December 2001 | back-issues, fiction, Michael W. Giberson
There is no one such as I…
God’s own juices flow here.
The plain upon which I falter is my hell…
Peace is not an accord,
But a gift discourteously declined.
Why do you ask what I have done?
The past does not suit you, nor me.
Had I been purple at the proper instant,
I would not now be gray.
Seekers whisper wry imaginings
In front of my shoulder blades.
My only sin is distraction;
My only vice, reputation;
My only virtue, absence.
Empathy dances from spire to spire,
Futile cerulean St. Elmo’s fire.
Muse, muse, where are youse?
My lips are pinned I cannot bestir the frost.
My blood is black, my heart a cavern
I cannot fill even with a howl.
You do not feel my kiss on your lips;
I steal your shoes and you bless me.
Grace is a sham and
God is left-handed.
His embrace is less than endocrine,
More than smile.
The passing days are instant.
There is no one such as I….
December 2001 | back-issues, Bill Wunder, poetry
you linger
like morning mist
opaque, tinged violet
in mountains called Morocco
you swarm of bees
noise of a thousand wings
buzz in my head
murmurs or our conversations
you train derailment
crashing
disrupting
morning schedules
colliding
with deadlines
sweet chaos
you life raft
in a needing, wanting sea
December 2001 | back-issues, Bill Wunder, poetry
On my knees,
our familiar rendezvous,
waiting for you
as I always do,
to speak in whispers
only my heart may hear.
Silence.
I know you are here,
your presence is wind
caressing my upturned face.
I await forgiveness,
offering neither reason
nor explanation.
I await boundless joy,
lifting me beyond
a sea of transgression.
I am overwhelmed
by the quiet,
cold abandonment
of a fall from grace.
Whispers From God first appeared in [i]Iguanaland[/i].
December 2001 | back-issues, Bill Wunder, poetry
Tinged silver-blue
by moonbeams,
luminous earth mother
hums with ethereal music.
Her velvet footsteps
pass the spiked fence
of coastal cedars,
solitary sentinels
old as time,
guard the night.
Luna moths,
iridescent ghosts
in magic moonlight
float among fireflies,
a starscape on earth,
fallen on a sleepy meadow.
Mother goddess,
fertile nymph-spirit rests,
bedded down on pillow moss
deliciously fragrant
while angel-fingered fronds
caress her face.
Cicada serenade,
a moondust lullaby
of echoed dreams
envelopes her.
She sighs, sleeping
among ferns, at peace.
Earth Mother first appeared in [i]Literary Potpourri[/i].
December 2001 | back-issues, John Sweet, poetry
august in the
year of blind gods
no one
mentions the starving
and no one pities the weak
and no one thinks to
water the plants
you understand how irrelevant
these facts are
you stand on a boat
on a lake in upstate new york
the sun is a silent glare
the air a fist without mercy
and your wife asks a question
you don’t hear
you turn to her to speak and
what comes out is
(i don’t love you anymore)
clean and simple
and not a cloud in the sky
maybe the small laughter of water
or the sound of your son
playing at your feet
maybe the quiet roar of blood
pounding through
your veins
anything
your hands can hold
suddenly broken beyond
repair
