The Fish

Dark the sea was: but I saw him,
One great head with goggle eyes,
Like a diabolic cherub
Flying in those fallen skies.

I have heard the hoarse deniers,
I have known the wordy wars;
I have seen a man, by shouting,
Seek to orphan all the stars.

I have seen a fool half-fashioned
Borrow from the heavens a tongue,
So to curse them more at leisure—
—And I trod him not as dung.

For I saw that finny goblin
Hidden in the abyss untrod;
And I knew there can be laughter
On the secret face of God.

Blow the trumpets, crown the sages,
Bring the age by reason fed!
(He that sitteth in the heavens,
'He shall laugh'—the prophet said.)

G.K. Chesterton

An Athenian Reminisces
by Vassar Miller

Yes, I remember Paul, his ugly face
Alive with joy, his stooping shoulders seeming
Straighter somehow as if his words had driven
A rod of iron down his spine. “My friends,
The Unknown God to whom you rear an altar
I now declare!” So, he proceeded to
Domesticate the Mystery. He’s dead
You say, beheaded by that madman Nero.
No doubt he scarcely felt the blade strike through
The bone so padded was he with conviction.
Courageous man! Yet now that I am old
I’m not so sure that one can be as sure
As Paul. At any rate, I’ve never caught
The Unknown God at leisure in His rooms.
Nor spied Him in the middle of His labors,
Although my bruise-bewildered brain would like to.
Whether or not He makes the crooked paths straight,
I’ve had to hack mine out as sorry-best
I might. Christ died for us, Paul taught? How strange
A god should think a man’s requirements so
Excessive. All that I need is space,
Not so much larger, really, than a cat’s To ease my cramped limbs in the sun a little.
Well, well, the names of God are beautiful—
Zeus, Hera, Demeter, Mithra, Astarte,
Isis, now Father, Son, and Holy Ghost—
So many screens behind which he eludes us.
And though stout-hearted Pauls may claim the Quarry,
Pet of their pieties, they may as well
Drag home with them a shadow by the neck.

Life is too short to sleep through.
Stay up late, wait until the sea of traffic ebbs,
until noise has drained from the world
like blood from the cheeks of the full moon.
Everyone else around you has succumbed:
they lie like tranquillised pets on a vet's table;
they languish on hospital trolleys and friends' couches,
on iron beds in hostels for the homeless,
under feather duvets at tourist B&Bs.
The radio, devoid of listeners to confide in,
turns repetitious. You are your own voice-over.
You are alone in the bone-weary tower
of your bleary-eyed, blinking lighthouse,
watching the spillage of tide on the shingle inlet.
You are the single-minded one who hears
time shaking from the clock's fingertips
like drops, who watches its hands
chop years into diced seconds,
who knows that when the church bell
tolls at 2 or 3 it tolls unmistakably for you.
You are the sole hand on deck when
temperatures plummet and the hull
of an iceberg is jostling for prominence.
Your confidential number is the life-line
where the sedated long-distance voices
of despair hold out muzzily for an answer.
You are the emergency services' driver
ready to dive into action at the first
warning signs of birth or death.
You spot the crack in night's façade
even before the red-eyed businessman
on look-out from his transatlantic seat.
You are the only reliable witness to when
the light is separated from the darkness,
who has learned to see the dark in its true
colours, who has not squandered your life.

 

Poems For Machu Picchu

1
Offering
My breath to the wind
That caresses Machu Picchu -
A song to the Sun

2
Spirit Sings.
Harmony, Bliss, Joy.
My soul dances love on your peaks.
Thank you Blessed one.

3
Blessed free
My small time on earth
Eternal sits Machu Picchu
Watching me climb her

4
Peaks abound
Awe ancient in-site
Wisdom transcending time for all
Embrace the beauty

5
We're sorry
Earth, please forgive us
We knew not what we did, but now
We choose to heal us.Precious Life,
May we honor you
by becoming that which is Whole,
Knowing, and Healing.My brother
and sister mountains,
thank you for inspiration and
abundant blessings.

6
My mother
I quake for you now
As bridge in the golden light is
Releasing your sounds.

7
Before me
Stands nobility
Generosity soars above
Beauty flows within

8
Peace to All
May Love be here now
With no confusion and drama
And wisdom arise!

9
Sending Prayers
As smoke in the wind
Machu Picchu Blessing for you
May you stay Sacred

10
Beneath words
open ancient Ways
that humanity might awaken,
remembering love.Earth mother,
teach our DNA
to celebrate being in form
and so honor you.Sky father,
here we rise to meet
and breathe in your quickening wind —
earthstuff rejoicing.

11
Thanks, Parents!
for Machu Picchu
Wonder for all my Family
I Sing these changes

12
Accepting
Machu Picchu's light
Brings my soul into Sun's delight
Ending earth's dark night

Satisfy
My desire to love
By finding stone path high above
Open heart peaceful dove

Forgiveness
The gift of the Gods
Singing the songs of old ones gone
Above the cloud's tears

I do fly
Touching condor sky
Life and death merging into one
Earth's peace has begun

13
My horses
Cadillac Solace
Take me to stillness in the heart
Let's gallop inside

14
A thank you
To the Great Spirit
Infusing the souls of the world
With pure light and love

15
Swirling mists
Hug Machu Picchu,
Obscure vision of lost peoples
Forgotten in time.

Gentle rains
Kiss the Mountain Shrine.
Stone walls embrace ancient secrets.
Mysteries endure.Hear me now
Ancient ones long gone.
Reveal your secrets in the stones.
Unlock mysteries.Hear me now
Over wind, rock, time.
Ancient spirits of this mountain
Step forward and speak.No voices.
Stone monuments stand
Protect unknowable missions
Keep perfect silence.No one knows.
Time veils memories.
We stand humbly in wonderment.
Knowledge, wisdom lost.

16
Offering
My breath to the wind
That caresses Machu Picchu
A song to the Sun

17
Sending love
Wishing you blessings
May you continue forever
Blessing all of life

18
Integrate
Soul and Universe
At one with all Life becoming
A dance in the stars

19
Gratitude
Swelling from the Heart
For All, Loving Gifts of Nature
Embracing Us, One.

20
Gracia
Por eso canto
Corazon de Machu Picchu
Pachamama LuzGracia
Por eso canto
Condor y el aqu>la son
en mi corazon

21
Giving Free
Clouds Soft on My Face
Green Emanating from my Hands
Heart-Felt Healing Joy

22
Sacred Place
The call of the HEART
We knew each other long ago
May we know again

23
Gratitude,
children of Spirit,
is a blessing for all people
and a divine gift.

Help us please
to know divine love
that patiently waits for us all
to open our hearts.

24
Cloud Beings
Sacred shapes of light
Thank you for your spirit soul call
to wake listen see

25
A blessing
For all who gather
On this day to be united
In peace for our world.

26
Remember!
Sacred mountain calls
My heart's wings lift, beat home to you
Beloved of my soul

27
Bless all life,
That each day may be
Better in all resonances,
For the good of all
Consciousness.

28
Otter-man
Born from out of dream
Swims into the dark starry sea,
Back home, home to me.

29
As I stand
at your etheric
retreat top of Machu Picchu,
Oh Lord Kuthumi,

I thank you.
I now let go of
all my fears, making decisions
that empower me.

I follow
my true passion of
been a channel for Light and Love,
healing animals.

Make me an
instrument of Love,
a channel of Light, peace and joy.
Thank you Inca Gods

30
The stonework
at Cusco was all
made to fit precise together
to form a concrete

wall of strength.
Our human body
is a gem of precision fit
and engineering

workmanship.
Creator, please guide
me to fit in life with all of
humanity's plan

31
O mother
I await the time
when my feet hold your form to heart
I sing to the sun

32
One alone
Seeking other souls
Finds a door in the universe
To the heart of life.

Together
Rays along the path
Setting the world ablaze with light
Mother sings with joy.

33
Polar Bear
We call upon you
From the core of our being flow
Words, songs, and rhythmsBrother Bear
We speak words of love
We sing you into existence
We drum your heartbeatPolar Bear
May you always dance
Between being and nonbeing
Forever Reborn

34
Gratitude
Our hearts beat fully
With love and thanks to Mother Earth
For her loving care

35
Offering
My soul to the Earth
That embodies Machu Picchu -
A song to the Stars.

1) Jade Wah'oo Grigori, 2) Shaeri Richards, 3) Cheryl Dunn, 4) Nik Shelton, 5) Daria Boissonnas, 6) Kim Nicholson-Messmer, 7) Lisa Starr, 8) Valerie Logsdon, 9) Joyce Eagle Cries, 10) Susanna Dorr, 11) Scott Johnson, 12) Steven Clemson, 13) Valerie Logsdon, 14) Linda Loparnos, 15) Fran Jamison, 16) Wanda Gozdz, 17) Debbie Emerson, 18) Marsha Adams, 19) Lusana Joy Hernández, 20) Stephen Maye, 21) Jonna Fujimoto, 22) Illia Lang, 23) Sue Mariconda, 24) Joan Johnson, 25) Teresa Fowler, 26) Aeyrie Silver Eagle, 27) Ingrid Wilson, 28) Tom Kenyon, 29) Bernadette De Wet, 30) Len De Wet, 31) JoAnn McDermott, 32) Terra Mar, 33) Michael Drake, 34) Annette K Johnson, 35) Jade Wah'oo Grigori

Little Orphant Annie

INSCRIBED WITH ALL FAITH AND AFFECTION:
To all the little children: - The happy ones; and sad ones;
The sober and the silent ones; the boisterous and glad ones;
The good ones - Yes, the good ones, too; and all the lovely
bad ones.  

Little Orphant Annie's come to our house to stay,
An' wash the cups an' saucers up, an' brush the crumbs away,
An' shoo the chickens off the porch, an' dust the hearth, an'
sweep,
An' make the fire, an' bake the bread, an' earn her board-
an-keep;
An' all us other childern, when the supper-things is done,
We set around the kitchen fire an' has the mostest fun,
A-listenin' to the witch-tales 'at Annie tells about,
An' the Gobble-uns 'at gits you
Ef you
Don't
Watch
Out!

Wunst they wuz a little boy wouldn't say his prayers, -
An' when he went to bed at night, away up-stairs,
His Mammy heerd him holler, an' his Daddy heerd him bawl,
An' when they turn't the kivvers down, he wuzn't there at
all!
An' they seeked him in the rafter-room, an' cubby-hole, an'
press,
An seeked him up the chimbly-flue, an' ever'-wheres, I guess;
But all they ever found wuz thist his pants an' roundabout -
An' the Gobble-uns 'll git you
Ef you
Don't
Watch
Out!

An' one time a little girl 'ud allus laugh an' grin,
An' make fun of ever' one, an' all her blood-an'-kin;
An' wunst, when they was "company," an' ole folks wuz there,
She mocked 'em an' shocked 'em, an' said she didn't care!
An' thist as she kicked her heels, an' turn't to run an'
hide,
They wuz two great big Black Things a-standin' by her side,
An' they snatched her through the ceilin' 'for she knowed
what she's about!
An' the Gobble-uns 'll git you
Ef you
Don't
Watch
Out!

An' little Orphant Annie says, when the blaze is blue,
An' the lamp-wick sputters, an' the wind goes woo-oo!
An' you hear the crickets quit, an' the moon is gray,
An' the lightnin'bugs in dew is all squenched away, -
You better mind yer parunts, an' yer teachurs fond an' dear,
An' cherish them 'at loves you, an' dry the orphant's tear,
An' he'p the pore an' needy ones 'at clusters all about,
Er the Gobble-uns 'll git you
Ef you
Don't
Watch
Out!

 - James Whitcomb Riley - 1885

I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud

I wandered lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o'er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host, of golden daffodils;
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

Continuous as the stars that shine
And twinkle on the milky way,
They stretched in never-ending line
Along the margin of a bay:

Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

The waves beside them danced; but they
Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:
A poet could not but be gay,
In such a jocund company:
I gazed-and gazed-but little thought
What wealth the show to me had brought:

For oft, when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,

They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude;
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils.

 ~ William Wordsworth ~

In summer the polleny light bounces off the white buildings
& you can see their spines & nerves & where the joints knot.
You've never seen such polleny light. The whole city shining
& the women wearing dresses so thin you could see their wing-tipped hips
& their tall silvery legs alone can knock your eye out.
But this isn't about women. It's about the city of blue waters
& fog so thick it wraps round your legs & leaves glistening trails
along the dark winding streets. Once I followed such a trail
& wound up beside this redheaded woman who looked up & smiled
& let me tell you you don't see smiles like that in Jersey City.
She was wearing a black raincoat with two hundred pockets
& I wanted to put my hands in each one. But forget about her.
I was talking about the fog which steps up & taps your shoulder
like a panhandler who wants bus fare to a joint called The Paradise
& where else could this happen? On Sundays Golden Gate Park
is filled with young girls strolling the transplanted palms
& imported rhododendron beds. You should see the sunset
in their eyes & the sway, the proud sway of their young shoulders.
Believe me, it takes a day or two to recover. Or the trolleys clanking
down the steep hills-why you see legs flashing like mirrors! Please, Lord, please let me talk about San Francisco. How
that gorilla of a bridge twists in the ocean wind & the earth
turns under your feet & at any moment the whole works can crack
& slip back into the sea like a giant being kicked off his raft
& now, if it's all right, I would like to talk about women...

 

no working title

The thick of tears need not drown the grieved
For where a child rejoiced, the heart conceived
Such is written in the book of life
To read it well is to breathe free of strife

b

The Owl

Beneath her nest,
a shrew's head,
a finch's beak
and the bones
of a quail attest

the owl devours
the hour,
and disregards
the rest.

~ Wendy Videlock ~

His Wife
by Andrew Hudgins

My wife is not afraid of dirt.
She spends each morning gardening,
stooped over, watering, pulling weeds,
removing insects from her plants
and pinching them until they burst.
She won't grow marigolds or hollyhocks,
just onions, eggplants, peppers, peas -
things we can eat. And while she sweats
I'm working on my poetry and flute.
Then growing tired of all that art,
I've strolled out to the garden plot
and seen her pull a tomato from the vine
and bite into the unwashed fruit
like a soft, hot apple in her hand.
The juice streams down her dirty chin
and tiny seeds stick to her lips.
Her eye is clear, her body full of light,
and when, at night, I hold her close,
she smells of mint and lemon balm.

 

At the Mystic Aquarium

Still sun blind, I wheel your chair
through the darkened room
to the largest tank, where hammerheads swim
in the aquamarine glow, the torpedo of their bodies
sleeking past you beyond the glass.
Wanting respite from the heavy pushing,
wanting unburdened time to take in
the small brilliant lives of darting reef fish,
for once, I leave you, brake on and safe.
But when I turn away into the milling crowd,
it is I who fall-only a few feet from you, tripping
over a small girl, my body old, heavy,
coming down on her, her arms flailing,
trying to fight it back.
She lets out a cry that rips straight through
and her mother snatches her up, snaps at me in anger.
Sorry. Sorry. I say again and again
as I try with no luck to struggle to my feet,
straining against the dark and the gravity,
thinking how hard it is to rise
from the downthrust of weight and age,
aware of shame's bloodrush, tears beginning
as if I were the hurt child, the one who needed saving.
Suddenly I hate your wheelchair,
the knees that will not hold you, your blocked heart.
I want you here at my elbow, your hand pulling me up,
your arm gripping my shoulder, comforts in my ear.
But you've never even noticed, hooked as you are
to the aqua light, flashing points of the teeth,
the flat implacable eyes.

 ~ Patricia Fargnoli ~

 

On the Phone

That whooshing, watery,
radio-being-tuned sound
tells me he's outdoors
on his way somewhere
and I'd better talk fast.
I can't remember
the last time I phoned him
without dreading that countdown
to when he says, "I'm going
into the subway, Dad, got to go."
Lately, he even calls me from the street-
a convenient way to keep
his keeping in touch short. He's right-
I'd talk to him for an hour,
marching through my pent-up questions.
It tires me, wanting him so much,
the resistance with which he responds.
I bet there's a girl out there
he'd duck into a lobby
to keep speaking to
as long as she desired. Instead,
he tells me that I'm breaking up,
and there's a sound
as if he's dropped the phone
into a rushing river, which then
pulls him in too, his life.

  ~ Michael Milburn ~

 

Sittin' Alone in the Moonlight

Sittin' alone in the moonlight,
Thinkin' of the days gone by,
Wonderin' about my darlin'.
I can still hear her sayin' good-bye.

Oh, the moon glows pale as I sit here.
Each little star seems to whisper and say,
"Your sweetheart has found another,
And now she is far, far away."

 ~ Bill Monroe ~

 

 samiyam wrote: 
Now this I dig!  

The Skeletons in the Closet

They sit politely behind the dresses
fumbling through pockets, fingering
the seams of evening gowns, looking
not for a way in, but for a way out.

How smooth their bones, like alabaster
shaved from moonlight; the digits
of their toes look like broken bits
of blade from a Lilliputian's sword.

What a handsome family they are:
it's as if all their imperfections
had fallen away with their flesh,
it's as if they're finally perfect.

But how they beg me to let them out.
They say my closet is a flophouse,
they threaten to put on wedding clothes
or crash down the door when I'm naked.

But I resist such threats and ploys;
I'm no fool, and I know them well.
When they whisper in falsetto voices
it's to declare another war, or else,

brittle and bowlegged, they'll dance
in between the slacks and overcoats;
they'll sing lewd songs and chew up
my leather gloves, my ostrich boa.

At night they scratch their long nails
across the floor like white chalk
upon a blackboard, and they hiss and
sputter like hot oil dropped in water.

When they think I'm asleep, I tiptoe
to the keyhole to watch them feed
on tear-stained sleeves and dirty laundry.
Such things give them back their power.

  ~ Maurya Simon ~

Hands

My grandfather grew up holding rags,
pounding his fist into the pocket
of a ball glove, gripping a plumb line
for his father who built what anyone
needed. At sixteen, wanting to work on
his own, he lied about his age
and for forty-nine years carried his lunch
to the assembly line where he stood
tightening bolts on air brake after
air brake along the monotonous belt.
I once asked him how he did that all
those years. He looked at me, said,
"I don't understand. It was only
eight hours a day," then closed
his fists. Every night after dinner
and a pilsner, he worked some more.
In the summer, he'd turn the clay,
grow tomatoes, turnips, peas,
and potatoes behind borders
of bluebells and English daisies,
and marigolds to keep away the rabbits.
When the weather turned to frost,
he went to the basement where,
until the seeds came in March,
he made perfect picture frames, each
glistening with layers of sweet shellac.
His hands were never bored. Even
in his last years, arthritis locking every
knuckle, he sat in the kitchen carving
wooden houses you could set on a shelf,
one after another, each one different.

 ~ Jack Ridl ~

April is National Poetry Month.
Jes' sayin'.
And playin'.

Mud, Apples, Milk

Of all things to miss, it's silly
to miss how cows drowse in mud.
They blink slow as toads.
Instead I should miss
light on the blond corn
or trails of gravel dust
that rose like kites and vanished.

But I don't miss that.
I miss how I could bring
bruised apples, press them
like smelling salts
to sleepy noses.
You had to let go
real fast or risk a finger
to the lick and snap.

I miss their udders too,
the mud fresh as wax
on the swollen skin.
Each day I broke the seals
with hot rags, and milk
flooded my palm-
a white creek down
the gully of my wrist.

  ~ Michael Walsh ~

She tells me be gentle, it's been a long time
Since she's felt this way
And I know in an instant it's worth all my while
I know in my heart she will stay

I am gentle with her, as she is with me
It seems like it's so heavensent
The things that we do and the will to be free
My change it seems, has not all been spent

She says she's afraid, and I can respect that
Because in truth I am scared too
It's a funny thing, like a drop of a hat
You'd know it if it weren't so true

As we move onto discussions of things that we've done
In our lives up to this point
We embrace night and day, two into one
My wounds she freely annoints

Believing in love, it is what has began
In two people making all the right moves
Retreating in shelter, we make no demands
Of each other which would lose us our grooves

-Tim Rawlings, March 29, 2010

The Coffins

Two days into the flood
they appear, moored against
a roof eave or bobbing caught
in the crowns of drowned trees.
Like fancy life boats
from an adventurer's flag ship,
brass plating and grips,
walnut sheen, scroll work,
they slip through the understory
on this brief, bad river.
What have they discovered
and come back to account?
Or is this the beginning
of the marvelous voyage
and they plan never to return?

 ~ Ted Kooser ~