NH
----------------------------



A World Without Ivory

Dye rhino horns and elephant tusks pink,
as humans attempt to protect, think of ways
to save land mammals, for slaughter reaches
a grand scale, that quest for ivory appeals
to some for riches and reveals human greed in
their darkest hour, as man continues to exceed
and dismiss warnings of extinction, will not
heed or give way to nature, in her methods
to cull or evolve, each species to survive.
Can humans even attempt to revive or solve
this dilemma while faced with men on the sea,
who brutally sever fins, release sharks to death,
so that chefs may create soup?
Caged primates in signs, speak to men,
hearing lies, taught to them - a language
they cannot believe, left to perish
by humans who cajole and deceive.
And humans berate and chastise-  hate
a lonely captive killer whale who missed his family
home and preferred not to play their games,
no longer wanted to entertain.
Solitary elephants in zoos, on cold concrete, stand
swaying, unable to speak or express sorrow -
man seems not to understand, that given land to roam,
not wrenched from family units, wander together,
ponder the next succulent branch.
The odor of burning ivory permeates, does not change the fate
of fallen beasts but some nations pass laws to cease the trade.
Since poachers have killed for the largest tusks,
in Africa, females from birth are sometime born without –
[tusks] genetic path or evolution, nature’s way to decrease worth
and therefore survive? Though at what cost as they mourn
all who were lost at the hands of man…
Perhaps elephants dream of a world without ivory.
Julie A. Dickson
Exeter, NH
---------------------------------------




Harvest

Moonlight carries me
into the night, but if I am right
creatures who emerge watch
from shadows, notch of tree.
They sense my presence in the unknown,
wish me gone, forest theirs till dawn,
to forage, wander and seek,
willing trespasser not to speak -
breech the unspoken treaty
between us, move forward I must.
I continue on under harvest moon
bathing light over forest gloom,
deep in thought, I listen to night,
not without sound, my footsteps resound
through a loud crunch of leaves
forest dwellers wait, I believe,
patiently for me to pass,
driven to gather, they rather rejoice
under harvest moon’s bounty
no need to rush, there is plenty.
Julie A. Dickson
Exeter, NH


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


How Can it Be?
I long for a joy that somehow evades,
get caught up with others, but always in trade,
at such a high cost, I remain under cover,
question what it is I must discover.
My heart feels heavy, longing, but scarred
leftover feelings, from your arms I was barred.
I speak often of love, to be somebody’s jewel,
but instead,. D at times I have been played as a fool.
How can it be, I still have not found
to be certain, the path over well-worn ground,
I’ve traveled and tested my heart once again,
in vain, I see no one to call my true friend.
Perhaps in the end I have only myself
set aside, overlooked, china doll on a shelf
covered in dust, forgotten, dismayed
glass-empty eyes recall times being played,
fancied, yet briefly, my heart was to blame
the need was so great until the time came
that again I saw clearly, not as it seemed,
I was shocked into waking up from a dream.
Then I sat up in wonder, heard no clever phrase
to whisper I warned you, I awoke in a daze,
alone still I wander, the solemn nights weep
unfortunate choices, I drift into sleep.
Julie A. Dickson

Exeter, NH

Wednesday, October 18, 2017

Jack Foley ------- five poems

FOUR LOVE POEMS FOR SANGYE
AND A POEM FOR KAITLIN & HANNAH


1/ 50 DESIGNS TO MURDER MAGIC *
(written on meeting Sangye)

Can you say she took your breath away
Yes, I can say that
But you talked on to her
     And that
          Required 
                Breath
Can you say
She was beautiful 
Yes, I can say that 
     Her hair especially was beautiful 
               And her serious 
                      Eyes
     But she was also
               Exceptionally kind
She listened when you spoke
     Yes, and laughed
          When I said
               Something amusing 
Yet her laughter seemed almost
          Reluctant 
          As if she couldn’t quite help herself
As if something came from within 
(As something came from within me)

There was no way on earth we could be lovers

As I left she said, “It was wonderful to meet you”
I thanked her for being so considerate 

                      Her hair moved often
                                  As she moved


*  title from a collection by Antonin Artaud


*

2/ Sonnet 69: Perhaps Not To Be Is To Be Without Your Being
by Pablo Neruda
dedicated by Sangye (aged 33) “to Jack, my love”

Perhaps not to be is to be without your being,
without your going, that cuts noon light
like a blue flower, without your passing
later through fog and stones,

without the torch you lift in your hand
that others may not see as golden,
that perhaps no one believed blossomed
the glowing origin of the rose,

without, in the end, your being, your coming
suddenly, inspiringly, to know my life,
blaze of the rose-tree, wheat of the breeze:

and it follows that I am, because you are:
it follows from ‘you are’, that I am, and we:
and, because of love, you will, I will,
We will, come to be.

1959   
(translated by A.S. Kline)

Always,
Sangye


Soneto LXIX

Tal vea no ser es ser sin que tú seas,
sin que vayas cortando el mediodía
como una flor azul, sin que camines
más tarde por la niebla y los ladrillos,

sin esa luz que llevas en la mano
que tal vez otros no verán dorada,
que tal vea nadie supo que crecía
como el origen rojo de la rosa,

sin que seas, en fin, sin que vinieras
brusca, incitante, a conocer mi vida,
ráfaga de fosal, trigo del viento,

y desde entonces soy porque tú eres,
y desde entonces eres, soy y somos,
y por amor sere, serás, seremos.


Jack’s answer (Jack’s age: 77):

Suddenly you are eligible for death
Suddenly the card that applies to everyone else
Appears in your deck
Suddenly the people around you vanish
In a round that goes from funeral to funeral
Cremation to cremation
Suddenly the “infinity” of time
Closes
And this familiar, casual, daily, habitual world
Is under threat
Suddenly the word “not”
Comes into focus
“Perhaps not to be is to be without your being,
without your going, that cuts noon light
like a blue flower”—
Time spins
As Neruda knew
Like a blue flower.
Its impossible, possible blossoming
Is a gift for which there is no word
But Love


*



3/   LUNA PLENA

O mOOn
O luna
plena
O bright
I
in the sky
O full
O fOOl’s
mOOn
O
luna
O
Beauty
O
pleine
O
claire
de lune
i mOan
in your light,
rOund
O

for Sangye


*

4.

play with my hair
play with my hair
night comes near
night comes near
the deep air
the deep air
romantic strains 
romantic strains 
open my heart 
open my heart 
bring me near
bring me near
to fear and desire
to fear and desire
prayer has no efficacy 
prayer has no efficacy 
Light
Light
opens me
opens me
love
love
bends to the dance
bends to the dance


5. FOR KAITLIN & HANNAH, DEAR CHILD FRIENDS


Kaitlin & Hannah
Hannah & Kaitlin
Had an adventure
In a town called Childhood

Hannah saw a bird
And Kaitlin saw a bird
But the bird said Au contraire
I’m not a bird I’m really a free verse poet

A free verse poet
Said Kaitlin
I’ve never heard of such of thing
Nonetheless, said the bird,
That’s what I am

Hannah said, Will you favor us
With one of your verses
Certainly, said the bird
CHIRP CHIRP CHIRP CHIRP CHIRP CHIRP CHIRP
Pretty good, hah?

Well, said Kaitlin,
I would like it better if I understood it
It’s poetry
Said the bird
You’re not supposed to understand it

Hmmmm, said Hannah
I don’t think you’re
A very good
Free verse poet

Neither do I, said Kaitlin

You’re right, said the bird
It isn’t free verse at all:
I charge
Fifteen cents, please.

Hmph, said Hannah
And Hmph, said Kaitlin
And they didn’t give him any money
But went home
And wrote a free verse poem