Thursday, September 3, 2009

7 poets new to SGVPQ (#43 that is)

Matthew Duling


Silent luminescence heaped
about us, a done avalanche.
Grail to a serpentine path!
Lip of an omnipresent surface.
Memory & expectation fuse.
Breath let by, to push out.
Shims of energy. Fuzzy lit.

Exalts, to assume a stance.
Coils up, a radioactive wire.
Shines where always has been.
A geometric line. Hot. Cool.
A neon tube, snake of light;
aware, twitches all lit up.

Stiff bright time anti-time.
As blood pumps, motionless.
Draw on the soft of breeze.
Staff of heat. Elemental--.
Arrow let go springs to fly.

Resentments, hate warmed-up.
Who'd hurl bombs as if treasure
chests? encode hollow giggles
to entrap traitors? Mercy!

Mute puzzles... nod & wink.
Beauty like rain falling, sun
light falling. Confetti bits.

Thunder bolt. Prophet's smile.
Grail: to the lip, unspilt. Ah!

Nth dimension, sheen ablaze.
Karen Greenbaum-Maya


Touch at the sagging gate and it swings open.
Clenched fists don’t garden: let fingers open.

Never expected beginners’, or any other luck.
Drew cards so good, I let a pair of kings open.

Homeless man under grimy white plastic endures cold wind.
And you wear a chic new jacket? Let your purse-strings open.

The cat has caught a fledgling, limp with fright.
I praise her, she meows, and its wings open.

Voice lesson: don’t work so hard, get out of the way.
Throat, breath easy. Fearless, your voice rings open.

The lid resists your hand. Set your strength just so.
Then feel the jar, smooth as wax, unscrewing open.

Not always a boon to care and ask too much.
Rejoice without wanting: heart sings, “Open.”

Chrystine Julian


My mantra reduced
to its essence
One letter, S

A breath
S for stillness:
my body relaxes into position

A breath
S for silence:
my mind settles

A breath
S for seeing:
I gaze at the nothingness of everything

A breath
S for senses:
enhanced but unattached

A breath
S for sea:
all that exists swims in an ocean of love

A breath
S for single:
there are no boundaries, all that is… is one

A breath

Eric Lawson


Donna is plastered once again
Traversing the neighborhood in a
Rented cow costume
No one stops to ask her why
It’s late March and raining, the
Middle of the day, and she’s
Extremely hammered
She moos at passing teenage boys,
Yelling: “Which one of you
Fine, young Southern
Gentlemen wants to
Refresh yourself with some
Ice-cold sweet tea and then
Help a lady out by churning
Her butter, hmm?”
She rubs her plastic utters
Suggestively at the mailman
She molests her neighbor’s flagpole
No one flinches or bats an eye
Since her fourth divorce, her sad,
Drunken displays have
Become ever-so-frequent
She urinates through her costume
And cries out for rocky road
Ice cream between swigs of
Cheap, warm whiskey
She passes out, unceremoniously,
Into a half-empty kiddy pool
The neighbors sigh and go about
Their business in peace
Remarks one to another: “Well, at
Least this time she wasn’t
Using the jump rope naked

Ethel Mays


Dog days lap creeks dry,
snapping and snarling
at the ankles of creatures
staggering to paltry sprinkles.

River and reservoir
levels drop. Thunderheads
pile empty promises on stark
blue skies; no rain for weeks.

Lethal freak
of a harsh summer god
spares none; all are crushed
under one blazing heel.
Debby Rosenfeld


Flowers bud, bloom, flourish, drop off, grow anew.
Babies bud, and with care and guidance bloom
into purpose-filled adults, embracing life
with meaning and a flourish of their own.

Yet the path of a baby is much more precarious
than that of a flower. All a flower needs
are the right ingredients—sun, soil, water, and bees.
Humans have choice.

We can have health, food, love, homes, knowledge,
yet destroy our endless possibilities.
Still, our ability to choose can also lead us
to flourish in ways flowers can’t.

We have personality.
Humans put individuality in every action,
leaving impressions on each other
like invisible ink.

At our best, we are leaders, inventors,
healers, teachers, spreading light
to others. At our worst, we are
self-involved, immoral and chaotic.

The path of a human is fraught with uncertainty.
But while even the most perfect flower,
splendid as it is, can only ever be one flower,
each human can blossom into
an entire bouquet.

That potential that makes me grateful
to be alive, seeking to bloom
into a brilliance that can be seen for miles,
and felt internally in the core of my heart.

Ann Tweedy


walking eleven miles
to St. Andrews from Crail
after taking the bus there,
we were two students making a day of it,
on our right, the Firth of Forth marching with us,
on our left, pasture, tireless gorse, the bunker
whose window i snapped sheep and ocean through,
scabrous concrete matting the photo.

then a sheep stumbled atop
a small rise, unable to crawl down.
a foreleg dangled in front of her
like a broken pointer. hoping to help,
we knocked on the farmhouse door.
oh . . . thank you, said the young man
who answered. it’ll mend.

it will heal itself? i asked with surprise.
he hesitated. no, but she’s going
to slaughter tomorrow
, adding with feeling,
thank you for stopping, as if gratitude
might sweeten killing.