5 Poems
By Lucinda Berry Hill
A Big Gray Hunk of Love
I appreciate the elephant,
The giraffe, and kangaroo.
I appreciate the gifts from God;
The things that they can do.
The elephant's ears flap like wings
As they walk across the land.
They use their trunks to give a lift
Cause they haven't any hands.
Elephants hold a lot of water
Then from their trunks, they spray.
Peanuts are their favorite treat.
We seem to share that trait.
I love those big ole pachyderms.
Those big gray hunks of love.
Their babies, so adorable
As the cuddle mama's trunk.
I appreciate the elephants.
Their creator I applaud.
The chameleons, and the panda bear,
All blessings from our God.
Author Lucinda Berry Hill of "Coffee with Jesus" and "A Second Cup with Jesus" ©
Church on the Farm
I wonder if at night,
When everyone's asleep,
Do the animals assemble;
Do they have a meet and greet?
.
Do they gather to have church?
Do they sit on stacks of hay
And listen to the lamb's good word?
Do they bow their heads and pray?
Do the donkeys carry animals
In from 'round the farm?
Do they praise by the light
Of the moon and the stars?
Do the birds lead in worship,
Singing praises to the king?
Do the horses stomp their hooves
While others clap and sing?
Do the ravens bring in bread?
Do they drink a sip of wine?
Do the eagles guard the meeting place
With their keen and watchful eye?
Do the doves carry branches
Of hope and of peace?
Do the animals listen?
Do they trust and believe?
I wonder when the sun comes up
And they leave their bales of hay,
Do they carry Christ in their hearts
And show Him through the day?
Lucinda Berry Hill Author of "Coffee with Jesus" AND "A Second Cup with Jesus" ©
Shut The Door
Noah build a sturdy ark
Just as God had said.
Then two by two up the plank,
The animals were lead.
Two elephants, two bears,
Two dogs stood on the floor.
And the squirrels on the ark cried,
"God shut the door!"
Noah kept on calling
The animals by two.
Two monkeys, two cows,
Two hopping kangaroos.
Two porcupines, two rhinos,
Two bobcats moving forward.
And the rabbits on the ark cried,
"God shut the door!"
But Noah was obedient
And God loved all it's true,
So boarding on the ark were
Rats and spiders too!
Two skunks were fast approaching
With their black and white coarse fur
And the cats on the ark cried,
"God shut the door!"
But not until all animals
Were entirely aboard,
Did God tell Noah,
“Son shut the door.”
God spared all the animals
And those who trusted Him.
He promised with a rainbow
To never flood again.
So when you hear Him knocking
Don’t wait for something more.
Run to God's own loving voice
And open up the door!
Author Lucinda Berry Hill of "Coffee with Jesus" and "A Second Cup with Jesus" ©
Peace on the Farm
Chickens and roosters.
Cock a doodle do.
There's more than just one.
There's more than just two.
Little chicks are chirping,
Looking for seed.
Mother hens have babies
Hid under their wings.
The gentlemen roosters
Are calm for the day.
No fighting here
This side of the hay.
Then in walks a horse,
A dog, and a lamb.
Still, there is peace
Here on the ranch.
A great social balance.
A comforting blend.
We should take notes
From our animal friends.
No one is greater.
Not one is unknown.
All live in peace
'Till God takes them home.
Author Lucinda Berry Hill of "Coffee with Jesus" and "A Second Cup with Jesus" ©
An Angel for Paws
Angels come with harp and lyre.
Some come with a shield.
Ours came with a stethoscope
For animals to heal.
She also tends to those who love
The critters in her care.
When comforting is needed
She's the one who's there.
A vet may treat our gifts from God;
Their tails, their paws, and fur.
Ours is extra special, though.
An angel here on earth.
Author Lucinda Berry Hill, of Coffee with Jesus ©
3 Poems by Robin Ray
Robin Ray is the author of Wetland and Other Stories (All Things That Matter Press, 2013), Obey the Darkness: Horror Stories, the novels Murder in Rock & Roll Heaven and Commoner the Vagabond, and one book of non-fiction, You Can’t Sleep Here: A Clown’s Guide to Surviving Homelessness. His works have appeared at Delphinium, Bangalore, Squawk Back, Outsider, Red Fez, Jerry Jazz Musician, Underwood Press, Scarlet Leaf, Neologism, Spark, Aphelion, Vita Brevis, and elsewhere.
Anatomy of a Worm
When I come back it’ll be as a shameless red
wiggler worm, in love with a shadow I cannot
see, afraid of the dirt trapped in my five hearts.
I’ll writhe in my sleep. And dream. Elastic
thoughts of the flesh. Afternoon of my marrow.
This is how I’ll plan providence – over a deck
of cards. My climate is too intimate for compost.
I’ll hold the poppy field trails in the grooves of
my skin, intensity is flesh. My brother was an
alcoholic, then became a limousine, long, sleek,
black like the hair of a Japanese ghost. Night
crawlers like myself believe the Book of Blood
is an explosion. We all fall down. There’s my
self-portrait as a shell, it’s the wild in me, the
untamed delusion of fantasy. When I come
back it’ll be as a chameleon disguised as a
shameless red wiggler worm afraid of cards.
Red Crow
Regale me, vermilion crow, your desirous
passions of loves lost and innocence pilfered,
of unimaginable cerulean tides and tales ribald
and new. I remain your hapless worshipper, you
who sought adventures in the brotherly seas and
scoured prairillons amongst the tempested copse.
Secure me beneath your crimson panorama
as I hum your psalms of hope revered. Watching
as you cleverly break open cockles and quahogs
on the rock-strewn shoreline by repeated drops
and airlifts, I can easily admit this: your mother
has taught you well.
Nature Study
Carmine teardrops splash in chai cups. Quite
unpretty. When bipolar scarlet tanagers learn
the truth, they fly upside down in protest,
their cheeks flushed deeper than their wings.
Mestizos crush papaya beneath war-torn feet.
Mix sour cream in. Then have the gall to busk
at sunset for copper. Just like that. Caught in a
blender. Scattered everywhere like calendula.
A bumblebee lost its yellow. Colony ousted.
Flew to yellowjackets. No room at dandelion
inn. In Batesian mimicry, roamed aimlessly.
Pretended the world was a pollen basket.
The grasshopper leaped over the picket fence.
Viridian pastures promised. Verdant to the
lingo. Oil slick in rain puddle. Never an exalted
peridot or jade. Crushed like the bug he was.
Blue mountain swallowtails think they’re birds.
Entomologist having fun at their expense. Clipped
wings can’t zip through the azure. Bluer than muddy
waters. Spend their entire lives being misunderstood.
Perennial violas in full bloom. Scent so luscious it
attracts other violas. Violet sea snails. Gifted. Fragile,
anorexic, lavender shells. Allows its scent to be easily
airborne. Attracts other snails. Clever.
A fluttering of wings
By David Thorpe
A fluttering of wings
proclaims the arrival of the forward observer,
at his outlook post on the highest gable.
His head, like some reversed periscope,
surveys below the surrounding territory
in this peaceful and unsuspecting garden.
The dozing tom-cat,
out of his midday slumber aroused,
opens one eye
but maintains his position of nonchalant observance,
his defeat accepted,
even before the scurmish begins.
The secret sign given,
the troops move in,
displacing the pregnant air.
A perfect landing.
On outstretched necks,
four feathered heads appear above us,
awaiting the final command.
With a swish of wings,
swooping down in a kamikaze dive,
they occupy the granite fountain
and encircle the cascade
indifferent to its burbling water.
A refreshing bath taken,
the thirst now quenched,
with a fluttering of wings
the expeditionary force takes flight.
Mission completed,
a successful foray,
the tom-cat stretches,
and closing his eyes,
returns to his interrupted day-dreams.
The pigeons celebrate their victory.
David Thorpe ©®
3 Cat Poems
By Jake Aller
Cats Fighting in Incheon
Watching two cats
Fighting alongside the sidewalk
In suburban Incheon New Airport Town
Completely indifferent
To the humans
walking around them
And the humans
were indifferent to the cats
As they stood there fighting
And screeching at each other
One orange one
One half black
half white one
Both middle age in cat years
As I sat there watching the cats
really getting into it
I wondered
what they were arguing about?
But since
I don’t speak cat
I really didn't know
All I know
is they were really
screeching at each other
And almost look like
they were about
to attack each other
But one cat backed down
As the other cat
stood their proverbial ground
If they were humans
one would have pulled out a knife
Or a gun
And someone would have been killed
But being mere cats
They stared at each other
And walked away
but they kept
glancing at each other
So, I knew the fight
was not over
Merely postponed
until a later hour
Cats truly are the aliens
Who live among us humans
Or perhaps we are the aliens
Who live among the cats?
Watching the black cat
Watching the black cat
Slinking about
I am reminded once again the cats
are not our friends
as I stare at him
an alien invader
From another planet
Mysterious Black Cat Looking at Me
As I look out
At the parking lot
I see a black cat
looking at me with dark soulful eyes
filled with mysterious secrets
I wondered
What the cat
thinks of me?
The cat looks at me
With a mysterious grin
The cat smiles at me
Like the Cheshire cat
He smiles
and runs away into the bushes
three cats ready to go
three cats
at play
they look out at the world
and they are ready
they are born hunters
they are hungry
they are restless
and they want
to escape
from the house
to chase birds
squirrels
and other cats
to do their cat thing
That's the cat's life after all
they tolerate us humans
only because we feed them
But at heart
they are wild things
and wild things
Need to be free
Cats in Paris
Poetry Collection by Alan Catlin
Cats in Paris
They all seem to be
of the same unnatural
breed, something never
seen before except on
the streets of Paris or
on this roof overlooking
a modern downtown
which could be any
city, anywhere, except
for these cats, white
as something kept in-
side for generations, not
exactly a race of albinos
but something bleached
of striping, natural coloring,
something drained,
representing an absence
of shading, short hairs
barely covering their
sensitive skin as they
parade about in the sun,
tails raised, backs arched,
heads erect, taking in
the sights, not dazzled
by unfamiliar light but
exultant in their
preternatural wandering,
the soft purring of these
legions mounting the roof
top, overtaking everything
as they subdivide into
clones, is like the humming
of electric wires pulsating
with a new uncommon life.
The Dogs on the Beach
are all the mixed breeds
of the mind rising from
the sand awakening
from a horrific dream
or lolling seaside, stunned
drugged unable
to summon the energy
of stones others lean
against, looking up at
the sun, tongues extended
lapping up a sullen flash
of light or a wedge of sand
sculpted into a shape
that could be conceived
as a dog giving birth
to a litter of sand,
strange puppies whose
legs are like seaweed
at first but become paws,
the legs and torso, hunching
their backs to feel the stretch
of new muscles; all along
the beach, seagulls are
taking flight, cormorants
dry their wings on the poles
of the pier, their beaks
turning into spouts, their
feathers into the hair of dog.
Squirrels at the Drive-in
Overrun the vacant space,
climbing the cylindrical rows
of poles, dislodging headphones,
redistributing the sound of blank
images flickering the torn white
screen, ascending deserted vehicles,
rusting cars whose spidered
glass windshields can no longer
prevent or contain their invasive
strength, the multiplicity of
numbers. Their coming here is
a veritable disease of seeing,
ground cover that has a strange
tensile grip, a formative shape
like fur rippling the surface tension
of grass. A barely human presence,
window dresser's models, clothed
in out of date fashions as if
placed by all this junkyard debris
as objects in an experimental
test or, that here is near ground
zero, if this were in fact the
trial run site for a new kind
of nuclear wasting bomb instead
of a tactile vision of what tomorrow.
will be like.
Armadillos at the Ball Park
They seem interested in the flight
of balls driven to deep center,
stand, balanced on field box level
seat railings, perched on the roof
of the visitor's dugout or, even, in
seats pressed down for access,
their tiny ears are erect, alert at
the crack of a bat meeting practice
balls arcing deep into the twilit park,
protective nets hanging between
the prospect pitcher and the batter
timing three quarter speed pitches,
pulling them left, right, then hitting
straightaway, seemingly unaware
of the armadillo watching or
of the others, digging underground,
rooting out insects, grubs along
the closely cropped infield grass,
beneath crisscrossing patterns in
the outfield, leaving small mounds,
miniature abutments and pot holes
before the warning track, some with
their snouts and armored backs
tarnished from working the lime
dusted lines, pausing to look, as fans
will, awe struck, this close to the game.
Cows on an Ice Floe
They seem serene, content, despite
the setting, adrift, scattered at different
levels on ice as if grazing in fenced
fields, heads bent, noses touching
an uneven lump of white, foraging
about the edges, teasing thin blades
to masticate what only they can see or
else they stare straight ahead,
unconcerned, chewing whole mouthfuls
of dried weed or grass, transparent feed
brittle as Arctic wind hardened jewels
that glitter like Northern Lights
in their eyes after six months
of unending night.
Snow Leopards in the Abandoned Subway Station
"Nothing is ever really demolished or dismantled
down below, but everything is tentative and
amorphous" Andre Aicman, Underground
Their paws are torn, hurt by cinders,
broken glass, needle points scattered
underground, balance effected, thrown
off in darkness by distant thunders,
shuddering, ground and tunnel walls
temporarily unsafe, quaking tectonic shifts
no light thereafter to lift the hooded eyes
beyond this abandoned place, platforms
for the forgotten, iron turnstiles rusted in
place, sealed stairways and waiting spaces
leading nowhere; walking along dead rails,
mountain cats adrift, rustling the discarded
pennants, crumpled newspaper, torn prayer
wheels and flags.
Which LOVE
By Alexandra H. Rodrigues
Does your “I love you” make you my lover?
Does this thought ever even cross your mind?
As we speak of love each means a different kind.
The love of wine and roses, special caring exposes
While “love to the world” for all to be heard
Into the universe again and again is being hurled.
“You are my lover” we know has a different source
Is used when cupid has taken his course
What if nothing you do lets you mix it into hope’s brew?
For each of us the word Love should be a treasure
To whom we give it and from whom we accept it
We need in each case to carefully measure.
Tim’s Quilt
Alan Catlin's poetic dive into romance during hard times
Poetry Collection
Tim’s 60’s Quilt
Incorporates symbols of the Age,
Peace signs and flower power;
love is the answer.
On the Beach
Shielded by the wind:
campfire debris, empty
bottles, forgotten clothes;
last night’s love nest.
Love in a Time of War
You can see them, the pregnant women, the nursing mothers,
the lovers holding hands
Their ears wired for sound, one thousand songs for liquid days,
a herald angel’s apocalyptic ode
And for some, the bombs are falling now, all the highways are
mined, the mangled fields are as unsafe as any road
The bombs falling are an aphrodisiac, the shock and awe of love
among the ruins; all their exposed flesh burned where it is
touched
Even when the war is ten thousand miles away
Ten thousand miles or five thousand, it makes no difference, war
is simply something just beyond the horizon and love is what
happens right here
Right here where the black hawks are flying, where the bombs are
smart, the missiles guided, precision piloted reminding us it
is not so much how the bombs are directed but where they land
And who they land on that matters, distance is a factor in a time of war
In a time when we have come to love the bomb more than we love our
fellow man, more than we love ourselves
Maybe, what we know is not love at all but something more primitive,
something bestial and impure
Something that causes us to believe that we are no longer descended from
Angels, unless the angels are the exterminating ones, the kind that
fly on the wings of stealth bombers that inflict their death, unseen,
from above
Consider what they have wrought; consider the light from burning cities as a
celestial event, a fireworks display, a celebration for the dead, for love
in a time of war
Love in a time of war is all we have.
Cherish it.
Love Among the Ruins
During the air raids
we used to hide
in out storm
cellar
It was so exciting
being in love
that way
After the war
it was never
the same
Reading Lorine Niedecker in Albany’s Washington
Park by the Statue of Robert Burns
1-
Parade of dogs
on leashes
with their owners
following behind
wait at: CAUTION
YIELD TO PEDESTRIANS
crosswalk
where vehicles
stop sometimes
sometimes not
2-
Families with baby
carriages
fold-up strollers
follow paths
to playgrounds
that closes at
dusk
3-
Young lovers
walking by hand
in hand
and the old
ones too
God has a Name: Spirit
By Charles E.J. Moulton
There is truth out there.
I know that God wants you to seek it.
His truth.
People will follow the leader.
The cliché.
But never the truth.
The spiritual truth.
God is speaking to me right now,
Just like I believe he spoke to Moses.
There are plenty of strange diversions out there.
People will follow what is established.
The will follow the leader.
But if you do follow what your heart is saying,
No matter if people say you gotta follow your mind, man,
If you follow your heart,
Then you will encounter God in your heart,
And you will win every time.
I read Billy Idol’s biography this summer,
And Steven Tyler’s biography this summer,
In spite of drug excesses, they found their ways out of drugs,
Billy calls himself the prodigal son,
Helped his daddy up the stairs at home in Bromley.
Steven cried when his son graduated from high school.
We are all people, aren’t we?
So, where does that leave us?
Follow our hearts.
Please ... take that seriously.
There are signs.
Listen to God.
He is above religions.
Above them.
God lives in your heart.
If Billy Idol admits having an out-of-body-experience,
And Steven Tyler talks about his mother’s soul leaving her body,
Then it’s time for YOU to go beyond religion and become the
Loving, forgiving individual
That you always knew that you could be.
Spread your creativity.
Orpheus at the Breakfast Table
Alan Catlin's Poetic Chat with Legends
Les Troyens
All the Trojan
women
without men
are bound on
the walls of Troy
to be taken
down to
waiting
warships
as whores,
spoils of
the masters
of war,
they who are
blind
to the grief
of the Innocents,
the helpless,
the vanquished
must be
humbled
Long after wars
of independence,
opportunity,
dominion are over
After the foot
lights have
been dimmed
a chorus
of women
is wailing,
keening
for what
is lost,
what can
never
be replaced
New Years Eve in the House of Atreus
The costumed people blow their little
cardboard whistles, wave their metal noise
toys over their heads, drink pink champagne
out of plastic glasses singing Auld Ange Syne
loud all night around the heated pool,
The host watches all the odd couples
dancing, their plastic leis bouncing around
their flushed necks, their conical hats
sliding down their foreheads, costumes
increasingly more wrinkled, stained
and disheveled as the revels proceed
as the head waiter passes out boxes of glitter,
trays of body paint, stick-on tattoos
of mythic creatures, bold warriors from another
imagined age. Poolside, all the steam trays
are laden with homemade foods, exotic dishes
spiced with flavorings no one recognizes or
can resist, loading their overflowing plates
higher and higher as they drink, as their
appetites exponentially increase.
Near midnight, Trojan Women begin singing
the Dies Irae of the Berlioz Requiem,
the gathered revelers fall quiet, anticipating
the end, the old man in his white robes
swinging the sacrificial scythe.
Ulysses After the Rush Hour
Smokes Camel Lights, waiting underground for the El
the Uptown Local, watching summer heat
reinforcing concrete, solidifying dark islands
of soot and dirt, stanchions wavering,
heaving, shuddering, impelled by the cutting fact
of the unearthly subway wheels escaping
from the multilayered darkness, the disgorging
of the cars, passengers dark eyes stunted,
enamored of night, of eternal life underground,
adjust, repel stoned visions of Elysian Fields
carved from rock and steel. Aboard, in between,
buckling transit cars, Ulysses stands, strapped
to the train as it bursts out of the tunnel;
a sudden shock of light, the polluted river
far below, all of the lower Bronx beside him burning,
all he can hear is the sirens singing each to each.
The Metamorphsis of Ovid
After the storm, desolation, drifting wood,
an open boat caught between the shifting
rocks. Looking seaward, he sees the pale
death of life after storm, the cross cutting
waves, eyes stilled by a bone ossifying wind,
he collects the details of his exile in silence.
All winter long he recites them, The Amores,
as he describes a circular path through the sand,
and rocks, unsheltered, never sleeping,
never resting, old age entombed out of doors;
dread visions of the fall of a Holy Roman Empire,
swept away in the eyes of the poet, drifting
inland to a quiet, wasted land from which
there is no escape.
Orpheus at the Breakfast Table
Hung over and unshaven, he considers
the soft boiled egg perfectly balanced
in a porcelain cup. Along the table are
rows of buttered rolls, steaming cups,
hot metal trays, small contained lakes
of fire, wax adhering to a smoke blackened
candelabra and a brown stain spreading on
the linen tablecloth. He sees that he
is sitting at a formal dining table that
stretches into a darkened cavernous hall.
All the stiff backed chairs are locked in place
against the chipped hard wood, carving knives
are being sharpened in the morning room nearby
as the on schedule sick confining smell of
overcooked rotten food fills the room.
Nauseous, he rises, clutching his hand
embroidered silk kimono closer to his chest,
sweat stings his blood shot eyes as he
stumbles; down below, the trembling,
tortured voices begin singing on cue.
Orpheus at the Breakfast Table
Alan Catlin's Poetic Chat with Legends
Les Troyens
All the Trojan
women
without men
are bound on
the walls of Troy
to be taken
down to
waiting
warships
as whores,
spoils of
the masters
of war,
they who are
blind
to the grief
of the Innocents,
the helpless,
the vanquished
must be
humbled
Long after wars
of independence,
opportunity,
dominion are over
After the foot
lights have
been dimmed
a chorus
of women
is wailing,
keening
for what
is lost,
what can
never
be replaced
New Years Eve in the House of Atreus
The costumed people blow their little
cardboard whistles, wave their metal noise
toys over their heads, drink pink champagne
out of plastic glasses singing Auld Ange Syne
loud all night around the heated pool,
The host watches all the odd couples
dancing, their plastic leis bouncing around
their flushed necks, their conical hats
sliding down their foreheads, costumes
increasingly more wrinkled, stained
and disheveled as the revels proceed
as the head waiter passes out boxes of glitter,
trays of body paint, stick-on tattoos
of mythic creatures, bold warriors from another
imagined age. Poolside, all the steam trays
are laden with homemade foods, exotic dishes
spiced with flavorings no one recognizes or
can resist, loading their overflowing plates
higher and higher as they drink, as their
appetites exponentially increase.
Near midnight, Trojan Women begin singing
the Dies Irae of the Berlioz Requiem,
the gathered revelers fall quiet, anticipating
the end, the old man in his white robes
swinging the sacrificial scythe.
Ulysses After the Rush Hour
Smokes Camel Lights, waiting underground for the El
the Uptown Local, watching summer heat
reinforcing concrete, solidifying dark islands
of soot and dirt, stanchions wavering,
heaving, shuddering, impelled by the cutting fact
of the unearthly subway wheels escaping
from the multilayered darkness, the disgorging
of the cars, passengers dark eyes stunted,
enamored of night, of eternal life underground,
adjust, repel stoned visions of Elysian Fields
carved from rock and steel. Aboard, in between,
buckling transit cars, Ulysses stands, strapped
to the train as it bursts out of the tunnel;
a sudden shock of light, the polluted river
far below, all of the lower Bronx beside him burning,
all he can hear is the sirens singing each to each.
The Metamorphsis of Ovid
After the storm, desolation, drifting wood,
an open boat caught between the shifting
rocks. Looking seaward, he sees the pale
death of life after storm, the cross cutting
waves, eyes stilled by a bone ossifying wind,
he collects the details of his exile in silence.
All winter long he recites them, The Amores,
as he describes a circular path through the sand,
and rocks, unsheltered, never sleeping,
never resting, old age entombed out of doors;
dread visions of the fall of a Holy Roman Empire,
swept away in the eyes of the poet, drifting
inland to a quiet, wasted land from which
there is no escape.
Orpheus at the Breakfast Table
Hung over and unshaven, he considers
the soft boiled egg perfectly balanced
in a porcelain cup. Along the table are
rows of buttered rolls, steaming cups,
hot metal trays, small contained lakes
of fire, wax adhering to a smoke blackened
candelabra and a brown stain spreading on
the linen tablecloth. He sees that he
is sitting at a formal dining table that
stretches into a darkened cavernous hall.
All the stiff backed chairs are locked in place
against the chipped hard wood, carving knives
are being sharpened in the morning room nearby
as the on schedule sick confining smell of
overcooked rotten food fills the room.
Nauseous, he rises, clutching his hand
embroidered silk kimono closer to his chest,
sweat stings his blood shot eyes as he
stumbles; down below, the trembling,
tortured voices begin singing on cue.
Electra, Mourning becomes Electra
By David Thorpe
The lamentations of the souls of the slain
echoed through the halls of the heavens,
outraging the gods of Olympus.
A Hellenic tragedy pronounced Electra;
instigation to murder to revenge a murder,
a legacy of the decadence of lust.
The Mycenae king Agamemnon and his Trojan
concubine Cassandra laid smeared with blood,
cut down by the murderous hands of Clytemnestra,
Agamemnon`s queen, and her lover Aegisthus
Electra , obsessed with malevolence
for her mother`s treachery,
aided her brother Orestes to flee to safety.
She then abided her time and waited
Ordered by the Oracle of Delphi, Orestes returned to Mycenae,
accompanied by his cousin Pylades, to seek his justice.
The conspirators three conceived their deadly deed,
the fate of Clytemnestra and Aegisthus was sealed with blood
Electra´s sensual beauty Pylades´ thirst did quench,
their nuptial bed brought forth its fruit,
but ´twas she, Electra,
who had preserved the realm
David Thorpe ©®
Ulysses
By Alfred, Lord Tennyson
It little profits that an idle king,
By this still hearth, among these barren crags,
Match'd with an aged wife, I mete and dole
Unequal laws unto a savage race,
That hoard, and sleep, and feed, and know not me.
I cannot rest from travel: I will drink
Life to the lees: All times I have enjoy'd
Greatly, have suffer'd greatly, both with those
That loved me, and alone, on shore, and when
Thro' scudding drifts the rainy Hyades
Vext the dim sea: I am become a name;
For always roaming with a hungry heart
Much have I seen and known; cities of men
And manners, climates, councils, governments,
Myself not least, but honour'd of them all;
And drunk delight of battle with my peers,
Far on the ringing plains of windy Troy.
I am a part of all that I have met;
Yet all experience is an arch wherethro'
Gleams that untravell'd world whose margin fades
For ever and forever when I move.
How dull it is to pause, to make an end,
To rust unburnish'd, not to shine in use!
As tho' to breathe were life! Life piled on life
Were all too little, and of one to me
Little remains: but every hour is saved
From that eternal silence, something more,
A bringer of new things; and vile it were
For some three suns to store and hoard myself,
And this gray spirit yearning in desire
To follow knowledge like a sinking star,
Beyond the utmost bound of human thought.
This is my son, mine own Telemachus,
To whom I leave the sceptre and the isle,—
Well-loved of me, discerning to fulfil
This labour, by slow prudence to make mild
A rugged people, and thro' soft degrees
Subdue them to the useful and the good.
Most blameless is he, centred in the sphere
Of common duties, decent not to fail
In offices of tenderness, and pay
Meet adoration to my household gods,
When I am gone. He works his work, I mine.
There lies the port; the vessel puffs her sail:
There gloom the dark, broad seas. My mariners,
Souls that have toil'd, and wrought, and thought with me—
That ever with a frolic welcome took
The thunder and the sunshine, and opposed
Free hearts, free foreheads—you and I are old;
Old age hath yet his honour and his toil;
Death closes all: but something ere the end,
Some work of noble note, may yet be done,
Not unbecoming men that strove with Gods.
The lights begin to twinkle from the rocks:
The long day wanes: the slow moon climbs: the deep
Moans round with many voices. Come, my friends,
'T is not too late to seek a newer world.
Push off, and sitting well in order smite
The sounding furrows; for my purpose holds
To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths
Of all the western stars, until I die.
It may be that the gulfs will wash us down:
It may be we shall touch the Happy Isles,
And see the great Achilles, whom we knew.
Tho' much is taken, much abides; and tho'
We are not now that strength which in old days
Moved earth and heaven, that which we are, we are;
One equal temper of heroic hearts,
Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will
To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.
Leading the Expedition:
Paris, Tokyo and the Aliens
by
TS Hidalgo
V
I had seen
this show years ago:
anthropomorphic aliens
surrounded us
(actually lizards
that ate Mickeys);
leading that expedition,
two hot chicks
and a Rubik’s cube;
300 episodes later,
defeated by the land Resistance
in a vague future,
they left at dawn
in their gyroplanes
to infinity.
Spain: it is only night
in this scene.
Everything else is day.
A stroll through Paris
Early in the morning,
I go for a walk
through the Père-Lachaise cemetery:
in search of lost time
I ran into Gertrude Stein
(and on the other side Alice Toklas
it’s Alice Toklas
it’s Alice Toklas),
and into Delacroix guiding the people;
pictures in front of
Oscar Wilde’s tomb
(winged deity
on its front,
work by the sculptor Jacob Epstein,
off of which some collector
cut the penis),
in front of Jim Morrison’s,
by far the most visited,
in front of Molière’s and La Fontaine’s,
adjacent to one another,
in front of the enduring
beauty
of the pantheon
in which
Eloisa and Abelard rest,
medieval lovers,
in front of Piaf,
Duncan,
Callas,
in front of Balzac.
And while hundreds of Japanese
record all of this,
the world
keeps turning
likenothingwasgoingon.
Tokyo, roundtrip
At Christmas it’s cold and time:
in a dark alley, near Shinjuku,
betting my last yens
among interpreters of Russian roulette,
defiant before the theater of the infinite,
all questioning
for a thousandth of a second:
defiant too before all logic,
before all probability,
versus all mathematics,
which is this one time defeated
(exclusive currency, suicidal roulette:
five heads to just one tail
in singular random poetry).
I walk away unhurt
and after luck
my profit is sealed,
which I will quickly have to settle
in the form of successive contempt:
of the goddess Fortuna
(we’ll continue to tempt her),
of my own metabolism
(why is the hotel’s bar
filled with Godzillas?),
and of good habits,
scaffold, perdition, and desire
in prepay neighborhoods,
over going from sun to supporting
(desire to be Tim Duncan).
Through Ginza, Roppongi Hills, and Omotesando
I start raining in a thousand pieces,
and through streets of pain
in worn out Metropolis,
these my blindfolded eyes move,
to not see her,
to not place on them the reflection
of her eyes, her lips,
her little ass, her soul:
shattered tears.
On my way home,
Madrid exhales on me
its enduring breath,
intrusive, related,
the memory of a past,
she and I, both,
in common,
life like a limited sum
of experiences in present continuous:
among others
a summer screwing in Harvard,
blithe as beasts,
blithe as balls,
tante auguri a te,
there were also
hard discount times
(that is,
we admired Fassbinder’s films
-Rainer Wender-
in parallel and ongoing;
sharing sweat and snails
we lived champagne and cramps,
and other times we let time flow
like those who admire Fassbinder).
Everything breaks…
…excepting, of course, eternity:
our last fifteen minutes together,
a scarce portion of human being:
a hospital in pluperfect
(that is, a kolkhoz in Venice).
After I asked
the philosophers’ trade union conclave
about the meaning of life
and they redirected me to Wall Street
clearly distressed,
dying of laughter.
New Year’s Eve
It’s a ball,
summer fish in the boat’s spring.
I’m startled to hear
someone from my country:
he’s reading in the frog’s language
the one of the sad countenance,
like Borges did,
except this one
goes one step further
than the never Nobel winning
Buenos Aires writer
and ensures he did the same
-months ago-
with Amadis de Gaula;
he’s on chapter forty-nine,
on what happened to Sancho Panza
wandering around his island.
I try to find someone I know,
I look in front of me,
Easton Ellis is laying
on the couch
dressed up as Jesus Christ,
the author of American Pscyho
looks here to be 33,
giving away winks
pretending to blink
behind an enormous white sheet,
they ask him mike in hand:
-Who are your favorite three writers-,
and he answers,
icy, emphatic, solemn:
-Easton Ellis, Easton Ellis & Easton Ellis.
I need and order a gin-tonic
-G’Vine, fever, twist of lime and tonka beans-;
on the house tequila shot too,
so we carry out the liturgy of the moment:
salt on the back of your hand,
lick up the salt,
tequila in one swig
and lemon slice for dessert:
totum revolutum,
shining in your guts.
Alien Bird
By Alexandra H. Rodrigues
It was a gorgeous moonlit night
The woods were sleepy, not a deer in sight.
Yet there was an owl with eyes shiny and big
As well as a nightingale busy a song to pick.
Both of them had never of an Alien heard
Surprised they were when in the woods it stirred.
They both knew humans but this creature was not
It did not walk but flew from spot to spot.
It could not get above the ground very high
To gain height on a broken wing it did try
The owl and the nightingale had a language their own
The owl would hoot and the nightingale trill a tone.
“Hello friends – I am hurt, can you see?”
“Can you possibly of assistance be?”
“My name is Robby, I am an alien bird”
Owl and nightingale could hardly believe what they heard.
Robby spread his badly hurt wing
It was so sad, the nightingale started to sing.
The owl asked, “Robby, where are you from
How is it that to earth you come?”
“I do not know, lost my memory during the fall
Out of a spaceship I tumbled is all I recall.”
Nightingale and owl looked at each other in despair
What had happened to Robby was surely not fair.
The nightingale sang and the owl hooted real loud
When all of a sudden on the sky was a cloud.
There was a spaceship they never had seen before
It sailed above them and had a big open door.
Owl and nightingale lifted Robby with all their might
Instructed Robby to hold on during the flight.
Once higher up he could use his healthy wing
To skillfully with owl’s help into the spaceship swing.
When Robby finally had found in the spaceship hold
He waved happily and threw out a big clump of gold.
Since that day on many a moonlit night
Nightingale and owl came back to the site.
They watched carefully over the gold
Their proof that a true story to others was told.
They always hoped to see Robby again
But up to now that did as only a wish remain.
2016/2018
copyright Abracadabra
CELESTIAL ALIGNMENTS?
By Gerard Sarnat
1. “Super Soccer Stars”
While my daughter hibernates
incubating her second newborn,
toddler Liav who rules the roost
with us alone at home like he is
Attila the Hun
when I take him to neighborhood classes
to get suddenly sticky Honey out of
Ma’s hair, this barely terrible two-er turns
toward untoward clingy milquetoast
wants milky ba-ba
as surrounding mainly 3-year-olds
most of whom know nada about
heading, chesting, kneeing, kicking
balls our boychick learns as normal
at the feet of his adored ex-warrior
Israeli now US Abba
still absolutely won’t tolerate shrinking
violet of a non-violent firstborn son
whose hidden brain seems to palely
blend into the gym ‘stead of flowering
like Dad did in IDF* galaxy.
*Israel Defense Force
2. Holmes Sweet Home: Confessions Of An Ex Porn Star
Since May 21, 2010, I’ve send 499 emails
to a friend I’ve never met
who lives up the coast in a camp in a valley
in Santa Barbara County.
The bedroom community town has a flower festival,
pops orchestra, legitimate theater
plus wine tasting but its economy is primarily based
on Vandenberg Air Force Base
which houses LGM-30 Minuteman intercontinental ballistic missiles
and Lompoc Prison that used to be called Club Fed
and was where George Clooney’s supposed to be in the 1998 movie
Out of Sight also starring Jennifer Lopez.
After about three years the two of us became so close
that I offered to come
up to visit on weekends which were the only times
which were authorized.
I applied for conjugal visits that took two years
to get okayed then it took another chunk
to get married and Wednesday’s the release date
for my man-slaughterer to come home.
3. Encomium: In The Stars
Smartest move
I never planned was
stumbling into Bubbe.
Bumbler had been taken
in by some other girls’
apparent charms
but bumping into
my half century partner
has turned out to be by far
luckiest lightning ever hit me:
her temperament, father’s
superb child-rearing
then PhD in parenting
skills qualify you dear wife
as our Queen of Generativity.
4. Mad Dog” Mattis
Pretty much everybody agreed no Secretary of Defense
Designate could do a better job destroying tough enemies
of the US -- not blinking about nuclear winterizing Korea.
Scholarly but battle-tested enough that getting bogged
down in fog of war is only a last alternative, our country
is was fortunate this four-star general is was at the helm.
Now that you’ve resigned from running the Pentagon,
I have one question: what’s the plan to keep
President Trump away from toggling the red button?
5. Jesus H. Christ Out On Highway 61
“…When the jelly-faced women all sneeze Hear the one with the mustache say, "Jeeze I can't find my knees…"
Nobel Laureate Bob Dylan, “Visions Of Johanna”
from the Blonde On Blond album, 1966
Even though everybody knows H stands for Hebrew
we star-crossed Madison Avenue marketing masterminds
really blew our biggest Jewish account ever
coming up with the Star of David’s
too complex two inverted triangle graphics, while gentile
boosters sent a simple cross up Christmas Tree Lane’s
flagpole along with concocting that loving straight-shooter
Jesus whose icon even got away with hippy long hair
whereas Zimmerman’s mishigas g-d warned Abe,
“The next time you see me comin', you better run"
which combined with love-hate relationships
with a dark-haired only sib named Joan, plus requesting my kids
to play Bobby’s music as I am lowered
into the ground, leads this usually not musically
oriented physician to feel quite profoundly affected.
Then ask the stars
By David Thorpe
Then ask the stars,
their trillion years of wisdom
might reveal the answer to the riddle,
which taunts the sanity of your mind0
Then search the endless universe,
its myriad of heavenly bodies
might guide you to the cosmic oracle,
patiently awaiting your perseverance
Then plead with the Aurora Borealis
to brighten still this heavenly phenomenon,
and shed light on the incomprehensible,
hidden in the darkest corner of the arctic
A distracted dragon-fly flusters in your ear,
the better to accept my confession,
a declaration of an oath before a sacred altar,
made without a compromise
David Thorpe ©®
A Truth in Poetry
Poetic Prose by Raymond Greiner
Sighted my first robin yesterday. A cold day and the bird seemed unaffected as it hopped gingerly in quest of some hearty insect just beneath the soil’s surface. Nice feeling.
The ancient Roman calendar speaks of the “Ides Of March” soon to arrive on the 15th. Doesn’t mean much during these days, as I read the news I feel a sense of beware from moment to moment as if treading on loose gravel. Won’t change much as current conditions display ongoing negativity in all directions as a global social entity. So, I feed the critters, do daily walks with Venus and Oriana and tread the gravel path in a state of ecstasy regardless with a sense of good fortune to be breathing.
Our prime dictator “Money” remains prominent and controlling as I observe the great interest in “scratch off” lottery tickets when I go into a convenience store. The dream of financial wealth remains prominent among societal design. You can buy your big house and new cars and live shoulder to shoulder with the gentry. How fun.
My good girl “Snowflake” is a Great Pyrenees and is the most amazing dog I’ve ever known. One morning during feeding time it was -10 degrees and she was playing with a stick on the frozen pond. The game stopped when she spotted me with her food bucket. She sleeps outside on the snow and rarely goes into her doghouse. If only we humans were as resilient.
The American political system is best described in one word, “chaotic”, and seems to worsen daily. Denuclearization is a prime topic as Trump feebly attempted to negotiate with the North Korean dictator, who is only using the idea as a pawn in a lethal game of political manipulation. How grand it would be to completely eliminate atomic weaponry from the entire globe. Not yet possible, but if we do light the fuse on this complete ignorance it may serve to give denuclearization more attention.
I’m writing a new novel. These novel projects consume my life. The iconic historical novelist James Michener said of his writing, “I can’t wait to go to sleep so I can wake up and begin writing again.” Sums it up well. Michener’s Japanese wife was his editor. Wish I could find such a pot of gold.
I didn’t write a single creative word until age 62 as I was far too obsessed with making money. If I could repeat my life, money would be placed far on the back burner. First published essay Pond Food in Canary Literary Journal. First short fiction Wolf Spirit published in Quail Bell Literary Magazine. What a thrill.
“The voice of destiny often sings off key and out of tempo like a catbird singing in a thorn bush then the sky opens and clouds of doubt vanish.”
From my short fiction Myrna’s Story.
Now is the Time
A collaboration by Hank Beukema
And Alexandra H. Rodrigues
The thread that connects us is very fine
Raises daily doubts about what will happen in time.
Time will go on, that much we know
Does it push us or pull us, do we stop or do we go?
Merciless passes day after day
We remain in doubt about what and what not to say
Ever forward we go blindly through the dark.
Do we leave a trail, do we make a mark?
At no time will I ever your trust refuse
Not every boldness or slip of the tongue has an excuse
The world takes our boldness and tries to knock it down
Calls us foolish till we feel like a clown.
Truth is an illusion, written in the sand!
How much we believe is in our hand
Often the mind vacillates between now and the past
Busy accusations along our future paths are cast.
The answers bring with them more questions
There will always remain a doubt
Have we found the way in or are we left out?
Either one of us secretly for an answer does wait.
Time has come to no longer accept further delay
Let’s move on together or from each other walk away!
We gamble with lives, we gamble with hearts
Do we know if and when a deeper meaning starts?
The Master Has All
the Right Answers
Poetry Collection by Alan Catlin
Questions of Space
for L. Cohen and V.H. Adair
Did they sit together
in silent meditation?
the over 90 nearly blind
late in life lady poet and
the no-longer-man-of-
the-world, self-proclaimed
lady killer, singer, scribe.
Did they sort through
the garbage for flowers,
watching ants on melon?
or are they just sharing
a strange congruence
of time and space?
the human geography
of a Zen Monastery,
the silence between
written lines? the encroaching
darkness that shapes
everything?
The songs without words?
Water Babies
Mother called the hotel
pool the old swimming hole,
saw the world through dark
glasses as something impenetrable,
unknowable as the mermaids
she spoke of as her sisters of
the sea.
Babies born here, on these virgin islands,
were christened in chlorine as all true,
water babies must be, even those
who saw her speaking after dark to
static shadows and heard the answers
to questions impossible to pose.
Questions and Answers
1-
In the bar the man
orders Genny Cream
from the bartender
Squares the label just so
on the coaster so the label
faces toward him
Picks up the bottle
Drinks
A six pack in an hour
No tip
2-
Weeks later, at Omega,
the server sees the man
as Buddhist meditation
leader sitting cross legged
head bowed, silent
3-
The server sits in the room
bows his head, closes his eyes
cannot cross his legs
meditates
4-
The server has all
the wrong questions
The Master has all
the right answers
Showgirls
Her name was on every No Call list
known to man. Said she was: Tracy,
Trixie, Lexi, Tonya, Ashley, Caitlin,
Emma, Tessa, one name for every day
of the week and two for Sunday.
Had outstanding warrants in seven states
that authorities knew of. Had more low
level felonies than a computer could keep
track of and whatever she was on made her seem
as if she had been whaled on by a Toxic
Avenger with a mean streak and heavily into
vengeance is mine. Replied to direct questions
in a kind of gibberish only someone with
a waterlogged brain would say, something
that sounded like the last hours of someone’s
life dripping from a leaky faucet into a
stainless steel sink in a locked room where
no one ever goes.
Student of Philosophy 1926
after a photo by August Sander
Once you are known as
the kind of man who asks
questions and who expresses his
opinions freely, you are the kind
of man who is followed wherever
he goes.
There are no definitive answers
to the problems a perpetual student
poses. In a world where everything
is brown or yellow, this is a dangerous
path to follow.
When they shoot him, they will
do it twice to make sure he is dead.
