- THAI-AN – (nỏp côgn/lòi than van*)

She, Bi’nh Di.u
He, Bao An
Now, Sue
Brian
in Love
with America
they spawn
 
I am there
in consciousness stream
theirs
for bean cake
for ginger
threads of rice
a sprouting of me
to offer atonement
beyond sorrow
Hope Baptist Church
and a smile…
 
Under the same sky
of Trang Bang
Manhattan bowels
&
My Lai
Florida Palmsbeaches, na-palm
under the same fiendished, fiery sky
hope after…
 
In pious ethic
the Amerasian dream
for Billy and John and Luke
ever
Chie ^‘n, Chinh, Cu’ong…
and perhaps, Phuong?
 
Thai-An
where I am wont
to Peace and gentle tender
yet crippled for thought
into these faces seen
10,000,000 agonies…

She, Bi’nh Di.u
He, Bao An
Now, Sue
Brian
Now
in Love
with America?
 
Thai-An windbells
her Green Corridor
bamboos sans
bungees & bombs & cords
& still no Exit
for my ache,
a Morld cambode unwell
Laos & unclear…
 
*(Tribute/Lament) 
 
— H. E. Mantel 
 
Eye On Life Poetry Contest 2010-2011 Honorable Mention 

My Lego Town

I’ve never seen a town so dull 
for my town is made of Lego blocks. 
Branded heads and painted faces
and hands that grip like wrenches. 
I look outside my house and see
my dimpled green lawn has a plastic tree, 
that we’ve never climbed for we have no knees. 
And just the other day a man complained 
that he couldn’t pick his nose because 
he had no fingers or a nose to pick. 

But things are not so bad in here, 
my little town has big ideas. 
It was built by a boy who drinks his milk
and likes to read big books with pictures. 
Dilapidated roofs are fixed in a jiffy 
and the fuzz don’t change their uniforms. 
New houses are broken down 
and replaced with multicolored mansions, 
or spaceships with robots, lasers, machine 
gun turrets built from parts of old houses. 

Pirates roam the docks of Blue Bottom Lake
with hooks and patches, silent perched parrots. 
We’re stocked up on men but lack women, 
though my town is still diverse. 
Knights on horses swing swords in semicircles, 
pirate ship captains walk alongside the police in blue. 
One size fits all, 
so we all fit in. 
Duplo* bricks with eyes on each side
watch delinquent, full-size Duplo kids.

You can tell by the smile on my face, 
nothing’s going to change, 
I’ll keep walking, lock-step, 
and my town will remain the same.  

*Duplo is a form of Lego for little kids - some blocks have eyes on each side. 

— Obaid Khawaja

Eye On Life Poetry Contest 2010-2011 Honorable Mention 

Looking Toward Juno

The silvering hotels
haze on the horizon
surf-spray washing them
out where the morning
is loud shell-song
scraping over the velvet sand
where the waves pull
their hands back
the way she draws hers
over his chest
and down his rippling
stomach.

— Taylor Hagood 

Pier

When times are right
we’ve reeled in blues
half eaten
in the mouths of Spanish mackerel
two at a time
fighting the seagulls away
caught in the transfer
of dreams from ocean to clouds
where they rain back down again.

— By Taylor Hagood 

Walking Down the Canal in Winter…

You held my hand as I held 
Crumbling, white bread, rubbing
My  five year old fingers along
Cotton candy blue daddy pants
Saddle shod feet hit the ground
No longer stroller bound, trying to keep up with the sound
Of your white, wing tipped, walking
Shoes slamming slush behind you
In front of me
The canal iced over.

— by Gretchen Yolande McGill

Synapse

I.  Restless in Indiana

We smear butter
like wet semi-conscious kisses
inside the hot skillet,
sizzling into breakfast.
Laughing and adding
random pinches of pepper
and paprika to give it our own
flavor.
Eggs burning
in the background of two
hungry dreamers making
love
over easy.

II. Trailer park, Muncie, Indiana

Prego spaghetti sauce smell
in our bedroom
Kids fever in the next room over
Hair stuck in the bath
room sink
Trash outside in the bin.

Woman screaming
in harmony to the skinny cat purring
on the sill.
No Colorado mountain outside
of the dusty book.

But..
we have the Rockies
in our bed room
dreams. We have a Gemini
sleeping under an elephant
mobile and a fat
cat at the foot of our bed.

We have spaghetti to eat
whenever we want.

— Gretchen Y. McGill

CAN I WRITE YOU

Can I write you

Can I slip into your eyes

In search of words to describe

May I move as a soft caress

Upon your skin

So as to fill my pages

Can I bathe within

The trance of your beauty

Gathering words of poetry

May I capture your glow

Your warmth, your smile…

Your memory

For life has been upon me such

That I know

I cannot long hold you

For an angel never could be held

But if you will

Might I hold you dear, forever

Upon the weathered linen pages

Of my mind

— Jeff Bresee 

Verbatim

I drew lines delicate llama trying to widen my gaze upon the bluest of horizons. I sketched my heart like a lily sky, treading clouds with soft shuffled taps. I needled the air like a pine butterfly, flying amid the copious dawn light. I gathered the sea in my pocket, feeling the ebb and flow against my salt skin. I hovered in the tall grass plains like a mountain solitude questioning the sunrise’s knees. I longed for sleep with satin wrapped hopes, and wished today would just kneel in violet prayers. I stood like stone upon the phosphorous ground speaking about the vastness of what it means to be alive. I ventured into the wilderness of solitude with tears for a sleeping bag. I made suggestions to the Heavens and waited for a reply, but all I got was cobblestone distances that mocked me with nocturnal laughter. I took brine to heart with invisible gestures, the dizzying scarlet whirl of movement undoing before my eyes. I imagined numbers in immense equations, but always ended up at one. I denied the doors their right to open, preferring the anonymity of shadows, a morning ghost seeking to find autumn.

— Kevin Harling

Home

Endless anticipation

Burns with wind against my cheek

The trees aside the road

Bend to watch me speed by

Ageless destination has

A name I dare not speak

Lest my tears freeze

Both sight and eyes 

Humble beginnings

To taste the world, I left to roam

Humbler still, the need

To start afresh

So I’m headed

Home

By Eddie Pierce 

November 2005

Can I buy an American Spirit for the road?
because the foliage is at its finest week,
I drive methodically through
the backcountry, the crested hills,
and the woods so full of pride
because of the amazement of colors
beyond its yellowed depths and reddened walls;
I might not even want to ash my cigarette on these days
but let the true American spirit take the smoke
and ash far away from this beautiful countryside,
I feel like an ash myself, somehow polluting
the colors with the fumes from my car,
I should really just get that bike I keep thinking about,
and I would ride even slower along the road
as the oranges, reds, and so many colors would wrap
an  autumn quilt around my bike with a natural golden velvet,
a sheath of the country, I can’t take my eyes away,
but oh! a covered bridge that I must drive through,
I take it slowly as it makes those covered bridge noises, squeaks
and creaks as though it may come crashing down
but not today or anytime soon,
it is almost as natural as the surrounding it stands;
I continue to drive and turn and turn and turn not knowing
what is beyond but a guess would suggest
more lush Northeastern foliage
at one of the best times of the year;
and my most favorite part of all
is a young fellow who rides with me
in the passenger seat,
 he is my dog who takes in the glory,
maybe even a little bit more than myself.

— Joseph M Watts

I Will Be There

I give birth to butterflies
in your stomach, capture some
and tell others how to flutter
their wings,
I can mix your words in a stew
so you stumble and lose your
smooth step in your spoken stride,
I can make dreaming and daze
your best friends when I swim
in your blood, dive into the beat
of your chest, and skinny dip
in your head;

someday when you two look
away from each other’s gaze
I will also be there to patch your
worn quilted faces,
when you go to the beach
I will be there too,
arm around both of you,
watching a sun splash in descent;
I’ll turn you around you’ll see
your land give birth to rays
at dawn
again and again.

— Joseph M Watts 

Mostly Basie with a Little Bach

Whenever I see a new woman, I know 

I should look at her hair and her eyes and her smile  

before I decide if she’s worth the small talk

and the dinner later 

and whatever else she may require 

before she becomes taffy, 

pliant and smiling. 

But that never works for me.

Whenever I see a new woman, 

what matters to me is never 

her hair or her eyes or her smile;

what matters to me is her saunter 

as I stroll behind her.

If her moon comes over the mountain

and loops in languor, left to right, 

and then loops back again,

primed for another revolution, then

I introduce myself immediately

no matter where we are, 

in the stairwell or on the street

and that’s when I see for the first time

her hair and her eyes and her smile  

but they are never a distraction since

I’m lost in the music of her saunter.

Years ago, tall and loping Carol Ann

took a train to Chicago, 

found a job and then one summer day 

walked ahead of me on Michigan Avenue 

while I surveyed her universe amid 

the cabs screeching, horns beeping, 

a driver’s middle finger rising. 

Suddenly she turned and said hello 

and we shook hands and I saw her smile 

dart like a minnow and then disappear 

as she frowned and asked   

why was I walking behind her. 

I told her I was on my way to the noon Mass

at Holy Name Cathedral and she was welcome 

to come along. The sermon wouldn’t be much, 

I said, but the coffee and bagels afterward 

would be plentiful, enough to cover lunch.

And Jesus Christ Himself would be there.

She didn’t believe me, not at all, 

and she hasn’t believed me since. 

That was thirty years ago and now

her smile is still a minnow

darting here and there but now 

it’s more important than her saunter 

which is still a symphony, 

mostly Basie with a little Bach.

And I no longer traipse Michigan Avenue 

as I did years ago looking for new moons 

swirling in my universe. Instead, 

I take my lunch in a little bag 

on a long train from the suburbs

and I marvel at one fact:

It’s been thirty years since I first heard 

the music in her saunter

and Carol Ann and I are 

still together, praise the Lord. 

Who can believe it? Not I. 

Carol Ann says she knew 

the ending from the start. 

Lord, Almighty. Fancy that.

— Donal Mahoney

- REMEMBER? -

(Note:  Arkansas (Ark?), Louisiana (Katrina?), Sweden (Suicide?), Hitchcockian ‘63…)

“Hey, Jennie, do ya

wanna come over, I got

a new Atomic

Robo Dogs Of War?”

“What is that?”  “Oh, It’s so cool,

just about my best

favorite Comix!”  “Is

this the thing you Read in School?”

“Oh, sure, everyday!”

“I’m Reading something,

too…”  “Oh, cool, what?”  “Ya want to

come over?”  “Sure, I’ll

bring…”  “No!, we’ll Read mine.”

“O.K., what’s It called?”  “Chicken 

Little.”  “Ohh, Jennie,

I know that, that’s a

baby’s Book, It’s…”  “Billy, chunks

of Sky are Falling!”

H.e.m.-H’H.

                   10.10.MMviii. 

(R. Shapiro, et al)

Art by Terriane U. Swift

-NUEVE ANNEE` DE DEUX-

Image by Terrianne Swift 

-NUEVE ANNEE` DE DEUX-

…Liking the nigrine

night, sparks like neon culverts

course verde et rube

her dazzle aswoon, his bas

their bow to Nevaeh’s dawn.

H.e.m.-H’H

.

12.20.MMx

ST  

AFTER THE CEREMONY

As I peer into the ‘morrows late haze,
When the sun strolls into the fading dusk,
In a building tall, upright and white,
Many will gather to observe
A thousand stems of flowers,
Decorated alters of colors,
Isles lit by melting candles.
 
We’ll share word to word,
Breath to breath,
Ring to ring,
As the organ sings.
 
Later,
The applause and faces fade,
The music returns to the stillness of the page,
And we’ll seek to find our own hidden place.
When Earth around begins to slumber
And the rest of life is dark and silent,
We’ll be left to the journey that begins together.
 
The white and black are tossed aside,
The spark of a shared name will ignite,
As the marriage bed falls under,
So begins the vows we took;
What God has brought together
Let no other person put asunder.
 
That from each new rise,
Until each weary rest,
‘Tis just one pair,
Throughout life and death.

— Amye Nicole Bird

CONTINUUM

What becomes of the hours and entities of those that we once knew?
When they quickly escape our grasp the moment we close our eyes?
Time turns deftly into fading echos and softened, dissolving sillouettes,
As each day continues on into the hardened, murky shadows.
 
What becomes of the whispered moments of a love that’s come to pass?
Is there a place reserved for the heart’s tenderness to lie itself to rest?
Only coming back to visit life when the moon arrives, full and high,
Then retreating back to yesterday just as swiftly as the morning sun breaks?
 
Upon the highest shelf of immortal love that you now call your home,
I ask that you will remember me, as you live invisibly beside me,
Resting your untouching, unfaultering hands upon the years left of my life,
Speaking your unheard words and secrets continually within my ear.
 
Let not the time nor the great fathoms of our distance spare,
Nor keep seperate your quieted heart beat and breath of life from mine,
Gaze beneath my flesh, induldging yourself into my soul, as will I with you,
Drinking from its eyes the days and nights we once held in faithful solidarity.
 
— Amye Nicole Bird 

THE DRIVE HOME

Crystalline drifts,
Opalescent skifts,
Whirlwind down
From the cerulean
Capricorn night.
The wiper blades sweep
Desperately trying
To clear the glass frosted
Of the snowflakes
Patchwork mosaic,
As the car plows toward home
On the old country road.
Passing slowly,
Sleeping, fruitless trees
That shiver and bend,
Inferior to the weight
Of winter’s immaculate,
Ever cold blanket.
Hypnotic,
Poetic,
Erotic is,
The season so sureal,
Sent forth
From the genteel fingetips
Of seraphic design.

— Amye Nicole Bird

- A CHRISTMAS POEM -

                                                          (For Lyn, et al)

…Have occasioned

I think to have been decor-

rating The Tree, it’s

piney quills & tines  

dressing in glassy festoons

weightless baubles of

tins-led Christmas-candy

colors, like porcelain

fragile-fine, hooked canes

& dangled barber-pole-paean

peppermint-stick Memories

of savored hangon

trinkets & heirlooms

looming like a twinkling

tapestry ‘round

wreaths of snowy popped-corn

dangling - “No, darlings, that’s not

for eating…”  Yes, I

have occasioned the

rows of bubbling light-tubes

like glowing chains of

warm caterpillars

inching-on toward the Manger’s

Star of a chrysalis

Christmas Joy to Light-

Up the World!  Oh Yes, I have

occasioned The Tree

Breathing in Ecstasy…

And the Wonder, of this from

a Guy whose Imprimitur

might have been

Tannenbaum!

H.e.m.-H’H.

                         12.8.MMvi. 

 Noel.

“And so, as Tiny Tim observed, G-D bless Us, Every One!”

(Charles Dickens, A Christmas Carol). And…

A “…Merry Christmas to All, and to All a Good Night!”

(Clement Clarke Moore, “Twas The Night Before Christmas”).

Amen.

—Holiday SupportCards for sale! Providing Winter aid for stray/feral cats— click the giraffe below for more info! 

 Art by Terrianne U. Swift

Poignant Post

I’d rather be on Cornwall’s shore
despairing for Isolde’s ship
than monitoring e-mail for
Isolde’s electronic blip
on my computer. Message box!
Incoming mail adorns my site
like sailboats seen beside the docks
that mock my landlocked heart’s delight.
For I see flagging on my screen
bright signals that my love arrived
with white displayed on its marine
horizon. Sadly, what’s inscribed
in black is not my heartthrob’s name,
but fans desire’s unquenched flame.

— Frank De Canio 

Life Boat

The captives in a labor camp
with hopeful prospect of relief
will huddle close against the damp
in hopes of tempering their grief.
Yet people who are on a boat
that has no chance of being moored
before it casts its crew afloat
until they’re terminally shored,
make no attempt to bridge divides.
They scarcely dare attenuate 
the terror of engulfing tides.
You’d think their need to navigate
against the coming of the storm
would make their common watch a norm. 

— Frank De Canio