June 2003 | back-issues, John Sweet, poetry
how many years now
since the war to end all wars
and how many more wars?
how many young girl’s bodies
found in the
deserts of southern california?
how many babies left in dumpsters
or in plastic bags?
and there is my wife
who says that no one wants their
face pressed into this much
pain and ugliness and
i agree
i kiss her
as she falls asleep on a
warm september afternoon
then crawl to my desk to
finish this poem
what i never
thought i’d be was
a junkie
June 2003 | back-issues, John Sweet, poetry
in the cold and almost rain of
a tuesday morning
in the aftermath of
two young boys beaten to death
with grim joy by their mother
money in the slot and then
the sound of your voice
what you say is [i]come home[/i]
what matters aren’t the words
but their weight
the fact that
you mean them despite all
of the pain
how much closer
they bring me to being human
June 2003 | back-issues, John Sweet, poetry
cold wind outside a dark room
and she says this isn’t working
the first week of may
the smell of witches burning
every wall holding up another one
and the way houses grow from
this simple idea
the way windows are broken
or gods diminished
the ones who insist that belief
is not an option but
a necessity
that a home is more than
shelter from the rain
and what she says is
[i]i’m not happy[/i]
and what it is is an accusation
what she says is
[i]i love you
but i don’t know why[/i]
this admission too much
like the
sound of breaking bones
June 2003 | back-issues, poetry
[b]Solitude or Isolation[/b]
Learnt late the truth,
Late was alone
As alone as when
With another
In a dark balcony
Or at a dark dinner,
Candle lit and dim.
Mendacity, the mother virginal,
Mastered the poppies and my life.
At the fine feasts,
Mendacity the host, the servant,
The friend, the lover,
Deserter, betrayer.
At these ballistic banquets
There was not as in Veronese,
A small, spotted dog on paws
Under the tablecloth
To sniff and eat the crumbs.
The cardiac malfunction
Of the reticent, false fable
That is transported in skeleton form
By serrations of the unknown superpower
From frowns and smiles
As the face leaps over the hurtles of love and hate.
The fable fastened on the wedding ring finger,
A promise of a thumb rubbing across a knuckle,
Or the concealed pressing together of ankles.
But the world became a dandelion’s fuzzy, silk seed,
Whirled from no time of designations to a sunrise bud
That unfolded new hours,
Whose undesigned destinations spattered the precedents.
Now the absent dog wags his unseen tail,
And barks friendly.
I have become secure in isolation,
No longer battle the truth.
[b]Let Me Be So[/b]
Let me be so, there are no circles,
Only imperfect chalk and ink sketches
Only awkward imitation on silk,
Algorithmed by allegorists
Who have never been in the bat’s cave
Or been shaped by shadows from the overhead bird
That blocks out the illusory light and five-pointed stars.
Let me be so, what was thought to be infallible,
The cadence of corkscrew, blonde curls,
Is now an anachronism, a coffee table conversation piece,
A midriff out of date, replaced by the gospel of cognac.
Let me be so, alone, let me never hear common words.
[b]Undisturbed Tangerines[/b]
I hold an empty basket.
On its bottom straw, three rain drops.
Each drop quivers,
Reflects on its top, a green dot,
The green
From a leaf above.
People inquire,
“Why do you carry an empty basket
When the basket could be filled
With the tangerines that hang above?”
I reply,
“For three rain drops,
For three rain drops.”
[b]Carpe Diem in July[/b]
The quince
In center of the mints.
Table outdoors,
Morning dewdrops
On quince and mints.
I gaze at the glitter,
A lightning
Without a storm,
But just as
A temporary
And fleeting
As the fall
Of lightning-lit hail.
[b]Ferns and a New Song[/b]
Under my chin,
I feel the fingers of the fern.
Find the oozing waters of the fern’s bog
Have osmosed through my skin
To ooze through and caress my inner body.
My bones and my veins now sing.
by Duane Locke (c)2003
([email]duanelocke [at] netzero [dot] net[/email])
[b]Author’s Notes:[/b]
Duane Locke lives in Tampa, Florida, and has had 4,766 poems published.in print magazines and e zines.
June 2003 | back-issues, Patrick Seth Williams, poetry
Tonight, the Latino grill man sings Kumbaya
while he slops together another hamburger,
as though his singing will rouse God
from his day off and come rescue him…
His faith doesn’t care for history
of field hand strung to trees of the past.
Especially in this town, where the locals
look at him with contempt because
all the plant workers names
end in Gonzales or Hernandez.
And he can’t help it if he knows Spanish
because Mama wanted him to remember
where he came from. Mama who knew
America for its HMO’s and not for homeboys
who’d sit on their porches and watch her pull
clothes from the line while mocking
senorita bonita through beer and Jack Daniels.
Poor Mama, the Virgin Mother can’t save
her son from losing himself to ‘Merica
or losing his life to a farm boy
too ignorant to stop pistoning his fists
when the lil’ Mexican cried out.
I see him slide the burger into a tin foil bag
and call my number, hear him sigh audibly,
as he starts singing, once again
it looks like God’s going to be late.
*** First Published in the [i]Taj Mahal Review[/i]
May 2003 | back-issues, poetry
[b]They Say[/b]
Good poetry is coming
to the point quickly is not
allowing your reader
time to think is making monkey
out of senses is sky with
pepper ducks is stench
of scorpion beetles rocking
on their backs is warthog
singing the blues is mother’s
cooking going well
for once is your reader
suddenly slapping forehead
with hand and saying
damn that is exactly how I feel.
[b]Final Draw[/b]
For forty-eight years my father
matched his luck with SuperEnalotto.
Tuesdays and Fridays he prepared
after-dinner numbers.
His eyes would close in concentration
to receive divine help
behind steepled hands.
One day, he loved to say,
I’ll make my bed on Italian liras.
What he wouldn’t say was he hated
minding cars in a gas station
instead of criminals in a courtroom.
Even now cathetered to
a hospital bed, he pleaded me
to play his numbers for him.
You’ll see, he whispered
as if I was his alibi in murder,
this time I’m going to win,
then you can go back to college.
I turned away in sudden pain.
That was something I’d never do
even for a million gold bars.
Next day I played his card
and waited for the evening draw.
Afterwards I thanked God
that the room he shared with
six mutating patients
was spared of television,
that hospitals close early to visitors.
Next morning one of the nurses
confessed over the phone
that my father had succumbed to sleep.
With caught regret, I feared
he already knew how Saturday night ended.
[b]Manila, 1997[/b]
Here violence smirks from street corners,
sneaks upon you everyday like vipers:
family massacres by drug addicts, gang rapes,
shooting friends over a couple of beers –
the media presents it so coyly.
Like forbidden fruit.
* * *
She rises from bed, squats beside the daily wash
with gnarled hands. A baby wails from a distance.
But she dares not stop it. Her husband would beat her
for interrupting. Better it than her. It knows
nothing yet about sex or violence. Her hands scrub harder.
They feel dirty under all the suds.
But how it wails!
by Arlene Ang (c)2003
([email]aumelesi [at] libero [dot] it[/email])
[b]Author’s Note:[/b] [b]Manila, 1997[/b] was previously published in Perihelion (Premier Issue, June 1998).
[b]Bio:[/b] Arlene Ang lives in Venice, Italy as a freelance translator and web designer. She also edits the Italian Niederngasse. Her poetry has recently appeared in Poet’s Canvas, Scrivener’s Pen, Eclectica, Tryst and tree candles. Recent awards include: Absinthe Literary Review 2002 Eros & Thanatos Prize Winner and Clean Sheets 2003 Poetry Contest 2nd Place Winner. She is the featured writer in the May 2003 issue of Epiphany Magazine.
