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Tuesday, March 14, 2017

memory of rain

the memory of rain


what memory makes whole
as if rounded by the thumb
is that comfort at the marrow


consider and reconsider
the inevitability of the past
and all it's inarticulate facts


that tenderness to be found
in the strange bitterness of leaves
littering the graceless spaces


if it were mine alone
the patient rain could fall
and fill all the little silences


with memories of rain
there are times of honesty
spent quietly making tea

Saturday, March 11, 2017

We can host a video of your reading of a poem

Although we cannot showcase a sound file such as mp3 but we can host a video of your reading of your poem
video


Send a video file to koonwoon@gmail.com

Friday, March 10, 2017

the aspens


standing in the glacial till
where the river rocks drift
along the slow seasons
consecrated of root and thorn
illuminated by leaf and berry
practicing mindfulness again


after hard years of becoming
there’s a sad feeling of being
simply awkward and old


but the communion with silence
evokes the quietest of sounds
touchingly and achingly clear


the linen white boles of aspens
the spring green leaves
trembling

We Can Host Short Videos of Your Reading

We cannot showcase sound files such as mp3 but we can showcase your short videos where you read a poem. You can email it to koonwoon@gmail.com as a video file.

Monday, March 6, 2017

Joe LaBreck ----- Three Poems


Finding Skill

Parking lot pennies and shells on the beach,
Gaining the image and where you should seek.

Whales in the ocean and planes in the skies,
Wanting to find it and moving the eyes.

Deer in the forest and shelves full of shoes,
A lifetime of practice with no mouse to use.




  

Follow-Up

Quite early in that first grade year
a teacher said about one boy
that you could write his name in ink
above a city jail cell door.

Now we all hoped it wasn’t true,
and tried each day to give to him,
and all the other kids, the kinds of skills
they’d need to keep them from that fate.

This happened forty years ago.
And still each week I read the list
the paper prints of people booked
into that city jail, and when

I see my students there, I find
I’m not surprised by who they are,
and tell myself that those not named
are living lives of great success.






Fishing In Confusion

She reels me in and casts me back.
Her hook is snelled and quells my speech. 
The thought of slough stays on my tongue. 
Upon her voice I’m pierced and dazed.
I taste her tone.  It floods my eyes.   
She takes me down beside the tide. 
She angles with a velvet lure. 
A lurid idea comes with her hook. 
An ouzel bobs approval.  It
may change my mind.  She casts a stone
upon the flow.  Ironwood it is, 
but on the surface it does skip.
Hers is a heart-shaped stone of love.
My heart does skips.  I walk on water.
Precious she is.  She deeply sinks
in reflection, to rise allured
by weighty promise: a promise that’s
a barbed hook for castaways
joined on an ever winding reel.