Domingo Mendo -------- Three poems and translations by author

Feelings deep inside me

There is something I feel for her;

It is deep and warm and it floods my body and soul;

It keeps me afloat and threatens to drown me;

I cannot reach her but through words, thoughts and

imagination;

It is very close and very far - I wished she would

quench my thirst, and still my hunger.

I wished I could feel her arms strong around my body.

I wished her eyes would burn in my eyes.

I wished our souls would merge in flesh and blood.

I wished, I wished, I wished she knew what I cannot

tell her.





Wenn die Deiche brechen



Wenn so viel Blut fließt, dass

die Deiche brechen.

Wenn so viel Blut fließt, dass

unsere Gemeinplätze ihre Vernunft „abbrennen“.

Wenn Wort und Schrift es nicht

mehr fassen und „Soll, Muss

und Hätte“ eitel werden.

Wenn Blut dann doch noch wallt;

und Menschen kommen. Können wir

uns dann versperren? Wenn Auge

und Auge sich treffen, wollen wir

uns abwenden? Ist dies alles

noch fassbar: Ist Reichtum nicht

Totschlag, wenn andere verbluten?

Ist Reichtum nicht Selbst-
mord, wen andere ver-
hungern?

Wenn es so wild klopft, dass

Deiche brechen.

Wenn Zäune und Mauern

zerbröseln, da die Leere der

Mägen und Verzweiflung

der Herzen sie zerreißt.

Wenn all dies so ist,

dann ist es Zeit, auch die

Deiche in UNS zu brechen.



(English translation by author)

When dikes are breaking



When streams of blood become so powerful that 

dikes break.

When streams of blood become so powerful that 

our common places “burn” their common sense.

When it is beyond the grasp of word and writing 

and “should, must and might” become futile.

When blood is, nonetheless, still boiling and men, 

women and children start pouring in. Can we 

then bar all the doors? When our eyes meet, are 

we going to turn our backs on them? Can all this 

be grasped: Isn’t richness murderous when 

others bleed to death? Isn’t richness suicidal 

when others die of hunger?

When they come knocking on the door so 

strongly that dikes break.

When fences and walls start crumbling because 

empty bellies and desperate hearts tear them 

apart.

When all this is true then it is time to break the 

dikes within YOU AND ME. 





Ein Che Guevara in Filzpantoffeln

A Che Guevara in felt slippers



Abends bin ich ein Che Guevara in Filzpantoffeln;

In the evening, I am a Che Guevara in felt slippers;

Ideen rauschen durch meinen Kopf und schwitzen sich in meinen

Filzpantoffeln aus;

Ideas swirling through my head and turning into sweat in my felt slippers;

Der Kopf wird kalt

und die Filzpantoffeln erwärmen meine Füße;

My head goes cold

and the felt slippers warm up my feet;

Der Kopf muss dann wild geschüttelt werden; wild

wie der Che Guevara; doch meine Filzpantoffeln schütteln alles ab; alles aus

meinen Filzpantoffeln.

Then I have to shake my head wildly; as wild as the

Che Guevara; however, my felt slippers shake everything off and everything out of

my felt slippers.

Ein toter Che Guevara

in lebenden Filzpantoffeln.

So untot ist der Filz.

A dead Che Guevara

in living felt slippers.


So undead is felt.

Myungsoon Kim -------- poem

The way I love you

by Angela

Sometimes my bowl is too big

your love cannot fill it

Sometimes my bowl is too small

your love fills it and overflows

When my heart is filled with greed and egoism

No room is left for your love

If I let them go, could it fit

If I empty all of them, could it be enough

The sky is high

The flowers are so beautiful

I learn how to live and love from nature

Just flowing clouds, river and wind

My bowl is getting as clear and as pure

as your endless love

Norm Davis -------- Five Poems

Strolling

white lady
walking her white dog
black crow
beak full of something
stolen from garbage
both headed for home...
beeline

To Alan Catlin

Some poets don't have any message.
They don't have anything to say.
Their task is to say it with beauty...
and with feeling.

Fort Dix

Stationed at Fort Dix, my
father, on the way to France,
in World War One...
although they didn't call it that.
I mean they didn't call it World
               War One.
We called it World War One in
later years, and we also called
Fort Dix the Spinal Meningitis
Capitol of the world.
Dad got spinal meningitis there,
and so did Jack Kelsey.
Dad didn't make it to France.
And Jack didn't make back to
               Wellsville.
Insects, two... Wellsville zero.
An Irish, and a Taff.
Mosquitoes had the last laugh.

Carlisle

Dad was stationed at Carlisle,
the Indian school, in 1919.
He was a medic.  He went home
on a 72 hour pass, and when he
returned, half the base was down
with Spanish Influenza, so
naturally he got it.
Spanish Influenza did not have
anything to do with Spain.
It was just that Spain was a
neutral nation, and their news-
papers published the figures.
The warring nations had to keep
the figures secret...not let the
enemy know your losses.
By not sharing information, by
lack of cooperation, losses were
by far increased.  Death rode
              rampant.
It raged around the world.  One
of the greatest epidemics ever
               known.
It shouldn't have been called
the Spanish Influenza.
It should have been called The
Influenza That Wiped Out Millions
and That We Were Too Damn
Dumb To Do Anything About.

When You Come Home

When you come back,
nothing around you is real.
Sitting in The Modern Diner,
or The Texas Hot, the library,
the kitchen table at home.
The film just rolls along as
usual, like it's always done.
Nothing is out of place.  But
you're out on the flight line
with Irving, or launching your
BST with Shoemaker,  out of
the motor pool.
Jay is telling a joke, "Go back,
go back, there are two of them!"
They are having a Coke, down
in the Biltmore.  The girls are
laughing a lot.
You're turning into Area 12.
Maybe a war has started this
morning, and this is the real thing.
One can't tell the difference, and
nobody wants you to.  Your
behavior is the same, whether
it's yes or no.  Everyone hates
the Russians, even the little ones,
the children.  Communists are
like the weather.  Everyone com-
plains about them, but nobody
              does anything.
You are doing something, here at
Area 12,  picking up a unit, 4.5
megatons of radioactive TNT.
The sports fans on TV are talking
about Bobby Layne.  His injured
thumb looks like a peach pit, but
he's gonna play.  Tough guy.
Choir practice tomorrow.  Tour
starts in only two weeks.  Here
we are practicing World War III
devotedly, protecting the Sinclair
refinery at home, Philco assembly
line in Batavia, that plant in
Lockport, the father of Tim McVeigh.
Fisher Price, Kodak, French's, Stromburg-Carlson, the whole damn
               Rust Belt.
It doesn't seem real, sitting here
in the diner, hearing the laughter,
the talk.  I should be driving out
to the flight line, getting ready
                to kill.

Two Poems ------- Lisa MN Yoon Les (South Korea)

Two Poems ----- Lisa MN Yoon Les (South Korea)

The Glory of Walking                            

-The Glorious moment I met Walking by H.D.Thoreau

You entered the dark forest that is my mind

At dusk, gleaming

You stepped into the gloomy jungle that is my heart

Shining, fending off shadows

You came into the grizzly cottage that is my soul

Glowing, rounding the curves

You soothed my torn, cracked heart

Glittering, dazzling as the play of my bracelet

You amble and saunter,

Bringing brilliance into my shed

You are freedom and the unfettered wildness

That at once is also civilization’s peak.

Idol Star-smtm4

-Following We Real Cool by Gwendolyn Brooks

Thee aspire inspire. Thee
Hip-hop K-Pop. Thee

Respect suspect. Thee
Cynical critical. Thee

Mask-on & off. Thee
Rapping choking. Thee
 Cracked Ordinary. Thee 
Oh Offnary Off

l  smtm4(Show Me the Money-Season4): It is a rap audition program on cable channel. There were so many young people who tried to be idol stars through the show. I had watched the show several times and felt sort of pity for the craze of the show and this poem is about the youngsters who wanted to be the rap idol stars but seemed to get stolen their normal daily life.  

She Thought ------ poem by Koon Woon

She thought

She thought maybe she could love me

But she was caught between comfort and chaos

She thought she could have it and eat it

In both ways she could affirm and also assimilate

But the upshot was not what it seemed to be

The invisible constraints keep one in place

She couldn’t decide to be Alice or to be the Queen

But no matter, the importance of it all unraveled at the seams.

Julie A. Dickson -------- three poems

Moose  [A True account]

Standing still three feet deep,

with river at low tide,

head dipped as he ripped

weeds, and then he chewed.

The town from each bank

viewed an unusual beast

enjoying his feast from the river.

But then they came along,

those from Fish and Game,

we all nodded and agreed

our young moose bore no blame.

He [the moose] was made to go,

tranquilized without much bellow,

taken far up north to graze,

hoisted, as we pondered

it this the best way to raise a moose?

Julie A. Dickson

Exeter, NH

---------

Hand-in-Hand

The outline of an older man

shadows across a chalky sidewalk.

A young boy stands atop the shadow,

looking up, his small fingers clasped firmly

but softly held in the age-mottled hand

of his white-haired grandfather.

They cross the street hand-in-hand

on their special weekly excursion,

the boy brightening when approaching

their favorite ice cream shop.

Grandfather always orders a Spanish sundae,

enjoying each salty red-skinned peanut;

in contrast to the boy’s pink-hued

strawberry shortcake, mounded whipped cream

and a cherry, saved until the last.

The boy savors each bite in

the shadow of an older man.

Julie A. Dickson

Exeter, NH

-----

Misalona Smile     [Anagram – Mona Lisa]

Misalona, a solitary jewel -

uncut stone, in precious diamond dark.

Possesses a deep tonal fortitude;

inside her dwells a well-hidden spark.

At times her dark brown eyes have glittered

with vast propensity of visions viewed,

her solemnity seems almost stoic,

although she’s quite resolved in attitude.

Watches from a wide- angle stance,

witnessed images seen as phrases;

words structured into free verse and prose,

compiled silent questions she raises.

When he enters her field of vision

Exquisite jeweled clarity does release;

somehow scene changes to fill her void

Misalona smile exemplifies her inner peace.

Julie A. Dickson

Exeter, NH

Shannon P. Laws ----- three poems

Death’s Dip

of Confession of a Mattress

            by Shannon P. Laws

FREE mattress. A queen size pillow top

Took it home, laid it in the frame

First night—I rolled into a dip

a body shaped dip

on the left side

A person taller than me, wider than me

created a dip that I roll into

a bedridden, sickly person

left a death dip

No problem, I think, I’ll just sleep on the right

every night to even things out

Yet, every morning I wake in the dip

My bed, now a metaphorical display

divides my psyche down the middle

The dip is comfortable, soft, form fitting

It feels like a hug in my lonely bed.

It is as comfortable as my father’s depression,

a heavy-known feeling of failure,

like a person reluctant to leave their bed

Successful people are not children

Few people achieve success

Those that do are vain and far from God

My familiar spins tires, set on park.

This I confess to you:

            I sleep with death

                        —and I like it

Skin Suit Sewn Too Tightly

          By Shannon Laws

As a doctor sucks poison from a bite

the red rock of Bisbee calls out ghosts

The dead come back to walk again

Reincarnation of secondhand spirits

as secondhand furniture

The dresser is painted now

The couch new cloth

The set of chairs split apart

The headboard used for vines

In your years of living

the painting under the painting

a past covered over and over

with false stories of forgotten moments

Moments made to fill the gap of time

the hungry use between reading

the menu—ordering the meal

Fat of the present melts off

dead blood returns moisture

to the air, dries your muscles tight

Tight as new couch fabric

White as the dresser

Your sets of ribs pull apart

Your head a plot of vines

 Leaf Tattoo

          by Shannon P. Laws

You can you feel it

in my city

the change of air

as wind folds in

fall’s weather.

Orange leaves appear on

the sidewalks of Holly Street.

No worms to dance them back to soil.

Cement laden, laid on

the roadside in random patterns

leave a tattoo, imprinted on the stone.

Five pointed stars tree hand

pressed by feet and rain

bleed orange ink for all to see.

By winter the marks wash away

By spring, bright green babies wave

at us from their mother’s arm

born back into our memory.

Two Prose Poems by John Olson

Seesaw

The sky leans over the water and rides the meaning of the waves. The windows are splattered with rain. An angel of the morning throbs with apprehension. I continue my research on the harmonica. The silk of listening necessitates the sparkle of words. No thought is so obscure that it doesn’t in some fashion flirt with description. My sad green desire swarms with expectation. How many sounds fill a single day? One of them is the sound of a cat eating, smacking little gobs of wet food chicken or turkey against his upper palate. There is warmth in prayer. The day is without precedent. It’s time to gather up all the shadows and make something blaze into reality. Something like thread, or need, or a pain suckling the headlight of a jaguar for the milk of paradise. Isn’t that why people go fishing? There’s a treasure in your eyes called seeing. Can you see it? Can you see seeing? Seeing is easily seen through. Sewing is different. Sewing is more like seesaws. I saw myself see a seesaw and sagged into prophecy with the burden of my testament. Life is often sticky this way. Sometimes I just ramble on for hours saying whatever comes into my head. It’s a lot like swimming. I have to keep moving to stay afloat. Meander. It’s what rivers do. Ripple and riddle and rupture into resplendent aqua. The light is swollen with color. There is so much more to a chair than a chair. Is that a door in your head or just an epiphany? There is so much more that I would like to show you. But the words don’t exist. They smolder like mirrors at the bottom of a swamp. Infinity goes around in a brass hat going on and on about language and how it smells of consciousness and weighs as much as a mathematical logic teased into eighty three eels and a football. The hotel lobby crawls with meat. The air is warm. The incongruities are raw and the grapes are delicious. What more can be said? When it comes to a seesaw there is up and there is down and up and down are interchangeable. What does not exist exists in its non-existence. And that, my friend, is a suitcase. Let’s pack it with whistling and go. Travel the highways make fun of the law. Make memories out of pins. Mythologies out of straw. 

Reality Is Hard to Describe with Bicycles

Reality is hard to describe with bicycles. But why even try? There’s so much of it around. There’s as much reality as there are people. Everybody’s reality is unique to them. But doesn’t that sound glib? I mean, we have to agree on some things, or there wouldn’t be any reality at all. There’d be nothing but sloppy solipsistic anarchy. Crazy people. Morning would arrive every morning in a sweat. You’d never know what to expect. Maybe that’s why some people need jobs. It helps to structure the day. Sometimes I like to run water over a fork. Hold it under the kitchen faucet. It fascinates me. I see a little reality happening there. The reality of water. The reality of a fork. Stainless steel. Tines. And then along comes a religion and it all unravels and becomes a fantasy again. Darkness at the break of noon.  Some religions are helpful. They’re full of singing and glories and deliverance. Fat men in sleighs. Reindeer. Angels. Peculiar attitudes toward money. Me, I believe in the religion of incongruity. Things that don’t fit. Or look like they don’t fit and then you discover holy cow they do fit. If you look hard enough you can always find relations between things. For instance if I imitate a cardboard box it isn’t long before someone comes along and tries to put something into me. An extension cord or sweatshirt. Can I do a metaphor for you? Personality is eye spice. Writing is propagation. Reality is a hatband. Or schnauzer. I don’t know. Let reality be reality, said Lao Tzu. Let things flow naturally forward in whatever way they like. Right now nothing is flowing, except my mind. My hands. My wife’s hand as she draws a wolf. The cat as he stares at the floor. Ok, that’s not flowing, I know, but his form is flowing, the form of the cat is flowing, trust me, it’s flowing. Like I said. Reality is hard to describe with bicycles. So why not use hands? Cats? Metaphors? Asian philosophers? Western philosophers? Hungry philosophers? Any kind of philosopher you can find that isn’t drunk or horny. Desire can skew one’s sense of wisdom. That which is wise and balanced and sensible and sane. Or what? Get on a bicycle and go for a ride. That’s what. 

Nhattaleah Nichols ------ four poems

Together

You only like me when you’re drunk

And I only like you when I’m lonely

But when we sleep

Our hands reach like branches

Pulling us up

Past the Brownstones

Soundly together

Magical Realism

I’m just going to say it now in

the season of bare branches

Just how I wanted to say it then

In the season of spiders and promises and leaves

You are not the first to not love me

I called that story magical realism (the one with the snow and the conditions that I read to you while balancing the book

hot tea

and myself in your lap)

Your long face opened and laughed, said:

You think two people in love is magical realism

I looked down

to the right

sloshing hot tea on bare skin

as if to say

How Foolish

How could I have implied that in the snow

your big hands wouldn’t support my spine in the spiraling flakes?

Your big hands and long face are not the first to not love me

And in the snow

What could be more magical

And more real

Than love

Today

I’m going to sit here

on these rat ridden concrete slabs

in a city that smells like feet

all summer.

waiting for work

and imagine that you are here

Saying those words to me:

Skykomish Snohomish Snoqualmish

And telling me about the Joy you felt

The first time you had a Huckleberry

After leaving the lands of our people

And I’ll tell you about how I didn’t know that Salal

Was the name of a plant and not

All low-lying shrubbery

We can say Kalakala

And talk mountains and

Forget about our exile

The one that brought us happiness

Hay Fever

I woke up at 5 AM alone

My face swollen

 from every scrap of flora the world over trying not to be lonely

I know! It's awful, but it's also ok

It's just spring, and I know that myself

and the rest of the known world

want to smell dirty hair

Too warm skin

And be slightly disgusted

And completely in love

New poem by Mary Nielsen

"Receipt for a Scarlet Begonia"

found on the ground today

a receipt for a scarlet begonia

a phrase that has a poetic ring to it and

I really must look into iambic pentameter

and other patterns of human psyche

which we share a common thread of thankfulness

or thanklessness as they are two sides of the same coin

a begonia is a waxy flower of a genus species

often given as a gift for those so inclined to purchase something

for a sick relative who is not so close

and for whom one would not go out on a limb for

whose thoughtfulness or thoughtlessness we carry as banners

of our fancy notions with either wistfulness or sadness

emanating from the montage of our sincerity