Duane Locke lives by an ancient oak, an underground stream, and as an osprey’s home in rural Lakeland, Florida. 6,334 poems published in print magazines and ezines. Author of a 400 page poetry book «YANG CHU’s POEMS», published in April, 2009 by the Canadian publisher, Crossing Chaos. See below his book webpage:  http://www.crossingchaos.com/Yang_Chus_Poems_by_Duame_Locke.html

EMPIRICAL THATNESS

It was loud, boisterous, inside me, in my neural
Networks;
                It was loud, loud,

                                              This unknowing,
Loud in my inwardness, although outwardly I was
Quasi-silent in her voluptuous presence.

This unknowing of mine, my structure, my post-
Structure,

Sounded like a car motor inside me, a car
Motor
That has not yet recovered from its operation
In a charity hospital, an operation

Performed in an amphitheatre by interns.

Its clauses were becoming phrases,  but it dreamed
Of becoming a sentence, and if possible a paragraph.

I looked at the flesh of her arm, blonde flesh,
Sparsely freckled, it became an echo.

She said: “Wallace Stevens is my favorite poet
Of the twentieth century.  His sounds changed my conscious-
Ness.”

Her white gold hair was a garden of the
Unspoken, the unspeakable, the un-
Thought, the un-
Thinkable.”

Her hazel eyes were staring at the un-
Dulations of my history.

She asked me in her soft, low erotic voice
“If I has ever aspired to be a saint
Or metaphysician.”

I said, “I did not know.”

“Are you like the uneducated and against

Dostoevsky.”

I said, “I don’t know.”

She  paused, sipped some white wine,
And then asked,

“Have you ever thought of becoming
A monk, and tying yourself to the cross
As did Magdalene of Pazzi.”

I said, “I don’t know.”

-

MY PERFORMANCE WAS CONTRARY
TO TRADITIONAL ORIENTATIONS

Three, yes, three somersaults in a void, in
A void, three,
                      I spun around three times, spin-
Ing, whirling around in the cosmos, I

Felt like the fossil of  an extinct species pressed
Atop as outline on a rock surface where two rocks
Met to form a dark crevice, gapped at

By tourists,
Who designated the shadow-darkened space a black snake,
Or the flung whip of a costumed lackey
Forcing merry-go-round metal, gold sprayed painted braids,
To gallop as enamel-painted simulations,
Sliding up and down on a brass pole,
Or a rune with a lost meaning.

I heard the audience beneath, the sound distorted, quasi-
Inaudible, but interpreted that it was said,
“He performed three circles.”

Many said it, many said the same thing, and not one
Of them knew what they meant
When they reduced my Japanese spinning in air
To a simple geometric figures.

But that is a relationship to an audience, we
Perform what we feel to be misunderstood,
To be reduced to a familiarity that is false.

-

THINGS HAPPEN WITHOUT ANY CONSCIOUS DESIGN

A choreographer of signifieds, the ballet took place
On a rice-paper, gilt-edged scroll, unrolled,
Finite, infinite,
                       Smooth, stippled,
Telluric, tel quel, tenebrous, a twilight tulip,

All the dancers wore azure shoes, the stockings,
Waterfalls

Of

Snowflakes, disconnected atmospheres of faraways,
The earth rendered a radical, radial forever,

But when spotlight seen
                                      The pink powder on faces
Prowled

On gray gravel, blued, paths purled through
Dark bamboo,
                      The tissue-paper, backlit moon
Burned catechisms
Of a cautious chorus of chained clarinets attired
In chartreuse dresses.

If were as if the agora were an aporia.  None
Could speak the familiar language of commerce
And coercion. Communication was glossolalia,
Grandiloquent as
The grand daughters of conjunctions, colons,
Semicolons, or commas.

Glossesd by swamp savants,
                                           Cypress
Tree frogs,
                 So that every sound that arose
From a graphic inscription
                                          Had
A pale green tint.

-

A RETURN FROM THE ILLUSORY SUPERSENSIBLE REALM
(SIMPLICITY) TO THE EXISTENT SENSIBLE REALM (COMPLEXITY)

The photo, black-white: Nietzsche, his friend, pretend-
Ing
To be oxen,  goats, donkeys, stallions, or
Some
         Beast of burden and blunders, the pre-
Tension indeterminate, open, no closure,
As indeterminate
As an Enlightenment end-stopped, closed,
Clear and distinct couplet account
Of general nature,
But Nietzsche and his friend’s pretense
Seemed a prelude to an assertion
That Socrates was a great erotic
As the two posed to be the transportations
For Lou Andreas Salome
Who gripped a snake-tongue-shaped whip.

But before from impatience the beginning
With this ink that will bring solace to solitude,
The impulse to simplicity and the plain style
Must be subdued, for simplicity and the plain
Style reduce reality, the essents, to a fiction
And a fantasy, so the human race can continue
To speak a language of lies by asserting
Signifiers without a signified. All simplicity
Is a reduction of the actual and a deception.

So I start with her eyes, eyes, black-white,
In photograph,
                       And write
About the halos of hazel eyes, with specks
Under the pupil
Of raw sienna mixed one part
With two parts, white, and eyes that change colors
As the eyes hear
A nightingale singing unseen
Behind a cluster of cerise roses.

-

THE FANTASY OF LONGING TO RETURN
TO THE SOIL CANNOT SOLVE
THE PROBLEM OF MAN’S ROOTLESSNESS

Frangipani atop Vienna piano, next
To a Vietnamized-made
Rumbled pale yellow sweater,
A scene as if
From an old drawing, velvet-curtained concealed,
Room in an old fiction, as if heated, not cold,
Shirt-sleeved, legislated the flawed spectacle.

The reveries, the reversal of what appeared
As furniture and reverses the present dispensation
In a  post-metaphysical, post-foundationist
Condominium twenty miles from
Where broken sea weed golds white-sand beaches.

The talk was of how the word “barbaric”
Came into a Grecian vocabulatury because
He, a Greek, could not distinguish the sounds
Of the materiality of the signifiers
Of an alterity, another language than his own.

So I proposed a propaedeutic to
Colors as spacing of chairs
And a child’s face in Matisse
L’Atelier Rouge. She, who at fourteen
Had been the mistress of a local.
Sixty-two year old talk show host,
Had married at twenty a seventy-eight
Year old who died and left her rich,
Now at age at age twenty-two,
Wanted to talk how in the olden times,
Forty-year old women became fat,
Worn gingham dresses and stirred
With a gigantic steel spoon
In large flat steel pans  the syrup
Being made from cane juice
Just squeezed out by a mule
Being forced to move a grinder
By pulling around in a circle a pole.

I told her the story how when I was
Four years old I carried a bleached
Flour sack on my back and picked
Cotton. The thick bolls cut my fingers.
I showed her the scars atop
Each finger by the fingernail,
She kissed each one, asked me,
If  I would like to go to Las Vegas with her.
She would pay all expenses.

The scars really came from when I was
Sixteen, drunk on white port, and fell on
A broken beer bottle on the sidewalk
As I came out an “Adults-only-XXX” theatre.

Copyright © 2009  Duane Locke

Sonnet Mondal is an Indian-English poet and the Founder and Managing Editor of “The Enchanting Verses International Journal” (ISSN-0974-3057-Registration office-ISSN Centre, France and NISCAIR, India). He is also the Founder and Secretary General of the “United Minds For Peace Society” (A Global Peace Organization-Head office-India) and the Sub-Secretary General of Poetas Del Mundo (International Poet’s of the World Movement-Headquarters, Chile). At present, he is pursuing B.E./Btech. Course at BESU, Shibpur, West Bengal in India.

To learn more of this poet, click here: http://www.sonnetmondal.co.cc

TROY

Engraved in the steel pages of history,
By bloodshot swords of courage-
Letters of a war – ‘Red’ yet ‘Golden’-
Unwashed by rain, unforgotten by men.

The birds of peace
Were about to sit in the trees,
Between Sparta and Troy-
For the countrymen to rejoice joy.

Wines, fruits and dancing maidens,
Turned the castle in a blissful garden;
Yet on one side in the castle-
The ‘Lady of Love’ was planning a tussle.

Helen gazed, traced and embraced the prince-
Lovingly, noruly yet evidently since
The ‘Love’ stayed under the canopy of fear-
Of her brother,
That broke later before Love’s power.

The younger prince secretly took away Helen-
Crackers, shouts, cheers by men!!
Trouble in disguise waited for them-
I doubt who was to blame!!

Sparta and Greece joined hands!
To capture and revenge the shores of the enemy;
So a fleet of conquerors –
Set off with minds to extend their Empire.

The whole army of Greece
Depended on none but Achilles.
Whose eyes were a glint of sword-
Whose emotion never swayed off words.

His immortal sword struck out once
The boat hit the shore;
His fifty men tore apart –
Troy’s opening door.

Inside Troy’s stone walls,
The soldiers hurried about….
The king and party stood together-
To respond to the Greek shouts…
The next day a fierce war broke out-
Where red fountains spurred up-
Great Greeks fell down before Hector’s frown…

But all along after the temporary win,
Hector knew they were yet to face
Achilles’ wit, style and spear;
The power of horse, the speed of deer.

The daybreak marked another war-
A fight tight for the Greeks this time-
Trojans outshone the armours-
With sudden attack before sunshine.

Achilles in night romance with Hector’s cousin-
Preferred not to be out;
But his cousin-brother went on in his armour-
To be cut dead by the sword of Hector.

Achilles roared out next day-
In a mind for the head of Hector.
A fierce, fearless, gruesome fight,
Marked the fall of the son of Troy.

Twelve days hence the Greeks hit a trick;
To get inside the opaque walls-
They formed as giant horse structure,
To facilitate the entry of butchers.

The Trojans were foolish in their nights-
To undervalue their rival!!
Thinking to have destroyed them-
They engaged their hearts in festival.

At night from the Horse the warriors came out-
As angry louts-
And sleeping Troy was attacked by surprise,
By the strongest enemies in disguise.

Roofs, walls pulled down by fire
Pressed over the countrymen;
Nothing remained saved neither rich nor lame-
The whole Troy dazzled and burned in flames.

Neither Achilles nor the King of Greece hailed the sword,
No Hector no king of Troy was saved in the war!!!
The giant fire swallowed all without bias-
Too add another pillar in the historical dais.

–

When I meet you…

Today the moon seems to be replaced by your face!!!

The stars too seem to reflect your gaze—

A new blood is gushing through my arms…

My wound neglects any more balm…

The cold wind seem to pass on your whisper-

To swing my wits in the feathery air!!!

I hope you too are on the same sail of thoughts-

That spread like ink blots…..

My heart is learning to speak today-

Perhaps to speak when we meet the next day…………

–

TEARS FROM ONE EYE

Those blue eyes-how pretty they seem!

As if through it, is reflected a golden gleam;

With all these inherent music they remained still,

Till a blink from one did it with water fill.

The left face started to grizzle-

From the left eye tears began to drizzle,

The right face stayed as it was

Lack of unique vision as it reflects, Alas!

Was that due to some failure or sin?

That caused the bellows of emotion rise higher than the eye rims-

But the other stayed still and neither did blink-

The ball of hope in it hath not yet shrunk.

Lot of nectar doth a rose contain,

Lack of unique vision of a bee may cause death is certain.

–

Yesterday Once More

My childhood days were gold

I do remember them;

They with golden veil did my feels mold-

But all were short-lived like a short burning flame.

The walks along the fields of grain-

The runs through the narrow lanes,

The catching of fish

Are some of my memories that I still cherish.

As the darkness chilled the air,

I sat by my grandpa to whom I was a dear

And his ghostly stories’ terror

Made me sit nearer and closer.

And the reading of the jungle lore-

Oh! If I had yesterday once more!

Copyright © 2009 Sonnet Mondal

Rodrigo Verdugo Pizarro is a poet from Santiago, Chile. He is the co-editor of the Magazine Spills, sub-director of the Magazine Rayentru, and co-editor of the Magazine Minor Lips. His works have been published in local and international magazines and anthologies and were translated into French, Italian, Portuguese, Polish and Arabic languages. He has participated in poetry festival in Spain and Portugal. In 2002, his first book Nudos velados (Veiled knots) was published. 

His website: http://rodrigoverdugo.blogspot.com/

SABADO

Se abrazan hasta podrir el sol

–

CONTINUIDAD

Nació de un retrato de niebla
Olas inconfesables alumbraron esa voracidad.
Los fundamentos del día pasaron a la sangre
Las ciudades se quedaron blancas
Velaron las mitades de un mismo cuerpo en distinto

–

ABERTURA

Un cuerpo en la arena
Significa que el cielo hablará por todas las llamas blancas
Yo me invoco a mi mísmo como un manantial o un rayo vendado
Esperando que introduzcas la piramide en el alma del cabello.

No somos libres de ser marcados, ni aún los meteoros que van hacia el matadero
Ni de ser arrastrados como las estrellas de aguarrás lo hacen
Con los cadáveres de los ciegos
Estoy mirando el cielo, la huraña acumulación
a la que llegamos aglutinados como montañas y obligados por un solo latido
Universos atornillados en intermedios de saliva
Donde los corderos sienten puntadas en los ojos
A gritos pido que apolillen la traslación bajo las arenas
Estoy casi radiante contra oficiantes atrapados en los peldaños del aire.

Han pasado muchas noches, muchos candados de sangre
Y ella no regresa
Donde le imaginé un cuerpo un torbellino aúreo resucito a las abejas
La radiante tras la aguja poseída que el mar refleja contra los padres
Ha pasado mucho tiempo y no regresa.

El gallo fosforecente tiembla de espanto en la colina encadenada.

–

TREINTAIDOSAVO ANUNCIO

“La noche descansa en tu esqueleto de paloma”
Sergio Macias

Una caracola rige las constelaciones promiscuas
Yo fumo mi pipa bajo los alhelíes
Decidiré más tarde si tomar el camino que parte hacia el mar
O el camino que parte hacia el desierto
El sexo nos deja trasfondos de mar, trasfondos de desiertos
Extendemos las sabanas del lecho y las dejamos tiradas hacia atrás
Cuanto podríamos dejar escrito en dichas sabanas
Si al menos pudiésemos enviarlas como cartas, pero no caben en los sobres,
En esos trasfondos de mar estamos atrapados
Aunque luego extendamos las sabanas del lecho hacia atrás
Alguien me hablo también de estar atrapado
Alguien me hablo de estar empapado, y de todas las cajas de cristal
Que daría por revolcarse en esas constelaciones promiscuas
Y es como si me hablaran de ti, ahora que el lecho esta vacío
Ahora que quiero enviarte una carta, pero escrita en sabanas que no caben en sobres
Y siempre hay vigías de turquesa interceptando trasfondos de mar o de desierto
Hasta que perdamos el aliento
Dime cual es el espejo con que destruiremos el desierto
Que gemido decantara la inmensidad del agua
Podrías mandar una sabana como carta
Pero hay que guardar muchas cosas en cajas de cristal
Porque el mundo será tragado por gargantas de cisnes
Y tragadas serán las sabanas también
Decidiré mas tarde si tomar el camino que parte hacia el mar
O el camino que parte hacia el desierto
O por ultimo extenderé las sabanas sobre el lecho
Se que los vigías de turquesa restaran nuestras sombras
Siempre me recuerdo de alguien que esta atrapado y empapado
Como él quisiera revolcarme sobre las constelaciones promiscuas
O sentir mis manos dentro de las caracolas hasta romperlas
Hasta que una embriaguez oscura y una embriaguez blanca se enfrenten en los mares
Y tú seas lo que salte de aquello
Así con un ramo de alhelíes en medio del pecho
Como cuando te ibas a casar conmigo,
Cuando las cajas de cristal no nos dejaban ser profundos
Pero ahora las sabanas son tragadas por gargantas de cisnes
El sexo nos deja trasfondos de mar
Siempre estaremos atrapados y empapados
Si decides partir, hazlo pero desde esos alhelíes
Irrecuperable nos parecerá todo en aquellas cartas
Siempre el humo de mi pipa volverá a envolverte como una consumación.

Copyright © 2009 Rodrigo Verdugo Pizarro

Ernilando L. Tugaff is an American poet from Livermore, California, presently living in Rome, Italy. He’s happily married and a proud father of three grown up kids. He writes poetry when he feels inspired and wishes he could spend more time writing. His poetry has been published online. To read more of his works / poems, click this link: http://www.poetrysoup.com/poems_poets/poems_by_poet.aspx?ID=8480

Hello, Mr. Poet

In the midst of a multitude
A man I call Mr. Poet, emerged
He gave me encouragement,
My soul he influenced
In making journeys to the firmament.

Now, I have a commitment
To make a line or two
To pen what happened today
And to welcome the morrow.

How I wish to be with you for awhile, my son
To squander our time wishing upon a star
To gaze the silvery moon at night
And ask the birds how to fly.

My hands continue to work
The dictates of my heart and mind
Putting some words in a line
Making strange words align.

This is not yet the end of the road
Someday….we will see each other in another world
Bring with you your board
That we will not be bored.

Let’s compose some songs/poems
To the delight of our weary souls
Someday, people will come across
And realize how nice to be a poet.

–

Prodigal Son

Prodigal son I was
I lived a wayward life;
Indeed a promiscuous
A boy with a sinister heart.

I didn’t respect no one
Nor was I scared from anyone;
Nothing to lose, but all to gain
In my young heart it reigned.

I lived in the streets
With my friends by my side;
I didn’t heed to my parents’ advice
Nor from the teachers sent by God.

In my brood, I was the black sheep
In school, I was the teachers’ antagonist;
A bad influenced, I was branded
To my townspeople, I was bad indeed.

I was eighteen when He touched my heart
I was confounded, baffled and dazed
What is this Lord, I soliloquized?
Change! Change! Is what I realized.

I prayed to the Lord God
“What should I do my Lord?” I asked
“Be my servant!” to me He preconized
Then my faith, He concretized and galvanized.

I am now teaching the good tidings
For men to be saved from impending judgment;
From the lake of fire on the Day of recompense
That the Kingdom of God, they may inherit.

–

The Scarlet Rose

…and
now
I see
you’ve reclaimed
the love o’ thy life
Methinks, it has ransomed thy self
body and soul, from the caricature o’ sorrow

This fleeting time is now upon thee; the choice is thine
Alas, to replenish thy thought
with bread o’ wisdom
sounding grace
o’ one
true
God

Oh
may
this love
pulsing at
the core o’ thy heart
with each breath you make, doth not lame
’cause mine will bleed to a an agonizing death, for thee

–

For My Little Sister, Michelle

For letting me draw into thy world
Oh, sweet Michelle li’l sister o’ mine
I offer thee the love o’ great fold
Oh, sweet Michelle, li’l sister o’ mine

With my lips I sing to thee, my song
Oh, sweet Michelle, li’l sister o’ mine
That will keep thy faith, forever, strong
Oh, sweet Michelle, li’l sister of mine

Walk the water o’ life with no fear
For I am always with thee, my dear
Oh, sweet Michelle, li’l sister o’ mine
Oh, sweet Michelle, li’l sister o’ mine

Copyright © 2009 Ernilando L. Tugaff

Congratulations to The Spence’s on their poetry book “Trilogy Moments” winning the Christian Story Tellers’  “Best Christian Poetry for 2009 Award”!

                           Trilogy Moments for the Mind, Body, and Soul

                       Winner of “Best Christian Poetry for 2009 Award”

The Best of the Year Award 2009: http://www.christianstoryteller.com/

Book Review: http://thesoundofpoetryreview.wordpress.com/2009/01/20/book-review-trilogy-moments-for-the-mind-body-and-soul/

Iolanda Scripca lived in Eastern Europe for the first 20 years of her life, in a loving family.  Her mom was a teacher and high school principal and her dad a published writer, poet and TV producer.  She is a graduate of Foreign Languages and Literatures from the University of Bucharest.  Nowadays she enjoys Southern California and possesses a CA Teaching Credential.  Ms. Scripca publishes in several Romanian-American Newspapers both in Romanian and English.  She is married to Ron; they own a business and enjoy traveling to exotic places. Her website: www.scripca.com

  

 

Teralani – E Ku’u Aloha

 

 

Love finds its way from dead magma of my Soul

We giggle on our island with seemingly no enemies

I wonder if the Seven Sacred Pools are just an illusion

and waterfalls are tears of joy or … sorrow.

This is a journey of a day for Gods

- we leave a place and get back in full circle.

You prove to me how weak I am in your emerald embrace

but do not look me in the eyes when searching for Our eternity.

Heavenly Earth – My Love – I ride alone although the car is full 

I do not trust these rainbows – I think they play tricks with my heart-

How can Purity regenerates from the coldness of Insanity

and still be eternally yours when I am just another passer-by?

Teralani – E Ku’u Aloha – it’s time for me to go!

 

                                       *

“A tearful nude with wings slapped by the sad beauty of her sunsets”

is missing here, today, at the burglarized Island’s Art Gallery of Life…

 

–

 

They Shoot Horses, Don’t They?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

To tame a horse in freezing winter

One plays a childish “hide and seek”

Caress its mane with future Spring

and kiss the hazel moist with love

 

Distract its pain with sandy gallops

Along the turquoise dreams of freedom

And while you heal the reddish wound

Recount the legend of the horse with wings.

 

There won’t be saddles only clouds

That sometimes shed rainbows of tears

As darkness falls on killing fields

My soul is neighing as echoes cry…

 

–

 

Trusting Spring

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I don’t have time to watch it more

- the crooked clock of ironed past –

I don’t believe I can feel spring

Unless I grab your hand and jump

 

Together in the blossom maze

Perhaps we bring ourselves alive

In poison-free redwoods up north

And secret Jacaranda wonders.

 

If eyes don’t open – I understand

You don’t need them to see our Heaven

But bear with me for falling seconds

And hope cocoons will burst and open

 

I sprout again through solid pavement

Against the reconstruction site

And I do know I can bring spring

Together with your warmth from Heaven.

 

–

 

Epilogue of Love

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

To have lived not being loved at all -

hunchbacked like a question mark-

your soul continuously on parole

imagine beauty in the dark

 

Perhaps we passed each other in the speed

of different trains colliding with the time

in one – abandoned newborn girl in need

the other – useless vagabond and wine.

 

Was it your Soul who shook the Jacaranda tree

and made it burst and rain with purple fairies?

Or just a whispered cry within the depth of me -

too much horizon and no space for prairies…

 

Imagine beauty in the dark

When wings demolish walls of sorrow

I’ll die again an injured lark

Reborn in Phoenix bird tomorrow.

 

–

 

Del Mar Fair

 

 

Sea horses displayed

dipped in gold as souvenirs

ocean cries next door

 

 

 

 

 

Photos / Poems Copyright © 2009 Iolanda Scripca

Felino Soriano (California) is a case manager working with developmentally and physically disabled adults. He is the editor of the online journal, Counterexample Poetics, www.counterexamplepoetics.com, which focuses on International interpretations of experimental poetry, art, and photography. He is the author of three chapbooks Exhibits Require Understanding Open Eyes (Trainwreck Press, 2008), Feeling Through Mirages (Shadow Archer Press, 2008), Abstract Appearance Reaching Toward the Absolute (Trainwreck Press, 2009) and an e-book Among the Interrogated (BlazeVOX [books], 2008). The juxtaposition of his philosophical studies with his love of classic and avant-garde jazz explains his poetic motivation. His website: www.felinosoriano.com

 

Painters’ Exhalations 83
—after Jane Kelly’s If We Could Undo Psychosis 2

 

The could would inherit a smile wrap
-around the entire being. Your face now
aware of the unawareness to the open
empty book of illustrated absence

does not intertwine correctly with those
posing with you.

The if, question hybrid statement would bathe
constantly, redoing its body into fresh,
flattened concrete, foot and harm printless, unstained

say a flower silent in its sing toward sun
ears, brilliant blue or purple in the positive,
unbruised definition.

The greeters would do so without empathy.

Medication would be an other-reality, a non
hand staining ritual carving edible stones
atop the masticated tongue.

We would alert you, recall in the wandering
stilled mind a landscape of physical happiness,
similar to a stream’s million eyes
illuminating the silver crusted fish
propelling the sky of crystal elucidation,
heading among the pointing plants
toward elsewhere where darkness only
exists at the proper, expected periods.

–

Painters’ Exhalations 84
—after Georgina Hall’s The Outing

 

Mother conjoined by baby’s grasp
unmistakable scent. Baby
conjoined by mother’s awareness
distinctive hold.

Recall a standing ballad, a song demonstration
causing tear and mending thread to ascertain
emotional gardens trampled by feet of malevolence.

This though, only in the horrid aspect of isolation
separation.

Faceless known only by man-named mother, baby.
In a garden of passersby, perhaps the tongue of your voices
can identify you more brazenly, or in such a way the
beautiful connection of two formed specialized
body breaths

can mirror your reciprocating hold, a physical
proclaim face is unneeded in a world of blind
mediocrity.

–

 

 

Painters’ Exhalations 85
—after John Geggie’s Curious Child

 

Imagination

 

the open
present prodigy collecting

 

abstract beings smaller than the
eye admits in their subjective

 

reality.

 

–

 

 

Painters’ Exhalations 86
—after Richard Cronborg’s Love Lost

 

Because the arsonist lost faith in
keeping you warm. Shall the night
hesitate to form its white shaft
magazine spine inspired halo

you will sit enlightened

not in worldly manifestations,
the butterfly wrapping yarn
with golden dust circles atop
its wings,

—enlightened by the prodding sears
tears leave tattooing paths of emotion
down the almond form feature
of your swollen cheek.

–

The Unrecognized, though Effort Posits in Regulation

Voices
enliven night’s center
not of human imagination,
a migrating twin of sound and
difference
splayed
as in the wings whose
center body fixes to destination and
its constant leaving.
Two voices
scaling air, of vines kissing bricks
of protection
converse in light
whose shadow’s molecules
mimic dwarfed insects
dancing a presence
vibrating
a code of inhuman brilliance,
one we cannot claim in
arranged syllables,
decapitating meaning.

 

The movement heard
of physics
motional qualities
a modern spasm
equaling equating time
to body mechanics
voluntarily exiting
when an unknown face
plants itself within
the soil of the mind.
Who
spells their name this way? An hour
grows limbs and travels into
days
and at its center
evolutional creatures
bond and bound to contemporary
unknown
speaks a laughing
vernacular, vocalizing mistrust
of surrounding humans.

 

–

 

Motional Alacrity
 

The human runs
as to disobey the structured
maintenance of stillness. Catapulted
where the curious’ tongues stick
landings of expletive perfection,
legs rotate a tradition of cycled
steps, leading to an elsewhere
outlined by the absence of monotonous
sitting. Running

 

signifies. Breaths with tails
hang from mangled lips, a tangled
dangling of the answered why?: To
move, constant. Mind mimic, leap
into poses where reflection morphs
as wings’ beautiful painting strokes,

observing the absent, run to meet the(m). The
human, long distance sprinter
make into form, the formless, spell
into its mouth, meaning, your tired breaths
suggesting life of the untold motions.

–

 Realized  State       

Never awaken
and death is more than
the visual. As nothing moves (

                                                     sight, breathing water,
the sound of molecules
dancing

)
height is more than distance, a constant
portrait painted where the hand
of a child leans into a dream,
leaping from crawl into a wandering
climax, finding a lover never farther than
his shadow.
Desire, the constant causation,
garbed in often feminine
stares. Unfastened
sliding
the woman stands, awaiting. Like the motion
of fire, pointing toward a heightened state,
the mouth pulls another’s
against the only need of
dedicated retrieval.

 

–

 

Socratic Method

A voice, maintaining the constant
mirror. Movement, its language
twirls inside the ear, the ear messages
an interpretation unable to be knuckle rubbed
into absence.

The voice-object burgeons from
the texture of mind-reason duality.

Canopied, protected, called into the angled
light sliding questions within tonal
body, voice crawls the veined neck into perching atop
bludgeoned foreheads, weaves a neighborhood of
homes, the blossom of opinion
mismatched inside the mouth agape
listening now contradicted.

 

Copyright © 2009 Felino Soriano

Ray Succre currently lives on the southern Oregon coast with his wife and son. He has been published in Aesthetica, BlazeVOX, and Pank, as well as in numerous others across as many countries. His novel Tatterdemalion (Cauliay) was recently released in print and is available most places. A second novel, Amphisbaena, is forthcoming in Summer 2009. He tries hard.

His website: http://raysuccre.blogspot.com

A Wondrous Calamity

 

Let the dogs toss him back and forth,
a castle-headed baby passed maw to maw,
tooth to crystal tooth.

He has seen them laying bruised in beds,
warm dogs on a taste of honey,
having wet their chops, exacting their speech
for present gain.

If he burns cedar to build his fire,
he gives up a night for warmth until full.
There are other nights in which to be cold.
The dogs enter from these nooks in time;
they go to the public square to crackle and spring.

His fire goes out and he is quickly bruised in bed.
He wets his speech and presents his chops.

By crooked swings of path over path,
relevance circles and pierces the breath.
He hears dogs in the luxuriance of his broad July.
Let them be most vicious with him.

Castled dogs and vicious babies
are the paradise of the future.

–

An Unrelenting Hush

 

What ugly cake, what overblown balloons,
having collected the gross of tabulated night,
by three-hundred sixty-five,
and how beneath this gavel is my specter,
and how after-the-fact am I agreed to have aged.

Perhaps I’ll change my name to Nathemore.

The cake’s stinger candle bears my number,
and allows neither allegory nor aperture—
I am stuck in the candle with my head exposed.
My wife leans over, strikes the thin match;
the fire that draws at my wick is highly educated.

“Blow!” she says.
All becomes quiet.

–

What Else but Fried Fish

 

The times came, slow as apple maggots,
eating up the man, nosing in and moving him
toward a beauty of wild hell.

This man once learned me to cut fish,
to fry sides and eat and discard what was left.

He slipped off without sound, stirring
a moment from the sleeper’s end,
then snipped and laid straight, following
the pangs of the stone, the pulse of the floor,
a blood-warmed bloom having learned
a way to close.

–

Matryoshka

Wires in tunnels shielded, shards prosper
flecks of meaning continuous.
They appear unisonic and I roll them
under my thought, which sits spinning,
greased as an immense bearing in a shell
to keep the bits howling past.

My vessel continues piping steam
across the Earth, works itself
into a constellatory crowd that
works still into a vested, versal crowd,
each segment a limiter,
my container full of cells, hollow things
within hollow things, nesting dolls,
the little chests of facts sent upward
on a wire.

–

After the Man Excuses Himself

Could a tanager on his deck of chirps
erupt any more than his era has let him?

Nothing occurs, he said, and when
it does come, it roars hollow, disinterested;
no raw ataraxis, no naked, rattling war,
and no renaissance— I insist, he said,
we are bored.

I haven’t an urge to agree him his reason,
and conduct my fat times with a seethe
of insistancy, leeching and springing
each hour its set, each topple its heap;
by moments I am led my purpose forward.

We are bored, he said. And you.

–

Quinctius

 

Have the curls that cowlick turning my hair
come from cells in my mother, or from those
in my father, or did a youth wool them
from juice or wine?

A mocking for flame, small laps at tinder,
or the skirts of belled, kicking women-
the infertile locks are as busted masts
about my head, like infant, like scimitar,
like pacific caps near the curling shore.

Did speaking with mad people twist my hair
from inside out, or did I begin to mimic,
seeing the briars swindle our hillsides?

–

Aurora. Capitalis. Sepultura.

 

Millions that turn can convert our tortures,
our civility and lanky law, each as macabre brights.
Any whose engine invents fugitives or torments
can comment closest.

This hack-a-by-hush and dismissal
of bridling fuck-sluice perhaps grows mild,
but only where a body has lessened
for a community supplanting.

The morning is forgotten, ordains slack vapor
a fickle counsel, modern breath the same,
modern though the curve and block.

Aurora. Capitalis. Sepultura.

By twilight, my sort are new men, and forget
our kill-stoney breakfasts,
we become gas-ranged curry cases,
gorging our teeth loose on crisp water caltrop,
and stirred by the worldly heats.

We approach other dawn, our dwellings swollen
as bellies off the grains of every feast.

Copyright © 2009 Ray Succre

Karen O’Leary is a Christian wife, mother, nurse and freelance writer from North Dakota, USA. Writing affords her an outlet for her creativity. Her short stories, articles and poetry have appeared in various venues including SP Quill, Storyteller, Fine Lines, Sketchbook, Beyond Kartina, The Journal of Christian Nursing, Voices of Hope, and Art With Words. She feels blessed to share the gift of words.

Liberation

Open fields, unfettered
by walls and concrete
speak to my soul,
freeing my spirit to soar.

Green fields, uncluttered
by sandwiched buildings
touch my heart,
helping me to hope.

Natural fields, untainted
by industries’ greed
clear my mind,
daring me to dream.

Flower-sprinkled fields, unsoiled
by strewn litter
enchant my eyes
giving me a glimpse of God.

First Published Art With Words 2005

–

Just One Candle

Light
slowly
penetrates
the dark abyss
of sadness and grief.
Its rays wrap me in warmth,
gently nudging me beyond
yesterday into tomorrow.
A bright day lures me to hope again,
allowing my faith and courage to shine.

First Published SP Quill 2006

–

Honor

Honor is not a
five letter word
waving in the wind.

Honor is truth
Ongoing commitment
Never wavering values
Others placed first
Respect and integrity

Honor is standing
against mountains to
preserve grains of sand.

The Puppet

Selling out, he hopes the strings
will lead him to the life he craves.
Dangling, he dances to the whims
of the one who claims him.
Cutting the bonds, he sacrifices
fame and riches for freedom.

First Published RB’s Poets’ Viewpoint 2005

–

Poetry

Painting pictures with words
Opening a part of the soul
Emotion flowing with the lines
Tapestry skillfully woven
Reflecting thoughts artfully
Yearning to make a difference.

First published The Write Club Contest Booklet 2005

–

True Color

Honesty is a white
tulip in spring.
It does not pretend
to boast vivid, rich hues.
In its simple beauty,
it displays what it is.

First Published New England Writers’ Network 2008

–

Grandma

steel
ribbon…
velvet wrapped
grit with twinkling
eyes

First Published Poetry Soup 2008

–

ripe tomatoes–

ripe tomatoes–
glistening fruit jars
line the counter

Copyright © Karen O’Leary

Hello Poetry Enthusiasts!

 

I am pleased to announce that “The Poet Who Asked The Birds How To Fly” is now available, worldwide, through most major book outlets / distributors such as Amazon and BarnesandNoble. See below, the book cover  and excerpts from reviews.

 

Click the book cover:

 

 

 

 

Excerpts from Reviews:

 

“Making a corrective suggestion to Ernesto’s work is a rarity since he knows exactly what he wants to express and conveys to his readers. I can truly state with confidence while reading poems by this expressive, eloquent and enlightening poet, the reader will always advance in stature with love in their hearts, joy in their souls, with a gift freely given by a man of poetic knowledge who pens universal truth.”

 

Rhoda Galgiani

Poet, Long Island, NY, USA

Founding Member of Globals Poets Guild

 

         

“This rhythmical poetic volume brings to light such an elegant artistry, in terms of Ernesto’s adoption of eloquence and symbolic imagery for dramatic poetic enunciation. His interpretation of imaginative language and the use of stimulating and uplifting words for the soul will move the reader to another level that is soothing to the mind with words of loving pleasability, and dancing creativity, as poetic language should.”

 

Dr. Joseph S. Spence, Sr.

Goodwill Ambassador State of Arkansas

Founder of the Epulaeryu Form of Poetry

 

 

 

–

My best,

Ernesto P. Santiago, Author