Sherry Rabbino Lewis ---------------- five poems

RODEO RIDER

Time’s a bucking bronco

furious to shake me off,

still I hang on tight

strictly from pride.

Guess he’s gotten bored with me

wants to test the next damn fool

who’ll mount willingly

to dare the ride.

Whirls me in a tesseract:

Past and Future meld with Now

grandchild fused with child,

and I am young.

Once I rode a horse called Gold

tried but could not make him halt:

missed the flapping reins

whipping him on.

Feared I’d ride forever

but his weary legs gave out.

He stopped, snorted mist

and let me go.

But…

Time’s a different sort of beast:

relentless, cruel, untiring.

We’ll not part gently.

This much I know.

THIS MORNING

contrails stitched your initials in the sky

first sharp, then cotton fluff, then gone.

My friend said you were saying hi

from someplace northward of the sun.

But she finds comfort everywhere:

In music from a passing car,

or robin lighting on his chair,

she sees a sign from her lost love.

So she insists you’ve come to me

as hummingbird with onyx glare

suspended inches from my face,

or strange cat waiting on the stair.

He would not leave his chosen place

as if his home was always there.

(And smiled at me with amber eyes—

your color when your mood was fair.)

Such moments do not prove you live.

The comforts we create are lies.

If answered once, I might believe

but what I ask you do not give:

Because you never come in dreams,

no matter how I plead and call,

each “sign” is merely what it seems.

The sky is empty after all.

ABSCISSION LAYER

For a time

all appears the same:

the leaf remains attached

by memory.

Only the tree

senses its loss.

So with love:

Long before they parted

the wound had healed.

SPRING STORM

After days of sun

and arid shirtsleeve heat

we moved geraniums outside,

took covers from the picnic set—

grateful for the end of cold.

Suddenly, at noon

an over-stuffed dark cloud

on its way to somewhere else,

burst loudly, dimpling all the earth

with icy golfball hail.

Finches chirped, confused.

They fled to sheltering trees

shaking winter from their wings.

In moments, all was coated white

and startled silence reigned.

Bright sun soon returned.

The grass glowed  green again.

Then, mockingly, a single peal

of thunder rolled like laughter from

the jokester in the sky.,

LET’S BE FOOLS TOGETHER

Let’s pretend that we believe

that in the sky there is an eye

that sees and grieves,

an ear that hears us cry.

Let’s imagine there’s a Guide

who has a real plan for us.

Let’s jump with joy, forget our pride,

Let’s loudly shout in chorus:

“Thank You for the sunshine!

Thank You for the rain!

Thank You for the beauty!

Thank You for the pain!”

Let’s eat the junk that kills us.

Let’s breathe the air that chokes.

Let’s let the rich ones steal the world

from all us simple folks.

You know what?  I don’t care.

Let them ravish everywhere,

Send the victims to the chair.

Give the guilty ones my share.

I’m weary of excuses

for my fellow man.

I’m tired of the abuses

they commit since time began.

Let’s admit there’s nothing,

no reason for it all.

Let’s be fools together

forget the things we know—

Let’s be joyous fools together

Just relax…and let it go.

Simon Perchik -------- five poems

SIMON PERCHIK

10 WHITBY LANE

East Hampton, NY  11937

(631)324-2834

simon@hamptons.com

www.simonperchik.com

*

What you open leans against wood

that is not a door you can muffle

put your arm around the only sound

when you knock on this kitchen table

whose corners were broken off

straight down, still lit, letting you in

circle her mouth not yet the room

left over and listen for the smoke

around the hush from small fires.

*

Just died and its rain

is already snow, comforts

the obituary page

with moonlight pieces

slowly circling down

as that star-shaped lullaby

small stones still look for

–it’s this morning’s

though over your head the deaths

are hidden in silence

begging for water

that doesn’t break apart

the way each sky

is hollowed out for another

–you make a sea

for these dead, each name

a boat, sails, the spray

midair and out loud.

*

This tree abandoned at last

flows past as ravines and riverbeds

and can’t fall any more

–it’s used to dirt and those initials

you carried along inch by inch

not in some stone letting you stop

for water –you were buried

in the afternoon, late so the light

could close the lid with leftover kisses

become an ocean, still burning

and between each wave the glint

from a clear silence you took for yes.

*

To survive you disguise each log

as the aromatic sun the mornings

can’t resist –even when naked

you hide some kindling close by

let it give birth in the smoke

that leaves with nothing, becomes

the emptiness though your eyes

never look up or warm –a fire

is feeling its way to your mouth

with lullabies and the small stone

falling asleep on the stove

–you feed it wood as if your lips

still smell from milk and salt

–an ancient, gentle art now lost

somewhere in those nightmares

set off by an empty dress

and along your forehead the light

begins to melt, wants to stay, keep going.

*

Even these weeds panic

circle around your fingertips

as if the stream they fasten on

knows only one direction –the dead

still fold their arms, dare you

to raise your hand, ask for salt

clear the ground before the no! no!

stops and in the silence makes room

for flowers and your mouth

sweetened by the warm breath

it still remembers as sunlight

struggling and the pull up! pull up!

Four poems by Julie A. Dickson

Weather Report

The weather is ridiculous you say?

Back in my day, we had snow up to here,

had to clear driveway by hand,

distribute sand from a pail, all the while

assailed by drifting snow and wind.

Dogs romped through high banks

knocking snow down to my feet,

and when there was sleet,  I just froze,

bundled to the nose in wool scarf

and knit mittens that soaked through

till my hands were bright red.

No Thinsulate gloves, nor snow-blower then;

my jacket got damp, there was snow

in my boots, even though I had bread bags

over my socks, but I didn’t care a bit,

never threw a fit about being cold.

With driveway and walks done, now was time

for some fun, digging tunnels and caves

into heaped up mounds from the road plow.

I wonder how long I stayed outdoors

pretending an igloo was my icy home,

or dragging a sled, metal and wood, up the hill

just for the thrill of sliding down, to trudge

up again until the voice from within

offered cocoa after shucking my wet duds,

eventually warmed in the suds of a hot bath,

I relaxed, knowing school was closed today,

heard the weather report, thinking how cool,

to stay home on a winter day, frosted windows

decorated like lace, a smile crossed my face.

Julie A. Dickson

Long ‘til Spring

Road along the fence lays under snow

fields unmowed half-covered like a fog

no wagon tracks or furrows by the row

cannot discern a hillock from a log

Fronds of wheat reach up as if to wave

those not buried seek the morning sun,

you might describe those stalks as soldiers brave

they stand against the cold with faces dun

A single bird from fence surveys the field

may wonder if some insects have survived,

retreats to oak in hope that branches shield

his hunger, cold now winter has arrived

Field in silence, bird must weather storm

long ‘til spring, he struggles to stay warm

Julie A. Dickson

Exeter, NH

Jdickson55@yahoo.com

From the Womb

Phantom dark cast shadow,

sketched charcoal streak

marks a midnight story

where stark, cold branches cut

through heavy velvet night sky

Embraces gray clouds,

moonless, endless dark,

no pin-prick light shines

to disrupt blue-black drapery,

covers the window of winter

Dawn drains darkness,

brings lightness to morning sky

like new life born from

the womb of mother earth –

she opens the day to sunlight

A new season unfolds,

tiny litter suckles in the nest

of early spring, preparing

budding brilliance –

trees smile their greeting

Julie A. Dickson

Exeter, NH

Jdickson55@yahoo.com

A New State

Sad state of affairs they say too often

without means to resolve or demonstrate.

What we’re left with might best be forgotten;

I’m ready and waiting for a new state -

so unrecognizable at this time. 

Is there another choice you might say?

In trouble we are if we follow this line,

I’m ready for change if you name the day.

It seems that people have been misled,

the masses in tatters they wait, for what?

Listen in volumes, to lies being said

I’m ready to hear a new voice, but

who will come forth to lead the nation?

I’m ready for a revelation.

Julie A. Dickson