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THE ACTION HERO TAKES ON TEN
if only it were so easy to get them to obey to disappear when we scream at ourselves “i will not be ashamed! “I will not be afraid!” “i will not be angry!” it’s like pounding the pillow on a restless night and shouting “go to sleep goddamnit!” they may run and hide for awhile scurry into their holes like field mice under the hawk’s growing shadow only to gather underground in some dark chamber whispering conspiratorially and defiantly but we will yet defeat them with this same strategy that has failed a thousand times we’ll clear the room like the action hero taking on ten in a barroom brawl a whirlwind of fists and back spin kicks THERE IS NO NEED gentle waves kiss the shore where i huddled without shelter for three or four days as the biggest breakers came and went now the sand is swept clean of tangled lines and broken shells splinters of shipwrecks and crucifixes tightly held all buried deep in the blue and as i sit here drying out looking at the sunrise the robin’s egg sky i wonder what the chaos was all about what lesson the voice of the storm was screaming in my ears but there is no answer to that i only know that today there are others again they walk on my beach without trespass and i am grateful for their footprints their laughter and the sandcastles they build though their declarations of love haloed by hearts are inscribed below the high tide mark i mustn’t peer toward the flatline horizon squinting storms into existence conjuring them with dreadful eyes there is no need PACHYDERM GODS grow thicker skin like us they say also... calm down snap out of it and let it go advice from friends who seem to think I'm someone else they love him this someone else they've painted this potential me created in their image while the flesh me fails to explain the experience of this pulsing straightjacketed brain the drop of errant blood that pollutes the rest what it's like treading water with concrete shoes and how I tiptoe like a cat burglar around double helix spiral staircases trying to avoid the mischievous child who hides in dark corners lobbing sticks of dynamite in my path I explain all this but they are not appeased they trumpet laughter through their scaly trunks I turn and walk out the door into my daily hailstorm unprotected (Brian Rihlmann was born in NJ, and currently lives in Reno, NV. He writes mostly semi autobiographical, confessional free verse. He has been published in Constellate Magazine, Poppy Road Review, The Rye Whiskey Review, Cajun Mutt Press, Alien Buddha and The American Journal Of Poetry.) First Real Spring Day without You
It’s sunny but son-less, birdsong and blossoms, and I remember how you loved the row of blooming crab-apples in front of the Cardella’s house and the different flowers in our yard whose names you wanted to be reminded of each year. You loved having the side deck to sit on with your pant legs rolled up so the sun could heal your psoriatic legs as you watched the boisterous birds, scampering squirrels and chipmunks-- and to stand on at night to stare up at the stars, scanning for meteors. Even in the rain you’d stand there in the dark and converse with yourself-- your racing brain a churning treasure trove of data and imagined adventures, sleep merely an exhausted state to fall into on the couch in the middle of the night, as if you knew how little time you had in the body that would betray you. * Lox and bagels or bacon and croissants for Saturday breakfasts, And roller-coaster amusement parks: I’m trying to remember the things you found to love after moving north so I can comfort myself when I think how you never seemed as happy after we moved from your childhood home. You delighted in discussing different religions and observing how they all boiled down to the same thing-- but sometimes you worried about Revelations and people who might go to hell, because one of your strangest friends kept insisting both were real and imminent; but your God was love, and you loved your friends, though they were few and, inevitably, unusual. The more fragile ones you always took under your big wing, my sweet child, as the mother cardinal in the old maple does now for her babies. * Today the dog found a baby robin blown out of its nest by last night’s storm, but you weren’t here. Tonight a friend described a subspecies of salamander she’d seen on TV but she couldn’t remember the name, and you weren’t here to ask. You were an old soul and you still are, as I sense you come to remind me every night at bedtime. I never had to worry about your light shining on so brightly-- only about its brevity here on earth, where it seems so dark now, even in the spring. (Denise Thompson-Slaughter was born in Washington, D.C. and currently lives in Western New York. She received a B.A. in English from Rutgers University and worked many years as an academic editor. Her literary publications include two books of poetry, a mystery novella, two short stories, and brief memoir pieces.) Sighting
The raccoon and I see each other, eyes channeling souls as animal eyes do, dark space to dark space, in a recognition of fur and claw, skin and bone. When Depression Steps Out It feels, sometimes, like a taboo to be happy, to breathe in the morning, glad to be alive, to pet a cat’s belly and delight in its impossible softness, to listen to the endless chirping of hopeful birds, to believe that tomorrow will come and the day after that, to not give up despite frantic calls to do so, to shower and dress and stride through the many doors that-- such luck!—always present themselves. (Vivian Wagner lives in the village of New Concord, Ohio, where she's an associate professor of English at Muskingum University.) Survivor
I am not sure how I did it, how I survived a lucky chance maybe, but here I am still standing straight against the wind, the hot, hot wind which has turned the soil into rippling sand the rippling sand of the unwashed desert. I am not sure how I did it and I am not sure how long I can stay here standing alone in the rippling sand of the unwashed desert. (Lynn White lives in north Wales. Her work is influenced by issues of social justice and events, places and people she has known or imagined. She is especially interested in exploring the boundaries of dream, fantasy and reality and writes hoping to find an audience for her musings. She was shortlisted in the Theatre Cloud 'War Poetry for Today' competition and has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize and a Rhysling Award. Her poetry has appeared in many publications including: Apogee, Firewords, Peach Velvet, Light Journal and So It Goes.) Fragrant and Amaranthine for Thousands of Years
One day I will come back by a red cloud and bring giant's picture scroll. My lines of lightning songs will flutter gold greetings of prehistoric huge city. The mountains that have been sleeping for hundreds of millions of years will be transparent in an instant and the lights will be brilliant, like five-coloured gems; And the songs of my soul in the skeleton will be in full bloom, like the fairyland flowers of the Kingdom of Heaven, that will be fragrant and amaranthine for thousands of years. The Soul is Invisible Muse Open the eyes of your soul you'll see countless yourself. No time goes by,which as if the sun and the moon never set and rise. The world is only a book of phantom and the soul is invisible Muse. Before the words hadn't beent born yet, you have been a giant of the the kingdom of gold, that know not what is meant by myself. (Hongri Yuan, born in China in 1962, is a poet and philosopher interested particularly in creation. Representative works include Platinum City, The City of Gold, Golden Paradise , Gold Sun and Golden Giant. His poetry has been published in the UK, USA ,India ,New Zealand, Canada and Nigeria.) |
The Beautiful Space-
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