February 2002 | back-issues, John Sweet, poetry
standing in the
yellow light of december
trying to believe in war
casting a shadow along the edge
of whiskey hill road
i am not a ghost yet but have
been playing with
the idea of disappearing
have been considering that
what i may actually be afraid of
is happiness
that what i may actually be
in love with is fear
i spent twenty-seven years fighting
not to be my father’s son
then married a woman who wanted
only those things i was
unwilling to give
found myself in a falling house
with the need to
inflict my anger upon others
and it’s not that
i’m opposed to vengeance
and it’s not that i don’t believe
in freedom
it’s that i have walked through
the screaming crowds promoting
their own self-righteous hatred
outside of abortion clinics
and i have no faith in their god
i have no use for their dogma
i will not be branded a witch
by anyone as lost
as myself
February 2002 | back-issues, John Sweet, poetry
in the empty house
where no one believes in
empty houses
truth is not an object
with any value
a man says [i]i love you[/i]
to his wife
or he doesn’t
and either way she has
already left him
a child is found murdered
in the bathroom and
then another
and then three more
the words
[i]there is something wrong here[/i]
are left unspoken
the refrigerator hums
and the clocks run backwards
and the kitten is two months old
but will have to be
given away
and why should it live
in the face of these
five drowned children?
the answer depends on
who you ask
and it’s too fucking hot today
for these abstractions
say the word five times
and get it over with
dead dead
dead dead dead
go to the kitchen to find
a cold beer
call your wife’s name and wait
the rest of your life
for an answer
February 2002 | back-issues, Bill Wunder, poetry
I walk reverently,
footsteps soft as
feathers falling.
I am humbled
by giants, asleep
in Muir Woods.
Solitary sentinels
reach for heaven,
scrape the sky.
End of daylight
tiredly slants,
filters through
canopied roof,
ageless shadows
of God’s cathedral,
illuminating my path.
Overwhelming silence
enraptures me
as angels sing
of God’s gift to man:
the sacred redwood.
Cathedral first appeared in [i]Melange Journal[/i].
February 2002 | back-issues, Bill Wunder, poetry
phone rings.
he wants me,
I can tell, or
is it those red shoes?
sounds made
by high heels
on reflective,
wooden floors
bedevil him.
I am someone else
in scarlet spikes.
my skirt swirls
freely
in the warm air
surrounding me
like a swarm of honey bees.
my legs, longer
in those red shoes,
belong to a seductress;
a stranger to me.
I am rhythm.
my breasts bounce
upon the off beat.
he is at the door.
my pulse quickens
as I slip on those red shoes,
and one thing leads to another.
February 2002 | back-issues, Patrick Seth Williams, poetry
I am a compass
on which polarity
has been reversed.
I move in directions
I feel I should move
and do not bother
to ask if it is right.
People question
my feet as they
propel me backwards
and my feet scuffle
along, concentrating
too much for
idle chit-chat.
They will not
ask me to my face
because they cannot
find it. For the world
has many eyes, none
of which can see.
February 2002 | back-issues, Patrick Seth Williams, poetry
I’m through measuring
my life by pounds
and inches. I come
to myself humbled,
asking forgiveness
but I will not listen.
I pour the last sorrow
down the drain.
It is the new year,
my glass is empty,
the half-full moon
urges me to celebrate.
