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On
the Difference a Single Minute Can Make
I'm
finding myself
forever late
and running a frantic catch-up
to every place
I need to be:
The bus booting off
as I stretch my waving arms
to flag it down;
The opening credits rolling
as I scramble for my seat,
popcorn spilling
from its bag;
Missing the girl I would have met—
and married—
had I seen her seconds sooner,
BEFORE a line of people
blocked our path,
leaving us as strangers,
our eyes to never lock.
I lost out
on a stellar career
because I didn't see the want ad
in the paper—
the listing stamped for me
under the arm
of another seeker,
who snagged the final copy
of the city's daily news
just a breath-and-a-half before.
I want to ask my mother
why she couldn't birth me faster,
why she hadn't heeded
the contractions
just as soon as they were felt,
without delay,
pushed an extra bit harder
when my head was popping out,
that additional minute of life,
that little head start,
giving me adequate time to stroll
to that bus stop down the street,
smell some flowers along the way,
tell a girl I think she's pretty,
if we can meet for a funny movie
when my day at the office is done.
Andreas
Gripp, CA
October Rose
the
solitary rose in my garden,
a harvest holdover or belated bloom
that's risen when the others have died.
It has none to compete for attention,
isn't lost in a sea of red.
I ponder its predicament,
think of it as lonely,
regretting it hadn't blossomed sooner
when the buzz of flying insects
were droning their affection.
I'll water it in the evening,
as stars speck the sky in Autumn's cool.
I'll sing it to sleep
as I retire,
pray for grace
should the frost strike swift.
Andreas Gripp, CA
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Out On the Town*
For Sale sign on a Pick-up Truck
next to a broken down trailer
STICKS AND STONES AND STICKS. . .
AND WE ALL FALL DOWN
Sunday morning sermon
in the middle of the field
a few pews scattered
THE SAME ONES EMPTY
STICKS AND STONES AND STICKS. . .
AND WE ALL FALL DOWN
Dr. Lord "open for emergencies only"
beyond the beams of headlights
all the buildings evacuate the 'flea market'
STICKS AND STONES AND STICKS AND STONES. . .
AND WE ALL FALL DOWN
People speak in Spanish on all the radio stations
tell me what I want to hear so I can understand it
STICKS AND STONES AND STICKS. . .
AND WE ALL FALL DOWN
My son points to the sign
that says no passing as we pass it
his perplexed and confused thoughts
STICKS AND STONES AND STICKS . . .
AND WE ALL FALL DOWN
At home the horizontal trees
turn-key operations
the cat in the hat comes back
a spot of sky stuck on the wall
STICKS AND STONES AND STICKS. . .
AND WE ALL FALL DOWN
*Hurricane Rita -September, 2005 Louisiana, USA
Karina Klesko |
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Jackie Paper Comes No More ....
Outside of Wal-Mart Superstore,
Lawn and Garden Center,
I sit comfortable on the rattan furniture
with big leafy greens and blooms of white,
a smoky coffee table and a side chair with ottoman—
the February sun warms these new cotton fields.
Purchases in the cart beside me,
I rummage for a book to read
as I wait for my brother,
a hostage in "Automotive".
Magnolia perfumes the imagination,
bells ring from a hundred churches.
My focus moves to a couple
looking at roses in plastic pouches,
hemp garrotes burgeoning stems.
"Four dollars for each one,"
the man said and then he asked her if
she had a wis-steeeer-E-a. She said no...
they discussed which one was 'sweeter'—rose or wis-steeeer-E-a
a bit longer then went on their way.
The sun travels to the down side of day—
I move to the chair with an ottoman facing it,
the pavement gray, skies light blue,
expensive white vehicles,
in the parking lot—the main color in the south,
irregardless of race,
any differences muted into a palette of undertones.
Finally, time to leave,
I pass rows of ornate bird baths,
adorned with sculpted cherubs & Mary—
waiting to be filled with that 'nasty water' of New O'leans
"tea made bitter green" from rotting lilies and corpses—
a mockingbird sits on top of the cart return.
children bake
cookie cutter cookies—
a puff of the magic dragon
*Nasty Water" James Nolan
Karina Klesko |
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Deciphering the Dearest
These thoughts can come from a grove of trees
when the wood rants and raves in a wail
of old stories: the voice of the Pasture Pine,
where once the people wandered along their Way
to the summer’s fishing camp on the Atlantic coast.
Words rising out of the branches of maples,
escaping from the knotted “Oh” of the birch tree knot,
needles tapping out the Morse Code memories
whole under shushed chapel canopy, the chorus of angels,
of sorts, call me to sit, heart in hand and empty the hanging
cones of thought directly onto the pages I ply.
Even the grasses and mosses pose questions
to the derby headed cattails in their wading
and there is surely an answer, a response so subtle
only the poetic heart can hear. Through their very roots
comes the hum of a holy song that stirs the water,
ripples to the far shore where I sit and soak in the musing.
Rain, softly striking the page of the earth for rhythm,
recites a soliloquy that is remembered by the leaves
and quoted over and over in the post-storm drops
to be taken up by the soil and scribed in greens
and full-blossomed punctuations as earth stretches
to find the source of the song that I pen to paper.
A coyote knows the angst and anguish of never finding,
always searching for the bemoaned evening shadows
that hold feast and famine. This suffering brother
addresses himself to the moon and sends his thoughts
screeching off the sheer edges of bluffs where the wind
picks up his phrases and carries the hopes of his heart
to that Great Mystery that gave us all voice.
Burning tongues of dry lips of autumns flags
speak to the soul of an empty skull and open heart,
waving banners of caution to make haste,
to capture the moment while it is here,
before some fall we may not rise from.
I am poet. The world brushes against my cheek,
whispers in my ears, sends me messages in vapored mornings,
and, I, standing, alone in churling whitecaps,
can decipher the intimate messages to speak the truth
with bound voice that is only loosened when called to answer.
Carol Desjarlais, US
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The Dancer And The Dance
I have a mistress . . .
I hope you do too!
She comes and goes
all hours of the day and night.
Sometimes, she wakens me at dawn
and begs me to walk with her
just as morning birds begin to sing.
My mistress is a songbird too;
she loves to croon love ditties
softly in my ear but other times
she sings the melancholy blues.
My mistress has many moods—
she can be gentle as a mild Spring day,
or fierce like a tornado in Kansas—
she is a Four Season Vivaldi celebrant—
she is a delicate spinner of gossamer webs
connecting night and day with grace . . .
a dancer, whose movement illuminates
troublesome abstraction with clarity
in a warm turn of her dainty wrist.
My mistress is my muse.
John Daleiden, US
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Poem For An Imaginary Daughter
Daughter that I never had
Tugging at my arm-sleeve
From death’s still sleep
Hanging heavy as an anchor
Rooted to the tip of my tongue
Your vision riding high in the
Retina of my third eye
I toss restlessly in half-sleep
A tugboat captain throwing
You a lifeline towing
You gently through my dreams
A. D. Winans
Getting It Down Right
Leaving your home
Not wanting you to walk
Me to the car because
I’m no good at goodbyes
And you tired and me tired
And the dog, dog tired
Battling the commuter traffic
My thoughts on last night’s play
And Saturday at the park
With banjo tunes dancing inside
My head
Riding me all the way back
To San Francisco
With you on my mind
Pushing past hurts aside
Thinking of the perfect love
The kind where there is nothing
Negative to say
The kind we would repeat
Over and over again
Just to get it down right
A love so binding
It sticks to the marrow
A love so strong there
Is no yesterday no tomorrow
Just the here and now
A love that never comes with
An IOU
A. D. Winans
Love Poem
Your memory returns to haunt
me
The way you looked at me
When undressing for bed
The way the moonlight peaked
Through the window shades the
First time we made love
Leaving me feeling like a voyeur
Resting in God’s favorite easy-chair
A. D. Winans
Rain Poem
The storm
lets up
The birds
take flight
Neighbor’s dog
sheds water
drops in
sprinkler fashion
A cavalry
of children
magically appear
in rainbow splendor
Sun peeks
from clouds
Smell of spring
in the air
A. D. Winans
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Your Gaze
my love
your eyes
let loose
the world
in my heart
your gaze
transports
clouds and
clear blue
to cheer up
my days
ripples rush
towards the
shore of spring
in my bosom
and there
i will wait
day and night
for your embrace
and the heaven
you would transport me to
John Tiong Chunghoo, MY |
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