Four Poems by Jerry Austin

Residence

This is a weird universe, and we can't know.

Does our conscience go on a scale at death?

This is a weird universe and we can't know.

Will DMT take us to aliens?

I doubt we're the only life in this universe.

Will DMT take us to aliens?

And does poetry make everything happen?

By which I mean, does it extend from the vital breath?

And does poetry make everything happen?

The professor told me: “It may turn out we can know.

But we just can't know that we know.”

The professor told me: “It may turn out we can know.”

The one you can never fool for long,

By whatever name, is the conscience:

The one you can never fool for long.

Jerry Austin / 22 April 2015

All Finite Things Reveal Infinitude

Was it William Bray said: "We don't

go to heaven; we are in heaven,

we just don't realize it."

I could believe that, today,

as I walked near View Ridge

Playfield--on the blocks nearby.

After rain, a half-hour of sunlight--

rare as peace--enfolded the yellow

azaleas and dense-pink flowers

of an ornamental tree. It was as if

one, without trying too hard, but simply

by not fighting it, could see into

the farther universe of things. Why

farther to see what is already there?

I don't know. But that's how it seemed.

Plain sidewalk; plain lawn, house,

park. Gardens. Rain lit with sun

on the infinite trees.

Jerry Austin / 24 April 2015

Discoveries

You may as well begin now.

                                        Life

in a year or a thousand

                                        will

be discovered

                                        outside

our solar system.

                                        Plenty

of problems--Big

                                        Problems--

will remain.

                                        But

on the beaches, wind blends

                                        magic

and a hushing, while the

                                        waves

roll like clocks

                                        readjusted

to a better-sounding tick and

                                        tock--

a music you have known

                                        far

away in your neurons

                                        all

this time. The universality,

                                        inevitability,

and organization of life will

                                        restore

knowledge of God.

                                        However

new dangers arise always from

                                        discoveries

(and here I wanted to comfort,

                                        but

have sworn to sincerity).

                                         Still

our center, a Paradise

                                        regained,

will in part be with us.

Jerry Austin / 18 April 2015

Dark Patch

Beavers had gnawed and worked

the timber that high valley, and left

a flat landscape our trail now ascended

past. Old now, older than some tall

trees.... Dark niches that scare me

do not surprise, but what much-spooked

in youth, radiated darker energies

and salience takes me back, back far

as Roethke's crow, or elders'

visionary tellings. A shudder

black-rose-black vibrated all

throughout my butterflywinged

wildscapes within, and far within,

where shared visions of unknown

ancestors and theirs much-conjure,

much-raise. Yes, I remember green

black forest on land flat as a beaver's

tail, and toothpick trees, thin as

skinny people, storks' legs, bamboo,

that didn't split the dark but furthered

thesterness, its tales of all the skies

to have passed overtop, while owls and

golden little birds in their seasons

raced to ungloom its niches.

Jerry Austin / 19 January 2015

"Other" ------ poem by Nathaniel Hutner

Other

You will use my madness

To give me pain – you,

Who speak in the guise of truth

And wish me ill.

Have I not pain enough

For the ten of you, or twenty?

Can you really be invulnerable?

You have given the gift of my faults.

I have already lived with them,

They know me,

And I have made them my friends.

It is as if I lived with them

On a small island and we passed

Our time shifting places.

I am now all that I have been

And shall be,

History and potentiality.

My faults cannot destroy me.

Nor my madness.

Nor you.

Nathaniel C. Hutner

First published in Chrysanthemum, Spring/Summer 1992

Two poems ----- Joseph Riccardi

EPITAPH

No longer to eat this bread of Earth,

Will I taste a richer bread,

Will I sit again at someone's board

Or will stones remain my bed?

So traveler, pass on --

And if your bread is poor,

Be thankful you can curse at it,

And pound on the baker's door!

POVERTY

Poverty is a black kid

bouncing on a box spring

put out for the garbage --

but now a trampoline!

Poverty is looking for coins

under the sofa cushions,

fallen from pockets

to buy bread and milk!

Poverty is ten kids

climbing over a truck

marked "Good Humor" --

buying half of an ice pop!

Poverty is a toothache

and you with no dentist

to relieve the pain,

and you with no mother!

Poverty's a saxophone

you have to conceal

as you run home

from band practice!

Poverty's having no legs

and you on a roller

plunking the banjo,

while begging for money!

Poverty's never putting

your rippling muscles

to useful endeavor,

but only to harming!

Joel Kabakov -------- Five Poems

Night Singer
(for O.T.)

I saw the full moon take a last sip of ocean
wipe her lip on a cloud
and slink down an elliptical alley
our marooned throats parched at the thought of squinting
at the light of day
as the shadows long and regal before her imperious stare
now decayed into high-contrast artificiality
frogs and crickets fallen silent
speechless along with the whole backside of the planet
diurnal fools began shuffling from desk to desk
clutching cases crammed with sobriety
While after dawn
I hang out at her favorite bar
patiently
wings folded
waiting to sing.


Mirage

This love that our glance created
is but a distant mirage
a mirage in the desert
keeping life’s waters
eternally beyond reach
as if knowing that thirst sustains love
the absence of quenching
of final attainment
the suffering root
the branch
a blossom’s fragrance
all reaching
for that hint of heavenly dew
to arrive
just before
the moment of extinction.


Ask Me

We now learn that matter in the universe is aligned
in a grid,
that each molecule knows its mark
as if order came first
that the stars know the moment of our birth
as if knowledge came first
that each canvas knows what it wants to become
as if image came first
that the tiger knows when to strike
as if power came first
that prayer is answered
as if God came first
and as all systems fail
all gods flee
all stars fall
and as knowledge is overrun by innocence
something else comes into being
Ask me.


Columbia Crossing

Riotous wild flowers defy
the vandal winds of noon
a ruler of skies and river
retracts his wings
careening
talons outstretched
into the rapids below the dam
I watch and conjugate “ I am” in several dead languages
may the tongues whose words for the movement of water
the finite expressions for the consistency of snow
and the constancy of love
may poesy that long ago ceased its harmonious continuum
when the river stopped
cry out in counterpoint with the rapids again
we walk among the blossoms and the driftwood bereft of literacy
as scriptures encode themselves
in the pagination of windblown silts
respelling the gorge through millennia.


Available Light

Aimless
I straddle her doorway
phantom quiet
she greets me
“there’s a switch on the wall
behind you and a little to the right”
she says
“but remember
I live by available light”
she says
Emptied
my dark pocket disgorges its dried fruit
its seeds
“I suspected you of coming to share your needs”
she says
“but when the sun abdicates its window above
certain species are available for love”
“now take my hand
think to me
there is an available link to me
not in gravity
not in jest
nor time escaping in your chest
copperite moons upon the moat
not scripture
nor what patient prelates wrote”
Belong,
“belong to none and no one
nor to me”
she says
“I’m available
available but free.”

Anne McWilliams ----- Two poems

REFINISHING A BOAT IN MORGAN'S GARAGE

(rebuilding a vehicle, repairing anything)

They huddle together,

dozens of squashed cans spilling

from bad bank shots around a recycle bin

full of smashed Budweiser boxes.

Urine musk rises from the gravel

between the house and RV

near the dumpster full of rotted deck wood

(or bad parts).

Their boxer sniffs the ground

and adds his scent.

The women hold cigarettes

that burn down between their fingers

while the men pass a pipe

and shatter the air with farts.

This is where,

every spare moment,

among the tools and cast off chairs,

they hold communion.

POKER FACE

she bends a straw to your lips,

props your pillows

brings warm blankets,

and after a short while she brings

another dose of pills

and takes an empty glass away.

she's neat and orderly

tired and overworked

and has seen thousands of naked men.

don't ask her out, ever.

somebody's mother or daughter

she doesn't wait for gratitude

she keeps smiling and scrubs you clean

wipes your wounds and backside

and asks if everything is ok.

she doesn't inflict bodily harm

genetics will out, and no amount of care

can make up for poor choices.

dead or dying, in flames,

frozen, drowning, train wrecks

she works in common cause to clean

care and teach with calm

eyes, serene face, steady hands.

she gives no salt for your wounds

released, rebalanced, prescribed

graves dug, again, and again

she knows it never changes.

she learns the smell of dying souls.

she knows the body contains so much blood.

she wants you to believe in the power of healing

or whatever lies you believe

to show in her face, she knows exactly

what quality of your life

is up to you.

Julie A. Dickson ----- Five poems

 

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

The Wise Man Bridge

 

I’d heard about a bridge from the time I was a girl.

I’d rarely gone to investigate the rumors people shared.

Countless travelers told tales that, while crossing, heard a voice.

They spoke of hearing a wise man who offered direction to the lost.

 

Weary travelers who came to town called it The Wise Man Bridge.

Local men scoffed and laughed; kerchiefed women whispered,

but I had always been afraid, had chosen to stay away

until the day my papa died when I felt lost and alone.

 

As I approached the bridge, I heard nothing, I stopped.

Soon there came a whisper, “Why have you not come before?”

I shuddered and stood quietly. “You know what to do.”

I nodded and a peaceful calm fell over me.

 

I thought I recognized the voice and then knew it was my own.

My voice within had spoken; the travelers had not listened.

As others before had walked upon The Wise Man Bridge,

I had been afraid to listen to my own wisdom.

 

 

 

 

Pomaceous

 

Pomaceous orbs glisten with dew

in the morning sun, succulent morsels

shine yellow-red behind translucent leaves.

 

The clusters nestled in gnarled tree forks,

weigh down slender sapling branches

awaiting the eager hands of harvest.

 

Gather them now into your basket.

Drink in their aroma, coolly crisp;

savory apple, each snap in your mouth.

 

 

I’d Never Make You Cry

 

If I was a man, I’d wear a felted hat,

walking tall down the dark street,

a knowing glance to those I meet.

 

If I was a man, I’d have my arm around your shoulder,

proud to be seen with you,

a treasure, come real and true.

 

If I was a man, I’d never make you cry.

I’d recognize your strengths and good,

revel in your worth, I would.

 

But I’m not a man, I don’t know what it’s like

to walk in your shoes

even if I could choose,

 

I’d never make you cry.

 

A Hawk

I walk the rocky foothills through scrub pine;

above me a hawk in lazy circle soars,

repeating pattern of some grand design,

Hawk spies a salmon while river’s mouth pours

o’r stones and pebbles, loose branches they flow;

tangled, catching, break free, they travel.

Held tightly in talons, his prey in tow-

Has stirred up silt among the gravel.

Echoed sound of footsteps, path traversed,

he, solitary as my stride, the hawk.

I wander through existence well-rehearsed;

tranquility must feed me as I walk.

I feel the morning sun upon my face,

feel nurtured as within my love’s embrace.

 

 

Homeless: No Purpose

 

Drifting along a deserted sidewalk,

hearing a song from the corner café.

Passed by open door - hear strangers talk,

icy glances, their chosen whispers say.

No one looks my way, in my direction;

anonymous, continue to survive.

I walk alone, passed by- with no objection,

 

As if I have no purpose to be alive.

David Fewster ------ new poem for new year

12 NEW YEAR’S RESOLUTIONS

1) Accept the fact the possibility of love

    no longer exists.

    You’re a monster.

2) Try not to laugh at folks who

    attempt to quit smoking the first

     half of the month.

3) If you’re feeling sad, remember

    the cable bill is paid thru January.

4) Savor every moment.

    The next one is going to be even worse.

5) Only talk to people

    you’ve known at least 20 years.

    When in doubt, remember

    They don’t understand you, either.

6) Tip even unattractive bartenders.

    This may turn out to be the

    Hidden Key to Heaven.

7) Don’t laugh when your friends who resolved

    to stop smoking

    Light up in front of you.

    Their shame is already great.

8) Don’t suddenly decide to

    Burn all your old papers in an effort

    To cleanse the past.

    Your friends and family will appreciate

    The chuckle when they’re sorting your shit

    After you’re dead.

9) Old court documents, however, can be thrown away

    With impunity.

10) Don’t take an exotic trip

      in an effort to reach satori,

      or move to some new city

      to try to “start afresh”

      Travel is for the young.

      Stay where the fuck you are.

      Remember how happy Dorothy was

      To get back to Kansas

      Where she died at the age of 16

      When a silo fell on her head.

11) Cry during all the commercials,

      even the ones for Depends Adult Undergarments.

      You’ve got to let it out somehow.

12) Stop all that goddamn whining.

      And start smoking.

--David Fewster

George Held -------- Adages to live by

Geo’s New Adages (monostichs)

Impute unto others what you deny in yourself.

A pinch of strychnine saves clothesline.

An addled mind is the devil’s play station.

No good weed goes unpuffed.

An ounce of projection is worth a pound of endure.

Lenny Bruce wise and Ezra Pound foolish

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

SIMON PERCHIK

10 WHITBY LANE

East Hampton, NY  11937

(631)324-2834

simon@hamptons.com

www.simonperchik.com

*

Even the colors are anxious, carried

as if its new home above ground

would skimp the way all rows use dirt

cut in two with nothing in between

–you suddenly bring it a darkness

use one hand to comfort the other

though you’ve done all this before

have no faith in mornings :clumps

that want only to forget, just lie still

holding one end close, for a long time

sorted out and unfamiliar fields

taken place to place in flowers

in ribbons, string, thread, something

feeble, tied to the dissolving Earth

by this shadow and your arms.

*

As if the paint poured across

could stave off rot, circle down

though this gate heads back

once it leaves your arms –by itself

whitening the trees already stone

certain you will come here forever

bring twigs, let them sweeten

soften on the ground you bite into

struggling to float, unable to breathe

or unfasten her skirt –your mouth

oozing the way mornings arrive

to dry, kept moist by these dead

and berries dressed as roots and grass

surrounded, filled with the taste

from her eyelids not yet flowers.

*

This rotted log yes and no

longs for the stillness

that is not wood though you

are already inside, seated

at a table, a lamp, clinging

the way all light arrives alone

except for the enormous jaws

once shoreline closing in

without water or suddenness

–you lay down a small thing

and the Earth is surrounded, fed

slowly forehead to forehead again.

*

You reach for lullabies, left over

and the slow crawl half whispers

half where your lips ache, float

the way this empty cup still wobbles

will break apart, overloaded

disguised as two steps closer and alone

then fill your arms with its darkness

seeping through, breathing out

not yet an embrace, not yet the mouth

where your fingers end, surrounded

by more and more dirt, a small room

here, there, there, not yet asleep.

*

It’s never dry –another gust

though this elevator is carried

the way you count backward

for hours and the door flies open

lets in a sea half hillside

half rising through the floor

–you walk in to sleep, begin

with the sound sand makes

when scattered for footprints

still following the silence

between 10, then 0, pressed

against your face –tides

are used to this, start out

to forgive, then lay down

as emptiness and a home.