The rogue state is diseased
United in fear
and delusion of grandeur
An identity of artificial construct
Borders drawn in blood and hate
Symbols and assertions confuse nation with individual,
desire with right,
loyalty with heroism
Obsolete and unaware
the patriot is the enemy of mankind
I hear
scratch of
little dove feet.
I hear peck
of little dove bills
in bird seed basket
on my balcony-
in near silence
on rain-filled
afternoon-
lightning,
thunderstorm
overhead darkness,
cramped up with rage,
holds off a minute
so I may
hear these sounds.
Nothing
more playful
than a gray
moth dancing
– skeleton wings-
and a green-eyed
cat prancing
-paws swatting-
around a
lit kerosene
lamp
-shadow boxing-
and we all
had fun
in the
moonlight
A red rocking chair
abandoned in a field
of freshly cut clover,
rocks back and forth-
squeaks each time
the wind pushes
at its back,
then,
retreats.
April again,
the wind
falls in love with itself
skipping across asphalt
and concrete bare
with the breaking weather.
A rainbow
is half arched,
broken off deep
into the aorta
of the sky.
It hangs
from elastic
rubber bands
of mixed colors
dipped in God’s
inkwell,
airbrushed
by the fingertips
of Michelangelo.
April again,
the wind steps high.
The wind chimes
on the balcony
today,
different
sounds in all
different directions-
my thoughts chase
after them.
I blink, the electricity is off.
The day has brought
night to an end on top of me.
Lamp oil and flashlights save me
from myself.
I walk in darkness.
In this darkness I don’t
see my shadow.
When the wind goes still
cold chills down my spine
don’t feel anymore.
I walk in darkness like this
but I’ve been fooled myself before
at Halloween, fears of April thunderstorms.
April thunderstorms have knocked
the lighting out of me;
pulled the electricity out of my sockets, pulled plugs from my condo.
I lie in bed with only this conversation to keep me company.
I feel like an ice cube insulated
around in my words, looking for images
in shadows, quiet corners.
I creep myself out alone.
Here I lie on my back in bed, think, then try sleep-with ghosts, witches, spiders, devils,
all kinds of nasty things.
Nothing brings Christ out of closed wilderness faster than darkness being alone.
I blink, and electricity is back on.
April, I’ve been fooled like this before.
Watching doves
peck away,
all day long at
a full bowl
of mixed seeds,
out on the balcony
of my condo-
the cat curls
up on the sofa,
after a meager
meal of house flies-
and dreams of
sparrows with
wide soaring
wings.
Wind dancers
dancing to the
willow wind,
leaves swaying
right to left
all day long.
I’m depressed.
Birds hanging on-
bleaching feathers
out into
the sun.
Bio: Michael Lee Johnson is a poet, and freelance writer, Itasca, Illinois, author of The Lost American: From Exile to Freedom, http://www.iuniverse.com/bookstore/book_detail.asp?isbn=0-595-46091-7. He has also published two chapbooks of poetry. He has been published in USA, Canada, New Zealand, Australia, Scotland, Turkey, Fuji, Nigeria, Algeria, Africa, India, United Kingdom, Republic of Sierra Leone, Nepal, Thailand, Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia and Poland, internet radio. He is also publisher and editor of four poetry, flash fiction sites–all presently open for submission:
http://birdsbywindow.blogspot.com/
http://www.poetriclegacy.mysite.com/
http://atendertouch.blogspot.com/
http://wizardsofthewind.blogspot.com/
Author website: http://poetryman.mysite.com/
You in this sepia-toned photograph,
with your arms wide open in greeting,
with your hands held up in surrender.
Edge of highway, corner of house,
hint of something better. A body of water,
maybe, or the back of someone else’s
head.
A gun pulled from inside the
killer’s heart, and he says Mr. Lennon,
then smiles, then pulls the trigger.
No.
I’ve gotten ahead of myself here.
I’m ten years old and in a boat with
my father and two of his friends, and the
engine has died. The tide is going out,
and the only sound is the pull of the
ocean.
The only heat is the
mindless glare of the sun.
I don’t know you yet,
haven’t fallen in love with you,
haven’t let my tongue flicker lightly
across your nipples in a
curtained room.
The story is over,
or is possibly just beginning.
I have the picture, but can never
make out the expression on your face.
by John Sweet
it happens this way sometimes,
where the children die from the poison that
seeps up from underground
you vote for one person or the other,
and the children die, and it’s not war but
business, and both words are actually just
different ways of saying profit
listen
new computers will be given to
the schools as gifts
the sharpened teeth of priests will snap
the bones of young boys in two
what you need to believe in are
rabid dogs
speaking w/ the voices of humans
what we do is use the word political
to describe what we don’t want to
talk about and then, of course,
the children die
the war becomes nothing more than
one more mundane fact of life,
and the men who make money off of
the corpses of every dead soldier,
and that there are others out there
filming your daughters fucking
faceless strangers
that the poem is just a message
handed down from the
throne of god
you will ignore it like all of
the lies you’ve been forced to swallow
in the past, and then it will come
to define you
by John Sweet
1.
~ Basho & Hemingway ~
I ponder several times
over Basho’s Haiku,
“The temple bell stops–
but the sound keeps coming
out of the flowers.” *
I surmise he was
six feet underground when
he heard above sound.
It was for both a contrecoup
for whom the bells tolled.
A sort of ego contredance.
~~~
Alex Nodopaka June©2004
AD Something
2.
~ I Con.Template ~
NB: desirable to center formatted.
I Con.Template
my
n
a
v
e
l
while my belly
e~x~~p~~~a~~~~n~~~~~d~~~~~~s.
By way of fat
I feel Buddha.
~~~
Alex Nodopaka Apr©2004
AD Something
3.
~ I read a book of poems ~
I wonder if anyone
Has read it before me
The way I have.
The top corners of pages
Sixteen through twenty-one
Were still sealed.
I carefully spread them,
Not disturbing their virginity.
Peaked in between at an angle.
What I read was worth the visit.
I’ll pass it on to another
In the same configuration.
I wonder if they’ll read it
The same way I did.
~~~
Alex Nodopaka July©2004
AD Something
4.
~ Picasso butts Seurat ~
Propelled by soaring breeze
The boy at the end of the string
Is towed by swooshing parallelepiped
Zigzagging high in the sky.
Pelican-like, now and then
It bomb-dives and scatters
Children below.
One runs along the shore.
Between his toes sand tickles
And makes him giggle.
He is high as a kite.
Seurat, paints this tableau.
Meticulously and feverishly
Dots his canvas with a rainbow
Of assorted monotone particles.
Tediously, a polka dot boy materializes.
Picasso, standing somewhat back,
Known for his erotic shenanigans,
Ducks under girls amply bouffant skirt.
Under her knickers he snickers
About Georges ridiculous technique.
Busy with the ladys triangles,
Pablo senses geometry is the answer.
~~~
Alex Nodopaka Jul©2004
AD Something
5.
~The Speed of Fundamentalism~
I am greatly interested
in Christian and Muslim
fundamentalist perspectives.
Particularly the latter of late.
Except that like summer beetles
they spout their fundamentalism
at high speed head-on
against my windshield
while I speak on my cell phone.
My mind is in a tizzy
now I better learn quickly
speed-reading hieroglyphs.
It is a dangerous world.
~~~
Alex Nodopaka July©2004
AD Something
Don’t
© paddy gillard-bentley
I think back to that night
a dark rainy Thursday in November
crummy run down
apartment building
where you lived
in New York City
the aroma of ethnic food
coming from their tiny worlds
arranged in rooms
600 square feet of universe
The smells drifted into the dark stairwell
in the midst of our colloquial frenzy
spitting truths and lies at each other
sordid and foul
a back drop of graffiti smeared walls
like primitive cave paintings
her face peaked over the rape chain
worried
the key hidden in ample bosom
so you grabbed my hand
and pulled me up the stairs
you kicked
hinges exploded
we stood on the roof
a show down
as if we stood on the Alps
screaming our rage
into the cold rain
your words biting into my heart
after you had blown away
the thick layer of dust
with your sweet words
and passionate sentiment
and I
vulnerable
Then
rough bricks
biting at my back
maybe your finger nails
my feet off the ground
you thrusting deep enough
to wound my soul
struggling to possess me
even the carpet crawlers know
you’ve got to get in to get out
my mind still screaming at you
my body responding
me hating you
loving you
my tongue licked at your soul
like barbed wire
the steel door closes
and you couldn’t see my tears
as they were mingled with the rain
I don’t know why I wanted you to bleed
I don’t know why I wanted you to cry
I don’t know why I wanted you
I don’t know why I wanted
I don’t know why
I don’t know
I don’t
Don’t!
Why do some men want to fuck you
when you just need to be held?
