Project Tag: poem

A Mirror of Chantilly Lace | Renee Espiru

 

She sees that truth has been manipulated and twisted
suiting no one but the one who engineers it
like clandestine meetings between those who
consider themselves lawmakers wearing their guises
like black widow spiders whose loving opponent
will meet their demise when they are deluded
into believing they meet on equal ground
having something both believe in and that
truth is the foundation on which discussion
is built but their meeting of minds is clouded
by deception a grand design of charismatic nature

She sees that there has become a truth laden
with roads without destination convoluted as much
as the murky waters of polluted lakes and rivers
with whirlpools swirling the masses’ thoughts into
a funnel going ever downward where there is no passage
out and from which no amount of mesh can siphon its’ debris
that consists of life without beauty for when the
mirror is looked upon it consists of an acetate fabric
of which everything appears dim and unclear and that
even Chantilly lace when looked through has wonder but
the important elements are missing as though becoming
a puzzle without any solution so each day is the same

© May 2017 Renee Espriu

This Utmost Truth | Mike Gallagher

 

A solemn gathering – the earnest poets,
philosophers and theologians versed
in weft of word and erudite discourse,
the rudiments of life and death obsessed;
pet theories threshed, pet propositions flashed,
fresh theses so politely sent to bed,
old certainties dispatched with such panache.
And yet, was aught of import really said?

The more that we are shown, the less we see.
Nothing that we have learned is absolute
and reason is but leave to disagree –
gut man has known for long this utmost truth –
just like the ass, the ape, the stupid fly,
survive to sally forth and multiply.
© Mike Gallagher

the merchant of lies | Charles W. Martin

truth buried alive
rings the graveside bell for help
but greed’s songs of joy
hush the safety coffin’s pleas
shylocks dance upon truth’s grave

© 2017, Charles W. Martin

translucent… | Charles W. Martin

lies too often heard
like bread cast upon waters
call us to believe
but evil deeds multiple
benefiting the lair

© 2017, Charles W.Martin

red tipped canes | Charles W. Martin

words
are rarely
clear
they’re more often
translucent
especially
when dealing
with
issues of humanity
no one
wants to be seen
as
a villain
so
the murder
of mothers
is concealed
in
the opaque protection
of
an unborn child
by
a barren minded wanna-be-saint
whose
religious infection
results
in more deaths
than
lifes
but their
cataract vision
of
god’s words
lets them
strike their white cane
of
intolerance
into the womb
on
a defenseless woman
all in the name
of
a god
that does not
have
them
on
the entry list

© 2017, Charles W. Martin

truth for the modern style | Eric Nicholson

 

cowslip
catkin
kingfisher
culled
from a newly minted dictionary
Blackberry a glossy substitute
for juicy blackberries
acid slipping between leaves
of grass
consonants drift
like dandelion seeds
words crumble worlds
like cremated bones

© 2017, Eric Nicholson

Loki’s Pranks | Carolyn O’Connell

 

Fingers click sharing stories that appeal
propelled by entrenched views, comments,
as everyone becomes a journalist
without training or virtue of the past,

when editors checked veracity of
the story and news was slowly proven
before the compliers set the presses;
and families gathered round the radio
to listen to the news in quiet trust of truth.

Fathers would confirm and comment
teaching the children respect and values,
mothers quietly agreed with commentators
who spoke with surety and sense
when interviewing politicians who
spoke with quiet authority and honesty.

But the Joker’s entered all’s seen as if
two saw the same man in a hat, one saw
black the other white. It’s Loki’s pranks,
as he triumphs over truth and honesty.
The cards shuffle and throw up dissent.

Now they interrupt before the questions answered
no information is heard above demanding cackle
leaving the news reinforced by walls of opinion
entrenched by inherited values and beliefs

that people who are different are a danger
and fixed elite are the politicians
who have no care of all that’s treasured
the safety of home and family.

Rising voices cry for clarity, the surety of
work and home, but it fades into economy
as robots; globalization takes over tradition,
they hear the voices promising return to
all that once was familiar typical of country

and turn to those who promise a return
to times of triumph when the truth was known.

© 2017, Carolyn O’Connell

self-migration | Trace Lara Hentz

 

I self.migrate here, from there
I drive unfettered multiple times to multiple states to multiple addresses
I cross unchecked boundaries, through invisible state lines, past fenced farms and gated communities
I am free so I self.relocate here, since I am free to relocate anywhere in America
I bring boxes filled with memories, with enough to rent a storage unit
I arrive unscathed, unhurt, but not exactly state-approved
Does Massachusetts care that I am here?
I self.migrate with papers, with proof, without arrest
I raid my fiancé’s space, his territory, his living room
I marry him, and I marry his identity and my identity and take his name
I register my car, get my driver’s license, and register to vote
Would this happen if I was from Iran, Nigeria or Guatemala and not from Wisconsin?
Does Massachusetts care that I am here?
Does it matter that I am a Connecticut-transplant, a journalist, formerly employed by a tribe?
Cameras pointed at cars would be able to find me eventually
How long will it take for me to become a local? How long?
How many years?
Does Massachusetts care that I am here?
I find descendants here of many generations, of bloodlines not my own
How long before I am questioned?

Trace Lara Hentz, Greenfield ©2017
(written in the BigY parking lot)

ain’t no wonder | Charles W Martin

the brown bag prophet
said
a jury
can watch
a
police video
of
a rogue cop
shooting
an unarmed black man
point
blank
and
the jury
will
argue
for days
about
the validity
of
the evidence
and
then
end up with
a
hung
jury
it’s
no wonder
the current
white house
feels
it can do anything
it wants
and
still maintain
popular support
even
if it kills
a bunch
of
them
point-blank

unconcealed | Charles W Martin

counting names again
names inscribed on marble walls
fallen heroes’ walls
where war’s truth is really found
along with uncounted tears

April Fool

Who’s the fool
I am the fool
I believed in your perfumes
I let myself spellbound by your blossomed trees
Showered by your petals
Tickled by your fresh leaves
Oh, and the tastes of strawberries….
All that boiled in my blood streams new hopes
Allured in my veins new dreams
And like a fool
A lunatic bewitched​ by you
Spring
I fly by your side with new wings

© 2017 Iulia Gherghei

The Burgundy Madonna

Lady, was there always this distance,
this gap of mutual love?

Mixing his colours with holy water,
crushed relics and prayers, was this
what the iconographer perceived
dipping his brush deep into his soul?

Sturdy and capable, your right hand
supports the Child’s bottom,
thumb tip open, pointing away:
‘So, this is it … ’
And the Child perches,
stiff in blue and gold,
his face fitting like a flesh glove
between your cheek and eye,
feet resting delicately together,
onto the twin of that large hand.

There could have been a warmth
but, almost grotesquely,
you hold the figure of a young man:
head, limbs, torso
perfectly proportioned,
his face already written upon.

No infant dribblings,
no soft roundnesses,
no puffy vulnerability
of baby flesh,
no unmapped
innocence.

Was this it? Your eyes stare
at no-one but the painter.
And over decades, centuries,
into how many other eyes
in candlelit churches, hovels,
apartments, palaces, galleries?
So much looking.
Would there have been so much
if there was no way in?

© 2017, Patricia Leighton

Published in ‘Dreamcatcher: Issue 19

Common Ground

1
Check your assumptions at the door
of this Place. If you want them back,
Think twice before you enter.

A young Enrolled Blackfeet, six foot four
Wisdom behind his easy manner. His features,
Asiatic, I would not have guessed
save for his words.

We traded stories, walking through the twilight
of an Upper Midwest town
Life on “the Rez” for him; for me, growing up
in a former Spanish/U.S. colony
in Southeast Asia.

2
Lalo’s passion, rooted in Mexico
and South Texas
It crosses many borders; in its wide embrace
are children from Central America
following the Death Train’s tracks
Indigenous people in this Upper Midwest town
hearts yet bound to the Land
of which they were once a part.

All are Family, blood-ties or no. All are
Community.

3
Suddenly, today,
In deep soul-stretching waters
An epiphany struck me like a wave:
I knew the answer
to a 30-year old question!

In a country spanning the spectrum
from milk white
to brown
to Aboriginal black
I, a lighter-skinned Mestiza, the object of stares.

Was it aspiration in their eyes?
Or, worse yet — servility?
I still can’t quite describe
the looks, the unspoken conclusions
I so resented
But now I know Why.

4
What will you do with your assumptions
when we depart this Place?
I plan to leave a few behind
and travel home lighter.

© 2017 Dorothy Long Parma

dancing toward infinity

spiral galaxy in Constellation, Coma Berenices, 60 million light years from Earth
spiral galaxy in Constellation, Coma Berenices, 60 million light years from Earth

.

each
lively soul
worlds contained
a galaxy of one
our gases, our dust
our gravitational pull
our weak wills
our strong compulsions
our stark shadowlands
our gaudy stars
dancing toward infinity

© 2015 poem, Jamie Dedes (The Poet by Day), All rights reserved

Don’t Let Fall Go – sonnet

.

Don’t sweep the fallen leaves, don’t wipe your tears,
don’t let this autumn pass a dream too soon,
don’t mix the joy of yellow with your fears
that it will fade, however, until noon.
Don’t let the scent of misty dawns go wasted
and let the drizzle soak in tired flow
the dust of summer days, that maybe hasted
so you can also feel the autumn’s glow.
For winter’s frost is nigh, and even nigher
the rust that eats the handle of this door
and swallows flying swiftly ever higher
next spring may not recall us anymore.
So don’t allow the sand to flow too fast –
don’t let your fall beside me be our last.

© 2017, Liliana Negoi

Dreaming of Children

A landscape of memory littered
with pieces of dreams
children that once lived
once laughed
oft times schemed

she sees a house abandoned now
ought times with love filled
each & every birth an
auspicious moment still
& each year

she knows she has been gifted
that any tears shed
were merely a bridge
between yesterdays
& tomorrows albeit

as other mothers cry oceans
of salt filled tears
for children that lived once
without fear in loving arms
with kisses, soft still

their auspicious moment shattered
a broken memory like
shards of glass
now buried descending deep
earth’s grief surpassed

whose sorrow cannot rebuild
houses in ashes smoldering
whose dreams
hold ghostly remnants
pale & fading

where a timeless epitaph remains
of young lives interrupted
photos tinged yellow
touched by death
a noxious poison

thinking of this she turns pages
a book of photographs old
& knows dreams
will still be her comfort
will still unfold

that some mother’s dreaming will
become a vile nightmare
an interloper in sun rays
unwanted slumber
empty days

© April 2017 Renee Espriu

Four Poems by Reuben Woolley

histories

the girl
…………….who danced
the ibis moon  ………….she brings
the story of it all
& this
is the telling

close

& personal ………………my sudden
consent ………….& ……..distance
is full i have
my history here
in the pulse of it all

and this is the saying of it

the dark days
……………………………& my growing
in bones & bodies
& here ………………i’m doing
a telling of it

the legs ……………& mouths ……….. & hearts of it
she dances alphabets
in the crescent fire

& the boat returns the day

* * * *

this
is the telling of it all

there is mud
& reeds ………….. & a boat
in the sky ………..& i
have names for them

the threads of what it is
& what we know ……………..she
danced a world for us

* * * *

in my sinking
sands
………………things
do not occur successively
like gravity
………………..oh ……………then
………………..i’ll get up
………………..& fly

to all my ………..scattered
dependencies

it’s what this ……………..thing
says
when i’m not looking

words
of those hands i haven’t got
just these .……………………poor
counterfeits

hold.…………………………….. separate
like atoms …………………….do not
touch …………….she
……………………….stirs
……………………….the air
the cells are orphans
pointing ………………………further

……………………………………...she is
maker ………. in every outward
move

of that old…………………………. yellow
………………………..crescent

* * * *

…………………………all the rest
is outside
where a feather
…………………………………...is counterweight

the ghosts of real
come solid from shade …………………… they play
on red sand ……………………with a girl
who danced a bird

wings spread & beating
………….the ibis & the girl
she danced a boat
sailing she danced a ragged
book
………………& this
was the telling of it

 

hiraeth

hiraeth: (n) homesickness for a home to which you cannot return, a home which maybe never was; the nostalgia, the yearning, the grief for the lost places of your past – Welsh

give me the sea
for my dotage.i’ll wear it
in shawls / in weeds
…………………………..flowing

i’m rich in reflections
in dark & blue & once
there was a girl
& a song i can’t remember
……………………………the water notes
patient just breathing

* * * *

………………………………..i cannot bleed
sufficient & all my bodies
lie in other countries

let them burst
in all their broken splendour
shining

i clothe my scars
with care
i shall not be revealed

……………………………wear shrouds
walking ………………a perfect space
of death

* * * *

……………………….diving
into deep skies …………….are homes
that do not live
in this my circus
& dark matter

i twitch to distant currents
lost
& permanently delayed
there were so many
…………………………..varied
deaths………………. i know the way

…………………………...all ticking
backwards

* * * *

we bathe in dust
deep.it is
no gentle immersion
……………………………& the sun’s
a yellow ball
……………………………fading
out of a painted sky

wait

for rain
not coming

we fly black flags
upriver …………..watch towers
………………………………………………….fall

distance between

sewing together
every lasting piece
…………………….i make
a rose
……………..on folds
……………..on leaves

here’s a bloodthorn
& the lines.paint
ages / flowers
……………..& faces
everything fades.it is
the nature of dark
glass
……………….reflecting
not silver

…………………..& we’ll dance
a last tango late
……………………………..& lips
tire in substance.just see
the words lie deceiving
…………….like petals
…………….like blood
like smiles on old canvas

those lasting rites

………………………………dry

tides
the weed & rubbers &
…………………………….rusty
spades

& flooded castles
………………………scattered

………………………………….here
a life
in such offering

flowers & broken
stems / the blind
rats

………………………see them
scurry
in shadows in
carcasses of sand

………………………watch them
eat
through dying flesh.pink
& grey & red again
a heartbeat a breathbeat

tick

tock

© 2017, Reuben Woolley

A geography of memories | Reshmi Dutt-Ballerstadt

 

Handwriting

A black file in his study.
Dusty. Faded.
“Parts are brittle,” she cautions.

My very first “letter to the editor”
from Minnesota, April 4, 1990
to the Calcutta Statesman.

The letter of my first arrival in St. Paul.
Handwritten. It’s January.
A picture of me standing
in front of Florence’s 1978 Ford Fairmont.

The letter with my dream
I knew she had died.
I saw her hands, her face like marble,
her deformed left foot — floating.

And then I broke my arm
falling on new ice.
Letters filled with errors
And that letter of becoming     an          American.

A geography of memories
tied with my mother’s discarded hairband,
each neatly placed
inside a plastic folder
that was once blue
or maybe yellow.

until that day

the voice is coming back
the face is coming back
the smell of dampness is coming back
the sound of the dragging blue slippers is coming back
the words of the priest chanting is coming back
the hands holding the white flowers is coming back
the narrow streets are coming back
the lamppost that was never lit is coming back
the Black Diamond Express
the last journey, the old country
the crossings of the seven seas
are            all            coming       back.

Each piece of the mosaic
small and delicate and large
black and white
misshaped and misplaced
are                       all                 coming              back.

A face that now is marked by wrinkles
each thin line marking
the boundaries on a map
are                         all                             coming                           back.

For Sale

Our new house is on the old street
not red but purple,
not huge, but small,
like minds
absent.

New bricks, new floors
new flats, new kitchens,
new grills on windows
like soulless souls
living.

Reshmi Dutt-Ballerstadt

And I don’t know
how to ever
go back
to that house
that was once red.

© 2017, Reshmi Dutt-Ballerstadt