New poem by George Held

Acid Peace

On the slope of Mount Wai‘ale‘ale,

World’s wettest spot,

Kamalu passes out the blue caps

While we covet the last tokes

On our blunts, and rain

From Kauaian skies

Tattoos the tin roof

Of that folk star’s warm house

Well after midnight.

Swallowing the cap,

I look up at the smoke

Wafting to the ceiling

And nestling there

Where I will soon

See the shapes of demons

And then feel the floor

Collapse and let me freefall

Into the earth’s core.

Sensing my panic,

Malia, in purple velvet gown,

Begins to play her guitar

And sing heavenly songs

In no tongue, just her ethereal

Voice and perfect timbre,

And Puana hugs

My shoulder and says in my ear,

“We are all one, Bra’,

“We are all in harmony

With the akua, the gods –

We are all one, Bra,’”

And I look up into the smoke

Swirling on the ceiling

And I see that the world

Is good, and I hear peace

In Malia’s soothing voice

And I feel safe, saved,

Until my flight brings me down

Next day in cold, gray San Francisco,

And I know I have to let drugs go . . .

"Apology to Lorca" --- poem by Koon Woon

Apologies to Lorca

I am in a city without time

while the three friends ascend the green balustrade

to view from the balcony the changeless sea.

I am in a house without a number

where food & sex are being squeezed out of tubes

and sleep and meals come at unpredictable hours,

as deep beneath the green water

lie, fathoms deep, sunken Greek ships full of

corroding treasures.

Maria hides behind the purple curtains when

the three friends descend the balustrade

talking of white horses with black manes,

comparing the saddle to the mantle piece.

By & by came Lorca himself,

speaking sadly to his friends:

“Mocitoes, if I am able, this house is your house,

and your horse is my horse,

but I am no longer I & my house is no longer my house.”

The three friends bid the old man adios

and vanished in the Andalusian air.

Sadly from Maria's green, green eyes,

silver tears begin to flow

when the moon climbs further with the night.

I am now in a city without name,

as the three friends gallop from the high mountain pass,

headng to the water, where silvery streaks

in the moonlight tell again of sorrows, where on the beach

there is a note in a bottle

with the script of the Chinese Empress no one can read.

Leaving the bottle on the sand,

the three friends gallop now to another city,

another city without time,

as the waves undulant, undulant roll in,

and beneath these fathoms of green, green water,

lie sunken ships with useless corroding treasures.

Koon Woon

January 12, 2017

Two Poems by Lisa Yoon Les

인연 (원제: 부모님)

파도처럼 넘치는

두 어머니의 새벽 정안수

그에게 넘쳐흘러

폭풍우가 되고

어느 두메산골

툇마루 절간

반야의 수행길이

개벽처럼 열린다.

칠흑의 어두운

고요와 고뇌의 돌계단

저 멀리 반딧불처럼

반짝이는 백호의 눈빛

그의 길 위에 출렁이고

어머니의 손에 이끌려

처음처럼 수줍은 아낙

아뇩다라 그의 눈빛과

인연으로 설레라.

Meant to be

Two mothers pray at dawn

before the divine freshly drawn water

Soon exploded like a surging wave

and became a thunderstorm.

At a toenmaru

of a Buddhist temple,

He practices the Heart Sutra

as the world begins.

The stone steps with the

pitch-dark of the silence and agony

On his way, gazing the gleaming eyes

of the white tiger for guidance far away.

A girl with her mother standing

with a shy smile like the first time

Their eyes, fluttering hearts met in the air

the universe quotes "It was meant to be"

About the poem인연(Meant to be): This poem is originally written in Korean and was awarded in a poetry contest. The poem describes the poet's parents who first met each other at a temple on the mountain.

클러치를 든 그녀

내 곁을 스쳐가네

클러치를 든 그녀

코끝을 간지럽히는

그녀의 가을 꽃 향기

노트북에 탑재된 채

그녀의 지성이 되어 주던

기호, 코드, 빅데이터

아차! 백팩에서 사라졌네. 

중력으로 늘어진 백팩

그 안에 유영하던 화려한 물고기

그녀의 심장에 닿기 위해

오늘도 몇 시간을 헤엄치다

아차! 그녀의 머릿속만 훔쳤네.

Girl who carries a clutch

The girl who carries a clutch

is just passing me by

Her fragrance of autumn sweetness

soothing my slight pain.

The codes, signs and big data

packed and alive in her backpack

Ready to be her intelligence, but

O heavens! They are all gone.

Gravity matters droopy backpack

The fish swimming in it elegantly

Thou trying to reach out her heart

O heavens! only stole her brain.

About the poem클러치를 든 그녀(Girl who carries a clutch): This poem is originally written in Korean and was translated into the English language later by the poet herself. The poem describes a girl who used to carry a backpack with a laptop which had a large amount of information. Now she carries a clutch which means she remembers most of the knowledge in her brain but not in her heart yet as she had dreamt.

New poems by Julie Dickson

I Exist

I exist because I was born

into a world I knew nothing of

to parents previously forlorn,

untrained at expressing love.

In my attempt to please, to know,

evolving into compliance -

adapted behavior long ago

existing on self-reliance.

Nestled safely in protective shell,

I rarely braved the outside world –

a bit of a loner, but just as well,

inside my cocoon, I was curled

until unlocked I slowly emerged

into a fully-lit room, I stepped

on shaky ground, although I was urged

to express myself, was clearly inept.

With infantile steps I progressed,

a new student of the world at best.

Julie A. Dickson

Exeter, NH

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

Tide Bracelets

Three piers straight as planted corn

in rows with water line striped pilings -

no crusty barnacles are left behind,

just dark circles like bracelets, wide

or narrow; they will be covered

as the waters rise, sloshing against

the rocks and creosote coated pilings

until only the dock surfaces remain.

The decking weathered and spotted

with remnants of fish guts and more,

the “white-washed” reminder of gulls

and cormorants as they stand in the breeze,

spreading their faux-eagle wings to dry.

Below the surface, barely visible posts

now dark, underwater sentries with

silent sea turtles and bottom feeders

hiding in shadows between pilings,

biding their time until the turn -

when the tide bracelets reappear.

Julie A. Dickson

Exeter, NH

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

The Price

Waking alone

on this day here at home

is something that's tough to bear.

In all the years gone

strive to carry on,

at times I cannot share

this path I carved out

even though I had doubt

once my decision was made;

I followed on my own,

the road I was shown,

despite the high price that I paid.

Julie A. Dickson

Exeter, NH

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

4 Seasons Haiku

1

Worms fear early birds

Tree buds emerge silently

Mother Nature wakes

2

Sunlight permeates

Cicadas echo in song

Snake basks in the heat

3

Quiet garden walk

Leaves rustle among the pines

Poetry prevails

4

White blanket like lace

Ice shimmers on frozen pond

Fish slumber below

Julie A. Dickson

Exeter, NH

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

Dark Circles

Across the room, her face deep in shadow

even where I stand, dark circles are clear,

her eyes hooded and swollen but I know

that nothing said, no comfort will she hear –

Won’t erase dark circles beneath those eyes,

won’t bring a smile to lips drawn to a pout,

the sorrow born from behind her disguise.

I struggle to discover but without

Any idea, words not forthcoming

until a blaze of yellow cut through air,

a bouquet of daffodils- becoming,

I carry to her, perhaps to declare

And when the smile from her breaks free at last

I sense a brief respite, break from her past.

Julie A. Dickson

Exeter, NH

New poem by Koon Woon

The Murder at the End of “F” Street

One must get beyond the mind of winter

to view the murder at the end of “F” Street,

and to cast a stone straight into its fierce wind

when memory yields no clue.

We've come to the abyss

and the abyss resents our intrusion,

while the murder at the end of “F” Street

was roundly denounced as a delusion.

Greater minds have rested here –

at the nadir of two cycloids,

when a priori we know as certain

that its logic is refutable by school boys.

And so goes it without reporting,

the murder at the end of “F” Street,

like fish glimpsing surface of lake,

and pussiwillows now buds indiscreet.

So one must get beyond the mind of winter

to denounce the murder at the end of “F” Street,

where tell-tale signs of the gratuitous deed

will follow us, will drag us by our feet.

Koon Woon

December 26, 2016

Julie Dickson ---- three poems

You Are the Author

If life is yet to be written

does it mean that

you are the author?

Can it be composed

on a blank slate, such that

no pain occurs?

Then I choose for my story

to be wonderful –

full of joyful times.

No? It’s not happening?

Resigned, then I will write

the realistic life I lead.

My trials are personal –

you don’t share my life

or my pain – it’s mine alone.

You may have a different pain

and in the story of your life,

you are the author.

Julie A. Dickson

Exeter, NH

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

Her Mark

I couldn’t drink coffee for years.

The aroma of coffee co-mingled

and conjured the memory of smoke,

her cigarette leaning precariously

on the edge of a blue blown-glass ashtray.

I stared at the glowing tip, waiting

for it to fall, to mar her highly polished table

but no…instinct drove her hand forward

to pluck it up, butt burnt close to the filter.

I watched it go to her lips, bright red –

lipstick left on the filter end,

quickly snuffed out.

My eyes darted to the coffee cup,

half-full of tepid, milky liquid and

Suddenly I realized the rim bore

her mark as well.

As if corrected with a teacher’s red pencil,

I couldn’t bring myself to drink coffee then.

Even now, I can still smell her cigarette.

Julie A. Dickson

Exeter, NH

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

Night Out

It wasn’t at all comfortable

sitting atop an old crib mattress

my father had jammed into the back seat.

Too high we sat, heads brushing the ceiling,

my brother stretched out, purposely

pushing his feet into my legs.

The sound emitted from a scratchy speaker;

it hung awkwardly on my father’s car door,

tinny music too loud, dialog too soft.

We had to share popcorn, my brother’s hand

plunging into the box, butter smeared his face.

I ate daintily, despising my greasy fingers.

Two films were shown, after a cartoon short.

That Darn Cat first, we peered over the front seat,

shoulder-to-shoulder, my brother shoving me.

My parents demanded silence and we obeyed,

only the close proximity betrayed our conflict.

Intermission sent a stream of us from cars

Into public restrooms, our sneaker soles tacky

on sticky tiled floors – then running back to cars.

“Take off your shoes”, my mother chided.

Wide awake, we were impossibly required

to settle down as the adult feature began.

We wrestled in twisted blankets, head to toe

on the mattress, straining to see, trying to

follow the movie plot only by the sound track,

slowly relaxing, we gave in to sleep.

I never heard the ending, didn’t feel my father

ease the car out of the crowded drive-in lot,

the ride home, never woke when my mother

carried me in her arms from the car to my bed.

Julie A. Dickson

Exeter, NH

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