Photo by BP


THREE POEMS BY IRIS BERMAN
-----------------------------------------------
A NEW YORK STORY

In the crowds
Of passengers
Standing in the aisles
Through the noise
Of people sitting on
Cracked plastic seats
Yakking to each other.
And their random
Cell phone chatter
Add to that the clamor from the street
From passers by, and cars whizzing by
As the gears of the bus
Grind and whine
Above all this din, a little girl sings out
Random letters of the alphabet
Oh, the lilting “L’s”, the rolling “R’s”
The hiss of “S”, the crisp movement
Of the tongue as it forms a “T”
She trills a tune so gleefully
Staccato rhythms of the city
Imbedded in those measures
I had forgotten how happy
Language can be
She brought it all back
To me as I sat there listening
To her joyful jabber
As her mother soberly
Speaks to her in Spanish.



ON THE FLUTE PLAYER
PHOTOGRAPH IN “THE
FAMILY OF MAN” BOOK

His flute is a chalice
Splintering into snowflakes
Prodded by the wind
Up, Up, into the sky
Descending again
To form teardrops
As his eyes smile into mine.


THE SPACE BETWEEN THE EARS

I am talking to you
Telling you about my day
I want to tell you more
About how I feel
But your eyes are gazing
At something far away

I am growing old here
Cold here
With you sitting so comfortably
On the sofa
This couch which has become too soft
And compliant over the years

The food I prepare for you
In our cozy kitchen
Has become tasteless.
All the salt and pepper in the world
And the cinnamon and brown sugar
Cannot add enough spice.

Our cheery bedroom
With the flowered wallpaper
(Like when we first met and I
Was the wallflower you came to save)
Has become a chamber filled with dread.

There is even something wrong
In the bathroom
With its faint smell of Lysol and cleaning grit
The toilet constantly gurgles
It heaves and sighs in my own melancholy voice
In wave after wave of watery tears.

I am too tired to call the plumber.
Something is blocked
In the space between the ears
You haven’t heard me for years
My fears have festered log ago
We are no longer much of a pair
With you sitting so easily
On the gracious settee
Thinking nothing is wrong
Between you and me.

Iris Berman is a poet who lives in Brooklyn, New York.

Photo by BP

POEMS BY
JOSÉ CHAVIN PRESSER

© 12/24/08

AN INVISIBLE KISS

Her kiss…written
With a fountain pen
(Empty of ink)
And signed
On the dotted line
By Cupid.

A shipwrecked kiss
Swept out to sea
By the current,
And catapulted
Back to shore by
Fickle, capricious
Waves.

A castaway…left alone
On the burning sand.

Nothing else remains
From that ill-fated voyage:
Nothing, but the roar
Of the sea.

Her lips
Still linger.
Now, only a memory:
A moribund kiss at dusk…

LET’S DANCE WITH THE FISH!

A Salsa dancing salmon, while swimming upstream, saw the following:

A cat dancing with a catfish.

A clown dancing with a clownfish.

A pony dancing with a sea horse.

An angel dancing with an angelfish.

A banana peal dancing with a banana eel.

A carpenter dancing with a hammerhead fish.

A bird dancing with a flying fish.

A fast lover dancing with an octopus.

EL CID dancing with a swordfish.

Fidel dancing with a fiddler crab.

A blue moon dancing with a bluefish,
but that only happens: Once in a blue moon.


A NEW TWIST ON AN OLD TONGUE TWISTER
Everybody knows that
“She sells seashells by the seashore.”

But did you also know that
At the famous Seashore Sushi she saw choosy Susie choosing sushi.

Everybody knows that
“Peter Piper picked a peck of pickled peppers.”

But did you also know that
Piper Peter’s patter pitter caused
the pitter patter of Harry Potter.

I’m sure you’ve asked yourself the following:
“How much wood could a woodchuck chuck
if a woodchuck could chuck wood?”

But have you ever asked yourself:
How much soup could a soupman sip if a soupman could sip soup.


ARS POETICA

I dive
From the highest diving board
Of my mind
Into a sea of words…

Words, whirling on their heads
Words like magnets
Moving at the speed of light,
Colliding with each other,
Exploding at different levels of reality.

Particles of words...inventing new words
Creating new worlds.
No boundaries, or limits or roadblocks to see.

I ride
On the magic carpet of poetry:
A cornucopia overflowing with words.
An extraordinary journey of the mind,

Beyond the horizon...
Beyond the “ne plus ultra” of infinity!

A NEW YORK CITY CABBIE

A New York City cabbie
Accused of being so blabby
Was really very flabby:
An eccentric New York cabbie.

Not only was he flabby,
Not only was he blabby,
This New York City cabbie
Was also very crabby.

He yelled and was obnoxious
Then he took us to the lobby..
The lobby was not shabby!
But throughout the entire trip
This guy, he was so gabby!

What a character this cabbie:
A flabby, blabby, crabby cabbie.
Should I write to Dear Abby?

JOSÉ CHAVIN PRESSER is a member of the JML Poetry Workshop

Photo by BP

11 poems by Pud Houstoun
..........................................................

QUICK GLANCE

A cloud sweeps west at sunset,
a long swirl of soft magenta,
the moon, a silvered curve.

White mist remembers the
light of today, street lamps
glow soft pink on brownstones.

Windows, yellow, follow one
by one down the tree-lined street.


NEWS PHOTO

Mothers, where are you?
Is that your son lying as in
sleep upon that armored tank,
his arm folded to his face, his
hand, if still there be one, his
domed head turned as to breathe.

Did he recall the smiling tears
of those with patriotic pride
who cheered him off to "Hell."
More precious, to the vultures!

Now, despairing sobs;
a medal for his life.
Mothers, where are you?


GRACE CHURCH
..............Bach at Noon
..................Patrick Alan, Organist

Like throbbing waves of the sea pounding rocky cliffs
we are spirited with hope triumphal, being transformed by
the chromatic sounds with Patrick Alan, on the organ in
such passion and dedication to Bach’s genius.


TURN TO THE POET
.......................to Denise Levertov

Words stream like rivers, ocean waves,
sounding waterfalls, of sorrow and joy,
leaves, grasses, thistles grateful to the light

weaving through the changeling rains
floods treasured by the earth, wept,
hungered for with bird song echoing,

a mist rising beyond the unknowing --
in a plea of gentleness.


JULIANA

She’s in my arms, a bundle of sleep,
April born after winter’s thaw,
when buds stir with promise of more,
together we planted a garden to keep.


POEM

meadow wondering
Sky so blue
we tumble into tall grass

...............Frogpond

A FOUNTAIN IS FOREVER

With each gushing jet, I imagine
courtiers and their lovers rising
falling in a ceremonial dance of
glistening mist forever pursuing
grace of life, thriving in a world

to conquer or submit to indignity,
enduring heartfelt losses; being
renewed in a flow of love and
forgiveness. I am drawn beyond
my belief, my insight to wonder

on each gurgling rush, reflecting
the crystal light of this summer day.

SOUND OF WATER

At his touch the keys
become a melodious wash
of tumbling stones, a floss
of seaweed in a swirl of wave.

Chords thunder like breakers,
pebbles and shells strewn along
the sodden sand becoming a
whirlpool of crystal light.

Trill glisten like silvery sand
in a rapid scale runs to a curling
spume of stillness, cry of gull
to hush of dunes.

FELLOW POET

His poems are a deep murmur,
rumbling of sadness, loss with
an attempt to change the past.

There’s a kind of holding back
treasures not quite realized then
or now, a heaviness, a closing-in,

a sense of retreating to a lace
of silence but not yet quieting
enough to withdraw entirely.

No warm light seeps in or would be
welcomed. He carries a burden alone
on a hill that never finds its summit.



WISDOM/ANGUISH

Those scraps of phrases scattered,
bring to justice to form a moment

in time, missing now on a slippery
slope, stashed somewhere yet taunting.

Wisdom if ever there was...
now, to anguish for all things done.

Rush on to the present, forgive losing
treasures, float on the still pond.

Take flight swooping with the
blue heron gracing the meadow, green.


IN WONDER

Sorrow and joy creep upon the stair
we scale attempting to discover
a stasis in out of life, a bond a lover,
losing balance we stand and stare.

PUD HOUSTOUN was a member of the Jefferson Market Poetry Workhop.

.........................................by Pud Houstoun

Pud Houstoun, a long time member of the Jefferson Market Poetry Workshop, passed away. She will be missed by us all. I thought of Pud as a true New York City force of nature. She was indomitable in spirit and energy always going somewhere. An award winning poet and painter. She recently received a coveted POLLACK-KRASNER grant. Her paintings have appeared in many shows and her poems have been in Midwest Poetry Review, Rattapallax,, Token, Acorn, Frogpond, Modern Haiku, Mobius and many others

STILL

A brooding emptiness

under the moon

drawn across the night,

time and tide linger

deep into the dark,

still as ice, broken only

by a sudden embrace.

If you need to contact her next of kin or find out any info regarding a memorial please contact me: Brent Pallas at email: sallap@aol.com

Photo by BP

Callery Pear Tree
.............FOR JENNIFER

Looking down the street toward
the river, under the vaulted ceiling
formed by the green ribs of your
summer growth — seemingly all so very you,
I forgot that mere weeks ago you
were that tough street-wise survivor,
caged trunk, missing limbs
all-weather bark and naked branches
standing alone, defiant,
until your stunning spring debut
your brief exuberant coming out
flush with white blossoms overflowing
to blanket the street, blushing, seductive,
reminded me …
deciduous, changing expressions,
facets of some deeper, hidden essence:
this is who you really are.
Oh, how I love you, Callery Pear.

...............-- W. J. Davidson

W.J. Davidson is a poet and also edits the Westview Poetry Corner Poetry Corner: New Voices

Photo by BP


. WHAT MATTER WE
.......... ...-- Obit' Oh, Amy Thomson --

.............I...ceased; and through the breathless hush
.............That answered me, the far-off rush
.............Of herald wings came whispering
.............Like music down the vibrant string ...
.....................Renascence -- Edna St. Vincent Millay

We saw a shoot of star stuff sky
It lit its candle, up side down high
Forever Mar More sea fluff flies
From Vineyard Haven, go Amy ride

What matter are we all of us
In tale trial trails 0' tears as such
Worset sorrow e'er now ides
Tomorrow Thomson lilac lies


Will 0' the wisp, whippoorwill why?
Yesterday whisperers "dusking tide"
Eternal journey paradise child
"Waiter another" mother of isles
.
"Gee whiz" for sure she speaks still eyes
Oz, Moses, osmoses, cosmostist blue sky ...
.
.............-- E. Kearon Lorenzo.08/18/08

Edward Lorenzo is a member of the JML Poetry Workshop.

Photo by BP

A BAD NIGHT AT POKER

He went out with the boys to play poker
And came home a wounded warrior,
His wallet empty as a quiver,

All its arrows shot
And not a one of them making its mark
He skulked into the bedroom

Looking for love,
More to be held
Than to take me by the force
Of passion, a certain amount of that
Dissipated by a bad run of cards.
.
We slip into bed in the shape
Of a "C", my back to his chest.
How glad I am my warmth comforts him.
How happy I wasn't born
An Amazon woman,
To go to war with a helmet
Flattening my hair,
To have to kill a man with a spear,
Me, who can hardly bear
Slicing a steak.
.
I would have come home
Bent like a bow
In retreat before I had tried.
The only part I would have liked
Was riding on horseback,

Which reminds me,
As soon as he recovers I'll ride him.
His thrust can take the place
Of the conquest
He didn't make last night
When his queens lost
To somebody else's kings.

.......................-- Linda Rothstein

Is a member of the JML Poetry Workshop.

Photo by BP

Who Knows?
I wonder if anyone can really hear me

Are my words just amusing sounds

That beat upon your ear drums

Then bounce among the clouds?

I wonder who can really see me

Where I stand or why
Or if I seem some sort of illusion

A black floater in their eyes

Does anyone realize when I've touched

them
I know they feel it

Cause they move
Or am I like that bump you took

The only evidence an unidentified bruise

I wonder if I'm better off

Making a difference of no significance

Or should I insist on recognition

And chance the sting of indifference?

--Arlene Cassarino

Is a member of the JML POETRY WORKSHOP.

Photo by BP



(A poem in progress)
FROM HIMALAYAN HEIGHTS

I made a friend in India last night
a technical support man as he's called
but Swapan is his given name he said
In Hindi it may well mean Help is Here.

Tell me what your problem is he asked
in a cheery voice yet with authority
is the power off, not query but command
on the phone he seemed right at my side.

This meeting with my Hindi help-mate came
as my newly purchased printer baffled me
though Staples said installing was a breeze
I soon was lost as complex prompts appeared.

I'll take control my new friend volunteered
the tone still friendly but to be obeyed
suddenly from 6 thousand miles away
my cursor moved across the yielding screen.

Without my touch by seeming magic means
with clicks both right and left I don't control
Swapan has gained from Himalayan heights
the printed words required for this poem.


...................-- Lou Gersten 3/25/08

Photo by BP

"PANIC ATTACKS"

No use panicking

.....over money

Just make it

.....over teeth

Take care of those that are left

.....age

Roll with it

.....truth

Deal with it

.....guilt

Forget it

Give yourself

.....some credit

No use panicking

............-- Phyllis Krim

Is a member of the JML Poetry Workshop.

Photo by BP

EMILE ZOLA IN A PHOTOGRAPH

WITH HIS MISTRESS, JEANNE

CIRCA 1900

Gentlewoman
Who knows better than I? Justice
does not rule our lives or the tender

weight of any dream.
At the theatre the zinc candelabrum
imitate the Florentine bronze —

a green deceit.
Act III: The murderer goes free to kill
again and again. The sweetness

on the old prostitute’s lips
is not love but hunger’s unforgiving
touch, a sugary paste she steals

off the café’s plates
as the Fat Man carries her away
into the boulevard’s shadow.

Every life
feeds on itself. The serpent is wise
devouring the head first — a bright

narcotic.
Or does the soul dream? White fragments
of the whole being reefed

in uncertainty,
distrustful of strangers. But do not tell me
the moon’s pale fire

through the curtains
is any less than the white
hats of the bourgeoisie bobbing

like sun-bleached flowers
along the Rue de Clichy. Precise
measurements make a still

life. A pose. A boat.
A mere reflection in the current
watching our children

feed the swans
on the lower lake. Maybe this world
is more than light, than you

Jeanne
unbraiding the long silken breaths
of your hair, than a beggar

breathing warmth
into the cold nest of his hands.
Nothing is as ordinary

as it seems.
In the still lens
of an imperfect world

joy flows, sorrow
is motionless, and there are never
any secrets from the maid.

......................-- Brent Pallas

Is a member of the JML Poetry Workshop.

Photo by BP

Wordsmith
..........for Lorenzo

Not only do you bellows

the fire to fashion
your horseshoes,
but you lock in the gears

and crank up the motor
to make your carousel reel.

The stallions and mares glitter

as they glide up and down
to the magical music you pipe in.

You bid us to jump in the saddle,

dare us to reach for the beckoning

brass ring.
And when we stretch,

and when we grasp it,
we find that tile "brass" is pure gold.

You lament the lapse of your member's

membership in the League of

Whambammers, but take heart-
you won't be dismembered by our

Society of Wordsmiths.
Your status there is completely secure.

And when you set sail from
the Port of Poets on that journey

to the calmest of waters, you
will leave behind a treasure trove

for future catchers
of carousel rings.

Like the best poets, you are

a wordsmith an alchemist

who turns brass into gold.

...................-- Jerry Halpern 10/2007

Is a member of the JML POETRY WORKSHOP.

Photo by BP

AND NOW

Each breath, I wonder, the last ...

I fear to be as the wild flowers

of the field, scattered dry
on the autumn wind, no bird

singing, no one passing by,

no return to a burgeoning
of poppies cherry red, bobbing

on the pond's reflection,

never again a moment of insight

bringing a poem to perfection, or

composing a painting pulsing in

pigment and gesture to fruition ...

Ochre leaves rustle in the evening

breeze, one last hush of bird song as

the sun lies on linear hills, granting

me a deep-breathing sigh of sleep.

.

.............-- PUD HOUSTON

.

Is a member of the JML POETRY WORKSHOP.

PHOTO BY BP

6 POEMS BY HOLLY ROSE DIANE SHAW

The Flower

For a few moments
Glory serendipitous synchronism ­

What am I doing?
What are you doing?
With the gifts we are given?

With our few moments?

Seemingly Seamless

Threads of splendor weaving golden seasons

in and out of one another
spring's lust summer's passions fall's regrets winter's resignations

wearing all glories joys sorrows
until love's threads of time become thoroughly worn out.

Such Brief Kisses - Ours

Don't sweep away
the falling petals fragrant blossoms ­

silken memories of spring.

Sun Appearing

from behind a cloud

shadows of a poet's hand a butterfly

on notebook pages.

Waves of Pigeons

Soaring circling the sky leaving returning
two left behind..... .....catching up ..........slowly
maybe they wanted independence

then realized dancing is better with friends.

Chance

How can this be?

Our lost flower

found elsewhere -
somewhere we have never been!!

..................-- Holly Rose Diane Shaw

Is a member of the JML Poetry Workshop.

Dear Anne Doggett: who just sent me a message via the no-reply response on this blog. For me to get in contact with you I will need an email address. Please send your question to sallap@aol.com for a response.
Thanks
Brent Pallas

Photo by BP


THE RUSE OF FIDEL CASTRO RUZ

Fidel Castro is in the news.
Fidel Castro has the blues'
Cause his revolution failed:
It was nothing but a ruse.

Now he does not get applause.
Instead, all he gets is boos.
The times have changed for Fidel,
And now his ego is bruised.

And the Cuban people suffer
Lack of food and lack of shoes.
Fifty years: "Hammer and Sickle"
Means fifty years of abuse.

So, Fidel, times are-a-changing--
We all heard it on the news.
With so much blood on your hands,
It is you that we accuse.

What goes around comes around.
Now you have to pay your dues,
And if you had hopes of winning:
Instead of winning, you'll lose!

What a phony—Mr. Castro:
Is that you singing the blues?
Now we know all of your tricks:
Fidel Castro is a ruse.

.................-- José Chavin Presser

José Chavin Presser is a member of the JML Poetry Workshop.

Photo by BP


Pebbles Thrown

I cried till all was silent within
My hand extended, yet
Found no offerings –
To rescue and
Bless and
Cleanse my soul.

Only dry scorching sand
Of memories past
Was blowing

Staying in corners of my eyes
Blurring
Blocking vision of
God’s things beautiful,

Except for concerned
Thoughts and opinions
Thrown carelessly at me.

It all settled down at
The bottom of my soul,
As if pebbles thrown
Carelessly into pond,

Creating circles of
Forgiveness and
Forgetfulness for --
Life has to go on.



WINTER SKY

The Moon --
Bleached pale skull of
A man, or something or,
Somebody high above;

Darkness…
So vast and
Engulfing,
Gulping
Intruding
Swallowing all
Of one’s ambitions…, and
Workmanship, and
Life.

Blow off, misplaced
Homeless clouds
Crawling, sliding
Across the night sky,

Leaving a foamy froth of
Boiled over milk-like
Illusion…
Sending one’s thoughts
quickly home –
To warm comfort of
Hot steaming fragrant milk;

But the Sky
Is Dark,
Darkest I have seen
This Winter!

..................-- Nora Glikman

Nora Glikman is a member of the JML Poetry Workshop.

Photo by BP

CHRYSANTHEMUMS

Now, the last chrysanthemums
Are poised on the edge of winter
In a clay pot on the windowsill.

What silent alarm told them
To bloom indoors, away from gardens
In the cool of autumn, the pale sun?

All year they burgeoned green, green.
Then the buds appeared in multitudes
Of lavender and gold – gifts for loss

Of summer – Altruists, how they gave
And gave, flower after flower,
Whether in the open air

In small squares on a city
Street, or in an airless room.
When I see their hot yellows

Circling meager trees along the curb.
I know again what I’ve always known
But seem to have forgotten:

Earth still hangs beneath
These sky-borne hives of stone.
How to thank them for their light

When days grow cold and darken early,
Th sun a blur of its molten self:
Mums who tach me all I need to know

Of blooming, early, or late,
In any earth at all.



DRY RUN

Lying in bed, holding my breath,
Arms crossed on my chest,
I imagine a tag on my big toe,
Jane Doe. I take inventory

Down the length of me. Goodbye
Legs veined like rivers on a map,
Fulcrum of my wheel – pudenda –
Sparsely fuzzed as a peach.

Goodbye breasts that once swung
Like lady apples when I bent
To lover’s work; aureoles pale,
Nipples silent as buzzers someone

Once pressed to let him in.
My eyes cannot see themselves,
But see the other. My head
Must be there on its thin stalk,

A reliquary of memories
Brittle as the finger bone
Of a saint; my voice offering old
Sorrows dark and sweet as fudge.

Dear one – myself – fear not.
This was only a game of death
To practice resurrection.
Now, rise!

-- Gertrude Morris

Gertrude Morris is a member of the JML Poetry Workshop.

Photo by BP



2 POEMS BY WARREN SPRAUVE
............................................................


ANGEL

An angel
Cried for me
Aloed droplets at her feet
Making her way
Toward the break in the clouds
No more
Chances for me

An angel
Cried for me
Her assignment she had to keep
But the last grain began its descent
No more time for me

An angel
Cried for me the tears dried
Her bow arched
And she released


TIAMBER

She clings to my heartbeat
for she still has yet to break way from the warm rhythm of the womb
I wish I could hold her here forever
to far from forever but

One day

I will have to tell her that
All the world is not warm and all the world is not rhythmic
The sky’s not always clear and
Sometime when the rain falls it stings

And one day

I will have to tell her that
No matter how she feels or what she does
some just won’t love you
others will just want to replace you
and if anyone if anyone should ever hurt you
Fire would fill my eyes and

One day

I will have take a step back and let her live her life
let her find her own way and

One day

I will have to leave her and one day
Unable to hold her and
She clings to my heartbeat
For she still has yet to break away from the warm rhythm of the womb
I wish I would hold her here forever
Too far

.........................-- Warren Sprauve

Is a member of the JML Poetry Workshop

Photo by BP

This is a poem by Wendy Cope. I heard her on the BBC recently and surprisingly enjoyed her work. I say surprisingly because it is mostly in rhyme schemes of one form or the other. She is very popular in England and goes after websites that put up her work without permission. She states she makes her living from her verse which is remarkable. Don't come after me Wendy please. I just bought 2 of your books and they sailed over the sea here from England. I really do like her work. Listening to her on the BBC however she sounded quite humorless though her writing is extremely witty.


BEING BORING

If you ask me 'What's new?', I have nothing to say
Except that the garden is growing.
I had a slight cold but it's better today.
I'm content with the way things are going.
Yes, he is the same as he usually is,
Still eating and sleeping and snoring.
I get on with my work. He gets on with his.
I know this is all very boring.

There was drama enough in my turbulent past:
Tears and passion-I've used up a tankful.
No news is good news, and long may it last,
If nothing much happens, I'm thankful.
A happier cabbage you never did see,
My vegetable spirits are soaring.
If you're after excitement, steer well clear of me.
I want to go on being boring.

I don't go to parties. Well, what are they for,
If you don't need to find a new lover?
You drink and you listen and drink a bit more
And you take the next day to recover.
Someone to stay home with was all my desire
And, now that I've found a safe mooring,
I've just one ambition in life: I aspire
To go on and on being boring.

................................-- Wendy Cope

Clicking on her name will take you to a site called THE WANDERING MINSTRALS. A great site for poems.

Photo by BP

Revive Me, Oh Lord

And I Shall be Revived
Renewed
Refreshed
Sustained

By You, and Surely Will
Give it Back, All
You Have Done for me

For my Mother
And Daughter
And Others,
So Many,
So Many…
Countless of Souls

Whispering Your Special
Soothing
Comforting Name
Above all Else, above

The World that’s Blind and
Shallow

But You,
Great, Most
Merciful
Heavenly Creator
Lover of All Doomed, and
Unforgiven

Please,
Care for Us, and
Throw Us not Away

Deliverer King
Lord of Love.

....................-- Nora Glikman

Nora is a member of the JML Poetry Workshop.

Photo by BP

life's a bird's stomach

carrying the fate of raspberries

................-- George Spencer

Is a member of the JML Poetry Workshop currently living in Quito, Ecuador to escape the cold weather perhaps. We are anxious to have you back George.

LOW RENT in Singapore...Photo by BP


2 poems by Ciaran Berry

Tapping In

I go out to the early hill
That's sheened and bristled after rain,
A world made clear, come to standstill
Nothing to goad it toward a change

Or redefine a weather shape
That's stalled between a clear and dull,
That swabs the crack of dawn landscape
In silence, unperturbed and full.

I go out to the rocks above
Those small holdings, scant Carna farms
That learn their owners love and death
Season to season, arm to arm

They break this earth and make it work
These sons of meager acreage,
Primal alchemists of the dirt
They pass their art down as the age.

I go beyond where there are walls
To bog uncut, to common land
Where briars and whins scrab, catch and maul
The flat flesh of the parting hands

That lift them up to let me pass
On further up the soft incline;
They close behind me once unclasped,
Quiver and slowly realign.

I go until I'm beyond view
Between bogholes and further in
Through green fleshed folds that cleanse, renew,
That move as water over skinInto me wavelike, regular,

The bogs low pulse divined and tapped
Fuses blood and mind together,
Feeds famished thoughts on its brown sap,
Lets me within its ancient vein.

...................* scrab - colloquial of scratch

The First Sting

It's the summer of my third year
And I have slipped for once unchecked
Into the fields beyond my bounds

Where my short body will not stretch
Above the wild grass or the stems
Of African daisies where bees,

The season's door to door salesmen,
Alight from stamen to stamen
Bartering, for nectar, pollen

Spores they have extracted from
The yellow flesh of the male plant.
My small arms flap up after them

As my fingers ache to capture all
The things that rise and lurk beyond
The limits of my current reach;

Holding is grasping I have learnt
And I mean to hold everything
In those soft, threshing hands of mine

That careless swat at the loose air
And come back empty as they were
Until the first sting cuts their flesh

To teach them hard a fear of bees
That is lifelong as any fear
That settles on the self in youth.

Ciaran Berry’s first collection of poems, The Sphere of Birds, has been published in North America by Southern Illinois State University Press (as the winner of the Crab Orchard Series in Poetry Open Competition) and in Ireland by Gallery Press. His poem, “Electrocuting an Elephant,” was selected to appear in Best American Poetry 2008 by Charles Wright. Berry lives in New York City. I recently met him at a reading for the new magazine LOW RENT at Lucky Cheng's on the lower East Side of NYC. It was a terrific venue for a reading in the back room while on the other side of the curtains transvestites entertained seated guests. It worked for me. Loved the reading and getting to meet, though briefly, Jason Koo ( poetry editor of LOW RENT) and Ciaran Berry and his companion Hope. And I appreciated the free drink or two. I admire Ciaran's work and LOW RENT is a wonderful new literary magazine that highlights four writers (Fiction and Poetry) in each issue. All the best.

LINK for: Low Rent Online
LINK for THE SPHERE OF BIRDS purchase:
Amazon.ca: The Sphere of Birds: Ciaran Berry: Books

Photo by BP

TWO POEMS by HOLLY ROSE DIANE SHAW

.......................................................................

MY INSISTENT LOVER

Autumn .caresses. nudges

pecks at me

leaves falling .falling .falling

showers of gold whirling .twirling

caught in winds .veils

pushing .pulling .swirling

surrounding landing

in capricious wreaths of joy

around my honored feet.

TENACIOUS

in wild December winds .snow .slush .rain

after most leaves have long let go

stands one vibrant aspen tree

with myriad last green and yellow-green leaves

still holding on .still holding on.

Holly is a member of the JML POETRY WORKSHOP. I know she's not on the internet but I hope she sees this some day.

Photo by BP

WOULD YOU...

Would you abandon me to rust in the rain?
After all the years we spent together,
Would you have me taken
To a forsaken cemetery
Surrounded by wasteland as seen from the train?
Would you abandon me to rust in the rain?
We were friends for a long time
I didn't come cheap
You paid quite a lot for me
And it was years before I was yours
To keep but I kept on running
For you, serving you, taking you
Everywhere you wanted to go
Don't you remember
The beach, the fields flowing by,
The fog in the mountains
In and out of cities and forests and
Parking garages, would you
After all this time together
Abandon me to rust in the rain?
Would you let them take me away
To those forsaken places you see from the train
Row after row of faithful, abandoned companions
Left alone to wait in the dust
And be picked apart for parts.


....................................-- DEBBY DIAZ


Is a member of the JML POETRY WORKSHOP. She will probably hate me for putting this on the blog but I really love this poem. And I did finally spell your name right.

Photo by BP

SUNDAY CROSSWORD

They make it tough. Why the hell

Would I know the ingredients in a sidecar?

That Isaac means laughter?

I don't recall that Isaac was all that funny.

Is it hubris? I did insist on

MARCEAU for mime instead of PIERROT,

ERA for EON, a common error.

Betray for descry instead of DETECT.

Mid-week something falls into place.

Why there Thursday what wasn't last Sunday?

What shuts the door one day

And opens it the next?

And what ribbon of thought,

Threaded through the mind's maze,

Heads to the mot juste while tossing in bed

At four in the morning?

Finally, staring at the bare little squares,

I radomly fit any letters into them at all.

A blank space, an empty space,

Is such an affront.

.....................................-- NORMA NOVAK

Is a member of the JML Poetry Workshop who neither types or goes on the internet but I do hope she sees this one day. It's a fine poem. One of her best.

Photo by BP

Advice for a Young Artist

When you start out, as you soon will, reach
into your backpack and pull out sheets from
pages not obliterated but increased from stiff cardboard in
galleries of what will be left to be drawn later.
Avoid tracing sculptor's contours, nor stretch space, the
solid clay expands museums; sketch only with charcoal for
fear of losing too much, for fear of conceding to
a sharper realism. Nor duplicate imagery.

What is left then for an artist's rendition?
The thinker atop a block of stone, the wall-
to-wall Mexican mural favored over the field painting
en plein air. Is it possible to travel through
the ages? For you only the introverted atop a
balcony of shaded mansions, suffices. The bound soul
of the stretch of the imagination, the Manhattan privacy
that structures the nightmare. Each talk captures that which
cannot be spoken. In an architect's dream, the subverted
symbol, Displayed like a bauble for socialites to get
returns in, and a tapestry of figures to collect modernism.

On a tight precipice, the staleness of clean galleries,
subverts you in a flighty thought, in a spiraling
image, Bid by no one. Who has stolen the
net of conjuring symbols? These are things we cannot
weigh, or huddle by in the fire of perception
our spectatorship, compelled, now, centered in the
silence, stared at within glass encasements.

In it, an art student sits cross-legged, the clean
realized sophistication of fellow artists singles him out, and
with an impressionist's stroke over a wheat field, yellow
strands is all we see of him, who sits unaware.

Be with us, in the corner in the ivy
or if you should fail at your attempt, camp
outside our window in the soundless world of faith,
starving and packing large swathes of color in the
cold world, with all the muses of inspiration.

......................---- Jonathan Andrew Perez

Jonathan Andrew Perez is a young poet I know.

Photo by BP




2 CLOWN POEMS
.............................................................

VILLANELLE FOR A SAD CLOWN

Why is it I'm such a clown:
Humming to the same old tune
Long after the show's shut down.

The crowds are gone but still I dance around.
I shuffle now. My knees are both a ruin.
I cannot stop being such a clown.

My makeup runs. I wear a rumpled gown
I need a bath, a meal, all soon
After the show has been shut down.

My thinking has not at all been sound.
I find that each morning, night or noon
I cannot stop being such clown.

Why didn't I play it straight -- why did I clown?
Why didn't I come to my senses soon
Not long after the show wound down.

Long after the show wound down
I shouldn't still be barking at the moon.
I cannot help being such a clown
Long after the show's shut down.

..............................-- Linda Rothstein

Linda is a member of the JML Poetry Workshop.

.........................................................................................


THE CLOWN’S MOTHER

She’s worried. He’s out again
in his big shoes, confident
as a clear blue sky radiating
bewilderment like the spring sprung.
That little pinch of disregard popping
its red balloon in him. Every habit
of the inappropriate filling his pockets
concealing doves with endless blossoming scarves.
Look at me, he seems to say.
Some inner ball of faith bouncing
at the precipice of every occasion:
birthdays, picnics, elephants lumbering
toward retirement. He always
comes back. She knows this. Safe
as two hands tucked away into pockets.
His big red nose a moon glowing
over the dark and dishes of every moment,
the playlot bullies, the unswept debts,
whatever refuses to budge.
That's when he walks in without a breath
of doubt, slipping on peels of disbelief,
a king in his element, grasping reason
like a squirting rose, a grin drifting
through an angry crowd, juggling saws
with the wings of whatever he touches,
resplendent as a leaf blown in
from the rain, carelessness
dripping off his big floppy shoes.
While all her earthly burdens: the would haves,
could haves, should haves snap and snag
in the wind like just-washed pajamas.

............................ -- Brent Pallas

Brent is a member of the JML Poetry Workshop who couldn't resist putting two clown poems on the blog.

PHOTO by BP


The End of Natasha

Anyone can write good poetry if they apply themselves
sufficiently, or learn to prepare champion dishes that everyone
loathes and despises, but to appreciate a life long in eager
wonder and full expectation of reward in such enterprises, that
is something occurs more rarely.

One assumes, as the Greeks and Egyptians did, that such
bearers of infinite grace will live forever, but Natasha is there
to prove that they were all wrong again -- though it's a pretty
conceit, I'm sure she'd be the first to admit

.....................................--Geoff Leone

Geoff Leone was once a member of the JML Poetry Workshop. He now lives overseas. He contacted me via this blog. Thanks again Geoff.

10 POEMS BY E.F. WEISSLITZ

Let me tell you how I came upon these poems: Last week I received an email from E.F.W.: Someone (e.f.w.) surfing the internet for names had come upon a member's name from the workshop . They then found that person on this Blog and contacted me to forward their email.

They also included a brief note about themselves. It seems E.F.W. is/was a widely published poet. From the poets brief info (publishing history)and initials I was able to figure out who they were. I contacted them and requested more poems. 10 are below. They are all lovely, terrific poems. E.F.Weisslitz has been in The New Yorker, Poetry, The Nation, The Carolina Quarterly, The Beloit Poetry Journal and many other publications and has yet to have a book of her work published. A shame.

.....................................................................................

CURRENTS UNSEEN

A curled leaf moves

swiftly away from the
edge of the pond.

The water is absolutely still.

Thank you, small vessel,
For your gracious lesson...


(Untitled)

These bursting yellow pears I hold,
In burning hands so lately cold,
My quiet autumn day confound;
I feel my fingers pressing round
In quick delight - old thoughts renew...
Ah, who's to say when summer's through?


SECRETS

Not everyone may
hear him,

but you and I know

the moth pleads
with the flame -

Send me away,

Send me away!


(Untitled)

Spring said I will seize you
and it is true
I had to lean back
before the tentacles of green.


MEDITATION

The pine-grove is
filled with snow
and quiet

as Paradise
must be quiet.

You do not
deceive me,
Earthly Beauty,

my pine-grove
is quiet a minute
and the quiet of Paradise
is eternal.


PRANA

Thinned in the fingers
of the wind the leafy
hemisphere is like a
feather drawn between

our own. So closed and
spread and closed again
we see the breathing
of all things.


(Untitled)

If I did not bend
so close, lily of

the valley, how would I know
what is hidden in the

coarser leaf?


CANADA GEESE

I do not know
if they migrated
this way a thousand
years ago or if they
will a thousand years
from now, but they are
still all about always
to me the way they
reach back into my
own years when I
hear them and look
up and see them
and remember they are
on that list of things
we may have nothing
to say about.


AMARYLLIS

You are a fearful guest:

your flamboyance derides
our northern austerity,
your extravagance intimidates
our parsimony; you dominate

the whole room,
snubbing your little
purple cousin -

but, then, your visit here
was forced...


BARNSTORMER

The "airport" was a tan stripe
in a field of grass;

I remember pilot that trip
when you flew low for me
so I could see how the cornfields
were laid out -

Do you remember pilot my friend
how we skimmed the yellow miles
on the wings of an afternoon,

You shouting to me in the sun --
isn't it peaceful here--
isn't it peaceful here?


COSMOLOGY, ANYONE.....Is there really a floor...an endplace...at the bottom of it All -- a rest from strings; waves; black holes; angels on pins; big stuff, little stuff....

......................-- E. F. Weisslitz

Photo by BP

Are you sure, you're not just dizzy...

With all the constant universal spinning

Spinning of different revolutions

While being held

To a great stone ball

Rolling

Grateful for the cushioned atmosphere

Could it be

You think you see clearly

Because we're spinning

So fast

Things stand still?

I think we're all dizzy

try not to get in the way

............................-- Arlene Cassarino

Arlene Cassarino is a member of the JML Poetry Workshop

Photo by BP

RECOVERY

Hyacinth perfumes the air;
a solace longed for. I vision
colors flashing before me;
violet, cobalt, alizarin crimson,

yellow, touching, blending,
scattering in swift brushstrokes,
images emerge from isolation like
flowers flourishing, animals of

the fields on trails of the hunt,
wood ducklings peep, their house
mirrored in the pond where rushes
sweep under the wooden bridge.

A purple martin preys on insects
in the dancing birch tree. With
a red-wing's song I celebrate
working again in my garden.

......................-- Pud Houstoun

Pud Houstoun is a member of the JML Poetry Workshop.

Photo by BP

Oh, my little…

We love the kinglet
and the chickadee
the tufted titmouse,
the quintessential bird,
the plump little bead and butter
of the dime store potter,

Chia Pet ceramist, doll maker,
cartoonist, tchatchke collector,
forgodsake these flyers
have button eyes,
little beaks, tubby bellies like
rubber ducky squeeze toys.

Non-birders titter at titmouse,
I did, but they take peanuts
from your palm, and in their silly
tiaras, stay all year with
the lower middleclass of no
second winter homes.

Kinglets, some with gold crowns,
twist of lemon in a fizzy drink,
are gorging on maroon berries.
I think they had sooo many they
fly in loop de loops, Tweety
Bird bouncing off park benches,

but they'll be heading out
like my best friends with a
fortunate confluence of time,
health & money, and perhaps,
purplest nectar of zaftic salvia,
"a special travelling companion".

Oh well. The feeders are up.
I wonder if there'll be chickadees.

...................-- Mary Orovan

Mary Orovan is a member of Jefferson Market
Poets; she sends hugs to the workshoppers, and
a request for edits, tweeking, tweeting, even. Dah,
get rid of some of the the's, and cut, cut, cut.

Photo by BP

Dan Kelty is a poet I recently read in the NIMROD INTERNATIONAL JOURNAL 29th Annual Awards Issue. The poem TWO WORLDS was a finalist in The Nimrod/Hardman awards for The Pablo Neruda Prize for Poetry. I enjoyed all three of his poems. I was too lazy to type the third. They have a distinctive voice and outlook and perhaps a few too many commas. But I've read them quite a few times with pleasure.


2 POEMS by Dan Kelty
............................................................


TWO WORLDS

And what would you be in the other one?
The same engine, that stick of grass, the
same smoke rising over town? A shadow
in a window, composing itself, outlining
the answers to July, and August
and the entire beguiling season?

What would you step into and how do you
imagine it? Colorful, as flower prints,
or more like a negative with all its secrets
cryptically encoded?
And though you have watched one or two
close friends fade slowly into the August light,
and imagined a hush and a slight swaying,
you think it may also be
loud and garish and unbearable.

But always it must be in August, this entryway,
because August sways and leans its back
on doors, and on the cottonwoods, issuing
its goodbyes day after day, into a light
that has begun to recede from this one.



THIS NOW

Now, with so much behind me, lines and mesh screens,
And the small pools after a rain, their silent wishes
Fading into them like a handful of pebbles;
Now, with this street and this tugging forward,
Train-like, into a succession of mornings,
The promises heaped upon it like coal.

We know, now, placing our bowl of minutes
Before us, that the knock upon the door
Is now, will always be now, and that
We must answer with a wish and a hush
Because this will unfold before us forever:
Verdigris and shimmering.

Photo by BP


sonnet written in an alabama laundramat

laundry grows as stars fall over 'bama;
missing socks, handkerchiefs, half a pajama.
me in line with Downy, Dove, some quarters.
not responsible for clothes with zippers.

the radio preacher shouts out his text
john 12: all sinners brimstone and wild sex
while all those thongs burn out the next dryer,
for the sonnet such incorrect attire.

then's the hard part, the turn circuitous,
this horrible rule, this part confuses us
but while pentameter rules the sonnet
with cliches and textbook rhymes we'll fake it.

the dryer's broken like this quasi-tome;
dripping wet, clothes and verse, shoulda stayed home.

......................................-- George Spencer

George Spencer is a member of the JML Poetry Workshop.

Photo by BP


BLIND DATE

poetry?
his eyebrow lifted
I only read non-fiction

poor fellow
no time to waste
on wondering

gliding across the moon…
migrating with butterflies
to Mexico…

or lingering in
the lives of
other folk

no visions of drifting
on golden leaves
in late October

he cut his meat
into little square pieces
looked up at me ....and smiled

....................... -- Barbara P Gordon

Barbara P Gordon is a member of the JML Poetry Workshop.

Photo by BP


THINKING ABOUT LOSS

Ruthie died
just as the tender green shoots
of spring
thrust into life around her

a flower of a woman
slim and curly-topped
made of goodness
and bubbling laughter

my young cousin
who helped me build cities
of smooth wooden blocks
with arching gates and turrets
when we were young

who held my hand all day
when my father died
a silent affectionate presence
bulwark against my greatest loss

as she fought
for every breath
still marveled at the
beauties of this world

who will hold my hand
against her loss?

...................-- Barbara Gordon


Barbara Gordon is a member of the JML Poetry Workshop.

Photo by BP

ATTITUDE WITH LOVE

Trembling I come to you
Singing weakly my tale of pain
Stumbling over words I can't explain
While you sit and watch me

repeating my one refrain
The one you best tolerate
Hoping that you'll understand
How hard it is to articulate

Knowing that you'll hear me
Still unable to listen
I succumb to our ritual
And assume the position

......................-- Arlene Cassarino

Arlene Cassarino is a member of the JML Poetry Workshop.

TERESA: who wrote a message to my post on Natasha (Tash) Sylvester;
please write to me at my email: sallap@aol.com. My name is Brent Pallas.
I will be putting together a hard cover book with the help of Kathryn of Natasha's poems. If you have any of her poems please send copies of them to me by email or snail mail. It would be greatly appreciated.
THANKS SO MUCH

Photo by BP

SALT WATER BRINE

Mister of the watch, Master of what?
Aweigh ketch a sail to Katmandude
GPS plots and measured knots
Prayer flag regatta, high altitude

All hands come about, refraction fixed
Horizon Venus sun ever verse sexist
Declination minutes units in eunuchs
Mark speed o’er ground, easy each miss

Ne’er sink swim flotillas from depths below boat
Reservoir fathoms rapture, nor’ east west or blow
Poop-deck, down wind open sea-cock
Pink pony poem Paris, call Polaris land lock

Sextant my mirror, lo-cal queue late noon
Dead reckoning parallel, Islamic moon
Chart a way-point, magnetic rose float
Achilles binnacle, nearsighted coast

Outbound downwind, a grounding reef
A sleep with the fishes’ kelp and keep
Bleach sandstone shell, bone crystal shore
Spring tide the storm’sle sky isle weep

Beware lea shore and shallow channels
Sailors in flannels with bell bottom camels

.......................................-- E K Lorenzo
10/16/07

E K Lorenzo is a member of the Jefferson Market Library Poetry Workshop.

Photo by BP

IN MEMORY OF NATASHA SLYVESTER

Natasha was a past member of the Jefferson Market Library Poetry Workshop and a long-time resident of the village. She lived only doorsteps away from the library. A few years ago her interests took her elsewhere. I know she was working on a children's book and other types of fiction. I know she loved Keats (she gave me a book of his sonnets)and George Eliot passionately, a few glasses of wine at dinner, her corner health food store, Martha Stewart, her friends and reading; not necessarily in that order. I last saw her for dinner about a month ago on 13th street and 6th avenue at a restaurant called SPAIN. We had a great time. I know she adored her daughter and her grandchildren and her daughter's husband. She will be missed by all who knew her. And by me. Natasha goodbye.



Photo by BP

AS FROM THE DARKENING GLOOM
A SILVER DOVE

As from the darkening gloom a silver dove
......Upsoars, and darts into the eastern light,
......On pinions that naught moves but pure delight:
So fled thy soul into realms above,
Regions of peace and everlasting love:
......Where happy sprits, crowned with circlets bright
......Of starry beam, and gloriously bedight,
Taste the high joy none but the bless'd can prove
There thou or joinest the immortal quire
......In melodies that even heaven fair
Fill with superior bliss, or, at desire
......Of the omnipotent Father, cleavest the air,
On holy message sent. -- What pleasures higher?
......Wherefore does any grief our joy impair?

..................-- John Keats

........................................................................................


12 Poems by NATASHA SYLVESTER


GROWING UP

Each week I bother to gather wild flowers.
I take my scissors and go into the woods,
Out to the fields and up into the hills,
Sighting a few deer and families of Canada geese.

Each week the wild flowers change:
Orange honeysuckle, blue gentian, pale-pink primrose,
Now spiky purple larkspur or dark brown cat-o-nine tails,
Miniature lemon snapdragons, Queen Anne's lace, and black-eyed Susans.

Each week I bundle them up and set them out
In tall vases and tiny squat, white pots,
Grouped to show each special bloom,
Extremely delicate, fine and spare.

Each week I wonder what their real names are.
My mother would know, I say. I do it for her
she never gathered wild flowers.
Perhaps I do it for myself.
..............................................March 15, 1999

......................................................................................


THE LEGACY

I went to help her pack the many books
ranged by subject in sturdy wooden crates,
retrieved from the streets, tucked along the walls,
under mammoth light-filled artist's windows.

They will go to the city library
to be sold to collectors and students:
philosophical treatises, art books,
the Japanese/English dictionary,

poetry, novels, scientific tracts,
mute proofs of our human development.
We pack and stack and label the cartons,
ignore the solemnity of our loss.

The truckers arrive, leaving the shelves bare,
deleting out friend's lifetime as guardian.
What, ho, to landfall, you silent hailstones,
full-blown and burning deep in our minds.
......................................................................March 2000
......................................................................................


SPRING HARBINGER

the bird is cooing outside the open window today,
its tail dusting the sill.
My darling, I tell it, my darling,
Do not get your hopes up.
You are not invited inside to hide again
on the shelf packed with avian statues:
........The winged Delft candle holder
........The clay spotted "measle" bird
........The brightly painted Mexican pigeons
........The wooden Cape Cod mallard
........The yellow plastic "Woodstock"
losing yourself in the world I control,
escaping into the guest room
as if you had been invited,
shivering in dark corner,
scattering a twirl of feathers and pellets,
ignoring our wall of separation,
........scaring us both.
...........................................................February 28, 2000

......................................................................................


PUSHING MY FUNNY-BUTTON

She makes me laugh
out loud and rolling
holding my battered
....."Daniel Deronda."

Rich, preening Hanliegh Grandcourt
.....aided by his Iago
destroys gorgeous wife Gendolen,
.....squeezing the last drops of greed.

All the while George Eliot
.....the astounding polyglot
supports her lover's hare-brained wife,
.....his legal children not his own.

Just as I think to cry
.....she tobaggons down
Hanleigh's narrow, specious nose,
.....brings Daniel in to shovel.

I wonder how she does it
.....standing way back there
and reaching across the ageless morass:
.....she makes me laugh.
........................................................March 14, 2000
......................................................................

LIKE LOVE

I have a plant with elephant-ear leaves,
soft and pliant, green and shining.
Sometimes I touch it gently.
Sometimes I forget, even starve it.
It will not die.

I marvel at its strength,
its perserverance: new shoots,
relentless, unending but contained.
It transcends its simple pot.
Is this like love, I wonder
.........................................................December 1999

.....................................................................................

JULY FOURTH, MANHATTAN

Second Avenue, a red riverbed
shimmering, stopping
then streaming forth
oblivious of revelers
crowding the FDR Drive
hanging over rooftop parapets.

Erupting in thunderous explosions
that ricochet off concrete and steel
clusters of multi-colors refract
in the skyscraper cave
acting as history’s mirrors
slightly dulling the sharpness, the pain.

At the edge of the night-blue sky
the black water
the glorious and brief display
stretches across centuries
iIn repayment for
the terrible price of birth

........................................................................

MOON TALK

The October cat tiptoes daintily
round the rooftop’s guard rail
a small white autumn ghost
some memory of mordant nights

It stops atop the corner post
surveying the golden sphere
all four feet united in one spot
balancing like a seal on a ball

Ears pricked, it emits a protracted note
drowning the roar of the city’s violence
a deep tone pulled from somewhere
far below the earth’s spurious wraps

Perhaps bereft of too brief mother-love
or saddened by inbred feline wisdom
of denied parenthood, stripped and lost
communing alone with the silent moon

......................................................................

DIRGE

The abandoned dog howls
All day and long into the night
The dog alone tied to the tree

Circling in agony and yowling
Strangling its hind legs
Immobilizing its circuity

All but the path from its larynx
To its chops, parched the pitiful
The lone dog wailing

Leashed to the lolling willow
Its pale leaves swinging silently
In the wan night-time breeze

Only the rudtling of the grass and
The crickets and the dog’s cries
In the quiet shafts of the moon

...........................................................................

WINTER EXPERIENCE

Often with snow
..........I sight the birders
..high over the Hudson
under the stand of cedars
..frost-coated, stately

My dad in his Christ-of-the Andes pose
..........no saint
..no Francis of Assisi
winter birds pause
..........crackling sunflower seeds
nibbling millet from the sleeve of
..his Harris-tweed jacket

As the nuthatch scurries
..........down his trouser
..he turns to my mother
..........the supplicant
his long goofy smile

......................................................................

THE MARRIAGE

The promise is clear
..........no shadings
..no shifting shadows

preserved against time
..........like Manet’s violets
..in a blast of light

Moments proceed
..........in the private
..turbulence of minds

leaving the vow
..........a lingering question:
..What will we see?

.....................................................................


Autumn’s leaves descend
wildly, from glorious heights,
returning to start.

.......................................................................


Short nights, unnoticed,
disapear slowly -- frog songs
replaced by school bells

Photo by BP

Bridge Under Construction

I want
....................to tell you
something
....................if only
I knew
....................what
it is
....................my mind
has become
....................a
slippery slope
....................words
tumble over
....................the edge
language & image
....................collide
on the bridge
...................between right
and left
....................brain
syntax
....................jacknifes
causes a pile-up
....................chaos
there is
....................ink
all over the
....................page
i rubberneck
....................can't help
i'm just
....................passing through

Roses & Refried Brains

roses are red violets are blue
I wanna learn to play the kazoo
doodle loodle loo
buzzabuzzaroo
boomchickieboomchickieboom
BOOMBOOM
l’s kju oiut 9 uiojqa 005 rkoi
joijn ahuep a qoiurt, or
as they say,
khhjwpgj ajh hbalv jka aih!

rosetta stones may break my bones
but language will never hurt me!
HA!

Do you know what jive is?
It’s bogus, man!
Go back to your crib
get down tabula rasa
then tell me what you knew
before your brains got scrambled.

Refried brains. Mmmmmm.
Could use a little salsa . . .

That rhythm section is really
burnin up the kitchen!
Layin down some heavy shit, man.
Boomchickieboom etc.
(You get the idea.)

But, do you get this:
kaujo ou qaiu ipq ioou v oqwoitu, or
as we say in Portuguese,
Eu n„o sei o que eu estou
falando sobre mas È aprovado.*
(and that ain’t avocado, man!)

*I don’t know what I’m saying but it’s okay.

.......................-- Patricia Michael Morimando

Patricia Michael Morimando leads the JML Poetry Workshop.

Photo by BP

season of pain

I search for
good weather of
the body
unrestricted opening
of every day
summer's thick and
salty passions

Remember when
breath was breeze
and in and out was poetry

Pain makes me alive
.............consciousness
how puzzle pieces fit and
are unfit

Oh to be unaware
the glide of walk
swing of arms ..temples
unthrobbing
glorious oblivion,
not knowing that joy

is feeling nothing

One fall
we go from
wonderland to winter

Sink into the pillow
into the space between
the notes of melody

Be still now revel still
......you hear
the music .for you it
still plays

........ -- Mary Orovan

.

Mary Orovan is a member of the JML Poetry Workshop.

Photo by BP

THE HITLER OF IRAN

CAME TO NEW YORK CITY

He came after Yom Kippur.

At the beginning of fall

Spreading his message of hate...

He said: "Tall buildings must fall."

How persistent is your memory?

"Never Again!"-Must Not Be!

I see soft watches are melting

On this Daliesque, old tree.

Instead of leaves, tongues will fall,

While silence is on the rise.

Never drown the voice of freedom,

Or it will mean our demise.

Yes, Hitler, I know who you are,

And I know all of your tricks.

So get ready for the journey:

Your ride on the River Styx.

................-- JOSÉ CHAVIN PRESSER

JOSÉ CHAVIN PRESSER is a member of the JML Poetry Workshop.

Photo by BP....Canal Street NYC

Umbrellas in Storm -1

Split, stretched –as bats’
Skeletal broken wings exposed,
Laying in pools of muddy rainwater
Metal skeletons forsaken-
Of service no more,
Left by roadside
Like fossilized remains
Resurfacing after floods.

Storm-shattered umbrellas,
Drenched wings still flapping,
As those of a moth in
Last moments of life.

Lowered crumpled sails, of
Used-to-be umbrellas --
Going nowhere. They’ve
Been abandoned, discarded, yet --
Not at owners’ will, but
Snatched away,
Accosted by frivolously
Maddening, commanding figure of a storm.

Protective shields from wet invasion were
Stolen, pulled effortlessly out of men’s
Flimsy hands.

Seizing gasps of wind
Inevitably invasive, as if
A giant mouth - gulping, crunching,
Spewing out shambled remains
Dispersed on sidewalks of a city,
Undermining, swallowing passers-by.
Umbrellas – tents of past refuge
Ripped apart, dismembered by
A wild beast of wet rage.

Parachuting umbrellas
Stripped of their frames,
Their substance stretched
To limits, disheveled.
Metal structures pulled apart
As giant knitting needles
Dropped in disarray, as if
An old knitter
Fleeing for her life.


Umbrellas in Storm -2

…And then some others scattered, as
Giant porcupines shoving crooked spears
Into passersby. About them a very
Hungry look, as they seemed to be
Tagging at our sleeves.
Umbrellas’ lonely shadows still
Searching for masters that’ve been.

Walking through a stormy city
Trying not be swept by wind,
It appeared - I was passing the
Cemetery grounds of soggy
Ruined shields of life.
Empty shells lay everywhere,
Breathless, gasping –
Not finding life.
Flesh was stripped from their bones,
Skinned alive, dismembered –
Left to die.

Deflated remains of umbrellas’ souls
Still floating by and around,
Even though tossed aside -
They rise, gathering speed
On volatile mission.

…And so, once upon a time –
As history implies,
The safety-shields
Protecting heads – were
Gratefully respected, their
Sturdy legs persistent and strong
Held high with pride and showmanship,
Paraded in everyone’s sight,
Were viewed as irreplaceable.

They had a life of their own -
Young and old,
Frail and strong.
Senoritas of flowery substance
Flirtatious or shy, with
Long fringed eyelashes swaying
Playfully on their walks.

Umbrellas in Storm -3

The old, wiser carriers’
Umbrellas with heavy rusted legs
Trembling and swaying,
Unsure, insecure they were held
In shaking worn-out hands. Those
Raven-black, enormously big and lopsided,
So scary they appeared.
As if they would collapse at
Any moment, even as
Owners’ weary hearts.

Umbrellas’ souls are in travail
Obligated, chained to hands of men
That led them into service,
Rendering their hearts
And then – discarded.

Slight wounding, reaping of
Flapping parts, as bird’s
Broken wings;
Being accosted by life’s
Mischievous intruder wind,
The future with partner
Overhead is – sharply, speedily
Abbreviated, and
Is - no more.

.................-- Nora Glikman

Nora Glikman is a member of the JML Poetry Workshop.

Photo by BP....New York

LOCAL 32B
(US National Union of Building Service Workers)

The rich are different. Where we have doorknobs,
they have doormen -- like me, a cigar store Indian
on the Upper East side, in polyester, August.
As the tenants tanned in Tenerife and Monaco
I stood beneath Manhattan's leaden light
watching poodle turds bake grey in half an hour.
Another hot one, Mr Rockefeller!
An Irish doorman foresees his death,
waves, and runs to help it with its packages.
Once I got a cab for Pavarotti. No kidding.
No tip either. I stared after him down fifth
and caught him looking after me, then through me,
like Samson, eyeless, at the Philistine chorus --
Yessir, I put the tenor in the vehicle.
And a mighty tight squeeze it was.

.........................-- by Michael Donaghy

Click below to read about Mr Donaghy and hear him reciting his work
Michael Donaghy - Poetry Archive


Was born in Bronx in 1954 His collections include Shibboleth (1988), which won the Whitbread Prize for Poetry and the Geoffrey faber Memorial Prize, Errata (1993) and Conjure (2002). In 1985 he moved to london to work as a teacher and musician. He died in 2004.

Photo by BP....Two Men

2 POEMS BY DONALD JUSTICE
--------------------------------------------------------
UNFLUSHED URINALS
lines written in the Omaha bus station

Seeing them, I recognize the contempt
Some men have for themselves.

This man, for instance, zipping quickly, head turned,
Like a bystander innocent of his own piss.

And here comes one to repair himself at the mirror,
Patting down damp, sparse hairs, suspiciously still black,
Poor bantam cock of a man, jaunty at one a.m., perfumed,
...........Undiscourageable...

O the saintly forbearance of these mirrors!
The acceptingness of the wash bowls, in which we absolve
...........ourselves!


On The Death Of Friends In Childhood

We shall not ever meet them bearded in heaven
Nor sunning themselves among the bald of hell;
If anywhere, in the deserted schoolyard at twilight,
forming a ring, perhaps, or joining hands
In games whose very names we have forgotten.
Come memory, let us seek them there in the shadows.

-- Donald Justice


BELOW click the link for a FREE PDF of his poems.

Free Poetry E-Book:20 poems of Donald Justice


Donald Justice died in August 2004. He was born in Florida in 1925. and for many years was a faculty member at the University of Iowa, where he was connected to its prestigious Writer's Workshop. His poems have only improved with time. Everyone should read Donald Justice.
They are simply lovely, understated and elegant and in the end they will touch you with their loss and their love.

Photo by BP....Little Girl with Stuffed Animal on Her Back

Brash

We curl along the paths
of summer float on
dandelion parachutes
in heating air,
we are hi silly as
Marsh Mallows,
Sunflower brash,

and we don't care,
we are almost bare
in our halter tops
sweat flirting between our breasts
looking for the wild lake
where we bob blue
.........clouds spilling stories,
fantasies
wave as we loft
nipples hard
in the fresh
of water
any every hair
stands &
giggles "alive"
.........in Tiger Lily days.

.................---- Mary Orovan

Mary Orovan is a member of the JML Poetry Workshop.

Photo by BP.....Vertical Blinds

blind joyce

serpentine in dawn boots
my army's uniforms inspected daily
and always hose slip down the shanks
and marching will be random
like love sick girls in exclusive boarding schools.

moe larry and curley will be my generals
will be paid per annum plus piece work
which is fair and ethical since an exact outcome is difficult to measure

we will fight thru pellucid light to dazzling phonemes
for leave to loll loiter long and for and yes to sun
and rivers reflow to sea(son)s new
waves jousting jousle
all forward engine full speed screw-torqued
sped spode spud
new potato on chipped china
sparrows spring make
and malison cliche sideshow the overheard

in the undiscovered country no river vu, no 5 b/r's
glissando into open fields of synapses
untriggered -metered -paginated
where there is no goldbeater's skin

and hot fire unfurls cinnamon buns
the goo asserts itself and life is good

---------------------------------------------------------------

patriarch d duck

Non illegitimi carborundum

Don't let the bastards get you down

..................-- Anonymous.

engels were right the family home is commodified
especially if the patriarchal d duck is part of the deal
with his common daylight reproductive rights
and with him around nature's electricity
barely swells the squash in the vegetable garden.

so for now forget grand schemes and eschatology
we are just peanuts in a circus of giggles
there is no ringmaster or he's drunk
looking for a left-handed monkey wrench
a sky hook an honest man
and this will not end until mama torches winter's house
but remember while we wait
we live in a galled garden
of unlighted plastic flowers
fruit littering the Astro Turf
a snarly little god with a flashlight
writing parking tickets in the underbrush...

..................-- George Spencer

George Spencer is a member of the JML Poetry workshop.