Chrysanthemum Poetry Anthology

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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

David Fewster ----- poem

REDISCOVERED MAUDLIN POEM DATED “FREMONT FAIR SUNDAY SUMMER SOLSTICE SALMON BAY PARK 2000” WRITTEN IN THE MARGINS OF A TORN-OUT STRANGER COVER AND FOUND IN A PAPERBACK EDITION OF LI PO THAT I STOLE FROM THE VASHON LIBRARY AROUND THE SAME TIME 

by David Fewster

Saw them get out of their Lexus

to pick up their 10 and 11 year-old daughters

fat, affluent, they were out of

a George Grosz painting,

hands on porcine hips, obviously giving the girls

a lecture on the American Way.

Disgusted, I bent back over my book,

a biography of the Marquis de Sade,

and surreptitiously took a slug

from my bottle of Hakusan saki,

fermented in the lovely Napa Valley,

and wouldn’t you like to try it

chilled?

I was interrupted by the sound

of elephants stampeding up a

mountain.

It was the couple,

each with a happy, childlike glint

in their eyes,

running toward the park restrooms.

“Geez, they must have to go

really bad,” I thought,

having been in that situation

15 minutes ago, but the bastards

in the Ballard Parks Dept.

had the damned thing locked,

even if it was Sunday at noon,

so I pissed in the bushes myself.

But no, they weren’t

there to piss—

their daughters soon

came up, and it was

obviously a game of

hide & seek, and the

look of joy had been from

the game and their love of it.

And I was abashed.

Where I had been

trying to find evil,

when the surface was scratched,

I only discovered

old hippies who

had not lost the

capacity for

having fun.

What the fuck’s

Wrong with me?

Wil Michael Wren ----- two poems

                                                                                                              Wil Michael Wrenn

Breath

Into my soul,

Into my soul,

The flow of life

And death.

I breathe in

And out again.

The breath of the cosmos

Flows through me,

And its life

Becomes my life.

I breathe through it,

And with it,

And it breathes in me.

And when I no longer live,

My soul will depart,

My breath will depart,

And become one

With the soul

Of the universe,

With the breath

of the universe.

                                                Wil Michael Wrenn

I Have to Write

I have to write…
Fragments of thoughts,
embers of feelings
join together,
flare up and overwhelm,
overflow…
I have to write
to release the pain,
the sadness of brokenness –
broken hearts and souls,
broken hopes and dreams,
broken wings.
Oh, who will save me
forever
from this endless loss
and fill me up with joy,
complete in love
so I’ll never, ever
again have to write
unless I write of beauty,
mended hearts and souls,
hopes and dreams,
and healing wings.

Thomas Hubbard ----- two poems

Greying

Back in the car he wipes his eyes,

checks the rear view mirror and

starts the engine….

That old curtain story worked again,

quieting her sobs, bringing her back,

partly, from the fear in her eyes, the

uncertainty she inhabits nowadays…

back to bedsores that heal so slowly…

again he complained, they promised,

but nothing changes… since he

brought her to this “rest” home, the

only one nearby with a vacancy, with

promises of great care, cheery rooms…

providing negligent, dingy spaces, at

a price higher than his income.

So passes another day, another visit,

so comes another evening on the couch,

a night alone in his house of memories…

driving home he detours past the factory,

stops in front of the Second Shift bar,

sits in the car, can’t go inside, no use,

gives it up, motors on to the house,

Into the drive, shuts the engine down,

sits and stares, lights a forbidden smoke,

puts it out, walks to the front door and

steps into the rooms they shared,

rooms where happy voices still echo.

Sitting at the same desk where he

filled tax forms year after year and

worried, in those early months, about

house payments, car payments,

doctor bills, school clothes for the kids…

he runs fingers through his greying hair,

sips the last from a glass of bourbon,

pushes back the chair, stands to

carry the glass to the kitchen for a refill,

which he carries to the couch,

stopping to turn on the TV… world news

while another day fades.

Two pretty girls and a very earnest man

discuss the world’s events and local news

as he stares into nothing….

Fading to Blank

Her voice gallops across air,

big-eyed from the uncertainty,

nearly silent ….

Vapors of fear, questions,

where is this? who is this?

which this is this? and still

comes nobody through this

confusing door which leads,

on the dwindling good days,

to those kitchen afternoons 

watching Mom, waiting as

cookies swell behind the

oven door’s foggy window, or

listening as supper sizzles

in the big cast iron skillet.

Comes no greying man who

claims to be her husband, to

remind her how she sewed

these bedroom curtains so

far back along the hallway of

years, that same hallway

leading to Mom’s kitchen and

schooldays, and the wedding,

the children… the hallway

that can’t recall her name,

that sometimes takes her to

the porch, not the bathroom..

Her eyes watch strangers now,

who come when it’s daytime,

making her exercise, even

bathing her, changing her gown,

gently combing her hair and

telling her she’s pretty… lord,

how can she think about pretty

when thoughts run away like

her naughty children who

never visit anymore, but send

sad-eyed strangers to sit

on the couch and act happy?

Her galloping voice gradually

slows, then halts, quiet as she

vacantly stares….

©2018 Thomas Hubbard