September, 2013
World Between Worlds
POSTED IN contemporary poetry September 30, 2013
World Between Worlds
Two lively green eyes
appraise her reflection.
A pretty face is mirrored
in the brass clock dial.
Trapped in time, afloat
inside rainbow bubbles.
She waits for them to burst.
juggles new spheres blown
from her mind.She watches
people frolic in the lake
of fire. Light streams out
from behind locked doors,
but there are no walls.
Past one door a cinder path
leads to the distant hills.
The sky upon the horizon
is a blaze of hot coals,
where clouds billow like smoke.
She sees many doors, no walls.
A blue flame burns bright
reflects on a mirrored door
opens to a walnut davenport.
She pens a poem quick before
raindrops bleed the colours.
I’m thunder and lightning
illumination of man’s spirit
a trigger for Earth to Eden,
a neon positive luminosity.
One who is moved by poetry.
I’m star dust on the road
to destiny, souls map with
heart aflame. A mystic seer
I’m your bolt from the blue,
poet’s third eye. As lemmings
we run to the edge of a cliff,
or we fly to our golden era ?
Gael Bage
Pregnant
POSTED IN contemporary poetry September 29, 2013
Pregnant
Elopes. Pregnant the first week.
Turns eighteen. Glows.
At commencement, her mama’s face
burns, but she is proud to show
the bulge beneath her skirt—
her life-till-now’s work.
The world is her bouquet—
dogwood with ten-penny wounds,
lacy fringe tree, meadowsweet,
morning glory in the hay.
In idle August, she hauls her belly
to the store for a Co-Cola.
The streets under her soles are
soft and hot as pudding.
The heat puddling the blacktop
looks so wet she could mop it up
and wring it into a cup,
but she sees it rise and shimmy
like her one silk blouse on the line.
She faints on Goolsby Street.
Night. He sleeps. Aroused
by heat and thunder, she
fingers the gouge in his cheek
from a knife fight over dice.
She runs her hand over his thighs,
caressing the old wound puckered
by a nail in a loose board.
To him, she’s already Mama.
He’s Daddy to her. She sighs,
My man, all mine.
He turns on his side. His arm rises
like a flag. The hand above her
hovers for hours as he sleeps.
The first week she hardly slept,
afraid of sudden collapse.
Always done it, he swears. But now,
she fears no blow or punch
from his hand that’s clenched
as if it holds dice and cocked
as if about to roll craps.
Stan Absher
The Art of Poetry
POSTED IN classic poetry September 29, 2013
The Art of Poetry
To gaze at a river made of time and water
And remember Time is another river.
To know we stray like a river
and our faces vanish like water.
To feel that waking is another dream
that dreams of not dreaming and that the death
we fear in our bones is the death
that every night we call a dream.
To see in every day and year a symbol
of all the days of man and his years,
and convert the outrage of the years
into a music, a sound, and a symbol.
To see in death a dream, in the sunset
a golden sadness–such is poetry,
humble and immortal, poetry,
returning, like dawn and the sunset.
Sometimes at evening there’s a face
that sees us from the deeps of a mirror.
Art must be that sort of mirror,
disclosing to each of us his face.
They say Ulysses, wearied of wonders,
wept with love on seeing Ithaca,
humble and green. Art is that Ithaca,
a green eternity, not wonders.
Art is endless like a river flowing,
passing, yet remaining, a mirror to the same
inconstant Heraclitus, who is the same
and yet another, like the river flowing.
Mary Ascending
POSTED IN contemporary poetry September 29, 2013
Mary Ascending
Eight couplets for your tale Magdalena
Antognetti, model for the Pilrgim’s Mary,
Infant in your arms, your face in afternoon sun
haloed by whispers: Trysts with Monsignor
Crescenzi, and Cardinal Montalto; shadows
cast by courtesan’s mantle in Corso’s grey hours.
Drowned woman from Tiber risen, so the story’s
told, you return to the living to portray Mary Dead.
Laying your body out, your limbs are washed
with vinegar. But staring at the assembled host
from painted eyes, it’s the countenance of a whore
they recognise, and cover your face with cloth.
Gathered in St Agostini’s floodlit chapel, Nokias
and Leicas now congregate at your feet. Standing tip-toe
at the doorstep, red dress taut against your thigh,
your eyes are upturned, as if you could fly.
Gershon Holtz
Untitled
POSTED IN contemporary poetry September 29, 2013
Untitled
Lone sentinel on Cape Smokey,
rooted in rock hard ground,
dancer in the wind,
guardian of the north Atlantic.
The distant sound of a fog horn
trembling your limbs,
naked to the cold and wet
of this dark island.
Cries of drowning men
captured by your branches,
drawn from your carved body
by the rosin and the bow.
Knowing its place on the mountain,
the lonely spruce
turns and bows
to its partner the wind.
Thomas Hemeon
England’s Rose
POSTED IN contemporary poetry September 23, 2013
England’s Rose
No longer in the first flush
blush red with splashes of cream,
at center a golden heart to draw
the bees. When my spines hook
you, take me tenderly with care
enjoy my honeyed essence.
Petals open wide, drink in sunlight
temptation bids you trace my curves
always a little wild I’ll ramble
tumble around you and flourish
with your support. I rise mature
red and fruitful with rosehips.
Gael Bage
Crafted in Love’s Forest
POSTED IN contemporary poetry September 23, 2013
Crafted in Love’s Forest
Strength and beauty lie naked, urgency
of bodies share in ancient whispers
of understanding. Together they create
notions of love to flow in the void.
They touch peace, each one a desired
being, is crafted from a lifetime’s
tenderness and discovery. The divine’s
reflection on the canvas of their skin.
Animated and yet art-like, they share
that which is universal, yet remain
as one. Each unique, in a secret place
taste life’s incomparable mystery
of soul. Each one plays the other like
like a stradivarius. Hot lips sear lips,
weave meridians of fire, ruby and gold
flames leap higher, explode a supernova,
heavenly bodies fall into a lake of bliss.
Gael Bage
Dead poems
POSTED IN contemporary poetry September 22, 2013
Dead poems
I see the birds of hunger today,
gliding toward me,
headed straight my way.
They cackle and caw and cry for carrion:
meat from the bones of my dead poems.
Garnet Shaw Robbie
The Visit
POSTED IN contemporary poetry September 22, 2013
The Visit
Her eyes sparkle
As she
Takes my arm
And leads me
Through the memory-filled
Museum of History.
“This is the guy
Who writes that column!”
She proclaims.
We are greeted
By smiles, handshakes,
Nods of appreciation.
We sit,
Surrounded by artifacts
Left behind by
Warriors,
Explorers,
Adventurers
Who faced the challenges
Of uncertain futures
With courage, vision,
And conviction.
“People don’t often
Take the time to express
Appreciation,” she explains.
“I like what you write.
You write from the heart,
And there is love
And Truth
In your words.
You don’t know
How many people
Are touched
By what you say,
And I asked you here today
So that you could see
That what you do
Has meaning.”
Phil Ray Jack
Teacher’s Lament
POSTED IN contemporary poetry September 21, 2013
Teacher’s Lament
“If you really loved teaching,” the senator said,
“You’d do it for free.”
I replied, “And if you valued education,
You’d be willing to pay me.”
Our actions show our values.
We spend more
On what’s important to us,
Whether we spend
Time or money.
Teachers are paid
For the time we spend in class,
Not for the hours
We spend preparing,
Grading papers,
Counseling,
Comforting,
Encouraging,
Learning,
Trying to inspire.
That time is spent
Because we love teaching.
“You’d do it for free”
Shows how much
Value is placed on education.
To him, the work we do
Is worth nothing.
Phil Ray Jack
