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Poetry from the readers: 1998-99

Childhood lost
The Way Home
Watch as the weeds part, marking the way home
The seem to know us by heart
Along that dirt road
With every step, our footsteps echoed
Announcing our arrival, as if we were kings
Along that dirt road
The ground showed the markings of a hot summer
The cervices in the dirt, seem to open all the way to the core of the earth
Even after the rain fall, the ground seemed as hard as bricks and strong as steel
Up ahead in the distance, home seems so far away that we feared we´ll never reach it
As we traveled along that dirt road,
We never looked back to see our footprints disappear into the day as if we were never there.
We left our worries, and so many moments of laughter and fun
Along that dirt road
We left our childhood there
Along that dirt road
I left one final thing
I left my memories of carefree summers and endless love
On the way home.

By Anthony Dean Tupleo Ms United States

Sweden on the Delaware
Sverige written in the snow.
The spring comes.
When will the winter return?

by Al Rosenblatt from New York USA
MAIL: axr@dps.state.ny.us

And then some "And then some" she said passing to me an exalted feeling that always comes
with the words of a realized dreamer. Her words let me know that I could never be done. Know that there was more in my eyes and more for her ears, That there was no final decision and just to parade on, To dance my way a thousand times just to see a thousand more, It wasn't futility then I knew, it was infinity for me to play. Oh, how my imagination did fly and shoulders set free, Failure she told is far beyond me, I can "failure" she said, which is to die to indifference. I knew right then that I held the world in my eyes,in my gaze,in my tone, I know because she held it in hers. In her eyes I found the soul of my mirror, and it settled all my questions. In her gaze I was touched by a puzzled lion, wondering why this lion did quiver. And in her tone, oh her tone, how her tone did send a fire spiraling in my heart. It made words like asunder, cavalcade, and enumerate jump from the place of inspiration that holds only rhyme not reason I saw that this feeling held my future if I could coax it from myself. Our divinity rolled together in the grass that day, though I merely touched her hand. And when she left part of me died, I was left with the feeling of her resin
in my veins and her being filling my mind calling me to go toward,
"And then some" is how I go. By Russell Garofalo

Remains

Alone we walk among this earth genetics dictating our subjective worth psychologically connected to experience like the roots of a tree, connected are we, to this lifetimes reality. yet just as the sparrows cross from tree to tree covering the branches from the Fallen leaves turned red to Hell or gold to Heaven, we move in groups, for "We are Seven", this body being the ultimate deception each lifetime flattered by its own encryption. so in light of precarious fantasies and an eternity of families, the depth of our knowledge, the worth of our college, shall rightfully remain a mystery for balance is complexity.

By Sarah

Tartuffe

Oh sweet death, I covet thy beauty and skill.
Thy face intices me and draws me closer, still
thy spiritied heart spurns my longing soul.
Burning to know what lies behind the role
you play, I pine on every action and speech.
But never see thy truth truly within my reach.
Each day draws your character ever near
but night tears it away and I fear
that i will never know the joys of your truth.
Oh, death, what lies behind the eyes called Tartuffe.

By RJ Caufield, Warren, PA USA

People's Puppet
Your mindgames, your lies, your hate.
That's all you've done.
You've made me scared, lonely, heart broken.
I'm confused........
because of you.
The brew you baked up
of lies and disceat
makes me tremble.
All the people as your puppets
throwing them in your culdrum
giving me insanity.
Reality is becoming too distinct.
I can't go out,
nothing makes any sense.
My teeth grind, my stomach churns.
The way you put the world in your hands
Making me your fingers,
blaming me for your problems.
I'm hopeless
You control my mind,
What's right, what's wrong?
I can't be let into the world
I'm not what they say "normal"
I'm in your hands now.

By Stephanie Miller

The Chase
Riding through the night,
Terrorized, the winds fingers threading your hair.
The dust flying at your face,
Your terror increases.
Hoofbeats behind you, thundering,
Pounding against your skull.
Horse spittle flung against your chin,
A low hanging branch slaps against your chest,
Wind whistling round your ears.
Burning, a searing pain lances through your leg,
A crossbows arrow through your thigh.
Crying out in pain, your horse slips away
As you fall from the saddle.
Rolling into the woods and brush, the
Thundering hooves storm past,
Never realizing your escape.
You cling to a tree, then stumble away.

Two visions of a Smiling Man

Cats tingling in the stink
of summer oranges sweltering
green and boiling

the locust flies into my mouldy hand
and stares at me with a melting face
fingers swim honey through my mind

The laughter reaches me trickling
sweet, woolen breath
tickling my neck

I hear it standing waving
a molten image of tarred human
the earth sticks to my back

but I shall not cry
my crusting face peels
and I stare into the eyes of the sun

By Strawberry Chantilly from Portugal

Choice

think to choose
choose to think
somewhere here
exists a link

choose to think
think to choose
which one here
is the best to use

dont put a label on your head
telling all your lies and sighs
think awhile before its said
dwell on the things that brought the highs

By Mark Mccready markmac@hotmail.com
from Belfast, County Down, Northern Ireland

Tears of Hope

Cry with me,
In the blackness of my night.
Hoping to be
All that I would never be
What my dreams desired.

Come fly with me,
And see the ruins of my heart
All left to grieve and pity
What was never there,
yet never gone.

Do hurt with me,
Feel all that I've ever felt
the pain and fear set off
inside myself.

Come and see
What was never meant to be

Explore the

By Wendi from Albuquerque New Mexico

Glimpses

Drops of wax fall like ticking seconds,
glimpses of a forgotten life.
The candle illuminates long--forgotten secrets:
antiquated skeletons of plastic and polyester,
pulled from the moth-eaten closet of a
distant dream.

The flame grows longer than the shaft which feeds it,
more spirit than matter,
the wax dripping faster,
the seconds ticking away.
Random images combine and connect
to reveal disjointed flashes of a
fading life.

The flame is gone.
The wax has ceased dripping
but the hand keeps on turning
and the memories remain:
a brightly drawn image
of mixed-fruit crayola,
the flavor of color,
the color of spice,
a glimpse of the past.

By Frank Episale
from New York USA

meditation on a stone
rocks call the standard here
demanding of you
(no exclamations or sound heard)
to be the solid form
of the myriad
of intangible elements
yet, secretly malleable by and through time

and you will never die, only linger
thoughtlessly
tossed around by a sniveling kid
and poured into the foundation of his home
green grass still growing
carpet blades to mock you in your infinity
(I can hear laughing)

By Cheetah Drezzy
from Vancouver Canada

Insanity Plea

on my knees
out in the rain
asking your god
asking my god
no small, still voice
can I hear
over the sound
of the demons
screaming
in my head

By Kristi Evans from Cullowhee USA

To my love
If a person could gather all of the stars in the skies,
Those starts could never be as bright
as the stars in your eyes
and if someone could borrow the sun for a while
that sun could never be as warm as your smile
and if someone could steal all of cupids darts,
that loved combined could never amount
to the love in your heart,
and so with your eyes, smile and loving heart
that is enough to never keep us apart.

Tyler Swain from Korea

Love is like a bird with golden wings
It flies into your heart and sings...

Jenny Johansson from Sweden

A poem by Helen Gully from Nunawading, Victoria in Australia

Marlove.

A shadow lurks beneath the skin of every man
he would spatter the blood of his brother
devour his flesh to the bone - he
plunges a stake through the heart of his countryman
A warcry, a bloodsong, rings out in triumph
I am not touched, yet fascinated
by deaths immortal sting.
I feel his blood wash at my feet
but I shall not sense his pain -
I watch his gaze consume my own
though I will not see his fear
he uttered no sound in death - poor fool!
yet - I may not have heard.
The blood of the savage fouls my feet
his post now deserted - confound him!
no-one to mourn for him - least of all I
for I must pursue my own vision
he was no more than a grain of sand
an instrument - no restraint! - deficient!
Naked eyes pierce my heart and mind
I become my own confessor
The dark, morbid secrets I fight to conceal
A vile canker decaying my soul; threatening to poison my veins
Hypocrite! Heretic! Barbarians all!
We draw a veil over the tempest within.`

By Helen Gully

("MARLOW" is a response to Conrad's Heart of Darkness.)

Helen nominates Chaim Potok and she also enjoy reading the works of Jewish authors; Judah Waten, Isaac Bashevis Singer and Australian contemporary poet Bruce Dawe.

A poem from a sociology student at
the University of Lethbridge, Alberta in Canada.

I understand life like I understand waves
(God is like water).

If I am small enough
I am the water that makes the wave
and do not know it
and do not mind it

When I am larger the wave takes me
and tumbles me down deep towards the center of anything
the middle of nothing
and I must learn to swim
(Yet there are waves in which no one can swim)

And larger yet or more removed
I see the white crests of waves sliding
like snakes
I can see where they are going and where they finish
and I feel the wind

now I am so huge
I see the moon creating tides
and I learn gravitation
and I learn the elements of water
oh and I learn so much more
now I am so mighty
now I understand wave .

A wandering peddler.

A wandering peddler led me among the purple-hued trees,
Down past the groggery in the frantic fall breeze;
Over brown leaves, under green cathedral skies we sat,
One hand my yellow scented hair, the other his aristocrat.

He pressed my soft body and gently kissed each breast,
I closed my passing eyes, waiting for the unknown guest;
Of peddlers on a pilgrimage with their wares of pots and pans,
The dust is in a rage from these yearly caravans.

He really was a champion the way he stole my pence,
After bartering and flattery, a touch of eloquence.

By Robert S. Harding

Why

Nothing more than the product of a Saturday night whiskey bottle in the back of a slope back Buick while Elvis sang Clam Bake on a drive in movie screen. I can only read Beckett, Strindberg, Runyan, and the Daily Racing Form.
Last night I near pulled a muscle cranking off to Nipsy Russell.

By Stan Ruth from Seattle, USA.

Roses are red,
But this one is dead,
Like your thoughts of me,
Withered and dry in your head;

Violets are blue,
Like my feelings for you,
All desolate and frozen
In this midwinter view

By Linda M. Kalb

Philadelphia, Pennsylvania U.S.A.

Truth Sleeper
A tired feeling,
like the strain of my bicep,
plagues my mind
this moment.
I try to wrestle
with all to know
and all that will remain
enigma.
And it haunts me;
me, who feel no sleep
in struggle,
who shall never appease
the mind that wishes
just to rest.
Stalemate.
And my only conclusion,
through astute analysis,
seems in logic
a passive forfeit.

By Seth Bendo

That you might measure . . .
That you might measure time
so stupidly, convinced, in those leafy years,
you spent impuissantly
each second, minute, hour, then in arrears
you knew regret and crocodile tears.
Idiot, buffoon, charlatan, clown, an ache for renown
beyond all reckoning,
a sophomoric frown of want or need
drove you hither. And now . . .
whither the wise fool, the leering jester
whose mindless frolic or impulsive gesture
gathering to a greatness, some Jesuit
charged with the grandeur of one
who would save ambition?
Too late the words of the dead
are modified by me and you, and we, the living,
hung on the barbs of paradox,
pierced like quivering St. Sebastians,
are martyred by each relentless grain,
each merciless tick and tock.

By: Michael White

from Anchorage in Alaska(c) reserved

Puta que los pario

Latas de Coca Cola sudando,
un televisor en algun lugar,
diez cigarrillos
y tres balas en la treinta y ocho.

Juan Perez murio y ayer.
La poli murmuro cerca de su cuerpo,
hablo del River - Boca del domingo.
Un vecino escucho los disparos.

En el callejon de la vuelta
hubo corridas indecisas,
hubo dioses y angeles,
hubo serpientes y sangre.

Una puta perdio su ultimo cliente
y hundio su corazon en el asfalto,
encedio su televisor, abrio una coca
y fumo uno de los diez cigarrillos que le quedaba.

By Mario Alberto Palasi who lives in San Luis, Argentina.

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