The Other World

At eighteen, I stepped into the other world,
the one that sounds fantastical but is not.
Drainage pond at the bottom of a hill on campus,
behind it a small straggle of winter woods,
beyond that, a path towards the sports fields.
Grass still green in the mild mid-Atlantic,
twiggy dried milkweed standing and fallen,
plain as plain, just hidden, just waste.
An ordinary afternoon, and I felt surfeited with reading;
walking down the hill, I cast away my mind.
At the water’s edge I looked at the surface;
the water looked back at me. The world had eyes:
perceived me as I perceived it, all the same.
The bare treetops in the distance moved in my arms.
I felt the cawing of the crows that rose inside my chest.
But no crows there, no chest here, only that cawing,
that burning and empty annunciation
of how we too are the shine in the tufts of the cracked pods,
falling and lifted in the wind through everything.
All of this I could see, while I rubbed my eyes,
as if to dislodge a film that was not there.
This happened. I was a freshman, with no one to tell.
Why do we seek imagined worlds? We know nothing
of what is real, how wondrous and complete.

© 2018, Anne Myles

Wabi Sabi

Japanese tea house: reflects the wabi sabi aesthetic, Kenroku-n Garden

Japanese tea house: reflects the wabi sabi aesthetic, Kenroku-en Garden


if only i knew
what the artist knows

about the great perfection
in imperfection

i would sip grace slowly
at the ragged edges of the creek

kiss the pitted
face of the moon

befriend the sea
though it can be a danger

embrace the thunder of a waterfall
as if its strains were a symphony

prostrate myself atop the rank dregs on the forest floor,
worshiping them as compost for fertile seeds
and the breeding ground for a million small lives

if i knew what the artist knows,
then i wouldn’t be afraid to die,
to leave everyone

i would be sure that some part of me
would remain present
and that one day you would join me
as the wind howling on its journey
or the bright moment of a flowering desert

if i knew what the artist knows,
i would surely respond soul and body
to the echo of the Ineffable in rough earthy things

i would not fear decay or work left undone
i would travel like the river through its rugged, irregular channels
comfortable with this life; imperfect, impermanent, and incomplete

Inspired by Leonard Koren, Wabi Sabi for Artists, Designers, Poets & Philosophers

© 2013, Jamie Dedes

Blessed Sacrament

In the ever-Summer glare and heat
I found my life’s pain and regret
sanctified into something replete
with but little Hope baptized in sweat.
So the torment, no matter how holy,
still rips around my beaten heart
as if it was something mad and solely
bent and intent to rip it apart.

Perhaps I can hallow my vessel so hollow
with the heat from a different kind of light,
as good for my soul as the heart to follow,
soothing all my pain with its godly might.
And that’s why I’m here dipping pen in ink,
the black sprung from my soul to my heart.
Drawing pictures in words so we all might drink
of this sacrament that heals me called Art.

 

As I like to say, completing these pieces I share does not make me feel better. But all the time spent immersed in the process of writing them does. And that, my friend, is the miracle of Art, no matter how poorly rendered. 

—Joseph Hesch © 2018

Potting Up the Peppermint

One drop of motor oil

rainbows on a puddle.

 

Limitless mileage

of mycelial felt tugs at roots.

 

Platters of map lichen spread

across the patient boulder.

 

Metastasis. Proliferation

screws up to war. Epidemics.

 

You’ve witnessed ignorance

stretch boundaries of hate.

 

When you yearn

for peace, cut sprigs

 

from the tub that tethers

run-away mint,

 

brew tea to tip

into a green cup,

 

pour love to all

gathered at your weary table.

© 2018, Tricia Knoll

Yours If You Will Take It

If you want to feel
the passing of night to day,
take my hand.
And if you would know
the road best travelled
see the lines on my face.
If you wish
the greatest gift ever,
lie beside me, feel my heart
and if you want to know
what lies behind the stars,
look into my eyes.
If you would feel
the world shift, then accept
happiness from my soul.
And if you want
a place always to return to
join me.
For this is not
slavish devotion.
Without thought.
Nor a storybook rhyme
that ends happily, regardless.
This is love.
As simple as it can be.

© 2018, Miki Byrne

Sore Spots

When we love. Truly love,
our skin becomes thin.
A fine, tender membrane.
Sensitive, delicate.
That leaves us vulnerable.
Open to the blade and scour
of a harsh word
or thoughtless gesture.
Yet that same skin rebounds.
Strong in its flexibility.
Allows healing and repairs
the sore spots of wounds
unintentionally inflicted.

© 2018, Miki Byrne

Fear and the Mind

Fear has teeth, weight, venom,
that permeates every cell.
Brings paralysis of limb and mind.
Saps strength,
steals appetite and sleep.
Yet, it is a figment.
Has no legs, no substance but that
which we offer from our own minds.
Imagination
that pushes thought forward
to explore worst-case scenarios
that we touch and poke
like a tongue probes
a tender tooth.
Yet fear is insubstantial.
Allowing it bones hardens it.
Gives solidity to make a weapon.
One which we painfully use
against ourselves.

—Miki Byrne © 2018

Sunday People

Sunday people bike or walk for miles
under a wool-grey sky, a warm-as-bread breeze

rising over rocky outcrops, dissolving the day
fast as holy wafers on tongues.

Sunday people leave bad news, regret
moored to the past, set sail

on a sea the colour of slate,
smooth as pebbles whispering

over and over Pors Pin Bay lapped white
as the gull wheeling to a fleck of dust.

Sunday people stop to breathe
pine and larch crouched on a far hill,

patient as dogs waiting
for a shepherd’s call to gather flocks.

And here with you sketching
I watch the turn of your hand,

pen gliding paper – ink taking hold
of clouds, a skein of geese,

a fishing boat ploughing through water
like the prodigal son coming home

to thickets of oak and sloe, a table laid,
forgiving moments hauling us back to earth.

© 2018, Kerry Darbishire
Editor’s note: This poem is included in Kerry’s new poetry collection, Distance is Sweet on My Tongue (Indigo Dreams, 2018)

Dataism

 

1/ The End of a Beginning

 

Given   each organism  as a biochemical  algorithm
Your life         is a programed         process proving

Your consciousness         is actually far      less

Valuable         than a fucking             Frankenstein’s AI

 

2/ The Beginning of an End

 

Through         human-computer interface
My mind has become     part of     a robot

While the robot         part of me

 

As     data exchanges with     my consciousness
Or flow         between each other         on their own

Where                 can I find my true self?

 

Avihs || Vishnu

 

Mornings || they disperse || beyond || the corn

Fields, || separately. ||Sunday

She || throws

 

Her partner’s computer || (midnight)

Into the garage.|| George ||who

In many || a city || upgraded || his software

 

Upgraded || hers.

They will || stop over || an island

Separately.|| Your son

 

Hated || all || mushrooms

George mentions — do you recall || yourself?

To a single mind,|| their spirits || evaporate

 

Charging

Ever since they became erectus, and

 

Domesticated wheat, dogs and chickens

 

They have murdered almost all…

Destroyed numerous…

Poisoned every …

 

Altering the natural course of…

Rewriting the original codes of…

 

And even redrawing their own genetic maps…

 

As they keep moving everywhere

Albeit I have placed in loudest human voice

My repeated charges

 

That are ignored with repeated ignorance

 

Now
For their next revolution to achieve:

Happiness

Immortality

Deity

 

Making Light of Darkness

 

in a world always half in darkness

your body may be soaked deep

in a nightmare, rotting

 

but your heart can roam

like a synchronous satellite

in His space, leaving

the long night far behind

 

as long as your heart flies fast

and high enough, you will live

forever in light

 

Mega-Physics

 

Few are really aware of

Such universes

Existing beyond our own

 

Even fewer of so many other versions

Of selfhood living

In each of them, let alone

This simple secret:

 

At the depth of consciousness

Lives a quantum

Or soul as we prefer to call it

A particle, demon and/or angel dancing

 

The same dance afar, far apart

In an entanglement

 

Invoking Laozhi

 

Hiking along a less trodden trail in the Pacific Spirit

Forest, I almost have to stop to find my Way out

Because all roads have led me to nowhere

But I keep walking until it is almost Laozhi himself

Pointing his fossilized fingers towards Dao

(Which he says is no ordinary Way if it can

Be named. Similarly if I can find it on my own

It’s not the real or the right one.) Like a tour guide

Who seems to know every path to and from the destiny

Leading me like a dog, sometimes running well before him

Sometimes beside him, more often going astray by myself

Among the low bushes. I cannot help but follow him because

The leash is getting so tightened I want to protest aloud: you

Claim the great Way is no Way, but just follow Nature. Then

Why keep me with a rope? Like every other domesticated dog

I have a delicious bone right above my mouth, which makes

Me keep running to my death, but never allowing me to have a bite

—Changming Yuan ©2018

Latent Objectifications II: Dataism <br /> digital landscape from photos <br /> ©2018 Michael Dickel <br /> (the binary code is the text of the poem)
Latent Objectifications II: Dataism
digital landscape from photos
©2018 Michael Dickel
(the binary code is the text of the poem)

Life

Like A symbol yet unknown

Looks like love sometimes hate

Looks like faith cheating on hope

Looks like fear breading on dreams

Looks like health depending on wealth

Looks like strength hoping on age

Looks like status owing to power

Looks like trust standing on friendship

Looks like hardwork depending on success

Looks like greed in comfort

Looks like laziness in contentment

Looks like envy in wishes

What Manner of life is this

What sorcery is this

Why lay claims to love life

When no one cares for but themselves

A life where breastfeeding mothers feed no more

A life where fathers flee from children

A life where the world fails humans

A life where nature cries for help

A life where death is celebrated more than life

A life where wealth is more valuable than life

A life where the earth is a sinking hole

Oh! What manner of life is this?

—Michael C. Odiah © 2017

Black November


What manner of life is this
Who designed that word
Why call it modern
Why call it melanin

A life full of thorns
A life buried in hate
A life traded for money
A life drowning in blood

A word filled with tears and blood
A word filled with shadowed evil
A word filled with curse and cause
A word filled with pain and fear

They call it modern and new
Like a thing changed about it
Like it got better or worse
Like it now wears a mask.

Why give it a name in the 1st place
Why look a being in the eye
See same features and still
Go ahead to segregate

I wish the children’s children
Know no black or white
Know no hate or fear
But rather love endlessly.

—poem and photograph, Michael Odiah © 2017

America Still Sings of Freedom

 

In the midst of nuclear insanity
In the midst of natural calamities
In the midst of hatred and harm crisscrossing the land
In the midst of hostility riding in cars emasculating our civil liberties
In the midst of blood spattered into the streets…
In the midst of people crying…people dying
America Still Sings of Freedom

In the midst of Black Lives Matter
In the midst of limitations set on Muslims’ immigration
In the midst of white supremacy poisoning the tender tendrils of democracy
In the midst of Native Americans wanting to save the earth from greed and destruction
In the midst of dreamers’ dreams vanishing in the wind
In the midst of chaos and confusion
America Still Sings of Freedom

In the midst of immigrant children being wrenched from their parents’ grasp
In the midst of the vanishing affordable health care act
In the midst of the oppressed screaming for justice from the callous and the cold
In the midst of the stranglehold of the school-to-prison pipeline
In the midst of the vines of violence choking aspirations
In the midst of mass incarceration
America Still Sings of Freedom

In the midst of earth’s disintegrating atmosphere
In the midst of conflicting attitudes towards a solution to pollution
In the midst of profits leading to the desecration of our planet
In the midst of socio-economic terrorism
In the midst of religious fanaticism
In the midst of man’s obsession with power
America Still Sings of Freedom

In the midst of the sunrise greeting a new day in magnificence
In the midst of the stars twinkling eminence throughout time
In the midst of intergalactic connections singing in eternity
In the midst of the courageous voices of the many standing together in unity
In the midst of joy infusing hearts of stone
In the midst of peace in search of a home
America Still Sings of Freedom

—Tamam Tracy Moncur © 2018

Universal Credit

Learn this lesson: assume the supplicant’s
position, low before the arbiter.
Hang your petition on the ox’s horn and
pray as it turns and plods inside the keep.
Forty two days in the wilderness, longer
than Christ’s self-chosen stay. Time to go home
and count the copper pennies in your palm, time
to scour the bins for corn cobs overlooked,
scraps on bones, nubs of bread, hide candles
and kindling, beg remission on your rent.
Time to forage hedgerows, scrape bark for baking
bread, claw the furrows for potatoes, hush
the hungry child while you lie clamped and clemmed,
fashioning hope from feathers and dung.

You may be lucky: beneficence
parsimonious may be granted or
day on day on days delays will find you
in winter’s shadow outside the castle walls.

—Frank McMahan © 2018

The title of this poem relates to a new UK  Social Security single benefit ( to  replace several others).  Its rollout has been very expensive and is causing great hardship for the poorest people in this country. Many have to rely on food banks.

 

gambling on social justice…

 

got folks
outside
the candy store
staring
at
opaque glass
they
can’t
really see
the sweets
they’ve
heard about
and
will
most likely
never
taste
but
they’ve got
some pretty pictures
like
promises
painted
for
them
on the glass
outside
pictures
carefully crafted
by
those who
own
the store
who offer
free tenants
a lifetime
of
servitude
to
buy
a lottery ticket
for
the chance
to
come inside

 

—Charles W Martin © 2018

Unlearning

Unlearning

I learned in the back seats of cars
The alcoves of bars
How to please
And how to tease.

I learned at the department store
How to dress to settle the score.
And underneath, my angel side
Learned how to cause a great divide.

A push, a pinch, a tug, a spin
Put pain to the side; upfront, just grin.
I learned my worth, a ratio
Of tits and ass and let it go.

And when you think the game is done,
You spy your girls and know they’ve won.
Those weren’t lessons, they were deceit.
I was fooled, their greatest feat.
Should I just acquiesce to my defeat?
Oh hell no.
#metoo
#timesup

© Irma

Intertwined

The woman I am
Is the woman I was
The quiet one,
The smart one,
The bookworm,
The one who ran a high school mile in 20 minutes.

The woman I am
Is the woman I was
The hands in my back pocket,
I can conquer the world,
Let the party begin,
I can pull off an A paper in 4 hours Co-ed,
Who wasn’t self aware enough,
Who wasn’t practiced enough,
To know alcoholic lies.

The woman I am
Is the woman I was
The trusting in a good world,
How did this happen to me,
Despite my negative words,
Against my feminist will,
It must be my fault,
Forgive me, understand me lover.

The woman I am
Is the woman I was
The grieving mother,
The don’t get too close so it doesn’t hurt mother,
The oh it could be fun and easy mother,
The I didn’t realize boys were so different mother,
The stay my baby a little a lot longer mother.

The woman I am
Is the woman I was
Angry and hurt,
Confused yet hopeful,
Spurned into action,
Despite fears of rejection.

I am the intersection of
My gender
My ethnicity
My religion
My race
The intertwining of identity and history.
The woman I am
Is the woman I was
Is the woman I will become

—Irma © 2018

Gestures

 

Jaw set
Brows coming together
Looking straight ahead while around her
Kids are squirming, tearing, jeering
She rubs her forehead, right above her nose, and closes her eyes
The gesture of acceptance
Out-numbered defeat

Head tilted to the side
Eyes squinted
Staring into a face that doesn’t believe in her worth, her rights, her existence
She crosses her arms, juts her hip, and taps her foot
The gesture of defiance
Disbelief that in this day and age

Mouth agape
Neck outstretched
Listening to advice and false promises yelled by witnesses to her body’s treachery
She swings her arms and shuffles forward
The gesture of persistence
Knowing pain is temporary

Afterwards, she sits still
Listening to the quiet sounds
Of trees swaying and not breaking
Her breathing deepens
Her arms raise to the sky
The gesture of triumph
Self determined

—Irma ©2018

Clouds

Amorphous clouds engulf me –
My true hand unseen
My heart frozen, unloved
My breath stilled and unworthy
My solid form deemed weak
What was supposed to shade me
Protect me
From the bleaching hanging sun
Now hurts my skin with its
Wispy viper tendrils
I thought you were my friend
But I missed the forecast for
Cloudy with a chance of
selfish entitlement.

—Irma © 2018

Killer Angels, Better Angels

Its leaves are near-ochre,
yellowed with age and changes
in weather and geography,
like the pages of memory
I un-shelf along with it each year.

I bring it out like a swimsuit
each summer since I found it
on that beach in that place from
that side which did not prevail.
Today, a page fell like a memory.

It tells a tale of the push and pull
of a time when men could be
paid for and sold, or lined up in ranks
to pay their last full measure
of devotion to a cause each held sacred.

As I run my finger down the page,
I am present in my place and time
as I am in theirs, though I smell
the aroma of a musty old book rather than
of Hell’s own sulfur and smoke.

And I am at peace reading of war and death,
vaguely secure that such a conflict
couldn’t again slash my nobly scarred nation.
Then all these men would have given
that last full measure for nothing.

It’d be our most-mortal sin to allow them
to have lived and died in vain, knowing their
new birth of freedom, and government
of the people, by the people, for the people—
all the people—did perish from the earth.

 

Rambling draft inspired by reading, breathing, feeling, listening to the pages of my old paperback copy of The Killer Angels, Michael Shaara’s fictional narrative of the actual men and events leading up to, within and following the days in July of 1863 we know as the Battle of Gettysburg. I find myself reading more of my Civil War books these days.I love them, but that I feel so viscerally compelled concerns me a little. 

—Joseph Hesch © 2018

Elegy

Elegy

dying slowly incident by incident
how hard—for you and those
who knew you or have memory
of your existence
to witness such mean

abandonment

today there is no praise
we come to bury you
and your acts long ago
dismissed and now

despised

open doors, offers of aid—first
and continual—serving—
sharing—sacrificing
anything—wealth / time / thought

eliminated

replaced now with all manner
of self serving consideration
attitude replacing gratitude
with consequences on others

ignored

gluttony and self indulgence pull
the shades over generosity
and sympathy seen weak and
forbidden

today we declare you dead
Stomp the ground—your bed

Respect is not the fashion
be dead now—compassion.

–deb y felio © 2018

Lazy Bums Vanish from Lazy Town

“Once upon a time there was a town where all the people were exceedingly lazy.”

—The Lazy Townspeople

It’s true of course as we all know those
Lazy folks just down the road will do
Just about anything to not do just about
Anything, hoping some nincompoop

Will show up just in time to rake up
All the trash, bag it, maybe recycle it,
And send all that is not wanted on its
Merry way. When even that didn’t

Work out, the old folks were just beside
Themselves to get themselves going
So the place might look a bit more
Spiffy when the man in the white house

Who now owns everything and everyone
Will drive by for a view, and toss a few
Coins to those whose waving hands
Are the highest ever for free handouts.

That was at least the plan. The old town
Though just got older, stinkier, trashier,
And big bugs soon arrived by the millions
So no one could get a night’s rest without

Bites everywhere and anywhere but as
You know, no one knew quite what to do.
We could all make rakes, a ratty man said.
I’ve got a bunch of mowers, said the long

Beard. The smelly old one even kept empty
Bottles of Clorox and Windex just in case.
Everybody said let’s get started, but no
One really started, as no one had ever

Known how to bring spring to the old town.
A well-kept girl crawled under the hedge
That kept those in and those looking out
And she knew right away what might spiff

The place up, shiny and brassy as before.
Follow me, she said, and everybody did
Just that, and soon the town was not ever
There, no one could even remember it,

And then, what nature does best, a big
Wind came through and the wind coughed
It all around the world as it was most
Disgusting with all the dust, and mites,

And those terrible bugs that get into
Everything, and soon the man in the
Big white house drove down to see
His priceless town, and it was so shiny,

Smooth, and not a trace could be found
Of the terrible people who once called
What once was trash, what once was home,
A fine place to wave his tiny, clean hands.

—DeWitt Clinton © 2018

McCarthy’s Girl

 

On looking how she was. Staring
always, as though there were
depths and hollows to see through
somehow all into. Something to stay with her
little girl hands twisting and then the warts.
She would always try to pull
The world into her fingers.
To play the sounds closer.
She was just oblivious
To her difference.

But behind, they knew her
for the witch they thought they knew she was,
Jude, Commie, sick-to-stick-out little girl,
Pale-wincer-in-the-sun with that heavy coat.
Cassie and Lassie, those twins,
they knew fast just what to do.
lasso a tip of her hanging braid
and soak it slow and silent in the
ink-well behind. Well, she just kept her still.
Her long eyelids shuddering in her quiet.
Little girl on the edges, locked inside in.
No Howdy Doody times, no way to say it.
She just fought to gaze hard to look straight
beyond the puppet land of the 1950s.
She had to come home to hide
behind the tv and the cooking.

All the time life opened up for her
savage saddle markings.

—Linda E. Chown © 2018

Coming Back: Franco not here no more, 1988

 

I go blind from then I go
here now so into Franco-free light
where I don’t know
how to turn my eyes,
spent scars of second skin,
years of no and fury,
now the clean air breaking in
to be real in this to breathe it
all in and then to die in Madrid.
Tempt it not—I surely do not
Not too. No Franco and his cops
Nor his tiny stamps, unwritten laws
And truncheons at the ready.

I did not come here to die
but to be home here
where I can get lost again free
in a landscape of
words drifting oh words!
Hombre que te pasa
la Republica Zaragoza libertad.

Find the bridge, the path,
to cross over to some-
where the verdict words cannot.
Qué bonitas son
Son las flores
No, not just pretty. Knot not.

When I go blind,
“good I cannot see them”
(as the words once were cords
even to touch their fury)
The pain of sound.
Clackety clack.
Let the air out
of this flat tire.

I’m breaking in
to be real again—
the Guadarrama mountain range
splendid low about the horizon
white-scarred muses
women scarring Fascism.
Late afternoon glory with them in Madrid.
The air so pure it stings to settle.

—Linda E. Chown ©2018

What they said

 

At the beginning of before.
Here it is: are we in the right
spindle bobbing away?
Are you a fable resting in the sun and wanting?
Tell me how your dreams are.
Tell me what you might mean to yourself in their fury,

Now, skirts forever in a night wind
Yesterday spins yellows around tomorrow
Whatever did your mother tell you about
late at night when you put your book down
on the bed and she came in soundless
with a tight face to sit in the dark with you
while you wheezed and you waited.
Violence in the coal mines.

They always told me
La Pasionaría was brave
no pasarán, she said. With her vision
she was defending Madrid’s mountains
they told me and I heard her when
she spoke with that spike of passion
indomitable: she said no pasarán
and in the foothills there were cheers all dressed in black.

Your father I learned took a gun with him
there at the beginning of before
to protect himself at midnight
on the picket lines in the dark
to protect himself from hit men
who hated his vision out west
in the fog in those long flat parking lots .

Low in his left cheek a muscle quivered
within, at the end of a smile that wasn’t.
He took a gun and she went kitten silent on your bed.
The quiet of her heavy sitting
at the beginning of before
reminds me of an old dream,
her telling you of crossing the street
because of the scar on her skin
because she wanted to hide it from all eyes

Was this a mingled message
to fight with all the passion the rains pour
or to scurry away from feeling?
To hold the front line or to flee into a hole?
Camus who believed in solitude as his struggle
And Aragon whose masses were transcendental
Tell, tell me more please before the end is over.

—Linda E. Chown ©2018

Isidora Dolores Ibárruri Gómez, aka “La Pasionaria,” a Spanish Republican leader of the Spanish Civil War

Sepia — a poem, a controversy…

Sepia

No matter how much we enlarge it,
that photograph snapped by a German soldier
of my grandmother in Lida, 1916,
remains perfectly clear. Her eyes
register her cold measure
of the soldier who could decide

Lida, 1916 photo

to shoot her instead of her
picture if that
was his hobby
instead of photography.

This is what war
is like – I taste her fear
even though I’m seeing her
now from the eyes
of the oppressor.
And I know the shame of both.

—Karen Alkalay-Gut ©

 


What brought the Israeli poet, Karen Alkalay-Gut, to post this on FaceBook, about the poem above?

Sepia: The poem is about 1916—there were no Nazis back then. By writing the poem about this scene I am doing what the German soldier is doing—taking advantage of the person in a helpless situation without their permission. That’s what the poem is about. Anyone who sees politics in this poem is paranoid. But if some people were hurt by this poem, especially because it was in a place so honorably perpetuating the memories of such persecuted people, I do apologize. —Karen Alkalay-Gut

A controversy led to this statement, of course, based on misreading the poem. The misreading, though, mattered because of the context of where the people that Alkalay-Gut mentions “were hurt by this poem” encountered the poem. The poem appeared in the exhibit “Flashes of Memory – Photography during the Holocaust,” at Yad Vashem, The World Holocaust Remembrance Center (Jerusalem, Israel). Although the photograph from the poem came from 1916, and the year appears in the poem, the context suggested to others that it was about a NAZI soldier. And rather than understand that Alkalay-Gut recognized that her own gaze at the helpless Lida, her grandmother, in the 1916 photo formed a kind of oppression (related to something called scopophilia in critical theory), viewers/readers saw in it a criticism of Israel that likened Israelis to NAZIs.

One might agree that a reasonable reading of the poem could be that those who benefit from military oppression are like the soldier who oppresses with his camera in the poem. The soldier had the choice to use a camera or a gun, and that those privileged to be in the class benefitting from soldiers’ guns also have a choice to use cameras or (let others) use a gun. The poet could be seeing her gaze as privileged and potentially oppressive (of her grandmother / grandmother’s memory, of others held at camera-gun point). But the soldier in the poem came from WWI, not from the Holocaust, and that is not a minor distinction.

Another distinction that matters is that Karen Alkalay-Gut lost her family during the Holocaust. She recognized that the hurt that could occur from encountering this poem in this context could be genuine and deep. She responded, as quoted in Israel HaYom newspaper:

“It’s a personal poem, I write from the heart, and it’s not a political poem, despite the fact that there are many ways to read a poem—and it could be read in such a way,” she explained.

“If this poem is hurtful to someone, then it should be removed from the exhibit. I did not mean to offend anyone, heaven forbid. I lost all my family in the Holocaust, and if it offends someone then I have no right to say something else,” she said.

“I think Yad Vashem needs to handle the matter, and if it appears to someone as political and insensitive – the poem must be removed from the exhibit,” she reiterated. —Israel HaYom 

The poem cannot reasonably be read, on its own merits, as comparing Israel to NAZIs. It could be seen as being critical of oppression and military violence. It could be seen as drawing a parallel between the WWI soldier and the poet. On its own merits, yes. The context, however, created a different reading than the poem by itself would. And Israel does not appear in the poem, except if you know Alkalay-Gut is an Israeli living in Tel Aviv.

This is a strong poem, by a strong poet. She does write from the heart, as she says, but she also writes with a sense of justice. This poem is about justice in a very personal way—her grandmother is a victim of the soldier, as the speaker in the poem implies (the presumption is that he is exercising his power over her), and a victim of the poet looking at the photo, many decades later, when the grandmother can no longer say, “No. That is not for you to see. It is private.”

—Michael Dickel

Wild Women in Art, Poetry and Community featuring Gretchen Del Rio’s Art and Victoria Bennett’s “The Howl or How Wild Women Press Came to Be”

Spirit of the Wolf

‘The spirit of the wolf resides in my heart
Mostly peacefully, but ever wild
Running in time to the blowing wind,
Dancing in the clouds that drift in the heavens
The spirit of the wolf resides in my soul.”
– Gretchen Del Rio



The Howl or How Wild Women Press Came to Be

by Victoria Bennett

Snow Owl by Gretchen Del Rio

At twenty-six, I met an owl. It turned out to be one of the axis moments on which my life pivoted. It was a cold January day where frost lingered in the shade but the sun was shining, the kind of day where things seems possible because you have survived the darkness of winter. The trees stood bare of leaves, branch-fingers stretched out expectantly, waiting for Spring. I was waiting too, holding a sense of change quietly behind my eyes. I watched the crows fly, black wings against blue sky, looking for carrion, listened only to the sound of water and wind and some crow caw above. This was what I was trying to remember – the feel of my touch, the scent of the sky, the hopeful warmth of sun just after the midwinter. My life had become so much darkness, so much noise and pollution and not seeing. This was the counterbalance and so far, it was working. Slow, slow days, allowing the words to surface and sound and where words could not come, allowing the brush to paint or the body to move. All was changing. I was changing. The woman I was underneath was beginning to take shape, and to my surprise, I liked her.

But first, the owl. I was stood beside the ash, eyes closed, when I heard a scratch from above. I opened my eyes and saw the owl, white feathers thick for winter, watching me. Awake. Not daring to move, I simply looked and allowed it to look at me, until after a few moments, it flew away. The owl came, and I was listening because I was ready to hear, and I was ready, it seemed, to shift shape again.

One week after the owl and I met, I had a dream. In this dream, I was with a woman walking along the river. She told me I was to call the Wild Women together. This did not seem strange or unusually prophetic. I had found a deep resonance with the stories I had found in the Clarissa Pinkola Estes’ book Women Who Run with the Wolves and so the archetype of the Wild Woman was something I was familiar with, but the sense of purpose was surprising, and so, the next morning I got up and started to write the posters for what was to be the very first of the Wild Women workshops.

“The reason that people awaken is because they finally stop agreeing to things that insult their soul.” Gretchen Del Rio

Six weeks later, I stood in my living room, the fire in the stove burning and the tea hot in the pot. Before me sat twelve women, very different in ages and styles, but all sharing something special: they had all responded to the call. And so it came to be, the Wild Women group was born and I was to be their mother-wolf for this journey. As I stood there, faced with women whose individual and collective ages outstripped my own, I felt petrified. Who was I to stand here and say “this is the way of being woman”? Yet, that is exactly what I was to do. I did not know where it would take us, take me. I was just willing to begin, brave enough to speak out and hopeful enough to believe.

‘”Welcome…”

… and in that one word, I started something that would sustain me through my twenties, thirties and into my forties. I had met my clan. Together, we found the courage to stand up and say, “This is who I am…”.

That was nearly twenty years ago. Since then, working with the Wild Women, I have gone on to set up Wild Women Press, published several books of poetry from the group, worked with over 2000 women (and some brave men) on a number of amazing projects, hosted the (in)famous Wild Women Salons, made creative connections around the globe, and performed live at events around the UK and USA. It is a space of celebration and activism. There is no business plan or professional career path. It can lie dormant, hibernating as we nuzzle down and grow our ideas in the dark, or it can awake with passion and create for change on a global scale. We have used our creativity to create positive change, to be part of the world we want to live in andleave for those who follow. Sometimes we act on a very local level, sometimes on a global one.

Recently, I have been collaborating with the creators of the #MeToo poetry anthology. This is a very important movement for me personally, and for us as a group. As soon as I heard Deborah Alma was wanting to put together an anthology of poems from this movement, I offered my support, and the platform of Wild Women Press. It was obvious from the very beginning that there would be many more poems than there were pages in the book, and so #UsTogether was created, to give a platform for some of these other voices. Alongside the launch of the book, Wild Women Press are hosting a selection of these poems, in honour and celebration of the courage and sisterhood of all those who have spoken out as part of the #MeToo movement.

One of the core aspects of the group is the respect and celebration of each individual woman. Although in the beginning it was me who stood at the front of the room, every woman in the group was to go on to inspire and lead, using their own experiences, passions, talents, and knowledge to guide them in how they would to do that. In a similar vein, we will be launching an online Wild Women Press blog later in 2018, sharing our ideas and perspectives. Over the next year, we will be gathering Wild Women from around the globe to contribute, extending our circle of clan further. We would love to hear from other women, who would like to be part of a clan of contributors. If you are passionate about something, and would like to be part of a global group of Wild Women writing, creating, and being part of a positive change, please do get in touch.

In 2019, it will be our 20th Anniversary, and 20 years since we published our first book, Howl at the Moon: Writings By Wild Women. To celebrate this, we will be publishing a new book of poems by Wild Women – and this time, we are extending the howl out to others. We will be putting out the call for submissions soon, on our website, Twitter, and Facebook page.

For now, we continue to meet as a group every couple of months, and once a year, we spend four days at our Wild Women Gathering, celebrating, creating, and sharing our stories (and eating way too much food). We have witnessed births, marriages, divorces, unemployment, career changes, graduations, new beginnings, and painful goodbyes. What began as a workshop group, has become a place we now call home, and a wild family. You can sometimes find us on the fells or beside fires. We howl often, laugh lots, and when prompted, bare our teeth. Our coats are all a little more silver, and our eyes a little more wise, but we are still discovering. We are the Wild Women, and we welcome you.

Victoria Bennett
Founder, Wild Women Press

http://www.wildwomenpress.com
@wildwomenpress
https://www.facebook.com/wildwomenpress/

© 2018, “The Howl or How Wild Women Press Came to Be” and the wild-women word-heart illustration, Victoria Bennett, All rights reserved; 2011 and 2018, water color paintings, Gretchen Del Rio, All rights reserved

Poet, publisher, activist and wild woman, Victoria Bennet

VICTORIA BENNET (Wild Woman Press) is an award-winning poet, creative activist and full-time home-educating Wild Mama to her son, Django. Originating from the borderlands below Scotland, she is the Founder of Wild Women Press and has spent the last quarter of a century instigating creative experiences in her community. Her poetry has appeared in print, online and even in the popular video game, Minecraft. She has published four collections and performed live across the UK, from Glastonbury Festival to a Franciscan Convent.

Poetry publications include:
Anchoring the Light
Fragile Bodies
Fragments
Byron Makes His Bed
My Mother’s House – a Poetry & Minecraft Collaboration with Adam Clarke, that explores grief and letting go

What We Now Know – digital VR music collaboration with Adam Clarke and The Bookshop Band, inspired by the #MeToo anthology



angel300-c12182011© Gretchen Del Rio


HER POWER LEAPS

she’s present

returned to bite through the umbilical of tradition,
to flick her tongue
and cut loose the animus-god of our parents,
like a panther she roams the earth, she is eve wild in the night,
freeing minds from hard shells
and hearts from the confines of their cages,
she’s entwined in the woodlands of our psyches
and offers her silken locks to the sacred forests of our souls ~
naked but for her righteousness,
she stands in primal light,
in the untrammeled river of dreams
the yin to balance yang
the cup of peace to uncross the swords of war ~
through the eons she’s been waiting for her time
her quiet numinosity hiding in the phenomenal world,
in the cyclical renewal of mother earth,
whispering to us in the silver intuition of grandmother moon
watching us as the loving vigilance of a warming sun ~
she, omen of peace birthed out of the dark,
even as tradition tries to block her return,
her power leaps from the cleavage of time

© Jamie Dedes


Gretchen Del Rio

Illustration ~ the lovely watercolor painting by Gretchen Del Rio with its girl-tree, panther and other spirit animals was the inspiration for my poem, Her Power Leaps, on the return of the divine feminine. The back-story on the painting is interesting. Gretchen says, “I painted this for a fourteen year old Navaho girl. It is for her protection and her power. She sees auras and is very disturbed by this. She is just amazing. Beauty beyond any words. You can see into the soul of the universe when you look at her eyes. She has no idea. I loved her the moment I saw her. My blessings for her well being are woven into the art.” Such a delightful piece. I purposely posted it full-size so that everyone can enjoy the detail. Bravo, Gretchen, and thank you. / Jamie Dedes

©2011, water color painting; Gretchen Del Rio, All rights reserved; 2016, poem, Jamie Dedes, All rights reserved.

– originally published on The Poet by Day

a man, a woman and a stick

(1921)

the stick stood in the corner of the kitchen
a constant threat; stoking, as it was meant to,
chronic intimidation

he had a man’s right to deliver his blows
to vent his anger and his self-contempt
to cause suffering for the insufferable

someone had to make it up to him,
his loss-of-face to race, creed and poverty

for her part, eve’s daughter was ripe,
shamed by her intrinsic sinfulness,
worn by her constant pregnancies

her femininity: tired and task-bound,
guilt flowing freely, as all-consuming as lava

[relief, only in death]

and the seventh child was born to die
and the man was demanding his bread

she wrapped the girl in swaddling cloth,
placed her gently by the stove, and
while the newborn made busy with dying,
the woman prepared him his meal
(2)_Cycle_of_abuse,_power_&_control_issues_in_domestic_abuse_situations

© 2015, poem, Jamie Dedes, All rights reserved; illustration source is the National Center on Domestic and Sexual Violence 

Hell Prefers Unaware

I store sorrow seeds and bitter roots
in gold jars where memory breaks
their pain into parables I’ve risen from.

Hell prefers the unaware, the wound
and not the scar, but the candle of my spirit
has been formed from match strikes at midnight.

My childhood stolen by hands of harm
caused me to swim silently in a river of threats
until trust carried my voice to freedom.

I reject brutality’s attempts to pour me into a victim’s mold
or chain me to the barbed wire of ghosts.
I am a survivor resurrected whole from affliction.

© 2018, Susie Clevenger

April 13, 2018:

I’m on my way home from the Lucidity poetry conference. I learned a lot from fellow poets and from Nathan Brown. I highly recommend if you have a chance to go to one of Nathan Brown’s workshops, do it! He teaches through music, storytelling, and poetry reading.
As per one of the requirements I wrote a poem for Lucidity‘s Annual poetry contest. At the time I didn’t know why I was being led to write such a personal poem about abuse. When the awards were given out it earned an honorable mention. As with anyone who enters a contest the hope is to win. I was disappointed but stood up to read the poem not expecting to be emotional. I felt a bit overwhelmed but managed to read it and then sat down. After the ceremony a man came up to me in tears. He thanked me for being brave enough to write it and to read it. He said he was going home to tell his daughter about it. He said she had suffered abuse and he thought it would speak to her, help her. I leaned over to the table picked up the poem handed it to him,and told him to give it to her. He wrapped his arms around me and we cried together. I then knew my reason for writing it and my reason for reading it. Susie

Evil Ones

Will we be able to tell
that there were those
who killed the future?

In the roar of the shots,
we try to whisper life.

The eyes speak only with silence:
we are afraid of death.

Life is
– trembling.
Despite all this
it is hope for another
– smile of chance.

Perhaps because of it
the evil ones
will not hear our silence?

Translated by Artur Komoter

© 2018, Eliza Segiet

Źli

Czy zdołamy opowiedzieć,
że byli tacy,
którzy zabijali przyszłość?

W huku wystrzałów,
próbujemy wyszeptać życie.

Oczy mówią już tylko milczeniem:
– boimy się śmierci.

Życie jest
– drżeniem.
Pomimo wszystko
to nadzieja na kolejny
– uśmiech przypadku.

Być może dzięki niemu
źli
nie usłyszą naszego milczenia?

Species Sustainability

our young are our future a crop we manage
birthing, raising, loving, shielding
until we release them to fruit in the world.

For they are the future of country and culture
planning, learning, loving, caring,
and carrying our lives, values on when we’re gone.

We share these values across the globe’s nations
whatever our colour, creed or nation
we strive for home and sustain our families,

no matter whether a beggar in rags, or rich as Croesus
for gold is but metal as Midas found
when bread and wine turned to gold he couldn’t drink.

Who hears the children afraid to go to school?
Scythed in their youth by the boy with gun
or broken and blasted by a tyrant’s bomb.

They are the crop that fell on hard ground
taken by birds of greed, war, ignorance
to favour the harlot of hatred and fear

she walks down the street with sympathy’s
flag and gun in a belt or bag
but the children are dead and the coffins parade.

© 2018, Carolyn O’Connell

Gifts to the Poet’s Newborn Child

I bring you time
wide, unbridled,
seamless as seas;
the fragile vee
of fledgling’s beak;
the solidness of shapes:
oak, tower block, petrol pump;
a coupling, tripling,
quadrupling of souls;-,
the still small pureness
of alone;
of colours, every one;
an ample mixing palette,
deftness of touch to conjure
your own shades.

An ear tuned
to the furthest whisper
of the furthest corner
of all your life might hold,
and every decibel step
and variation from this
to the loudest brain roar;
a hundred eyes to sperm
innumerable words;
the knowledge-gift
and mystery of saying
all you need to say
in one, or two

© 2018, Patricia Leighton

Life Eternal

ladybirds, beetles and bugs
worms and platoons
of white maggots
with bluebottle generals in charge
turned the corpse
inside out
upside down
and bit by bit
spirit eased itself free
of tissue remnants and bones

squeezed between stones
until it stood proud of the earth
an aura of wishes still clinging
wondering why it felt
so lost, so alone
wondering

© 2018, Patricia Leighton

Climate Changes

Time walks the hills in different measure these days:

pale wood anemones birth early and bluebell spears

thrust up with frost-thoughts hardly buried.

June stitchwort blooms in May and ‘eggs-and-bacon’

runs through grass like kindergarten children

released before the bell.   Stark heather

colours the hill tops long and late;  November,

and the rowans have barely turned.

 

The wind is in my face and my throat churns

with an uneasiness that’s hard to explain.

So long I’ve walked through seasons trusting

time’s rhythms, stepping out the days.

Changes are subtle but I know I, too,

no longer measure time as I once did.

 

Searching for rhyme or reason clouds the head.

Better, perhaps, to savour it as it is.

I’ll hug the cold, draw breath, watch berries drop.

If they drop late, I’ll live in hope of early

snowdrops laced along the lane

and being there in time.

© 2018, Patricia Leighton

Clear the Brush

c Mike DeMarco

Ah, but let us show you how to live!

We own in full what we have,

And we never long for Friday.

For Friday is just like Monday,

A blessing.

Oh we of little frame,

Fit fine, stand tall in the cracks of trees.

Sprawled upon the grasses.

The hot springs steeps our tea,

We leave no carbon footprint,

For we tiptoe on little feet.

I place a flower in my ear,

And your hand in mine.

For I’d flutter into waterfalls

If a daydream grows to thick,

And you softly squeeze it.

For you would never speak of ladybugs,

Or humming birds in common conversation.

Never starving artist, for we feast on what our father has made

Infinite of beauty.

This poem is about my reaction to the protest and gufaws at the die hard simplicity my husband and I attempt to maintain. Green is in but sadly simple joy and the appreciation of nature, human experiences and connection is not. So, if you see a petite, brown skinned cellist busking on a street corner near you, give her a hug. If it is not me, I am sure she won’t mind. If she does…it will give you something to write about.

© 2018, Ursula Jacobs

When NASA Finishes Mining & Carbon Footprint

When NASA Finishes Mining

There used to be craters on the moon, now the moon is a crater. Carved out, mined of all its juices, it remains derelict. Too light to continue to orbit: it just hangs, skeletal and listless. Unable to wax or wane, its cycle broken.

Tidal-confusion grips the ocean below. Trapped, neither flowing in nor out, unable to turn yet trying to. Turning itself one way, then the next, like an uncomfortable sleeper, too hot inside its own shape.
I sit, bare-footed, on night-dewed grass, sniffing out the hot-salt of the ocean that cannot rest, the orange-rind moon above. I too am neither one thing, nor another. I whisper to the blades of grass, tap on the earth, and wait for the flowers that will never come.

Carbon Footprint

In my lifespan,
so far reaching 22 years,
I have owned 3 computers,
3 games consoles (despite the fact I don’t really use them)
and 3 mobile phones,
the first of which would have lasted forever, but,
in a freak accident my dad ran his car over it.
I can’t drive, but I did have a moped –
but I crashed twice and got rid.
I have voted in 1 election – (you made me)
but I won’t say who for. (Yellow)
I can ride a bike, swim (just about), speak French
and have that crazy allele that lets me roll up my tongue.
I have drank 0 cups of tea, smoked 0 cigarettes –
the only nail polish I own is black.
I have eaten:
1516 Apples
1232 Loaves of Bread
243 tins of Baked Beans
3125 Carrots
669 kilos of Spuds
181 kilograms of Chocolate (mostly without you)
and 345 Chickens.
I have bought over 2000 books,
borrowed over 3000
and never returned at least 5 (one’s yours, I’m sorry).
I have spoken 32,301,600 words
written nearly as many,
but lost most of them in workshop.
I have had 30,025 dreams,
most of which were nightmares,
some in black and white,
some sound-only, (but always your voice)
and some so real – they remain
like false memories –
when I wake up the next morning.
I have blinked 119,376,303 times,
walked over 4450 miles,
cried 34 pints of tears (25 pints were for you),
shed 588 skins (but for you I haven’t changed once),
experienced over 834,200,000 heartbeats,
I have lost my virginity once,
had sex with one person,
and (I think you should know this)
have only ever fallen in love once.

© 2018, Zoë Sîobhan Howarth-Lowe

Sustainability Should Be Our Creed

I think it’s now generally agreed

Sustainability should be our creed

Not this endless slash-and-burn destruction

That mentality comes from self-centred greed.

There isn’t any defining definition

Much more could be done, in a coalition.

If we could bring about some lasting change

Some balanced ideas, sweeping in exchange

On some universal scale the world

This blue planet could be, better sustained

For all…We mustn’t ever be, deterred

Coz-any-meaningful-outcome is hard earned.

We need to meet the needs of the future

Who amongst us here isn’t a wrongdoer?

All our thinking needs to change at some point

Who amongst here hasn’t been a polluter?

Each man, woman and child should be employed

Surely we don’t want to disappoint.

Shouldn’t our children, children’s existence

Be better or equal in ecosystems

How can we make a difference ourselves?

Listening to all the statisticians

Wows, scary, please give it your best attempts

No longer close your eyes in pretence.

Overpopulated are our societies

Side by side spreading untold anxieties

Our global footprint isn’t it a crushing weight

We must look at our own, improprieties

Decide how we’re going to change this fate

… Else just drift till it’s all just, too late.

© 2018, Mark Andrew Heathcote

Gertrude’s Poem

To name a purple flower—hubris;
To call red a rose.
A rose is a rose is a rose,
She said.
The fruit of purple.
So like an apple—
so unlike an apple—
poison to eat.
—Sodom’s apple
milkweed—
A rash thought that
blisters my skin.
A rose is a rose is a rose,
She said.

—Michael Dickel
©2018

Sodom's Apple Ein Fascha (near the Dead Sea) photographs ©2018 Michael Dickel
Sodom Apple [1]
Ein Fascha
(near the Dead Sea)
photographs ©2018 Michael Dickel

[1] Calotropis procera, a milkweed native to the Dead Sea and Sodom, Israel and other desert regions” (Wikipedia). Known also as Apple of Sodom.

Which is also the title of a Marilyn Manson song written for a David Lynch film, Lost Highway (warning: strong images in this YouTube music video of the Marilyn Manson song):


This poem originally appeared on Instagram, in an earlier version.

Earthquake and devastation

Shaken earth weeps
floods of ice in all lands,
attempts to cleanse itself.
We diseased cells have
metastasized, eaten
its forbidden flesh,
perforated its bones.
What it cannot shake
off it sweeps away
in wind or burns
off in fires. Glaciers
wear down what remains.
Everything known is now
extinct. Only new forms
emerge, scathed and
transformed from death
by cancerous greed—
into a fallen grace.

—Michael Dickel
©2018

Shekinah III: My beloved whispers in my ear

And these words, which I command thee with this day, shall be upon thy heart…
And thou shalt bind them for a sign upon thy hand, and they shall be for frontlets before thine eyes.

—Deut. VI:6, 8

I.
My beloved whispers in my ear; she reveals herself to me—
her Words, jewels upon my breast, upon my hand, upon my forehead.
When my beloved walks in the field, the heron flies up with cackling praise;
she inspires the crane to laugh as it rises into the sky; the swallows dance for her.
I have come and gone with uncertainty and doubt; but my beloved inspires constancy:
Though in times of drought the hill dries out, the hollows hide some mud, remembering.
My beloved brings rain into the high, parched fields that have forgotten her;
she walks among the swaths and sheds her tears for each cut stalk.
The hollows swell with water to quench the beasts and grow the iris;
my beloved reflects their grace as they mirror the sky among the grasses.

II.
The storm was terrible: the thunder rumbled long in the night; the lightning terrified;
a wind blew through the window of the house and tapped upon the walls.
Yet, my beloved whispered in my ear and I wore her words like jewels.
In her arms I rested as the fields drank deeply, the dry holes filled with sweet water.
In the dark I am drawn to my beloved; she is even more glorious in the light:
She is a stand of gentian unexpectedly found near the edge of the willow.
An eagle flies above the goldenrod and pines; I know my beloved thinks of me.
The thought of my beloved eases my burden as I toil on the road to her house:
Her kisses, sweeter than blueberries freshly picked, inspire acorns to rise toward the sky;
her caresses provide strength to the birch, the aspen, the maple, the oak, but also to grasses.

III.
I hold my love; she holds me. I have studied her in the willow, the iris, the thistle:
finches, warblers, and wrens feed and live in her shelter, so my love feeds and shelters me.
The oats have been cut, the hay rolled and stored for the winter.
My love comes to me and whispers in my ear; she reveals herself to me.
The geese gather and call, flying over the trees, landing in the pond:
my love sighs and the grasses bend; the aspens sigh and my love bends to me.
Her kisses build the temple; her love holds me and I heal:
My beloved is mine, I am hers. She points to the flowers off the path:
small white bells, tiny blue trumpets, vetches, paintbrush; I don’t know all the names.
My beloved knows the Names of the Flowers; she whispers them to me: I embrace her.

—Michael Dickel
©1999


Hebrew

עברות


  :III שכינה
אהובתי לוחשת לי באוזן


והיו הדברים האלה, אשר אנוכי מצווך היום– על לבבך… וקשרת לאות, על ידיך; והיו לטופפות בין עיניך

-ספר דברים, פרק;, פסוקים ו’-ח;



I.
אהובתי לוחשת לי באוזן; היא נגלת אלי-
מילותיה, תכשיטים על חזי, על ידי ועל מצחי.
כשאהובתי פוסעת בשדה, הענפה אצה מקרקרת תשבוחות:
לעגור היא נותנת השראה לצחוק במעופו אל השמיים; הסנוניות רוקדות עבורה.
באתי והלכתי עם ספק וחוסר ודאות: אולם אהובתי משרה השראה בלי הפסקה:
גם אם בשעת בצורת הגבעה מתייבשת; הנקיקים מחביאים קצת בוץ, זוכרים.
אהובתי מביאה גשמים אל הגבהים, אל שדות קמלים אשר אותה שוכחים;
היא מהלכת בין האלומות ומזילה דמעות על כל גבעול שנגדע.
הנקיקים מתרחבים ממים שמרווים את החיות ואת משקים ומצמיחים את האירוס;
אהובתי בבואה לחֵינם באותה מידה שהם משקפים את השמיים בין הדשאים.

II.
הסערה היתה נוראית: הרעם הרעים לאורך הלילה; הברקים הבהילו;
הרוח נשב מבעד לחלון ונקש על הקירות.
אבל עדיין, אהובתי לחשה לי באוזן ואני לבשתי את המילים שלה כמו תכשיטים.
נח בזרועותיה בעוד השדות בשקיקה שותים, הנקיקים היבשים במים מתוקים מתמלאים.
בחסות החושך אני נמשך אל אהובתי ובאור היא אפילו עוד יותר מופלאה:
היא גבעול גנציאן סגול הנמצא במפתיע בפאתי הערבה.
נשר חג מעל האורנים ושיחי שרביט הזהב הצהובים; אני יודע שאהובתי עלי חושבת.
המחשבה על אהובתי מקלה על המשא שלי בעוד אני עומל לעשות אל ביתה את דרכי:
נשיקותיה, מתוקות מאוכמניות טריות, מעוררות השראה באיצטרובלים להתעלות מעלה אל רקיע;
ליטופיה כוח נונתים לליבנה, לצפצפה, למייפל, לאלון אבל גם לעשב.

III.
אני מחזיק את אהובתי; היא מחזיקה אותי. למדתי אותה בערבה, באיריס, בחוח:
פרושים, גדרונים וסכבים ניזונים ובמקלטה חיים, ככה אהובתי מאכילה ועלי מגנה.
שיבולת השועל נחרשה, עובדה ואוחסנה לימות החורף.
אהובתי אלי ניגשה ולי באוזן לוחשת; היא מגלה עצמה בעבורי.
האווזים מתאספים וקוראים, עפים מעל העצים, באגם נוחתים:
אהובתי נאנחת והאווזים רוכנים; הצפצפה נאנחת ואהובתי רוכנת לעברי.
נשיקותיה בונות את המקדש; אהבתה אוחזת בי ואני מחלים:
אהובתי שייכת לי ואני לה. היא מצביעה לעבר הפרחים לצד הדרך:
פעמונים קטנים לבנים, חצוצרות זעירות כחולות; מברשות, מטפסים; אני לא מכיר את כל השמות.
אהובתי יודעת את שמות הפרחים; היא לוחשת לי אותם; אני אותה מחבק.

—מיכאל דקל

תרגום לעברית: גילי חיימוביץ’
2018©

Hebrew translation by Gili Haimovich
©2018


The English original was published in Midwest / Mid-East
and in Diogen pro kultura magazin / pro culture magazine.

Crossing the Great Divide

Arctic Desert at the Trig
Photo: John Anstie

In reading that word – sustainability – cradling the head of our current Guide Dog puppy in my hands, her deeply pleading eyes looking up at me, I am reminded that this word not only describes what we at The BeZine – and indeed many, many more people around the world – more commonly come to understand of its meaning.

I have hitherto thought of sustainability as the fundamental process, nay philosophy, that needs to be adopted in order for the Earth to continue providing for all the life that inhabits it. But it also reflects human behaviour; it expects a certain attitude; it assumes that an essential ingredient to the achievement of a sustainable World is that the human beings, who inhabit the Earth become determined to adopt a way of life that is … well, sustainable!

It is an unfortunate character of the human condition that it is not until we lose someone that we become much more conscious of their value to our own life. It seems, whilst they are still around, that we prefer to focus more on their faults and shortcomings than on their virtues and strengths. We are even more prepared to abuse or betray their trust, than to respect them. So too, our Mother Earth.

As I regularly drive the roads around us, particularly the lanes of the beautiful countryside that surrounds us here in Yorkshire, I am reminded also of one of those human faults, anxiety, and of all the consequences of that condition: stress, impatience, fear, anger, aggression, depression. All too often, when I glance in my rear view mirror, I see another car race up behind me and sit so close to my rear bumper that I can’t see their number plate; at speeds and in situations in which it would be lunacy to contemplate overtaking. It is as if they are tempting me to yield, give in, pull over into a ditch and let them pass … and claim me as another victim! It isn’t necessarily that, I know, but it feels like that and, even in my advancing years, with the wisdom and insight of the road that I’ve gained in fifty years of driving, along with lowered testosterone levels, I sometimes feel like retaliating … and we all know how that could turn out.

The Dalai Lama it was, who attributed anxiety or agitation as the root of all conflict in the World. There is no doubt that he is right. Yes, I hear the academics, anthropologists, psychologists and any number of other -ologists, state the obvious, that Darwinian principles of evolution and survival in the animal kingdoms, of which human is one, dictate this behaviour. Our base instincts are therefore not to respect any forms of life outside our own sphere, outside our immediate survival zone; to consider them a threat to our survival.

… Really?

We are beyond this, surely, aren’t we? Can’t we exert more control over our behaviours, or are we simply hopeless victims of our own psyche; our individual intractable personality. For many in the Western World, the need to survive, to subsist on what our local environment can provide us, has long since turned into higher and higher material expectations. Each generation starts with more, but wants still more than the previous generation. Our survival instincts have turned into greed; at the expence of those on the margins, particularly in the overexploited so-called Third World. Are these expectations a consequence of some out of control unconscious driving forces within us, or could we re-educate ourselves. I believe the answer for some, sadly, is ‘no’. For others it would be ‘yes’.

I contend that the World could continue to support all life, even with its currently burgeoning (human) population. If only we were able to overcome our unreasonable expectations, there is one overriding benefit that could accrue from vanquishing our own greed … we could begin to feel what it is like to live with less poverty in the world, and less debt; less personal debt; less corporate debt; less national debt. Currently the only way Western governments can see to pay off the latter, is growth, economic growth, which has become the unquestioned Demi-God of economic and political policy objectives; growth is, I believe, a largely misunderstood, overused and abused tool of political rhetoric. This is, unfortunately, a vicious circle. I’ve heard growth described as a means of servicing our national debt. Long term, this does not make economic sense and surely cannot be sustainable!

So, what are we to do? Save more? Conserve our resources, however modest they may be? Adjust our expectations and those of our children? Their generation and the ones that follow, will otherwise only continue this roller coaster of a suicidal ride into debt and debt slavery; a World in which the super wealthy few have more and more control over the increasingly debt-ridden many. Freedom from debt, however you achieve it, whatever the cost to your expectations, your dreams, has to provide the way to a more sustainable World, and …

It. Is. Liberating.

Otherwise, our greatest and only means of survival, our patient and beautiful Mother Earth, will expel us, rich and poor, forever, and no-one will inherit anything! Space exploration to find a new life sustaining planet somewhere out there in the vastness, is pure fantasy … and vanity!

What can be done to reduce your anxiety? A starting point for me is to have a hug with your best friend, be they human … or puppy dog.

IMG_0098
Photo: Barbara Anstie. Creative edit: Dave Anstie

The Great Divide

Crossing the great divide
between the dark age
and a brave new world,
sailing from the safety
of knowing your place
into uncharted waters.
In a deep and sickly swell,
an ocean of uncertainty,
struggling to recall
the purpose of the mission
for control of life, of lives,
and death by ownership.

From a certain time when
the have-nots had not
to one in which they have
a chance to trade their life
for aspiration, for riches,
for stuff and things,
for dukes and knights,
for castles and kings,
in suits that shine
with lights and bling,
but didn’t see the price
they’d have to pay.

Rivers flow with mighty force,
and carry away the memory
in a flood of whys, for what
and where will this all end?
Where are we now,
where will we be …

may be Utopia, the place of dreams
that while away our wild ambitious schemes?

We fail, as long as we can feel the pain
of having less than someone else’s gain.

Or we, by virtue of the coin’s toss,
have more by far than someone else’s loss.

~~~~

© 2018 John Anstie

All rights reserved

Dreams of Wolf Creek, Kansas

The Wolf River, Kansas by Albert Bierstadt, c. 1859

I sometimes dream of eastern Kansas,
in those days before the wars,
when the white men fought each other
to be the right men behind the doors,
deciding the lives of men red and black,
to remain the preeminent beast,
over this land he said God was his alone,
from the left coast to the east.

I think of the man in the village,
sitting on the bluff above Wolf Creek,
and how once he ruled wherever he stood,
a wandering Pawnee being anything but meek.
And I know his time is passing,
his wandering no more his choice.
Soon the white man will fight everyone
over the black man who still had no voice.

In my dream the lodges moved westward,
if they ever moved at all.
Because illness, greed and the great lord God
seemingly turned on the Pawnee, Otoe and Kaw.
And that’s why I dream of eastern Kansas
in those days before the wars,
because a native man might still call his own
his land, his freedom and his lores.

Free-write rhyming thing, an exercise I tried to get the juices flowing. For whatever reason, the name William Stafford and the words “Lawrence, Kansas” kept clanging in my head. I searched for some art that might help stimulate some creative spark and found that picture by Albert Bierstadt of Wolf River in Kansas, circa 1859. Then I let loose the reins and my claybank muse cantered me here.

© 2018, Joseph Hesch

Moon Child

Once in a while you excel yourself.
Are you blue, because we thought no more of you
as the driving force for life on Earth
or potency behind the waves of bitches and whelps
Thrilling moments … or contemplative
of a thriving, muddy, salty, riverine universe of life
waiting for you to draw the pelagic
covers repeatedly over the fruits of sustenance.

A force of nature, fully formed
yet so much smaller than the mother of your birth,
you hold sway, in countless ways
you touch our lives and drive us through our days.
Humble, unassuming, even unnoticed
by those who hurtle, mindlessly, and make no time
for the wisdom of our insignificance
or feel the difference between our age and yours.

As necessity tramples over truth
most days, we hide in fear of the darkening,
of the madness that ensues.
Does not the hunter choose your waning dark
to spike the nervous memory,
and remind us of the untamed wolf pack?
We may not ever tame you
but your mother is dying a slow and painful death.

Oh super blood blue moon,
does not your God and our God sing the same tune?

© 2018 John Anstie

Sunday

Walking home from church.

Like seeing the sun rise
over the week ahead,
mind full of penitence,
a righteous child, wrapped
in reverential warmth and
a sense of duty fulfilled.

That place of comfort,
as short lived as chocolate,
such pleasure lies in this;
some selfless, priceless
kind of self-indulgence
in your own kind of God.

Who can resist that path
to an easier peace where,
one day a week, the ad-man
cannot get to you; where
you miss nothing; where
those urges play no part.

Where has Sunday gone?

© 2018 John Anstie

Obligations

Palestinian heart beats
in an Israeli chest
You, o my brother,
O you, Habibi!

The surgeon holds hearts in his hands
one in his left, one in his right
both drenched in blood

Two hearts weigh exactly the same:
priceless beyond measure: a tangled root,
a debt that cannot be paid

Palestinian heart beats in an Israeli chest
and the Israeli weeps: will he ever be able to
look a Palestinian in the eyes

the same way again?
Will he ever be freed
from the obligation of brotherhood?

Palestinian heart beats
in an Israeli chest
You, o my brother,
O you, Habibi!

© 2018, Wendy Brown-Baez

A Taste of Honey

A Taste of Honey

It is sweet to take a breath and say yes
and it is sweet to know that children are growing

in the dark and will be brought to light in time
to cancel death’s bitter bite. It is sweet waking up safe

and sure, unafraid of what the day might
bring, such as hunger and no food to be gleaned

or thirst and no clean water. Or three hours
allotted to race the rubbled streets in search of

groceries or news of kinsmen. The icy fear
of not knowing where the next bomb will land,

who is next to be buried. It is sweet to drink gourmet
coffee in the welcomed rain, warm hands

on the cup. When you bite into an apple, it
fills your mouth just as it did your ancestors’

hundreds of years ago when they prayed
for you to come in honor of their vision.

It is sweet to take a breath
and say yes and sweeter still to hear the echo

of that yes in the eyes you meet, the smiles
you pass on the street that keep tugging

on your insides while the world has its
flirtation with pain. It is sweet to stand

in the rain and no longer feel
that there are only tears.

© 2018, Wendy Brown-Baez

A Poem for Oliver

A Poem for Oliver

Rocking next to the Christmas
tree, the child in my arms sleeps.
Colored lights slide over his face, our peace
as reverent as if we knelt in church.

Let his breath come even and soft, let him
fidget, held beyond waking and dreams.
Let his brightness never fade, let him be wild
as the stars slung across the sky.

Let him reap the fruits of love. In his tiny hand
sugar cookies leave a sticky sweet.
I think carefully on this world he has
entered. The TV tells me all

I need to know of grief: shattered homes
from last month’s storm, gunshots ring
out in bloodied streets, foreclosure notices point at
where a family once lived, moved on to some other sorrow.

But snuggled safe, this child knows
neither hunger nor fear. The worst that has
happened is a tumble and a pinched thumb, a brother
leaving him behind a shut door.

I intend to keep it that way but we can’t keep him
from life. His heart will be broken—he will lose
and be lost, cry with rage and pity. But with
his brightness around him I pray it is not too soon,
nor lasts any longer than he can bear.

© 2018, Wendy Brown-Baez

Finding

“Where can I find peace and happiness?
It’s not where it was last time.”

And

“I found this empty can of loneliness
Buried among the full cans of energy.
Somebody must have supped it
Then put it back.”

And

“I want the fresh bread of life but all you’ve got are out of date.”
“It’s still ok to eat, Sir. This is “best before”.

And

“This crisp packet of comfort just split open.”
“I’ll put that here, love. Go and get another one.”

© 2018, Paul Brookes

Luck, Blind and Veiled

with mocking hand,
to danger and doubt
tha sets up the overpraised.

Never have prizes
obtained calm peace,
care on care weighs
them down, an

fresh storms vex their souls.
Great kingdoms drahn
by their own weight,
an luck gives way ‘neath
burden of herself.

Sails preggers with favouring breezes
fear blasts too strongly;
tower which rears its head
in the clouds is brayed by rain.

Whatever Luck raises up,
she lifts but to bring down.
Modest outlook has longer life.

Happy them as is content
with common lot,
with safe breeze
hug shore, and, afeard

to trust their skiff
to bigger sea,
with modest oar

© 2018, Paul Brookes

Yon Dream Cross Had

Al tell thee best dream av ad
in any midneet while folk were fast on
a sees a reet cross tree,
a ghoast in plated gold
ringed by shiny moon fascinator,
jewels like worth summat glow worms
rahnd base, five more ont cross beam.
Throngs o’ God’s angels tacked on it. This were no scam artists cross but every heaven spirit and earth folk had peepers on it: a see universe agog

And me, aware of wrong doing,
that native wood-beetle, eyed it too
felt a shiver of glory
from that cross barkskin beaten gold
wi jewels suited a cross a Jesus
and tha knows through all that gold barkskin
rattled folks bloodless yammering
how bleeding as stained crosses rightside.
Harrard an horrored
a that sullied wi leaked blood.

a lay there yonks
in agog sorrow fort Saviourcross
till me lug oyles heard glimmering cross pipe up:
“Ages since, I fetch back I were hacked
dahn at holt-edge, lugged off, hauled
shoulder heaved, squared top on a hill
adsed to a cross to carry wrong doers.
Then I see Christ, his balls ready fort hoisting. For us there’s no flitting, no shirking on God’s mind to: I might a fell on these folks. Then
God himsen, med himsen naked, to naked balls,
laid on us afore throngs of eyes
when saving on folks flitted in his bonce.
A shuddered at his touch, afeard splintering,
A had hold, I were raised as a cross,
hold heaven king high, afeard cracking. They tapped dark iron in us: scars tha still can see,
A cannot bear ’em stroked. They jeered at both on us. A felt his blood seep from his side
as he sighed himsen upards.

Av seen pain on this hill
saw Christ as on vicious rack
then roilin’ storm clouds, death to sunblaze,
covered o’er that blaze on God: a glowering gloom creation’s sorta: Christ on cross tree.
A see folk come forard, a felt splintered
as if added, but gev ne sen.
I were in their dannies, gore-wet, nail gashed.
They laid him art, a dead-weight atter ordeal,
final knackeredness. Then afore
murderers peepers, those folk mrd
a stone oyle and set Christ inside it.
Then late int day flitted knackered : left
Christ by himsen.

Long atter soldier’s lottery natter and cold rigor on Christ’s limbs,
us kept our places, drahned wi blood.
Then they sets to
felling us,
bury us in delved grahned, but disciples, friends fahned us…
put on us barkskin o’ gold an silver.

so nar tha knows, how sorra warped
me flesh, how malice worked with spintering iron. Now it’s time for earth foak and whole marvel on creation to cow eye this sign.
God-son were racked on us, so now ma glimmerin’ haunts heavens, can heal
all who afeard for us. Am honoured
by Christ above all forest trees as God favoured Mary above all women folk.’

Then by mesen, thrilled, me spirit high, let mesen rave that I can seek what a av seen,
saviour-cross: a peace with mesen that yearns a help on earth. Few mates still livin’ nar : most are int manor on heaven, av fetched upards. Now, daily, I listen art
fort cross-tree in my earthly nappin’,
to lead us from this flitting life
into great manor of heaven
where God has set a right feast.

May God-Son and Ghost be mates,
who were nailed to death for folk ages since :
a saviour as gin us life,
that we may put wood int oyle in heaven.

time for the temple whores to sleep with insanity

800px-castle_bravo_blast


does it bloom, this horror,
from my nonEuropean roots
from the scent of cinnamon in my blood?
the brown and yellow tinges of my skin?
or is it just your old soul and mine and
this intuition we share on the ground
of one another’s battles, witness the fuming
anger feeding disenchantment in the street
and the acquisitive tendencies of the elite,
cowardly saber-rattling, cut off from authority,
from that innate expressively honest power
of our erotic selves, our instinctive selves,
the non-rational knowing that embodies
strength, nothing weak or pornographic
in its expression, a profound antithesis
to the pornography of war and hate that,
in the end, is about impotence, about the
emboli of narrow minds, grasping oligarchs
fomenting tribal dissents for their own ends
or dropping bombs like a child bangs pots –
to overwhelm the fear of thunder, a game
of chicken, of the hawk-hawk play toward
a mutually assured destruction . . .

just a matter of time 

as we stand the ground of one another’s
battles where peace would be revolutionary and
the unholy alliance of wealth and fear-mongering
might burn itself out, find its way into justice,
but here we are, once again, in thrall to the
sociopaths that have us bloodied and bound ~
their eyes are the aged face of clockwork orange,
numb to the obscenities of maim and murder …
where is the will of the cup to overcome
the sword? time for the temple whores to
sleep with insanity and take the war out of it

© 2017, poem, Jamie Dedes; Photo credit ~ July 9, 1956 nuclear weapon test on Enewetak Atoll, an image of the National Nuclear Security Administration and as such in the public domain

Peace in the house…

Peace in the house, A–Z
an incomplete guide

 

Average the
costs
contained in
conflicted—
me;

brave the
challenges
chanced by
characterizing as human—
them;

consider
another
analogy
announcing—
I

decide
altogether
all people could be,
altruistically—
we;

eviscerate
guilt
guile
grand schemes of—
us;

forget
everything
everyone
ever told—
you—

generically and
specifically this, a
species of
spelled out—
our

historically
transfigured
transfixed
transferred—
other,

(those)

ischemic
stories
stuttering to a
stop—
we

join
together
today not
tomorrow to change—
ourselves;

knowing
nothing,
no longer
noting—
I;

lingering
longingly
looking
lost—
we

make
connections
contacting
considerations, again—
we…

nested in:
not us,
not them,
nothing more than
seeing the tear

(in someone
else’s eye).

Opening
crying eyes
almost,
finding—
them;

possibly
possibility
potentiality
probability—
peace;

questions
forming
to know,
not to tear
down;

restoring
connections
lost
to fear;
then

saying
what comes
from hearts
broken
un-broken,

they
offer
a slice
something almost
broken open,

undulating
sweet tastes
of light
promising—
they;

view
us as
we view us
and we view
them

with
similar
intent
to build—
us;

xylophone
bell tones
singing
together—
we;

yearn
for this
peace
to be—
our;

(reality)

zeniths—
like lemon
and orange—
sweet and sour
all together.

—Michael Dickel ©2018


Abecedarian
Related to acrostic, a poem in which the first letter of each line or stanza follows sequentially through the alphabet.

The Poetry Foundation

Peace Conceit

Peace Conceit

וַיִּנָּ֣חֶם יְהוָ֔ה כִּֽי־עָשָׂ֥ה אֶת־הָֽאָדָ֖ם בָּאָ֑רֶץ וַיִּתְעַצֵּ֖ב אֶל־לִבּֽוֹ׃

And then G-d regretted
that G-d had made man on earth,
and G-d’s heart was saddened.

—Bereishit (Gen.) 6:9–13

…neither joy, nor love, nor light,
Nor certitude, nor peace, nor help for pain
—Matthew Arnold, Dover Beach

On this dark morn, while we sit by
where gulls are heard, the boats asway,
swells rising high on trembling bay,
I yearn to say— please touch my hand,
caress this old frame, kiss me again.

But no voice stirred. So, in cold storms
two faces cast gazes where form ends.
Masks fly for bait to make hearts sigh.
For conversation, we seek words
that toss olive twigs as bread for birds.

Pleas out of phase— touch me again,
kiss my old shame, caress my hands.
No reply justifies tumbling waves,
foghorn echoes, our souls’ dismay.
No warmth wraps us. The last doves’ve died.

—Michael Dickel ©2018


In the positive sense, a conceit originally referred to an extended metaphor with a complex logic that governs a poetic passage or entire poem. By juxtaposing, usurping and manipulating images and ideas in surprising ways, a conceit invites the reader into a more sophisticated understanding of an object of comparison. Wikipedia

Less conventional, more esoteric associations characterize the metaphysical conceit. John Donne and other so-called metaphysical poets used conceits to fuse the sensory and the abstract, trading on the element of surprise and unlikeness to hold the reader’s attention.The Poetry Foundation


 

She Was So Pretty When We Were Young


I knew her when I was younger,
she’d smile at me every morning
when we’d stand up in class and
talk to the flag and the cross.
She was so pretty then, adventurous
and friendly, the Supermodel-in-training.
She helped all the kids, even new ones
transferred in from other neighborhoods.
But some big kids mistook her friendliness,
for weakness, twisting it into some
unspoken promise of a good ol’ time.
They used her in indulgent perversions
of power and possession.

When we got older, those big kids
corrupted her, trotted her around, showed her off,
gave her a new face, new boobs, new persona.
My friend became so addled by all
of their push, prod and promises that,
in the end, she’d do whatever the big guys said,
even nod hollow-eyed when they lied about her.
I barely recognized her in her obit t’other day.
You may have missed it, being so busy
doing what they let you think you want to do.
I’m told they laid her next to her mom,
who men used, debased and scarred until
she was unrecognizable, too.

I wrote most of this poem, originally titled “Liberty Has Fallen,” almost four years ago. I based it on my friend Kellie Elmore’s prompt of a picture called Fall of Liberty, which I think was something like the one illustrating this marginally updated version. In four years, not much has changed. Maybe just the volume’s turned up.

© 2014, Joseph Hesch

Why Do You Love to Hate Me

My elder brother, why do you love to hate me,
Neither am I a boxer or a punching bag,
Yesterday was just about a mere comment that graduated into a serious conflict,
Must we fight to showcase might,
Why don’t we just sit down and reason like men and not just big boys,
I fighting back from slavery to bring peace home.

Sister, why do quarrel over quagmire questions,
Must we agree on everything for us to live harmoniously together,
Don’t we have to disagree in order to learn from the wiser,
Then why do we fight over opinions and errors that can be corrected,
I am rowing too hard to bring our big brother peace back home.

Dad, I miss mum fulfilling presence,
The ugly squabbles have drowned the beautiful love,
Our age refuses to buy into your exchanges,
Please don’t shout over over our heads,
I can’t stand my parents fighting in the 21st century,
Please go sell all your treasures and buy peace and then sleep in peace,
With tranquility of freshness blowing gently on your home.
Oh, what is sweeter than sweet peace of mind and soul overshadowing the struggles of life.

© 2018, Agufa Kivuya

Rest Now, Rest

Your face is a map
of all the wars
you ever fought,
physical, mental,
against others,
against yourself.

You think those lines
might have softened
when your heart ceased.

You think you might
have had some peace
then, some peace,
you would think,

some peace,
I would hope,
if your splintered life
had not disproved the possibility
of its existence.

© 2018, Edward Lee

The Never Ending Fall

There is no calmness quite like it,
its warmth caressing
your tumultuously tumbling mind,
a damp cloth on a fevered forehead.

All the white noise behind your eyes
suddenly ceases
with the decision made,
the route mapped,
the end in sight,

The end of it all,
an unholy trinity
of pain, noise,
despair,
all done,
gone,
as you will be gone,
nothing of you left
but the body you once inhabited
and the memories
alive in the minds
of those
who didn’t really know you
after all.

© 2018, Edward Lee

We Interrupt Your Regularly Scheduled Programming

Any one of us
could change the world,
simply by turning to the stranger beside us
and saying hello;

a stranger could become a friend,
a silence a sound,
a gesture a levelling
of these walls we build around ourselves,
creating our own narrow worlds
within the greater, wider world.

We, humans,
all of us human,
need only one world,
as big as it needs to be,
while as small as the distance
between us and a stranger,
not these millions of unideal worlds,
noiselessly colliding with each other,
fragments of ourselves
lost forever.

© 2018, Edward Lee

anthem . . .

still we sing
give peace a chance
still
the young die
for
the ghosts
under
old men’s beds
and for
flag draped
corporate greed
once
our voices
were strong
and
could be heard
throughout a generation
our arms
were linked
for
human dignity
but
time
has eroded
the bedrock
of
our song
and
death
has pried
our arms apart
so
many
of us
stand alone
repeating
those words
as if
the dead
will rise
if we but
only
say
our life’s mantra
for
every
life lost
to
the lust
for
domination
oh
we have sung
these words
so
very long

 

A Regiment of Leaves

A regiment of leaves dry, dull, dark, dead,
Flying, flapping, fluttering in the wind,
Rustling, rattling, flattering, sputtering
And a small piece of advice stuttering
About how once they were so vividly green,
Glittering, glistening, ah what a scene!
They were so excited to have eavesdropped
To the the secret of love and never stopped
Until they dropped dead like shot down birds
Or buffalloes or any hunted herds.
Yet I don’t lament their fall and absence
For next spring they’ll come back to existence.
They’ll come back as green as ever again,
Canopies to cover the naked plain.
Oh those young regiments who won’t come back,
Confined before time in graves cold and dark,
Sent to fight in futile wars and battles
And got killed in everlasting struggles.
They won’t be seen next spring or any spring,
They’re gone forever but the pains still sting.

© 2018, Osama Massarwa

Bloody Revolutions

Hemmed in on all sides, left and right closing like a vise.
When the gauntlet is thrown down, you better think twice
about your plan for freedom, because they’ll strike you down.
Violence births violence, it all comes around.

Venezuela and Cuba are examples of this, how a people downtrodden
take the party’s whips, until fed up with utopia, they push back and are killed
for party, for community, for unity, ideological blood spills…

Hemmed in on all sides, left and right closing like a vise.
When the gauntlet is thrown down, you better think twice
about your plan for freedom, because they’ll strike you down.
Violence births violence, it all comes around.

American values are shipped the word round, we infiltrate cultures,
raze them to the ground, then rebuild in our image, a slow-bleeding wound…

Hemmed in on all sides, left and right closing like a vise.
When the gauntlet is thrown down, you better think twice…

-© 2018, Joshua Medsker

~ The Edge After ~

Photo by Yasin Akgul/AFP/Getty Images – Guardian.com under a Creative Open License

When war is your “normal”,
How do you find peace?
Is it the breaths between bombs,
When the dust motes circle,
Sparkling in sun beams?
Is it the silence of the dead,
The lack
Of thudding thunder,
Or bloodied wonder of whistling
Missles overhead?
Is it as simple as securing
A safe path through the tumbled
Rubble of what used to be your school?
Is it found in the tiny, yellow flowers
Heads bobbing in the breezes
In the middle
Of a minefield?
Is it the warm comfort
Of a hot meal on nights
When you dared to light a fire?
Is it the softly repeated prayers,
Whispered balms for a tired mind?

When war is your “normal”,
You find peace in the small things,
In quiet moments of reprieve —
Of “not war”.
The kinds of punctuated pauses
That had no drumbeat,
No percussion,
“Before”.
When war is your “normal”,
It is hard to remember
That there ever was a
“Before”.

 © 2018, Corina Ravenscraft

 

Peace

We all have heard the moral
That one should always be honest
Because honesty is rewarded.
Yes! We all should be like
That honest woodcutter
In the story ‘The Woodcutter and the Axe’.
But is it only about rewards?
Is it only about getting a silver axe?
A golden axe?
Honesty is not about getting more
Or receiving the best.
It has more to do
With our character
Being our true selves and
That which helps us find
Peace within ourselves.
Sky
When I look at the sky
I don’t think about its vastness
Nor the changing colours.
I only think how I can
Climb so high
How I can touch it
With my own hands
How I can colour it
With my own painting brush.

© 2018, Sravani Singampalli

Gesture

The marchers rally behind him.
His left hand flashes a peace sign.
The right brandishes
a sign like a sword:
“War is Fascism
Fascism is War.”
A reporter asks a
question. He sidesteps.
Instead he parodies
the President:
“Without peace
there is no security.”
That night he pulls into his parking lot.
A Lincoln straddles two spaces,
including his.
The street lamp illuminates
a Trump Pence bumper sticker.
He keys the Republican’s car.

Her bumper sticker proclaims:
“Visualize world peace,”
which should surprise no one
who sees her driving the
tie-dyed Tesla with
peace sign on the hood.
At the Elemental Fern
a waitress spills a latte down
her $500 Reformation coat.
She rattles the table with her fist
Screams for the manager,
demands the waitress’ dismissal,
abandons her check.
No tip.

“The peace of the Lord,” he says
as he clasps the hands of the couple
in the next pew. “Peace of the Lord,”
he repeats to the grandmother and
the soldier and the smoker with
nicotine stains enveloping her hands.
In a moment he will lead
a reading from Isaiah,
“They will beat their
swords into plowshares,
their spears into pruning hooks;
nation shall not lift up
sword against nation,
neither shall they learn war.”
His wife stayed home,
unwilling to show off
the black eye and bruises
adorning her cheek.

We demand peace from nations
but ignore the
consuming rage
within.

© 2018, poem and illustration, Phillip T. Stephens

III

III.

Is this World War Three

are we destined to stay apart

regardless of the peacemakers

and the efforts of the meek

to spread giving as a

worthwhile commodity

Will the pain be daily

these unexpected jolts

of molten fear

followed by losses

we cannot afford–

this is not something

we saved up for

Will children grow up questioning

if there is any point

in following dreams

or is there a way to keep

God’s peace close, and hope

as an option, instead of a

faraway fantasy

© 2018, Pleasant Street

A Tale of Two Cities

(Raanana, October 9, 2015)

It was the blessed of cities
It was the cursed of cities,
A city located halfway between heaven and earth
And a city halfway between earth and hell,
A city where stones are cool and soft
From evening breezes and countless feet
A city where stones are hot with blood
And sharp with crashing down on heads,
A city purchased with the blood of David
From Jebusites for more than it was worth,
A city worth more today than the blood of all our children,
One city’s Mount Moriah where Isaac was bound for sacrifice
Another’s Al-Masjid al-Aqsa where Mohammed ascended,
A city protected by youthful soldiers
And a city defiled by youthful soldiers,
Jerusalem the capital of Israel
And al-Quds the capital of Palestine
But in truth the capital of no earthly nation,
A city twice destroyed
A city indestructible,
A city about which everything said is true
And one about which nothing said is true.

© 2018, Mike Stone

On a Passage from the Mishna

….(Raanana, November 17, 2017)

It is written that whoever saves a life
It’s as though he saved a world
And whoever snuffs out a life
It’s as though he snuffed out a world,
And why is that?
It’s because that when we walk
We walk with an entire world in front of us
And we walk with a whole world behind us
On either side of us
Above and below us
So we are six worlds saved or destroyed
And who can know from whence will come the savior
How he’ll look or what he’ll do,
So whoever saves a life
It’s as though he saved himself
And whoever kills a life
It’s as though he killed himself.

Note:
The fourth chapter of the Mishnaic tractate of Sanhedrin “whoever destroys a single life … is considered … to have destroyed the whole world and whoever saves a single life … is considered … to have saved the whole world” sometime prior to 250 A.D.

© 2017, Mike Stone

News from the Front: Guernica Is Draped

“Shortly before Colin Powell’s February 5th 2003 UN Security Council fraudulent power point presentation – where he made the case for invading Iraq – UN officials, at US request, placed a curtain over the tapestry of Picasso’s Guernica, located at the entrance to the Security Council’s chambers. As a TV backdrop, the anti-war mural would contradict the Secretary of State’s case for war in Iraq.” Saul Landau, from “Fallujah, the 21st Century Guernica”

in the formal glass & steel palace
of power, Guernica is infamously
draped so power and its plans will not be embarrassed
by all those inconvenient very famous screams
or by that equally famous walleyed pall of death, suspended
in the air like a steel claw
over Guernica

the wild-eyed horse’s famous scream is draped, his long
teeth are draped, the famous one-eyed man looking wide-
eyed up into his own tiny but also very famous
death is draped, and the big wheel of pain
is draped, and the shame we ought to carry like
a ball and chain is draped and the god of unintended
consequences who steady dogs the gods of war with bad
dreams of futures, unforeseen, is draped, is draped
is also draped

and who or what will carry that scream, always,
already further into our memory because
our memory is now draped and our memory alone
is the true habitation and the secret name
of that horse, his teeth, that one-eyed
man, that claw diving down on us from
a sky, torn and dark, and that long, and for-now,
very famous scream

(This poem was formerly published by the Sonoma County Peace Press (Feb/Mar 2014, Vol29 #1)

© 2018, John Sullivan

A Taste for the Juicy Zobo-Blood

I
After fuddled in thought,
Around 12 a.m.,
In the serene night
I depleted my thought
Which was flitting through my mind.
My thought I proffered no ears
But nature reasoned with me.
When depleted,
It was just like a cannikin tipsy with water
And then disgorged.

II
Night piggybacked me
Decoying me to drift off
And letting me not to take to heart
The scene of dratted, bloody war –
Which my eyes caught
In the placid gyring screen
(Men were moved to war)

III
What stirred men to bloody war ?
What impelled men to gyre in war ?
In the serenity perception of mind
Heart will proffer them answer
After the taste of juicy ZOBO-BLOOD
Running spill from their heart.

© 2018, Martins Tomisin

Steal a Glance at the Sky

Look!
Hey, look up
see the sun sitting still on the cloudy sky
flaring on the days of worry
and slitting through the sky;
eyeballing on the earth
with a beautiful smile
and then gyring on the placid sky

Look!
Hey, look up,
the sun is still sitting still on the sky
as the cloudburst withdrew
like a bat that must flinch In flinch
from the morning-rosette.
Look,
all you who draw hot tears
from its sad face
all you who draw sword
against your neighbour
all you who feed fat on bloody wars.
Look at the gyring sun;
sunny, while rain drizzled the earth
and unmoved by the cloudburst:
It glisters all day in serenity
and bring harvest to men.

© 2018, Martins Tomisin

Reluctant Immigrant

Reluctant Immigrant

“Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to be free, the wretched refuse of your teeming shore. Send these, the homeless, tempest tossed to me, I lift my lamp beside the golden door.” Emma Lazarus

Plaintive song sung in childhood, beloved melody that touched my heart,
Often tired, sometimes wretched, always poor, though not homeless

Before I understood the words, I knew the yearning
to belong, to fit in, to be accepted—we were outsiders

Immigrated to the west, escaped, searching for a better life
I left family behind, severed ties for years, survived

He was forced to flee the genocide, board the boat,
Fighting his friends to go to his wife and child, already dead, they said

Landed in New York, no English, cooked for men like him in the hostel
Once a proud Armenian, now a conquered, bereft, shamed man

Reluctant immigrant to a strange land, mourning his home, far away
Arranged second marriage, nine children born on a farm, a life lived, survived

Trauma lived and re-lived, DNA passed down the generations, his story lost
No golden doors for him, just a desire to blend in…and forget

Grandfather to father, father to daughter, I stop the cycle of abuse
Exiles that no God, no Lady Liberty could return home, sheltered here

Safe now, loved, loving others, a good life carved out of pain and shame
He survived that 1915 holocaust, I am, we are, his legacy, immigrants yet.

© 2018, Lisa Ashley

Refugees Rule Each

Nation. The seat of power
is one that must travel.

If it was to ever stop
the populace would revolt.

Folk who stay in one place
are a public nuisance

who don’t get rid of their own
trash, who have a reputation

as thieves from the greater majority
who are travellers. Stayers

Put pressure on others as they insist
on a place to put down roots,

occupy a piece of land when all
land is in common to be used by all.

Stayers cordon off land with fences
which restrict travel and onward journey.

From A World Where (Nixes Mate Press, 2017)

© 2017, Paul Brookes

Our Edge

Each time it is a border,
an end of the road,
a new building,
where I am asked same questions
“What’s your name?
Where are you going?
Why?”

I am discovering my story,
remembering where I have
been, but I recall it as
a
border,
an end of the road,
a new building,
where I am asked same questions
“What’s your name?
Where are you going?
Why?”

© 2018, Paul Brookes

My Daddy

Each time it is a border,
an end of the road,
a new building,
where I am asked same questions
“What’s your name?
Where are you going?
Why?”

I am discovering my story,
remembering where I have
been, but I recall it as
a
border,
an end of the road,
a new building,
where I am asked same questions
“What’s your name?
Where are you going?
Why?”

© 2018, Paul Brookes

.. wouldst thou be pm, an abbreviation..

archaic or dialect question, in appropriate. a lowly start

with slight misgivings, i come arrived from the country, an immigrant

here.

if the task came to me unlikely, i should sew profusely. a safe bet in that

something grows decently.

do you know how to stitch a lie, when all about grow honesty? mine was

white last year,

now nothing germinates.

the question is irreverent, no disrespect meant. forgive me, this is the second

time. this time,

i shall stay.

despite my nationality.

© 2018, Sonja Benskin Mesher

. the questionnaire .

is this a mill, or is it a shop,
is it both, when did the looms stop?

twenty years now sir, yet you can see some
working elsewhere.

shall i write it down, all the pattern,
and most of the history? it has different fibres,
yet mainly wool in it.

these are made in yorkshire, the bags are italian,
yet i am from wales, an immigrant they say, yet we
are all from another place originally.

we came from the sea.

so let us move things about.

cloth by cloth.

© 2018, Sonja Benskin Mesher

. another country .

grandma came from malta, or was it

gibraltar, anyhow dad was very dark.

his hair remained so, with help and support.

i came from england to live here with you

#thebear.

also from another country.

i hear there is trouble in the village.

yes. i am scared they will shout

and say go home.

another country.

© 2018, Sonja Benskin Mesher

The Visitor

…..(Raanana, January 10, 2018)

A multiplication table,
Two times two is four,
She could read a multiplication table
And you’d swear it was poetry
But when she’d read you her own poem
It’d sound like her skin was torn from her soul,
Like she’d invented meaning in your mind.
She was a visitor,
She didn’t come from here.

© 2018, Mike Stone

Call of the Whippoorwill

…..(Raanana, January 30, 2018)

O Whippoorwill, O Whippoorwill,
I alone do hear your plaint.
It comes from deep inside my breast,
Would that I could let it out
To fly free singing,
But no such birds exist here
In the promised land.

Note: This poem expresses how I often feel as an American-expat-Israeli-immigrant in Israel.

© 2018, Mike Stone

The Old Colossus

…..((an alternate plaque for our Statue of Liberty))
…..(Raanana, February 16, 2018)

What have I done
What
have
I
done
to warrant these insults and injuries
to our once rich lands,
our once free skies,
and our once clear waters?
You’ve stripped me of my soil,
you’ve fouled my air,
and you’ve diverted and poisoned my waters.
Have you found another land,
another sky,
or another water to love?
Or have you no soul anymore
to love any land,
any sky,
or any lake or river?
Take what you will from me
then leave me alone
and I will recover without you
but what will you do without me?
What
will you
do without
me?

[Note: This poem is addressed, not to fresh-off-the-boat-or-plane immigrants, but to those who have forgotten that they are immigrants and take their country for granted.]

© 2018, Mike Stone

The Partition

Born in Srinagar Kashmir, migrated to adopted country Pakistan in 1950 with my mother and sister..travelling in a refugee convoy, escorted by soldiers crossed the border at Sialkot.

Title: Partition
(Inspired by T S Eliot )

August is the cruelest month, bare branches
Sprouting tiny greens,
life bursting from the lifeless,
A rising,
mixing sorrow of defeat with defiance,
Spring rain drizzles consistently,
snow suddenly surprised us
We stopped in the plains,
leaving the mountains’
Went in half daylight so we should have
Known the path,
and the unknown traversed rarely,
So we should have known the faith,
and the faithful and the Emperors of Ice creams-
Not long ago, when I was a child,
was carried across borders
frightened, slept in a camp for two nights,
-wonder how Mother felt? She never spoke
About those days, then on we
came to Murree Hills, and felt free
And I knew not, was I taking refuge or was it a
New land?
What was left in enemy hands, where
Are the roots that make a family?
Out of the masses who survived who committed
Suicide-you cannot say or guess even for you
Have seen only images and heard only broken voices
Who lost half the thought in trying to forget
Spoke not all-scenes of horror
Heaps of bodies cut and slayed
Blood splattered on trains roads and fields
Death, for a cause? Yet not so or was it?
Many went South, separated, lost, confused-
All said ‘we shall go back, one day’
The Day never came-
And then the beginning of the end-
One by one
Who has seen Spring again, after the Fall
Providence persists prevails
Acceptance and non-acceptance is, what ails
Unreal cities, unreal people, so unlike what
Was expected-
War War War and again War-
When will it end, fear strikes within
Shelter is scarce, fashion abounds and all
Is a show off! Young dead glorified
on the mini screen, what are they dying for
now? Half the barren land, minerals in ranges
The enemy changed and we thought ’this is Right-
People crowd the roads , daily beggars are children
And who said ‘we shall have enough, and peace”
Mountains and Rocks
Mountains are dangerous, no rocks will give
Shelter, there is no water, nor wells
A waste it becomes, filth in the drains overflowing
And the big man’ said’ we have worked hard’
But the mountains will not protect,
Truth is linked , Faith is strong
It will not be long when the Shadow
Will turn to Light and the darkness will go-
Go in the shadow of the mountain
Sit by the stream and clean all
The mind and soul, wash away to the sea
Impurity, or else be prepared to face,
a tsunami, or the jolts and shakes
there is still a chance-look! Be the Dance
not the dancer, in the circle of life
Come to a still point with Nature
Where nothing matters anymore-
Think and feel, help and heal, the needy
Feed the hungry, for I can see-there comes
Someone-keeps close and watches , ever present
Who leads us on unseen and the Third we say
Who helped us –its not our doing but The Mercy
Of The Merciful-
Bow bow bow –pray pray pray…
Welcome love from above , eternal peace will stay

© 2018, Anjum Wasim Dar

Two Lamentations

A Priest’s Lament

 

Labyrinth Digital landscape from photo @2018 Michael Dickel
Labyrinth
Digital landscape from photo
@2018 Michael Dickel

i
Starting from the outside,
the labyrinth’s path moves closer,
further, closer, as it takes a poet
deviously toward the center.

Mosaic patterns, partly broken
by frost, perpetually bloom there.
Gray, mossed-stones line the path—
they frame the wanderer’s flower.

ii
We wandered that desert
for forty years. All we had
for communication were
specially designed tents

built from detailed plans—
each folding floorboard
and floating nail exact—
a cellular plan from God.

iii
That lonely God longed for
our calls, the return of a gift
we could not understand.
We just turned on each other

instead. We hoarded words
into locked arks as though
we owned them or understood
what they meant. We didn’t.

iv
We meant to know more. Ever since,
with poor reception, a limited data plan,
we still pretend we can call God
whenever we want. We pray

for every child shot in school
as though words could unlock
such cruelty. We pray that we
will not long be held responsible.

v
I long for the days before
those instructions were given,
before we built the tabernacle,
before we transformed the tent

to stone on top of a mountain,
before we thought we knew
what God wanted us to do,
before we decided we were priests.


Poem of separation (kodesh, kodesh, kodesh)

 

(vi)
A wandering God longs for us
from outside a forty-year labyrinth,
folding time, returning space, locked
into receiving words that cannot be given.

We thought we knew.

(vii)
On the seventh day, God rested.
We have not seen or heard
Creation since. Our language
overwhelms the world.

We thought we knew.


—Michael Dickel


Poet Tree Labyrinth Digital Landscape @2018 Michael Dickel from photos by Terri Carrion and Michael Dickel
Poet Tree Labyrinth
Digital Landscape @2018 Michael Dickel
from photos @2018 by Terri Carrion and Michael Dickel

This two-poem sequence was written at Lake Jackson, Tallahassee, Florida, during Michael‘s participation in the 100 Thousand Poets for Change Residency Program 2018, in the days following the Marjory Stoneman Douglas High School mass killings in Parkland, Florida. The 100 Thousand Poets for Change organization has planned poetry events as gun violence protests for peace and memorials for Parkland. More information with a schedule can be found here.


 

The No Peace Piece

Birthed in the minds of power-mad men,
Forged in the mouth of a dark thundercloud,
My sole purpose to kill,
I make murder a thrill;
The cause of many
A burial shroud.

A tool of war-mongers and lovers, alike,
Eat bullets, spit fire, life snatched in a flash.
Life of violence,
Ringing silence,
Endless echoes left,
Bereft and shrieking,
After the crash.

Image borrowed from globalwealthprotection.com

Were I not here, you’d find another way,
To kill each other, one by one,
Each day.
Death-bringer, me.
“Equalizer”, I be.
Men, women, children…
None are safe from The Gun.

~ C.L.R. ~ © 2013

First Christmas

for children

It’s white with snow and all is bright
on Christmas night. An image of your little face,
framed in elfin hat, as your eyes, open wide,
reflect the twinkles of a tree-borne star.
In awe we are, in awe you are
at your first site of wonder, magic, mystery.

It swells the very hardest heart
to see the perfect innocence that carries
all our fears and dreams and marries
them to faith and hope and charity
and love, that many fingered hand,
provides and guides you to your history.

A very Happy Christmas, little life.
May all this wonder, all that’s truly good,
be with you forever and without strife.
May love, not things, sustain you, as it should
provide the fuel, the fire inside, slowly
to burn throughout your life, empowering you

To give abundantly in turn.

© 2017, John Anstie

Christmas

Christmas

The night is short like a breath
and long like a cry –
a woman who hard is giving birth of
a day.
A flame, glimmered above water:
one and only,
invisible,
sacred.
Immovable star.
Nothing born in Spirit
passes away.
Neither does it repeat.
The circle is broken –
after the life, a life is coming.
There’s no death.
O, mother – give a birth!

A God’s voice over the dark:
“He was born…”

© 2017, bogpan

Ash and Prayer

summer mornings
my fire
is snuffed.

dream of the spelt and salt
cake I will fire for you

and before you can seek
the future
from the way I burn

clean my fireplace, clear your head
old ash and cinders block gust
makes for poor-burning,
makes for poor-thinking

piled ash in my grate
piled ash in my head
crumbles like walls
from incendiaried homes
in the Blitz

ash up against my fire-bars
makes them overheat
makes you overthink

so they sag and “burn through”
make me virginal
something to focus on

recall collecting ears
of spelt in reaper’s baskets

rake remains of my last fire
the last fire between my temples
so ash falls through my grate
train steam in your nostrils

pick-off the cinders for re-use.

my lightweight dark lumps,
not my powdery un-burnable
pieces of roasted shale.

clear my fire-bars of small cinders,
clear all my ash, clear all the dead,
dry bones out of my head

recall the crush, grind then roast the ears of spelt, yeasty
like a pint of beer

with dry, unfinished paper
cheap-newsprint not glossy magazine-print. screw sheets into rough balls,
packed into this brain space
not too tight, but not too loose.

keep the paper open & crinkly
don’t pack paper into hard nuggets,
make them roughly spherical.

should cover my grate,
with plenty of space to allow gust
to blow away focus these eyes

only one layer, as paper burns down everything on top will drop,
roof falling in around my ears
leave it at a couple of inches

recall preparing the salt,
pound crystals from the brine
from a salt pan in a mortar,
pack and inhale seafret
cut the lump with an iron saw

paper is to ignite the wood (next),
the next thought
only enough,
too much will clog fire-bars
cause stack-collapse

as your paper doesn’t burn well,
stuff a loose sheet under my grate
under my thoughts
light it
stuff sheets underneath
burn them

recall forbidden
reading, books in flame,
memories of things not spoken
discarded ideas

break up my ash with a poker

recall stir of salt and spelt
into carried spring water pure
never touched the ground
into meal that must be rested

my pulped treeflesh
a support for my woodflesh
a flicker of an idea
a first layer of contemplation

WOOD

my thought needs substance
crouched supplicant
to our hearthmind

you can’t light my coal with paper
my wood layer is for coal
as my paper is for wood

layer on my paper
small pieces of wood (kindling)
watch for splinters embedding
in fingers for pain all day
or a heated steel pin to remove.
with care
make a wooden-pallet
a raft of images
on balled up paperwaves
to support the coal
so my imagination flares
as it it burns.

You pray the raft will hold
criss-cross the wood
a cohesive structure
your making of my fireplace,
my head is layered
geology reversed

as paper from trees
dead trees made coal
graduations of image,
thought and idea

When your paper is gone
the raftprayer to hold stays
a mixture of thick and thin
considerations
thin ideas burn easily produce heat,
thick sustains in depth
delights the imaginations coal

The burn

like wood is imagination solidified
sunblaze trapped
build a pile of imagination
on top of your wood-raft
have a nice pile in the middle.

choose pieces too small
air-flow round the head
restricted visuals cannot breathe

choose pieces too big
don’t get enough heat
from the wood to
ignite images properly.

ensure fire-front is removed
for maximum air-flow,
ignite the paper from underneath
ignite heads images underneath

in multiple places –
get as much lit
quickly as possible,
heat will feed between
ignition points

Imagination needs time,
the fire blaze
while wood and paper left,
this cellulose-fuel
heats imagination -fire
to self-sustain

hard images are buried deep
pressured become harder, blacker
used in locomotives and steam ships
pitsweat minehacked proppedimages

soft images are nearer the surface
browner nostalgic soft focus
biscuit tin tender

Imagination produces smoke
and tar
when heated only
when it’s “dried out”
you get the red-hot
carbon fire that makes
imagination so hot.

Recall tar melting on roads
in sunblaze, sticks to soles
coal tar soap photosynthesizes
calls back its days as a plant

onvd your fire is lit poke it gently
to release ash and break-up images
that may have stuck together
through tar production
sticky mind coagulates

arrange cinders around
the edge, add more images
around fires periphery
around minds periphery

do not throw a bucket
of imagination
on a fire, always put a
bit at the edges
or in the middle.

the images are poked
so ash falls through the firebars
so ash fall through the head

lift the burning images
ensure ash is removed
from under the fire bars

imagination needs time to warm up,
don’t smother the fire with cold-images
these will kill the lovely heat,
take longer to burn up.

pile it up around the edges,
when it starts burning:
poke and rake it
into the centre gradually.

divine futures from the way
food thrown on fire decays

how virgin cakes of salt
and spelt bake
towards decay in heat
tongueflicked wild
jig of ideas

before their ashreturn

© 2017, Paul Brookes

From “The Headpoke And Firewedding”

 

#I just wished#

I just wished a handful of shower ,
Pouring down the lawn of my barren heart ;
I just wished a gust of cool wind ,
Blowing through my burning heart ;
I just wished a slender moonshine ,
Reflecting from the sky of my grave heart ;
I just wished the ripple of a little stream ,
Flowing through my droughty heart ;
I just wished a blooming flower ,
In the dry branch of my bosom ;
Whatever I wished might be trifle to you ,
But everything I wished was priceless for me .

© 2017, Kakali DasGhosh

Braid Your Hair with His

God – has many names,
But “Love” is the one that counts
Most aptly “Love is”… “Love”
“Just Love” only, one word
Like…”God” isn’t it?

God – has so many names
Each acts as a veil…
But “Love” is, “Love” only.
So braid your hair with His…
Embrace, lock fingers with His.

His is a tree twining roots…
His is the first branch you perch on…
His is trees-bough at your centre
Your hearts bead is a locket of amber
“The trees name” is “Love.”

© 2017, Mark Heathcote

There Is Music in Silence

I write poems almost daily now
For me, that’s why I was, given life.
So I could drink this beverage
In His, Elysium fields with butterflies
Live my life beside Daylilies & mayflies.

And dance, skate with dragonflies
Sometimes, I can be that unobtrusive
There is music in the silence
Before any lips, are seen in verse
Or thoughts are formed or metered out.

© 2017, Mark Heathcote

Workshop

“Ad Vitam”

You ask

and I say delicious

(that cell/splitting glory that

unfolds until we expire)

angels on fire

come remind us

that this life

is just a prayer

 

we have been

rendezvousing with the dead

in the small hours

they say death is nothing

but a change of clothes

and setting the stage before

the next act

 

we are corpsing

our way

through a comedy hour

so as not to let on

that we are amused

so as not to expose ourselves

as alive

 

while they climb Jacob’s ladder

we drive along the coast and

make waves with

one hand out the window

pushing through air with an open palm

and it is our prayer

(all this living

is just a prayer)

The First Thought Was “Yes”
 

this business of 
creating worlds

comes naturally to

the child who,

in her closeness

to God,

abandons doubt

and boldly fashions

her reality

 

though every authority

in her life
tells her NO

(her mother,
her father,

her teachers,

and peers)

she disregards her

obligation to comply

and makes airplanes out of paper,

castles out of sand,

and wings out of duct tape

and feathers

 

her dreams materialize

before her eyes
in response to

the organization
of her thoughts

thoughts

the focused collation of desire,

the force that precedes
the birth

and arrival
of matter,

the essence that
breathes life into form,

the source that gives
substance
to all we see—

 

the child knows
in her innocence

that she is not
the first thinker

nor is she the most innovative

or original at that—

 

she knows that

consciousness

gave rise
to genesis

that her origins

are ancient

and her inception

sacred

 

inception—

that moment when
every hidden potential

appeared at once

to the pure and settled mind,

when everything
that

would ultimately manifest

revealed its face as a promise

of what could be—

when Peace Beyond Knowing

was once aroused and
invited to react

 

and even the child knows

that its first thought

was Yes 

“Woman, be another god”

Come in like a fool

and let me dance with you.

I might not kiss you yet;

I may never need to.

Melt life’s ice and remember

the hard heart’s only work

is to throb

in this young universe.

 

I had seen you—

you were with ghosts.

But now this self is waking.

Go from your prison

like those gods from hell sky.

Magic may make you

live after all.

 

(This girl’s spirit is kind, I know.

She is quiet like peace.

Some men like to go fast,

but boy, I want her musically.)

 

Woman, watch what you want.

Need less and live frugally.

Sing. Let music put a stop

to your sordid urges.

Some goddess beneath your skin

is shining.

 

Never compare joy to his touch.

Trust that time lifts another

beside you.

Thousands will give their

hearts away

wishing you were theirs.

 

(Look: this life is full.

She should want a true thing.

She should want them all.)

 

Woman, be another god.

Look out on we, the tiny.

Smile at your work,

make your spirit strong, and

come make it lively.

Here, the faithful must

receive time:

 

(We who would be loving.)

 

Some rhythm haunts this day.

This wild cup bleeds over

and you look good in champagne.

Slowly smoke the will of

sacred desiring;

the secret is never needing.

Dance with a child, sister.

We open our hearts to breathe.

 

(We wake universes

and God is blushing.)

© 2017, Julie Henderson

This collection of short poems was composed between 2016-2017 within the University of San Francisco’s Writing MFA program in Poetry.

December Sky

The clouds slide across the sky
like crib sheets being flapped flat
and floating down upon the place
where a child will sleep.
Between them you see the room
colored a blue distinct to winter.
Not so deep as a spring Carolina sky,
nor the chill azure
the northern firmament glows in autumn.
Between the gossamer sheets
waiting to drop their crystalline
whiteness, blooms a blue so bright
you think you might believe
you can see right through it.
But to where? At whom?
Maybe for that child waiting
for his moment to rest upon
man’s simple crib called Faith.

© 2017, poem and photo, Joseph Hesch

Our Better Angels

What if our guardian angels,
our guides to the light,
aren’t as perfect as we hope?
What if they’re merely “good”,
maybe barely adequate,
as winged messengers go?
Perhaps they can get as socked in
by a Blue Norther of Spiritual Woe
as we can. Problem is,
they’re the only angels
we’ve got. It’s not like they can
go to the gym, or get retrained,
or even call out for a temp.

Maybe the angels and I can
pray together for a mighty wind
to blow away these clouds
that beset us.
Miracles do happen.
I’ve been blessed by a few.
And, besides, my angelic friends
went to school with the maître d’
at the Chateau Ciel’s
pearlescent entrance station.
Table for one, please.
Amen…

© 2017, poem, Joseph Hesch; © 2012, photo, Diana Matisz

‘especially in times of dark’

Always
but especially in times of dark,
encroaching space,
my hope alights and leans
on an enduring faith
in the human spirit
and the myriad illumined pockets
of kindness and enlightened thought.
They are as the stars in a night sky:
escape the density of beamed artifice
and they are constant; visible.
For the heart sees what it looks for
as much as does the mind’s lensed eye.

© 2017, Juli [Juxtaposed] (Subject to Change)

Earth Music

I will lead you by the hand to the hushed hum
of the gentle oak, an evening breeze sounding

shivers into leaves, quiet turbulence in the air
and the gravity of sound settling on mossed stone.

I hear its tongue-lick in ivy the way a bat hears
the silhouette of trees, or a whale the shape of its home,

touching the skin like sound braille, tiny neck hairs
startled to its presence; earth music in the trees

and in the stony wind, atoms of light trembling in tiny
dust particles where body-bones separate, flesh disappears.

Between heart-pulse and light’s shadow-touch,
I will lead you to the quiet abundance of silence,

the wide emptying of voiceless things; earth’s pulse,
seamless and somewhere beyond absence.

© 2017, Eithne Lannon

originally published in barehands23 

full circle

one loses
the ability
to
sleep
with
awareness
every
event
and
sound
is magnified
in
the late hours
of
one’s existence
it is then
when
the
pulsing of blood
through
veins
can
be
counted
like
grains of sand
in
an emptying
hour-glass
where
each falling grain
echos
memories
that
replay
the events
of
our life
a life
where
options
were possible
and
paths
were taken
to
where we are
now
aware
seeing
more clearly
the lies
broken promises
and
preprogrammed dreams
of
what life
should be
but
could
never be
so
we lie
in our beds
in
a fetal position
just
before
we
die

© 2017, poem and illustration, Charles W. Martin