Sketchbook  Free Verse

 

Jeffrey Woodward, US In A Desert Town The shrinking mongrel and his shadow part Where an odd leaf checkers the half-moon’s light. Day’s wake is dust and gathers on dry stems Of jimson weed, on tufts of viper’s grass. Far constellations, hieroglyphs rubbed smooth And faint through time, marble these shafts of dusk. Go, pilgrim, back from whence you came, nor pause. The town square loiters, desolate, effaced, Nor here’s one cold, nor there’s one cordial sign.   Ruin The gateposts of stone and mortar canker; The stump-fence bows, good fifty years ago. Timothy and burdock to the waist Clot the yard and cloak the gravel path. The cottage windows, lost to a vandal’s ransom, The door, on rusted hinges stilled long since, Invite the trespasser, and jaundiced paint, Peeled back by years of sun and wind and snow, And shingles scattered near the sunken porch. Beyond the ruin and staggered up a hill, An orchard, solitary and forsaken, Shimmers in a coat of green, its apples Mellifluous though tenanted by worms.

 

Shanna Baldwin Moore, US Wild Bill A swedish and danish American gent came to Hawaii his fortune he spent built him a house on the edge of the bay made all of glass doors so he could see out each way of sea captain's dreams and fisherman's chores oh...the tales he could tell from far away shores Oh the days of his life and the beautiful young native he took for a wife a family he raised this swedish and danish american swell a rascal he was in the stories he'd tell adventures in forests and mountain to shores on the porch of the house made of glass doors in the shade he would sit watching each day and what it would bring more houses and boats and people that play bedridden toward the end this cowboy at heart he lays back to read of six guns a blazing in the hands of black bart six guns and ships now sail out to sea now at long last his spirit is free and his ashes are cast from a ship of the past his last voyage now spent this swedish and danish american gent     Pele—goddess of the volcano strange clouds sound of chanting from the old ones a rumble through the land the sky lights up in the east a rain cloud drifts over disengages into huge drops drenched in minutes Pele has been slumbering snoring for 23 years she awakens with a hula la we bust out a bottle of gin* for the goddess and the dance begins rocking my world   *legend has it Pele can be appeased with a bottle of gin thrown into the crater.   Billie magic memories of the Lady sounds of an alto sax echoes Billie ..Billie.. down the cobblestone breezeway the cellar lights soft he snaps his fingers to the rythmn of the night the poet in the moonlight blows another riff for the lady.. softly

 

F. N. Wright Denver clarissa, would you like to take a trip to Denver & back? I promise the time spent in the high mountain air will be both breath taking & beautiful our passion will melt the winter snow & send springs of fresh water cascading down the slopes & the meadows below us will blossom with freshly scented flowers where will will slowly undress one another & unite in love basking in the warm spring sun & the afterglow of of our love making upon a carpet of god's green grass.   Benzaiten she is the only female among the seven members of the tenbu group. japanese mandolin, lute, magic jewel, snake, sea lion. goddess of music, fine arts, eloquence & literature. rub hotai's belly & perhaps benzaiten will come & bless you tonight. This poem first appeared in X-Ray #10   he wanted he wanted to give her something special not just any ordinary gift so he built her a house on a hill facing east & shaded by a variety of trees just down the sloping hill he planted her an orchard he began in the center & planted a cherry tree not just any cherry tree but one from his childhood memories a tree that bore yellow cherries for many years even though its trunk had been split in half by lightning so he asked the spirits he believed in to split this tree he had just planted by lightning just as the tree from his memories had been & the spirits blessed this tree as he had asked them to do then he planted red cherry trees apple & orange trees peach trees then circled the orchard with pear trees her favorite fruit below the house & orchard he filled a green meadow with wildflowers he broke off a large chunk of his heart & sprinkled it throughout this meadow of green grass & wildflowers knowing the spring rains would make his love for only her blossom & grow but she was displeased with his efforts with unfounded jealousy & burned it all down with a fury beyond belief & when the smoke had drifted away with the winds his love for her died because the spring rains came too late.

 

Ed Baker Free Verse Every Other Yesterday for David Giannini returning w firewood to find the note she left on stove coffee linger ing scent only even money-bag gone daughter away son asleep from here gaze is out what is need for another "Travel Diary?" I can't remember the one line that pissed... yet she remembers every... identifying w this genre write an other book while in mirror eros denies ;not my reflection! garden weeds needing my attention hear is through entire (her) diction ary "eremite" care taken take take is a must be when Walking Mind full moon half moon again it s vicarious ness left everywhere I am become mere ceremony moon not separate from moon light AHHHHHHHHHHh! every-day noodles in white bowl more coffee on put another log fires up tenth day of spring thinking of her only thinking this lingering cold: UHHHHHHGH! is in it s self just a seed -syllable 144 sq. ft. study reading my poems leap s through silence sirens to re a ch that was this is

 

Karina Klesko A Penchant for Parables well past midnight no sleep, just a lull of mixed-up views my twisted heart beats slowly, perhaps that explains the slothfulness of my thoughts, so many different colors to study they drip and blend into one another creating yet, one more I spent my life in pastels instead of tasting reds or passionate purples I wander through the earth-tones resonating their own worldliness rooted in conservative browns emanating the theosophy of creation I come sadly to the realization that I am not the moon my name unknown amongst the stars no amount of love or chastity can compete with the optical fantasies of the moon on a dark night I would need a book to teach me the pleasures forbidden a Carmelite nun perhaps wealth & notoriety are the first and second mates on this journey of musings in a search for the golden fleece But, I for one have no dreams no set desires to suffocate new love before conception It's the moon's light that blinds one from seeing past the illusion, concealing an inability to create life within itself, colorless It is a blessing then , that I am not. . . . the moon     Hanging On rain... outside my window darkness fills in the spaces hearts leave behind even tho' it's over not yet severed the ache... is long and heavy I give in to the urge to join the rain   icy wet        I shiver my pink dress clings and changes into a new skin hugging me tight the sound of your voice oh baby.... l become the rain here I am just hanging on in the wrong place at the wrong time

 

The unspoken verb Between you and I The unspoken verb Seeks the magic of speech Throbbing in your eyes And in my eyes My lips are not worthy To make this speech My tongue is broken Still unhealed From the lie I told myself the first day I set my eyes on you It is you, dear A Who can make immortal melody With this lifeless verb In the bravery of your tongue This verb longing for life Will find the magic of speech And my tongue will be healed As the verb breathes life out of you   Violent but at once tender Don’t come in defence so hostile Don’t masquerade in shifty tongue Dear M For the love I advance Is a raging wind Violent but at once tender Provoke me not with a moral doctrine Stir me not with a personal idiom For the love I advance Sweeps all reasons In its furious flow I, patent lover Namesake of the Wind Burst into your heart Homecome to reclaim my kiss.

 

A. D. Winans Midnight Dream Jack Micheline pays me a visit takes me for a walk through the streets of San Francisco leading to an old hobo camp down by the old railway yard Jack plays harmonica sings to the stars does an Irish jig with a band of gypsies we share a cup of coffee with the elder of the tribe watching the moon-beams ride the tail of Halley's Comet the ensuing sparks lighting up the camp site in the darkness of night Jack reads the elder a poem fireflies hug his skin poems yet to be born cling to the inferno of my mind a grizzled hobo warms his hands on the woodstove fire lights up a stogie and shares with us the last of a small bottle of whiskey the next morning we join Charles Bukowski at the racetrack the horses prancing like ballerina's at the New York Met Jack and Hank put a fiver down on a long shot God peeks his head out from behind a cloud sends a message our time is up Satan offers refuge in the form of an albatross promises eternity at Treasure Island Woody Gutherie sings This Land Is My Land This Land is Your Land Jesus stirs on the cross sings a ballad with Bob Dylan Robert Kennedy drops in with salt water tears stays until noon then leaves for an appointment with Walt Whitman at the burial ground at Wounded Knee a war window weeps with grief a whore regains her lost desire moths court a string of light bulbs chasing away an army of flies making camp at an African gravesite guarded by the poet Bob Kaufman at one minute past midnight the holy ghost appears from behind the pearly gate declares Jack the new Lorca back at the campfire the fire turns to ash the moon retreats behind the Milky Way Moses appears with a kettle of beans and pork chops for everyone a crow flies overhead eying a crippled sparrow a hummingbird sings the national anthem the moon commits cunnilingus with a passing cloud bank a pregnant virgin hiding in the sage brush challenges a cowboy to a fast draw God declares it a draw   A. D. Winans Remembers North Beach out into the harsh night walking the lonely streets of North Beach walking the streets of my home-town old men and women leaving behind their sins dressed in simple hats and death black shawls bowing to the holy eternal mumble of dead saints dressed in gold thirsting for the wine that is denied them the ceiling a giant mirror hidden in the skulls of expressionless monks lying motionless in glass coffins hands folded in ecstasy eyes open, smiling like a stoned gypsy hanging from a pendulum in the chapel of hope where Italian Priests weaned on dago red ply evil thoughts from sterile minds toying with the heads of the masses staring always staring searching for paradise fat and content smoking Tijuana slims stone-faced magicians on their way to the graveyard where semen ejaculating altar boys mock the hunchback crawling on scarred knees three steps behind the screaming organ grinder with the masturbating monkey on his back San Francisco, home of my birth where fragile scarecrows peek through broken windows at overheated stallions breathing hard down the necks of sweating dwarfs lurking in the backyard of Grace Cathedral where the hangman's shadow stalks the altar boy with neon signs of insecurity no dogs allowed no parking between nine and five keep off the grass, do not enter out of order one way do not disturb youth cult found inside pants pocket of man claiming to be Ponce de Leon walking the night Walt Whitman in search of Sherwood Anderson lost in Clown Alley sniffing used ashtrays at Clown Alley an all night movie audition Robin Hood strung out on speed Busty majorette with greased thighs caressing phallic baton stuck between vibrating plastic legs up, up and away--Superman is alive and well at Gino and Carlo's bar disguised as a dissipated Italian gone mad on kryptonite here on Grant and Green where the black-and-white hustle nightly a cargo of restless souls for City Prison's late midnight special. the left, the right the over ground the underground all busy ripping off the other while the penis fantasy of a vaginal orgasm finds clitoral satisfaction in the extracted womb of the Madonna hung out on the clothesline to dry 2 am, young men standing half-out of their minds young girls in jeans and see-through minds old men not all that old staring vacantly at the moon, at the women who carry their souls in their eyes making my way past Central Police Station recalling the holding cell and Young Ed with his skull cracked open Courtesy of a Broadway nightclub Barker making my way past Crazy John's pad stopping to chat with Frank whose eyes haunt me like a night owl you can find them all here on any given night an all night orgy no invite needed Crazy Eugene who crushed the skulls of those who disagreed with him but who went to Oregon and found himself in the eyes of his children Peter with dreams of Picasso who wanders the night like an open artery of a festering wound Lorraine stoned on coke and meth Alex back from Petaluma reciting Mc Beth here in North Beach where they took Eddie away and gave him three years and eyes that weep blood after one-thousand-ninety-five days and nights of cell and sodomy with only a handful of angry poems that** no longer crack the looking glass here in North Beach where they come and go suffocating on the water of sound home of Paddy O' Sullivan forgotten legend of his time home of Bob Kaufman giant of a North Beach that no longer exists home of Jerome whose visions of Nexus faded in Mendocino State Hospital where you can't always tell the difference between a smile and a scream Home of Ben although no more who after ninety days treatment they drove thoroughly mad no doubt for his own good when they traded him his heritage for a feather bed but it need not be here it can happen anywhere like they ran in Jack Micheline for pissing on a cop's foot in New York City for biting a law man's nose but they couldn't kill the poetry and they messed with Bukowski's face for offering them salvation and grace not understanding anything but guns and mace but they couldn't take away the soul of Vickki of pale thighs and innocent eyes that knew no lies Vickki whose good times I shared and whose pain I felt nor the spirit of the woman of "185" whose deeds are legendary and yet they took away Inez who few if any recall Inez of fine breasts and limbs of fire who died alone in a Beatnik San Gottardo Hotel and they took the life of Ed "foots" Lipman but could not break his spirit for he knew the secret of invisibility something the hound dogs can not smell from Broadway to Mission Street where the pigs are a different breed junkies sitting at the old Doggie Diner needles in search of sunken veins making their own dreams their own Buddha their own Jesus Christ to them City Prison is just another room where the roaches crawl sideways up the wall on their way to a beggar's coffin where the bones are many working my way home from North Beach to the Mission passing Kell's place where the lonely man of music lies arms tight around his woman to keep the clouds of death away so that at least she might sleep home at last safe from the self appointed gods of my destiny tired of what they want for you and me when it's really them tired that they will follow me to the grave their sons of death bringing more death to mine at a time like this it is good to be alone no one to camouflage your feelings bandage my dreams hung-up on my own disappointments like an animal playing solitaire with his shadow the hi-fi playing low and kind deadening the screams of my mind oblivious to the outside Ferris wheel revolving around the universe housing fragile bodies moving like silent boxcars across angry railroad tracks where lonely souls drag themselves like wounded animals wrapped in fear and angry poets spit out funeral wreathes at scarred clouds passing slowly across the face of the moon.

 

Gypsy James ...A Big Bird in a Coolthe Night... as twilight slips in like some esquisite fine chick in the thinnest sleekest silk sheath I bend an ear t' 1944 recordings o' Bird oozin' out o' the box 'n' all that frustration 'n' angst seems jes s'lame its like Bird's sweet sweetest Horn be sayin' jes t' me alone: "Man,why don' y'be Coolthe? all that pent up violence 'n' nowhere shit is s' from hunger, y' DIG? like, be COOLTHE, BABY! don' be lettin' that shit drag y'down there t' that square drugged scene..." 'n' man, I hear that MESSAGE that BIRD be layin' down from SOMEWHERE OUT THERE in spite o' all that Cosmo Debris that do be tryin' t' obscure 'n' veil what needs t' be revealed t' cats such as I still scufflin' here in these neonesque streets o' Blues s' I place m' lips upon Lady Night 'n' let all that negative shit slide 'n' disipate 'n' I COOLTHE y'dig? 'n' Lady Moon Lady Night 'n' that Bird siloutted upon Her orb o' platinum caresses me m'eyes m' hurtin' flesh 'n' somehow I am finally possessed by that Ecstasy that Nirvana that all them there mystics 'n' Sufi Dervishes 'n' Boddhisatvas sought in all them places I jes could never MAKE IT nor fake IT jes bendin' an ear t' a Big Bird in a Coolthe Night m' lips pressed t' in darkest tender Kiss o' nocturnal bliss yes! o,man,yes! can y' DIG? why jazz do IT for cats like me 'n' probably thee?

 

Vince Beck, AU a staccato burst from an automatic weapon... (My Mind) funny, today I'm an old man and I'm looking back, at the things I left behind and wondering how I survived when so many others did not. sometimes when I go inside, when I reach deep inside ...my soul? is that my soul? or just memories? anyway, sometimes I find things I didn't know where there, a collage of faces, places, and promises from my past. I'm amazed at the flow, once the reminiscence is turned on. the spirit of "The Venice West" LIVES! or as Bill Margolis said; "...you TOUCHED me,...& thanx"...     from down under winter the night was cold, but I survived hot water bottle by my side ( a lone man's bride) morning brings warmth sun on my skin life is mine I smile (a lone man's reward)

 

Ademokun Ayotunde, Nigeria When the Nights Grow Cold When the nights grow cold And the sky becomes grey When the streets lie quiet And look deserted I lie on the bed And stare at the ceiling Longing to take your arms When it feels so good When the nights grow cold This is what I do A Thousand Times A thousand times I have wondered What you feel for me in your heart I have wondered If I live in your heart And in your soul As you do in mine A thousand times I have wondered Why you have never told me You love me. With Us With us The circle will always come round again I'll find you Just like the river finds the sea And a bird finds its nest We'll meet again This parting cannot be forever Like the wind I cannot be stopped And I cannot be tied down I'll find you Someday somewhere Here on earth Or in the world beyond. I Wish I wish you could be mine But you are not mine I wish I could hold you as mine But you are not mine I wish I could think of you as mine But you are not mine Mine I wish Mine alone For all the treasures on earth But you are not mine

 

John Daleiden, US with care the wood carver works chisels in hand he caresses the warm toned wood— carving her breasts in live oak wood— see how the burl curves and turns— plump and then e r e c t

 

Michael Kleiza, CA For Phil The bird feeders offer only emptiness to the white winter landscape. Here is the old poet friend on TV cashing in bottles from a shopping cart at a dépanneur in Montréal. The birds have given up on getting food from emptiness and the winter desolation. The last time I saw Phil, he was playing a Pan flute on a warm spring day at the corner of Ste-Catherine and Mackay. The bird feeders pendulate on branches in the wind the snow comes and goes for most of the day. You stood there stripped to the waist, flushed, your barrel chest breathing and blowing; you curled your moustached lip, the spring air sweet on your mouth and the pipes. The birds don't stop, only pass by my empty feeders against the whiteness. The people feed on the spring air filled with your breath and the flute.

 

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