INTRODUCTION
Nessa OMahony
Harbinger
CONTENTS
Oswald Le Winter
IN THE WOMB OF THE SEARCH
Judith Present
Tahoma
Ron P. Nhim
Grateful to the Sun God
Bitter Sweet
Wilfredo Beltran Zenteno
THE LIGHTLESS ONES
BANQUET HALL
Mike Estabrook
WAY BACK IN HIGH SCHOOL
Bare Feet
BILL TOLD ME TO BUY A COPY
OF MUSCLE & FITNESS MAGAZINE
because of a rash act
fish feeding dream
Daniel Gallik
Golden Voice from The Silver Screen
Guys Digging A Hole
Harvesting A Salute To The South
James Keane
Question
Morning
Spiritual Crisis
In Passing
Sharon Esther Lampert
THAT KISS
EDUCATE NOT
POETREE
My Man
Karim Khan
Kaimy the Freak
Islands of Illusion
Roger N. Taber
ASYLUM
A FEELING FOR THE QUICKNESS OF TIME
LEGENDS OF THE FALL
AN INVITATION TO THE FEAST
THE POLITICS OF CAIN
THE ALPHABET CAT
SLEEPING DOGS
THE QUILT MAKERS' SONG
POST SCRIPTUM
DeL Corey
To a Newborn
Nessa OMahony
Harbinger
~~~~~~~~~
Beaumaris, April 7th 2004
Elsewhere, it's swallows.
Here, we watch the water
for the first yachts,
filing a course through the Straits,
leaning against the wind,
testing sails that haven't been
unfurled for months.
I follow each boat
through the span
of my bay window,
imagine the rest,
the progress past the pier,
white cloth reflected
in each pane of glass
of the seafront terrace
as it curves its way
towards Penmon and the light.
A second has appeared,
tied up unseen over night,
It circles on its moorings
as the wind shifts.
Oswald Le Winter
IN THE WOMB OF THE SEARCH
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
...And Jacob went out from Beer-sheba
and went toward Haran
And he lighted upon a certain place
and tarried there...
Genesis
“What do I seek ?” asked the traveler
Of himself, standing at the crossroads
Knowing only the road he had walked
Was already dark and still behind him.
The three ways that spread like a fan
At his feet were bright with mystery,
Each offering its unique journey, each
Tempting him with a destination he
Had no inkling of, save that instinct
Told him over and over one would
Bring him to the end of his long way.
In the woods ahead of him he heard
Birds singing as he knew they must
Have sung in Eden when Creation
Was an infant, full of radiant hope.
To his right, he saw wild fields of grain,
Ripening tips fluttering in the sunlight
Like flags at summits called to save
The world from mindless slaughter.
And to the left, green mountains
Reverberated with the music brooks
Make as they shoot granite rapids
To reach cities where men yearn
For the taste of water, whole and pure
As Himalayan snow on winter slopes.
All this lay at his feet and roused
His spirit out of the fatigue that invaded
His limbs and crept into the crevices
Of his adventurous soul. He knew he must
Go on—“but where,” he asked some ear
Within his heart, “which is the right way,
The way that ends my journey there
Where all the gifts that wisdom holds
For me wait to be gathered up like
Pebbles at the lakeshore of my youth.”
He stood and listened, thinking
That somehow a voice within him
Would provide the answer he felt
He must possess to take the next step.
It would come, of that much he was sure.
Its voice would be majestic, grand,
And filled with the deep resonance
Of certainty, he thought. He would not move
Until he heard. His next step would decide.
And so he waited, slowly stiffening;
His muscles gradually becoming numb
And thick with sleep until at last
He roused himself out of his torpor
And moved, as one quickly awakened
From a troubled rest. He took a step
To his left, even before he had become
Conscious of volition, of his movement.
And the voice came from deep in him,
Uncalled, hardly expected now that he had
Taken that first step on a way that seemed
To him chosen by some anonymous force
That was controlling him, from somewhere
Beyond the finite circle of his reason.
“You are the way. You are the journey
and the choice. You are the destination.”
He listened, heard, and understood, and walked
With a new energy that seemed to him
The boon for having pinned an angel
in a dream he still remembered.
Payback
By Judith Present
Minnie sees all the newspapers strewn on the ground in front of her
store. She rushes to the store, limping in small, hurried steps. The door
is wide open and the place has been violated. Sam enters behind her; his
usual pleasant expression is replaced by fear.
"Where’s Jakey? Where’s the boy?"
He looks behind the counter; she checks the kitchen in the back.
"Jakey, Jakey," she calls, as if to a cat. "Jakey, Jakey, where are you?"
"We have to call the police," Sam says, opening the bathroom door.
There on the toilet is Jakey, leaning back, eyes closed. There is blood
around his neck as if his throat has been cut and his pants are down
around his ankles. When they touch him he falls to the floor, but he is
still alive.
"Quick! Screams Minnie. "Call an ambulance."
Their thirty-two-year-old boy is still breathing. With only the
brainpower of a seven-year-old, he has remained the Moskowitz’s baby boy
all thirty-two years.
* * *
A Policeman offers Jakey a Coke. He checks with his mother to see
if it’s all right to take it. She nods yes.
"I like Coke," he says. "It’s not good for your teeth. I can’t always
have it, except at special times." He smiles at the detective.
Detective Langley doodles on his pad, while he tries to figure out how
to deal with this challenged individual. "Can you tell me what this man,
who…did this terrible thing to you looked like?"
Again Jakey looks at his mother.
"You can tell the nice policeman," Minnie tells him. " He wants to
catch this man and punish him. You want that to happen,
Jakey, so he won’t hurt other people."
"But I don’t want to think about him, Mommy. He smelled bad, and I
don’t’ like him."
Langley takes a big book of pictures and places it in front of Jakey
and Minnie. In a kindly tone he says, "Jakey, you don’t have to say
anything. All you have to do is let me know if you see the man’s face.
You just have to point at it." He opens the book and shows Jakey rows
and rows of pictures of previously arrested men.
Minnie sits next to Jakey, rubbing his back and listening to the
ticking of a government issued clock in the run-down police station.
Jakey looks and looks, page after page. Now and then he gives a pleading
look at Minnie, who avoids his eyes.
The he sees the man’s picture and begins to hit the book with his
finger, over and over. "I want to go home now, Mommy. I want to go home
now, Mommy." Jakey starts pulling on Minnies’ coat. "Please, Mommy, we
go home now." When he gets no response, he begins to cry. His manly face
looks ridiculous with tears running down it. He never wants to think
about that bad man again.
* * *
Boris Bodsky is a Russian immigrant of Polish descent. A predator of
young boys, he strolls subways and parks looking for boys to degrade as
he had during the war. Not only does he like to molest boys, he particularly
like to humiliate Jewish ones.
But the detective is puzzled by his modus operandi. If one
likes young men, why then sodomize someone in his thirties? He doesn’t
realize the man’s hatred for Jews, but Minnie knows the truth. Every
Russian, every Pole, every Slav, every German is the potential Angel of
Death. She knows because she has lived through the pain he brings.
Everywhere Minnie goes she begins to see Bodsky. The face in the picture
Jakey identified has embedded itself in her mind the way other horrifying
ones have over the years. Each night as she lay in bed she retrieves and
thinks about them. Minnie doesn’t let Jakey out of the house alone anymore.
He has become her constant companion and is getting fat from coddling. She
makes him blintzes with plenty of sour cram, kasha and varnisha, thick
soups of barley and mushroom, stuffing him all day long because she loves
him and wants him to feel good. Sam tries to keep his sense of humor for
the boy’s sake, but Minnie belittles him for being insensitive. Still Sam
can run the store and be pleasant to the customers.
Detective Langley calls to let them know he has found the suspect and
needs Jakey to come to a line-up. Minnie is elated. Jakey runs a fever and
has diarrhea the night before he must see everyone at the police station
again. Minnie cajoles, feeds and dresses him in such a way that they will
know he comes from a good home. Jakey has no control of his situation.
Minnie pulls him into the room with the two-way mirror, where he is
asked to identify the bad man. He sees him immediately and begins to
tremble. Memories of that time, that horrible time, come back and he can
smell the rancid odor and feel the heat from the man’s foul breath. The
man’s raspy voice swells in his ears and makes him want to runaway to
throw up. Minnie’s voice breaks through his thoughts.
"Which number Jakey? Which number is the man? Is it one, two, three,
which one? She is impatient for his answer.
He doesn’t want to displease her. "Number two! Number two! Now I want
to go home Mommy."
"Are you sure?"
"I want to go home. Please, Mommy."
Minnie studies his face, trying to see if he is telling the truth.
She’s convinced. "Well, Detective, number two’s you’re man. Jakey may be
retarded, but he is not stupid. If he says that’s the man, then, that’s
the man."
She drags Jakey out of the police station. He looks like a buffoon, in
a suit too small for his now chubby frame and out-of-style hat. At this
moment, a depression comes over him that will always stay with him.
* * *
The DA realizes Jakey will not make a very good witness. His retardation
and fear will let the defense lead him too easily and so there is not much
of a case. Boris Bodsky is free, and now he knows the crazy retarded Jew is
the one who identified him.
After hearing all this from the DA, Minnie must be lifted off the floor.
She rubs her hands together continuously. Her terror of Jakey being tracked
down as a Jew overwhelms her. She must protect her family like she could
not do before the war. "Why is this happening to us here in America? She
questions Sam.
"Crime happens everywhere, Minnie." He tries to save her from feeling
persecuted, but knows he can’t.
Jakey sits on a wooden stool by the store window drinking hot chocolates
and looking out at the same street scene day after day. Minnie keeps her
eye on him, making sure he is safe. Sam sells the newspapers, makes the
sandwiches and egg cremes, jokes with the customers over the store’s old
Formica counter. He acts like nothing is wrong in his life while he sweeps
the black and white mosaic tiled floor trying to keep busy and the store
clean. Minnie has ceased caring about the place.
Time for the Moskowitz’s passes very slow, but one morning Jakey begins
screaming in a high-pitched whine of agony.
"What is it?" Minnie asks. "Did you see the man? Did you see him?"
He can say nothing, but moves his head up and down.
"Which way did he go?" She begins to shake him. "Answer me, which way?"
"He was watching me, Mommy. He looked in my eyes." Again he sees the
man through the window. "Look Mommy, look!"
Minnie reaches behind the old cash register for the store’s gun, grabs
her coat and runs out the door leaving Sam completely puzzled. She follows
all the Nazis, all the fascist pigs, and all her pursuers down in the
subway. She is close on Bodsky’s trail when he jumps on a train just as
the door closes. He grins at her through the glass door, flashing a gold
tooth, adding fuel to her frenzy. Minnie runs the length of the train to
an exit, but right before she reaches it, the train door reopens and she
quickly get on.
She walks from car to car, looking, searching, and hoping. Her hair is
in gray disarray. Looking crazed, she searches, unaware of the real
passengers. She thinks they are all going to concentration camps and
she must help them all, like she should have done years ago. Cousin Zelda,
Uncle Abe, tiny Faga from next door holds on to her mother’s hand; the
child’s eyes are hollow sockets. Minnie now has a chance to make up for
the guilt she has felt for living.
She recognizes the man’s brown scuffed shoes. He is sitting in the last
seat of the last car, holding a newspaper in front of his face. She notices
his fingers are stained yellow, and black hairs protrude from each knuckle.
Tearing the newspaper from his hands, she meets his eyes. Hateful eyes.
She reaches into her pocket, pulls out the pistol and shoots him in the
face. Blood and brain fragments fly everywhere, passengers run, scream,
and duck for cover. Minnie stands very still, letting the gun fall to the
floor.
She doesn’t hear the horrified sounds around her as she walks exhausted
through a path of hysterical subway riders. She only knows she has done
what she always dreamt of doing. She has saved her friends and family;
she has been heroic and this is why God had let her live.
Ron P. Nhim
Grateful to the Sun God
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
In a hot summer day mid-afternoon in the country,
the usual summer’s ritual is about to begin.
As I sit under the shade observing,
I can see the mirages dancing in the far distance field.
Bathed in the yellow and gold color,
freshly bloom sunflowers are smiling at me
and attracting me with their bright vivid colors,
calling me to come and play with them under the hot sun.
The flat field stretches as far as the eyes can see,
acting as both a stage for nature to perform its’ dramas
and as the sacred ground for nature to worship on.
Above, three hawks are circling the sky higher
and higher trying to scan the vast field to catch all the actions.
The sun hits twelve o’clock and the show begins.
The sunflowers are turning toward to the sun,
slowly opening up to receive life-sustaining sustenance.
It is feeding time.
As the sun slowly moving west,
the individual flower is bending slightly down
as if it is bowing in respect of the Sun God,
slowly and humbly saying thank you
and good-bye for another day of feast and worship.
Bitter Sweet
~~~~~~~~~~~~
I saw you kiss him again yesterday.
My heart rage with fire and my ocean is in turmoil.
The waves are angry and they slam violently against the shore.
I should have listened to the fortuneteller
who whispered gently in my ears about you.
She could read you like a book.
I do not need a crystal ball, messenger pigeon,
or a grape wine to tell me what you do behind my back;
all I have to do is take a breath.
I should have listened to my brother when
he told me about girls like you.
You, your intoxicating personality, and your seductive touch!
Why do you have to be so damn beautiful?
You do not have to lie.
Your twisted explanations, your circles of justifications,
your senseless rational, and the sweet moments
you try to project are all witchery.
I can see through the core.
You are a devil in a blue dress.
Your promises are all just hanging by a thin thread
and you think you can play me like a violent.
Well, I ran out of sound to squeal long ago.
My heart has turned into stone now, my brain fizzled out,
my vision clouded, and my ears fused shut.
We may be together, but I already died long ago because of you.
Wilfredo Beltran Zenteno
THE LIGHTLESS ONES
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
(England, 1700's)
Back in that ocean of darkness
When night held a deeper dimension,
A candle gave cottage coherence,
A lantern kept gaze at attention.
The walls of a hut oozed with shadows,
And spiders swung down from their laces
In the blackness untempered by flashlights,
To scurry across sleeping faces.
The wee hours must have seemed witching.
The fearful saw demons in corners,
Felt eyes of the dead watch from graveyards
The homeward procession of mourners.
Then, beauty was such a frail flower,
For childbirth to quell with its anguish.
Teeth loosened, hair whitened - no fixing!
Strange fevers caused thousands to languish.
God loomed like a judgmental parent
Who frowned upon parties and pleasure.
As The Way was a test in denial,
The Church held out Heaven as treasure.
No talk shows enlivened the evenings -
Just life unadorned was the issue.
Suspense of precarious futures
Gave weight to the sad words "I'll miss you!"
Keeping noses to neighborhood grindstones,
Men herded their sheep and their cattle,
Untroubled by globalization
Of politics, earthquake or battle.
Today's world is raucous and radiant -
Overcrowded, and less moralistic
Compared to in days of the lightless,
But wanting their touch of the mystic.
To be back in that ocean of darkness
When night held a deeper dimension!
I'd love to have spent a week wand'ring
A landscape before light's invention.
BANQUET HALL
~~~~~~~~~~~~
Each takes his unique serving of this world.
The shares of life presented are consumed.
And if, beforehand, any might have quarrelled
About their portions, thinking them predoomed,
The palate warms to decades of bland years
Or pungent; through all we crave the cream -
Brewed with sweet spices 'mid the tang of fears -
That rich and slow decoction of a dream.
We linger over passion's demi-tasse,
Find bitterness which gags, or choking sorrow
Salty as blood from swallowing cut glass ...
Until the healing tonic of the morrow.
Small comforts and delights round out our bowl:
Nourishing fruits in season for the soul.
Mike Estabrook
WAY BACK IN HIGH SCHOOL
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
A bully stuck a wad of gum
in the hair of one
of the unpopular kids.
All the other kids
began jumping
around him like monkeys
in the zoo laughing pointing
making monkey sounds.
He was so embarrassed
he couldn't find the gum
in all his thick curly hair.
He looked at me,
eyes tearing,
please show me please.
Oh well, guess the bully
will have to get me next,
I poke my finger
at the gum, here it is.
He yanks
in one reckless yank
and out it comes in a tuft
of thick curly hair.
Tossing it away
he keeps walking
as if nothing had happened,
fighting the tears back
fighting back the tears.
Bare Feet
~~~~~~~~~
A woman in her bare feet can be a beautiful,
sexy thing, kicking off her shoes firmly, or simply
stepping out of them easily, lightly, self-assured,
and sweet, like a butterfly lifting silently
from the center of a pretty yellow flower,
wafting off into the sky.
BILL TOLD ME TO BUY A COPY
OF MUSCLE & FITNESS MAGAZINE
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Bill's a macho guy I know at work but a real nice guy - polite, considerate
- you can see his great big muscles right through his suit. He's on this
strict low-fat high-protein high-energy diet has 5 pieces of fruit for lunch
along with yogurt & chicken ("I love chicken can eat it every day & never
get tired of it") & some disgusting grayish-brown concoction he's whipped-up
in the blender: grapes & seeds & bananas cottage cheese with tofu or hummus
or something like that God. Anyway now that the doctor's told me I'm due to
have a coronary for sure if I don't cut out eating that good old-fashioned
American diet loaded down with fats & cholesterol & after he didn't even
laugh at the joke I made about it I decided it was time to heed his
admonitions. (It was cute actually to see him so angry with me all red in
the face - no damnit! you can't continue eating any damn thing you want just
because I'm prescribing this anti-cholesterol medicine for you Mike Jesus
Christ!) Yes, well, anyway I'm listening to him finally not eating
hamburgers & french fries anymore swallowing down my pills 3 times a day & I
stopped in to see good old Bill too, to ask him for some dietary hints & any
other healthful advice he could impart so he says look buddy go out & buy
yourself a copy of Muscle & Fitness Magazine it's a great magazine for this
sort of thing the best so buy it & read it so I did I bought a copy that
very day the recent September issue for $5.95 over 7,612,000 readers
worldwide & I tried to read it I swear I tried Bill but I'm sorry I can't
read it I simply can't I mean the photos of the women in there it's as if
they've pasted women's heads on men's bodies all that hardness & muscle, all
those ugly flat edges & angles & popping blue veins. Jesus.
because of a rash act
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
(in memory of Grandma Muriel)
I missed seeing my children
and my grandchildren growing-up,
missed all the pleasures (and pains)
that accompany growing-up,
that accompany life.
Were I able to speak,
I mean truly able to speak, from the grave,
from beyond the grave, I would say
that missing seeing my children
and my grandchildren growing-up
has been the saddest thing
of all about killing myself
so long ago when I was so young
and stupid and didn't know any better.
fish feeding dream
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
In this damn recurring dream -
(like a boomerang zipping back at me
through the darkness of the night)
I have a fish tank an elaborate fish tank.
(I don't really, in real life have any fish tanks,
when I was a child I did, with guppies and
goldfish, black mollies and catfish,
but that was another time, long ago.)
In my dream it's a big tank, 80 gallons, maybe bigger,
with myriad plants and colored rocks
and ceramic bubblers and some large beautiful fish,
serene fish, floating or swimming fast
through the water, angelfish and zebras,
neon tetras and sucker-mouths stuck to the sides.
But in this dream I keep forgetting to feed them,
I don't remember feeding them for weeks,
yet miraculously they are all still alive,
but droopy and hungry, and I can't
find the food and I keep getting distracted
and I should go out and buy some more food,
I should feed them, I'm trying to feed them,
I want to feed them, I must feed them, I am their god,
if I don't feed them they will surely perish.
But I never get to it, I never get it done.
I always wake up with these poor fish unfed.
Daniel Gallik
Golden Voice from The Silver Screen
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The progenitor of the news,
says Offie, I am a crawling
king snake and have three
bits of earth shattering
language to douse you with.
Calabash bashing is what we
all are about. We do not
need to spell to give you
our literacy. And three,
we are all good looking.
This well-paid-to-laver
bullshit-upon-you man adds,
Most of us haven=92t thought
a thought in our short lives.
I will never be sad on air.
Offie keeps chatting. I am
a comp that has an intro.
My hair is kinky, geeky
perfect always. And I have
never had a zit in my life.
Guys Digging A Hole
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I mean, she's a tad
self-possessed he
wolfed as he downed
his scotch and asked
for another. She is
a woman that is way
beyond who I'll ever
be. Clyde reacted
by patting his pal's
knee. He continued,
I'm a plain Nick, a
man of bad seed, a
musc. melodrama. She
is an Anglo-strap of
cold precision and
she doesn't even have
a bad thought, except
about sex with me. I
want her like a man
who doesn't want clo
thes. Wanna be her
pop who gets away
with doing ick things
to her. But, hell,
she knows that, I know,
doesn't she? Clyde
sucked on his gew-gaw
like a chef that really
cans forbidden fruit.
Harvesting A Salute To The South
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The laconic woman in a sour mash
cough lilted, I am as Nashville
as a pair of wingtips. Hell,
this guy just don't know me. I
danced with him. So fucking what.
Her hubby looked like Johnny Cash
eating a cob of corn. I heard
all about it from Jack. Why do
you let the cow shit flow? Be
honest and I'll forget the thing.
Lin goes, d'owt know if I want ya
ta forget the WHOLE thing. Uncle
Chuck and his niece lover were
coming in the front door. He
goes, anything going on here good?
No one answered him. Just fed
him and his bride. Two doors down
a man shot his wife with a 45.
No one looked up at anything not
strange happening in a world of
events. The papers down here in
Lex. Ky. didn't even cover it.
Kim, the teen, goes, I been to
the gilded palace of sin, but
never to a pure, straight abode.
James Keane
Question
~~~~~~~~
Ever wonder
what tiny children, straining yet
still, are thinking, unbelieving, as
living to quarrel, Mommy and Daddy
snarl a throat-cutting welcome to screaming
hatred once again, blood
eyes reveling in the acrid
thunder shaking to death
everything of innocence, unbelieving, they'll
never wonder
Morning
~~~~~~~
Relieve me
of troubling
sleep -- but
any lost dreams
I keep
Spiritual Crisis
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Down
across. down a-
cross: Dear Grandma,
the forehead hung low
for guarding the soul
your thumb brands still
relentlessly
hides the memory
of the one I grew to love, and lost
to relentless agony -- and God's will?
In Passing
~~~~~~~~~~
So have you wondered lately
Where the turtles we buried
Have gone to? I have
For some reason. In this timid season
Of budding discontent (as memory tries to
Skulk away to pettier days, when
Concern loomed heavily mainly for my pleasure, my
Food and my rent), suddenly I remember:
In summer, the couples strolling by cannot know
That we ourselves could happen by and not know
Where the turtles finally, somewhere, settled in a somber
December of coffin brown, cradled by the one stream left to
trickle from the season when the park was leafy wet,
and we screamed each other down. So, light years away, do you
Hanker and sway at all for the sunnier days, shivering to
Plinking atop a concrete wall? Or still
Consider them -- as you cried out then --
Dead forever! . . . My babies!--? Or did you
Bury yourself in the yawning gape of seasons stretching endlessly
Relentlessly between us, where others I've known have
Settled comfortably in crypts of upholstered poison,
Leather and chrome? I hope you haven't decided for yourself to
Uncover any last-known graves. If you should
Want to, let me save you. Cradle you. Kiss your face again
In a warming cup. Wait till green grass or yellow leaves return to discover
Love left for buried with the brown and the stream
And the turtles. Or
Forget I ever dug any of this dead stuff up.
Sharon Esther Lampert
THAT KISS
~~~~~~~~~
Fortune teller that I AM,
My crystal ball sees ALL.
Clairvoyant, the man's libido is flamBOYant.
I SEE: ANIMAL MAGNETISM.
Inside of THAT KISS will be bliss.
Taking chances with amorous glances,
He advances... Lips pouting-tongue tied:
THAT KISS: SmOOch; smOOch.
When he romances: his gait prances,
his penis lances, his generosity enhances.
VOODOO, or DOO-YOU want dinner, dear?"
His heart dances....
Magician that HE IS,
He has a loaded deck of cards,
And wants to be my bodyguard.
Enchantment: a bag of mesmerizing tricks,
An ACE up his sleeve, a KING or a JACK
Are inside of his top hat of black.
Sleight of hand, THAT KISS is grand.
WIZARDRY: Pressed into his bosom,
I am caught in his embraces, arms
Flailing, like a net above my head,
His pounding heart is beating red.
THAT KISS tells ALL or just enough
to keep me Interested in ALL of his stuff.
Lips full of feelings, THAT KISS,
Soft as rose petals, free of prickly thorns.
In the the dark recesses of his mouth,
I find my way by the light in his eyes,
His smile is real, there is no disguise.
Even though we just met,
I am caught in the tangled web of
A hot-blooded, Israeli-Englishman:
"A Jack of All of Love's Trades."
A rare mixed-breed, a British accent,
Concealing a *Sabra, wherever he went.
Tricks of my own trade, I roll up my sleeve,
And I become a woman-in-need(?)
THAT KISS I can't forget, and with no regret:
It is almost 4 a.m., and inside of my gypsy's tent:
Sm(OO)ch, sm(OO)ch,
We are still one silhouette.
ANIMAL MAGNETISM:
Sm(OO)ch, sm(OO)ch,
Some call it v(OO)d(OO),
Most think it witchcraft,
Experts refer to it as "osculation."
Others call THAT KISS Kabbalah;
A kind of Jewish mysticism:
Many are in need of exorcism.
EDUCATE NOT
~~~~~~~~~~~
No Time to Teach:
In Class, They Give a General Overview.
On Tests, They Want Particular Details.
No Time to Learn:
All By Myself, I Got to Teach Myself a Zillion Facts:
I Got No Study Skills, I Got No Tutor,
The First Day of School, I Gotta Be Behind.
Students Got a Cheat-Sheet:
I Use Citations From Books
I Got No Time to Read.
Teachers Got a Cheat Sheet:
They Got No Time to Read IT.
They Weigh IT:
Looks Beautiful
They Grade IT A.
Looks Pretty
They Grade IT B.
Looks OK
They Grade IT C.
Looks Ugly
They Grade IT D.
Looks Can Kill
They Grade IT F.
Quantity Over Quality:
Education System is Dumb
And is Gonna Get Dumber,
Wastes My Good Dime,
My Good Mind,
And My Good Time.
I Survive, I Don't Thrive.
Facts Move From Textbook
To Blackboard to Notebook.
Gotta Get the Facts INSIDE of ME:
No Time to Think,
No Time to Write an Outline,
No Time for Research,
No Time to Write a Rough Draft,
No Time to Reread, Revise, and Rewrite,
No Time to Write a Final Draft,
No TIme to Write My Masterpiece.
When I Get IT Back, My Work-In-Progress,
I Trash IT. I Got No Time for Junk.
Teachers Got No Time to Teach.
I Got No Time to Learn.
No Time to Educate.
EDUCATE NOT.
POETREE
~~~~~~~
Ink needs a pen
Pen needs paper
Paper needs a poem
Poem needs a poet
Poet needs a muse
Muse needs a poet
Poet needs divine inspiration
Divine Inspiration needs divine intervention
Divine Intervention needs divine grace
Divine Grace needs immortality
Immortality needs eternity
Eternity needs readers of
POETREE
My Man
is passionate and strong, all through
the night, I know his emotional,
spiritual, and physical being; I feel
the breadth and depth of his masculinity.
All through the night, My Man holds
me tightly in his arms: warm, tender,
and cuddly, childlike, always knowing
where I am, secure forevermore.
My Man's touch lingers,
I am sleeping soundly all
through the night, still making
love with him, in my dreams.
I awaken to My Man's soft kisses at
dawn, my spirit floating in the morning
mist, the promise of love is fulfilled,
my heart is murmuring a melody, a
sweet new song, all through the Day
Karim Khan
Kaimy the Freak
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The cute little cat of Miss Carston was really disciplined until it became
the object of interest of the kids next door. At first, Miss Carston
overlooked the friskiness of Kaimy as casual. But when Kaimy altered her
valuable dinner suit by scratching, Miss Carston tended to see something
causal behind the cat"s frankness. And Billy, the housekeeper, was the
primary target of her suspicion.
"Are you teaching her your skills?" she inquired with a frown. Billy was
almost dumbfounded.
"Oh no Miss Carston …I …I am not at all in this." Billy was always awkward
whenever he had to prove his innocence. And had lost six jobs for this.
"You aren’t playing with her?"
"By God, no"
"Then find out who is," she ordered him, and he knew she meant it. So he
found out; he found out that the kids living next door with their pretty,
blue-eyed, tomcat aunt played with Kaimy in the noon. He quickly reported
it to Miss Carston.
"So that’s why she slips out daily after twelve," she said of her cat,
with a biting look at the little thing. It uttered a faint "mew" in
appeasement with humble eyes. Then the lady asked Billy, "What exactly
do they do with her?"
"Make fun," he answered with a smile that she instantly killed with a
glower. And he went on, "David the ten-year-old lad throws balls for her.
Lee, the younger sister, pulls her tail and ears and then runs away from
her. And their Aunt Sally gives her rides in baby William’s pram."
"And where does this fuss run?"
"Across the lane in the park,"
"Very well then. I am going to see her right off." And she went out
stamping. The young lady opened the door, and she saw a stern and petulant
Miss Carston with bursting eyes and pressed lips.
"Are you Sally, the kids’ aunt?" she asked in answer to her "Hello."
"Yes, do I know you?"
"You know my cat better,"
"Excuse me" Sally was both surprised and risible.
"This," she thrust her affected dinner suit forward to her, "is the
outcome of your acquaintance with my cat."
"Oh" Sally was half concern, half ridicule. "I’m sorry. I just know her
a little." Miss Carston’s color reddened further.
"That’s good for me," she glowered. "In case you knew her well, she may
try to have my eyes out for playing." And she threw her suit at her to
turn and go back, stamping.
Next evening when Miss Carston returned from the parlor, she found Kaimy
lying on the couch with an out-of-sorts mien.
"Why does she have this frown?" she inquired Billy.
"Well I think the kids weren’t allowed to play with her today," he told
her. "Miss Sally asked me to keep her home."
"Oh that’s better," she exclaimed. Then she went to the cat and caressed
her fur with "sweet baby, you okay?" The cat threw at her a contemptuous
and hostile glance, and then resumed her look of indifference.
"She’ll be all right." Miss Carston struck her cheek lightly. But Kaimy
didn’t get all right. Instead she got more and more intolerant. She ate
less; she slept less; she obeyed the least; and she made a lot of fuss
about everything. This was annoying to Miss Carston.
"What’s her point?" she said to Billy.
"I think she wants to be on her own," he commented with a philosophical
thoughtfulness.
"So she’s blackmailing me then." Miss Carston stood up in fury.
"I think she’s just trying to express herself a little," Billy explained.
"Well I think you are overly expressing her case. Just get yourself to work."
"I’ve nothing to do right now."
"Then clean the place up,"
"It’s cleaned up already,"
"Oh yes." She was red with anger. She picked up the vase from the table
and smashed it to pieces on the floor.
"You see. Now it’s not clean. Clean it up" And she stamped out.
Next morning Kaimy was taken to a pet therapist. He thought Kaimy had an
emotional setback and must be made happy. So Miss Carston took her to a
recreation park. There was an elderly couple with two cute little kittens.
Miss Carston took a seat near them, putting Kaimy’s basket at her feet.
The next minute Kaimy was out and before she could be taken back to the
basket, she clasped the lady’s ankle in her paws. The lady gave out a
shrill shriek. Kaimy was kicked away.
"What the hell did you bring this freak here for?" The man yelled in
protest. Her wife was moaning beside.
"Oh I am so sorry" Miss Carston was embarrassed. "She’s a bit emotionally
disturbed, you know." She had left her seat.
"Then take her home."
"Yes, I think I’ll do that. Sorry again" And she took the puzzled little
thing home. She called the therapist. He advised her to let the cat on
its own. Though she was reluctant to do it, she let her free for some time.
Kaimy went straight out of the window. Miss Carston followed her. The cat
went in through the window of the neighbors. Miss Carston peeped in to see
what was going on in there. And the scene inside was ecstatic. Kaimy was
running around like lightning and the kids chased her, giggling with
excitement. Then Sally, the aunt, appeared with a sweet dish. She offered
it top Kaimy who devoured it all. Then Sally put her in the pram with baby
William. In a minute both were slumbering deep. Miss Carston returned,
empty minded. Kaimy didn’t come that night and was seen at ten the next
morning. The countenance of the pet was back. An hour later, Miss Carston
was sitting with Sally asking her pardon for her former rudeness, and
requesting her to take care of Kaimy for a while daily. Sally was
generous enough to accept. She had a little piece of advice for Miss
Carston.
"There is seldom anything more troublesome than barricades against
freedom of expression." Sally told her. Miss Carston gave a fake smile
in response.
Islands of Illusion
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Brume envelops the mote
A speck that has a heart
That beats to make a song
A univocal song not heard
But only played and felt
Dark covers the circles
The circles in the brume
All known is in the siege
A universe of distrust
A hell of smoldering angst
A heaven of holy lust
Time plays with all
It has that reckless mirror
Not covered with the brume
Lit brightly as a star
Known dearly as hope
It keeps from prostration
To be at stake again
To keep the song of albatross
Unending and eternal
It shows the mote its shadow
Forming on the brume
Thus creating dust
Dust against the haze
Light against the dark
Life against the death
And these islands of illusion
Keep floating on the sea of mist
Watching the mirror of hope
Their savior till redemption
Roger N. Taber
ASYLUM
~~~~~~
Love, where the heart is,
our history in the making,
building better countries
Life, with new neighbours,
old enmities forsaking;
Love, where the heart is
On us, the onus of peace,
each new dawn breaking,
building better countries
Our origins, surely, precious
embers for the raking;
Love, where the heart is
Learning to be at ease,
same dreams for the taking,
building better countries
Home, where we choose,
(differences equably debating?);
Love, where the heart is
building better countries
A FEELING FOR THE QUICKNESS OF TIME
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Yesterday gone, today soon done,
tomorrow already on the run
from mindless shadows toying
with unkind thoughts, like
a child sent to bed early, a lesson
to be learned but, instead,
filling the head with lies, half lies
and few home truths getting
a look in, determined to feel hard
done by, resolved not to cry
(would rather die than let anyone
see how much it hurts to be
missing TV, denied PC games,
nothing to do but call people
names ); could read a book but who
wants to do that? And they've
taken the walkman away too, talk
about getting even, pulling
rank. Being a kid's a thankless
affair, just wait till I'm older,
I'll show 'em what's what, high
time they learned what life's
all about - too short to fuss about
being late home, although
(fair enough) should have used
the mobile to say so - but
what the heck? Got home okay
eventually, didn't I? (Parents,
who'd have 'em?). Ranting and raving
at a window, watching the sun
die away, listening for voices used
to hearing say 'don't, can't
shouldn't, mustn't, old enough to
know better' - shows they care
I suppose, and an early night's not
the end of the world in anyone's
language even if, like the mantel clock,
we're loath to acknowledge a fault,
tailoring time's cloth to suit the parts
we play; child grown-ups getting
a life, demanding a real say in how
our stage be set - not 'one day perhaps'
but a resounding yes, NOW
LEGENDS OF THE FALL
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Creed, tradition, ritual,
more, far more than
celebrations spiritual
Either side of a wall
on the site of our pain,
creed, tradition, ritual
Does God's battle call
bring us to decision,
celebrations spiritual?
To keepers of the wall
let knowing fingers turn;
creed, tradition, ritual
Mosque, cathedral,
synagogue; common stone,
celebrations spiritual
Legends on every wall
to our own design;
Creed, tradition, ritual,
celebrations spiritual
AN INVITATION TO THE FEAST
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Easy enough to love,
harder, though, to comprehend
we are loved in return;
Much as the heart's
skipping like a lamb makes
us laugh, makes us cry,
less easy to understand
why someone else's the same
and we're to blame;
No more beautiful desire
than love to give life a purpose;
small wonder, then--
it can make liars of us,
inviting ourselves to a feast
of milk and honey;
And when it's over?
We run for cover, see salvation
in another invitation;
Sometimes, though,
the feast is never done, table
never wiped clean;
Often, true, no fault
of our own but if and when we
accept new invitations--
we'll wear reservations
on a sleeve, toying with a lover's
mind as if it were a napkin,
afraid to be left sitting
at the table, alone, again, needing
to be seen to be strong;
But what if we are wrong?
Milk and honey not the only fare,
our true selves restoring--
Moon in Aries now and then,
a rising Sagittarius--
So do we, don't we
take a chance on us, trust stars
falling, poetry's lasting?
Love is as easy as caring,
passion fruit freely available for
one's having or leaving--
a dream as real,
as living, loving, sharing, feasting
at the same table;
Chance, a fine thing
down to me, down to you - but
reality, that takes two--
THE POLITICS OF CAIN
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Weapons of mass destruction
(sexed-up for good measure?);
the politics of Cain
Death, maiming, division
over Earth's darkest treasure,
weapons of mass destruction
Harvest of arms provision
gathered at leisure,
the politics of Cain
One body of persecution
but exchanged for another?
Weapons of mass destruction
Looting, killing, in desperation
and worse yet to weather
the politics of Cain
Brave, indeed, the politician
tugging at its 'special' tether;
Weapons of mass destruction,
the politics of Cain
THE ALPHABET CAT
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
A cat sat on the mat
by the nursery door
but I never saw it move,
or heard it purr
It was there again
at the playground gate
as I tried to explain
why I was late
It was there, too
on my first day at the office
watching me make tea,
load photocopiers
It was even there
when I took that holiday,
met my first love,
realised I'm gay
It's always there
on the same old mat
whenever I need
helping out
I wonder, will I ever
see it move, hear it purr,
find a cat on the mat
at Heaven's door?
SLEEPING DOGS
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Love never dies, nor friendship
but sometimes both lie sleeping
within a heart grown weary,
behind eyes brought to weeping
for all the things that are not as
we would have them and though
accepted, understood, forgiven,
never quite forgot but left, asleep,
in the arms of every dreamer who
ever loved or had a friend where
love, friendship neither returned
in kind, or even part if we include
unknowing damage to the heart,
ignorance of a crisis of the soul
that love nor friendship can impart
to a mind open only to its own
desires, fires of inspiration, little
more than flames of desperation
a reaching-out for an ideal, dressing
up every opportunity in regalia
appropriate to the same, letting us
see, spectators by any other name,
so we'll appreciate (only too well)
what we're up against, we friends,
would-be lovers even, left waiting
at the gate, knowing it will never
open or, if it should, by courtesy of
some kind fate, the chances are it
will be too late - for rarely will lost
friendships and loves, though stirring
in quiet hearts every now and then,
chance returning to how things were,
might, once upon a time, have been
THE QUILT MAKERS' SONG
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Life! Let me not hunger
for all I cannot be, but
suffer me a passion for
what's gone before;
Let me build cathedrals,
flare them high, dedicated
to my better selves
so they may rest easy
in a shade, against crosses
made by matchstick men,
losses we shall count again
when the time comes
to account for more
than dreams. Life, not
all it seems
Love! Let me not beg
at the roadside, but
give freely and let's
paint pictures to last
centuries, windows
stained with all the colours
of our lovemaking;
Let those who come after us
be together in their turn
and lift an eye for knowing
this; and we shall share
each kiss again, again
again - we matchstick
men. Love, not
all our pain
Death! Let me not weep
for those I have loved;
Let there be candles lit
in each airy cathedral,
saintly with sunshine,
ringing out with rain, our
seasons come again!
Smiles of joy among the tears
to mark this, the salvation
of our fears, a passing
through chance memories,
celebration of our years;
butterfly wings across
a garden. Dead, and
who's forgiven?
DeL Corey To a Newborn ~~~~~~~~~~~~ Here I am, nervously holding this one-hour young, nine-pound boy, face still pink, swaddled in white. Can you be my grandchild, when just yesterday I climbed over the cradle wall myself? Did you enjoy your warm, amniotic swim, little fish? And before that, were you busy hiding the signs of evolution, dissolving wings and tail? As I swing you in my arms, I can picture you earlier, sitting on a fence of potential, betting on the sperm race, to see who would win the great egg prize, and to see whose genes you would inherit to wear as hand-me-downs. Your tiny fingers already have nails too long, that might be a danger to your face, your eyes. Did you grow them in the womb, perhaps to scratch your way out to this wonderful, frightful, world? And what of God, little person with perfect body? Did he give you any messages to deliver, other than the deep pains you gave your mother when arriving through the portal after hours of torture? Was that the message? Oh, big yawn! Yes, close those sleepy lids. Well, your hand escaped the covers again. So tiny, so many possibilities awaiting those little fingers. Look, Connor, for that's the name they gave you for this world, I know I won't be around when you reach manhood, but that's the way of this world, you will discover. Some are born, but others must die. My time is almost up. Time is a cruel enemy. We are given the gift of life, like a blue-ribboned package under the Christmas tree. Your body is the package, and inside are your allotted years. Oh, treat your body with care, young man, it's not a toy. Don't succumb to inane excesses that will tempt you, or as you age your body and lungs will torture you. We are given a limited number of breaths on this earth, young Connor. Breathe each one deeply, and don't waste any. Put some music in your bones, laughter in your eyes, and love, always love, in your heart, for love is the blue ribbon on the gift that created you. I'll say goodbye for now. What a joy to hold you, still warm from heaven. I'll be waiting for you there in a few fast decades, where eternity awaits.
Welcome to Newsgroup alt.centipede. Established
just for writers, poets, artists, and anyone who is creative. A
place for anyone to participate in, to share their poems, and
learn from all. A place to share *your* dreams, and philosophies.
Even a chance to be published in a magazine.
The original Centipede Network was created on May 16, 1993.
Created because there were no other networks dedicated to such
an audience, and with the help of Klaus Gerken, Centipede soon
started to grow, and become active on many world-wide Bulletin
Board Systems.
We consider Centipede to be a Public Network; however, its a
specialized network, dealing with any type of creative thinking.
Therefore, that makes us something quite exotic, since most nets
are very general and have various topics, not of interest to a
writer--which is where Centipede steps in! No more fuss. A writer
can now access, without phasing out any more conferences, since
the whole net pertains to the writer's interests. This means
that Centipede has all the active topics that any creative
user seeks. And if we don't, then one shall be created.
Feel free to drop by and take a look at newsgroup alt.centipede
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. REMEMBERY: EPYLLION IN ANAMNESIS (1996), poems by Michael R. Collings . DYNASTY (1968), Poems by Klaus J. Gerken . THE WIZARD EXPLODED SONGBOOK (1969), songs by KJ Gerken . STREETS (1971), Poems by Klaus J. Gerken . BLOODLETTING (1972) poems by Klaus J. Gerken . ACTS (1972) a novel by Klaus J. Gerken . RITES (1974), a novel by Klaus J. Gerken . FULL BLACK Q (1975), a poem by KJ Gerken . ONE NEW FLASH OF LIGHT (1976), a play by KJ Gerken . THE BLACKED-OUT MIRROR (1979), a poem by Klaus J. Gerken . JOURNEY (1981), a poem by Klaus J. Gerken . LADIES (1983), a poem by Klaus J. Gerken . FRAGMENTS OF A BRIEF ENCOUNTER (1984), poems by KJ Gerken . THE BREAKING OF DESIRE (1986), poems by KJ Gerken . FURTHER SONGS (1986), songs by KJ Gerken . POEMS OF DESTRUCTION (1988), poems by KJ Gerken . THE AFFLICTED (1991), a poem by KJ Gerken . DIAMOND DOGS (1992), poems by KJ Gerken . KILLING FIELD (1992), a poem by KJ Gerken . BARDO (1994-1995), a poem by Klaus J. Gerken . FURTHER EVIDENCES (1995-1996) Poems by Klaus J. Gerken . CALIBAN'S ESCAPE AND OTHER POEMS (1996), by Klaus J. Gerken . CALIBAN'S DREAM (1996-1997), a poem by Klaus J. Gerken . THE LAST OLD MAN (1997), a novel by Klaus J. Gerken . WILL I EVER REMEMBER YOU? (1997), poems by Klaus J. Gerken . SONGS FOR THE LEGION (1998), song-poems by Klaus J. Gerken . REALITY OR DREAM? (1998), poems by Klaus J. Gerken . APRIL VIOLATIONS (1998), poems by Klaus J. Gerken . THE VOICE OF HUNGER (1998), a poem by Klaus J. Gerken . SHACKLED TO THE STONE, by Albrecht Haushofer - translated by JR Wesdorp . MZ-DMZ (1988), ramblings by Igal Koshevoy . DARK SIDE (1991), ramblings by Igal Koshevoy . STEEL REIGNS & STILL RAINS (1993), ramblings by Igal Koshevoy . BLATANT VANITY (1993), ramblings by Igal Koshevoy . ALIENATION OF AFFECTION (1993), ramblings by Igal Koshevoy . LIVING LIFE AT FACE VALUE (1993), ramblings by Igal Koshevoy . HATRED BLURRED (1993), ramblings by Igal Koshevoy . CHOKING ON THE ASHES OF A RUNAWAY (1993), ramblings by I. Koshevoy . BORROWED FEELINGS BUYING TIME (1993), ramblings by Igal Koshevoy . HARD ACT TO SWALLOW (1994), ramblings by Igal Koshevoy . HALL OF MIRRORS (1994), ramblings by Igal Koshevoy . ARTIFICIAL BUOYANCY (1994), ramblings by Igal Koshevoy . THE POETRY OF PEDRO SENA, poems by Pedro Sena . THE FILM REVIEWS, by Pedro Sena . THE SHORT STORIES, by Pedro Sena . INCANTATIONS, by Pedro Sena . POEMS (1970), poems by Franz Zorn All books are on disk and cost $10.00 each. Checks should be made out to the respective authors and orders will be forwarded by Ygdrasil Press. YGDRASIL MAGAZINE may also be ordered from the same address: $5.00 an issue to cover disk and mailing costs, also specify computer type (IBM or Mac), as well as disk size and density. Allow 2 weeks for delivery. Note that YGDRASIL MAGAZINE is free when downloaded from Ygdrasil's World-Wide Web site at http://www.synapse.net/~kgerken.
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YGDRASIL: A Journal of the Poetic Arts - Copyright (c) 1993 - 2001 by
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