The Busted Docks of Tonawanda Lake

May 05, 2011 / Tom Rubenoff, Senior Editor

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So Fingertips Kiss

Five kids, eight years.

And then one day my wife

shouts to me on the tractor

roaring in the field:

“I’ve had enough.”

And like a ballerina,

she rises on one foot, sole

of the other foot firm

against her knee

and with arms overhead

so fingertips kiss,

she smiles,

pirouettes,

and then like a helicopter

lifts into the air,

whirls over the garage

and keeps rising.

I can do nothing now

but curse

and be proud.

As if at the ballet,

I applaud from the tractor

and blink at the inferno

as she hits the sun.

April 28, 2011 / Tom Rubenoff, Senior Editor

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More Poems by Simon Perchik

                                You dead must think this acorn
                                will collect you in a circle
                                the way some cloud
                                once collided with the Earth
                                --it's still raining :the pieces
                                trying to finish it off

                                --you like to hear the story
                                that has no place else to go
                                will bring you to the surface
                                though this hillside is still battered
                                by stones and you have to count out loud
                                on your fingers the evenings
                                the drop by drop till all that's left
                                is the sun --you don't have to ask
                                how it happened.

                                You listen just to keep warm
                                and each morning you hear
                                the same darkness, are sure the sun too 
                                has cooled, that a single tree
                                rebuilds this cemetery
                                carries the gene for water
                                brings back the child
                                who took its first breath from water
                                where there was nothing

                                though there are voices that never dry
                                that want only each other, seated 
                                around a small fire, shielded
                                from the wind by stones

                                --you dead want the Earth
                                to yourselves, blown out the sky
                                falling in one solid piece :a thunderclap
                                half marble, half for leverage
                                moving you closer, making room
                                drifting, staring, cold.

                               


                                *

                                This shallow dish dead center
                                though its glass is commonplace
                                shimmering into mist

                                --it's not the usual birth
                                or that fragrance still moist
                                from the womb, reaching out

                                to be born in the open
                                --you cool this tea
                                the way every breath

                                divides in half then half again
                                and again till all that's left
                                is snow --what you drink

                                already has your eyes, your lips
                                and between your hands
                                its scent ices over where once

                                there was nothing --side to side
                                you darken this water as if the moon
                                still rocks the Earth asleep

                                --you sip this darkness
                                let it stain your voice
                                your whispers frozen to the bottom.


                                *

                                You climb and these steps spread out
                                in those rings trees still carry
                                under their wings 

                                --you collect height
                                and at night two at a time
                                though the steps are chipped
                                the inscriptions worn away 
                                staring off to the side 

                                --they will be first 
                                spruced back to life
                                and at the top you move the sun back 
                                --crosswinds can't be trusted
                                always on the run, raging inside
                                close to your throat

                                --you carry up the dust
                                the Earth turned away, step by step
                                this wall all there is to lead you safely
                                against her eyes already hollowed out
                                as if in all this stone
                                there's no place to lie down
                                no room for your hand
                                that suddenly will open
                                and over your lips the stars
                                breathing down, count for nothing.



                                *

                                On a pedestal yet, naked
                                though it's the light from stars
                                lifted shoulder to shoulder

                                --you sift this snow
                                as if a lone flake was imbedded
                                trapped in the shallow breath

                                when her heart shut down
                                --path by path
                                you wear the sharp gloves

                                every mourner fills with stones
                                carves from the Earth
                                another marker, the kind you roll

                                over and over your lips 
                                so nothing escapes the bitter snow
                                to open or answer or wait.



                                *

                                This spider has it made
                                settles in the way each nightfall
                                tightens around the sun

                                then eats it dry
                                though these branches
                                are not that organized, their leaves

                                escape beside evenings
                                darkened with graveyard marble
                                already moonlight and no turning back

                                --you bring it a small blossom
                                half loneliness, half stone
                                to breathe for you 

                                lowered into this web
                                broken open as if its roots
                                could reach out, tighter and tighter

                                swallow the Earth whole
                                and along each path sift
                                for this stone no longer struggling.

-- Simon Perchik

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An Agnostic’s Creed

April 25, 2011 / Tom Rubenoff, Senior Editor

The thing of it is,
says Johnny O,
none of us knows

whether he is
while others announce
after looking around

they beg to differ.
The thing of it is,
says Johnny O,

some would say
he’s here, he’s there,
he’s everywhere

while others would say
after looking around
no one can see him

anywhere—so how
can he be everywhere?
The thing of it is,

says Johnny O,
he’s right over where?
Let’s look around.

April 25, 2011 / Tom Rubenoff, Senior Editor

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Parade in the Company Cafeteria

People right-handed
carry their cups
in the right hand

while left-handed people
carry their cups
in the hand that befits

left-handed people.
Whichever the hand,
all carry their cups

elbows right-angled.
Whichever the hand,
people forget

all cups are at sea,
adrift on an
ocean of saucers.

April 24, 2011 / Tom Rubenoff, Senior Editor

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SPRINGBOARD

Have we not seen the end
of lovers leaving?
Loss in the form of letters, tucked beneath 
pillows without head prints?
Have we not mended 
the fissures running mute 
beneath the surface of 
perfect skin?

The sun unfolds silent, 
urging this decay in motion
as your fingerprints reappear 
like 
echoes.
Fossils of forgiveness.

What has been done once
will be accomplished 
three times over.
The space for pain is splitting
in two.  Do not 
dare breathe, in spite 
of this sucking surge.  
We arch our
backs in silence, mold the
moon with naked hands.  Steal the last 
of fallen snowflakes
with the tips 
of our tainted tongues.

-- Kelly Cahill

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White Sailboat

My daughter reads my

Poems with her eyes closed

Sees our days as thunder

When our family speaks

Their critical, zapping words

Only when passing in her

Dream white sailboat do we speak

Sometimes of proms promising

Nothing but disquieted womanhood

Or around every corner

Her cigarette quickly lit

She is embarrassed by my frilly skirts

Maroon flip flops and sitting alone

Slouched over tea, dry bread

Wishing her on a white sailboat

Dragging islands one at a time

Until strung together

She brings them home, sees

They are like my sheets on the line

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The Impossible Life

The ring was going to rust but by that time

He could afford, maybe, a gold one

The future was hazy and grey, but with her

He saw magenta, emeralds, and pink diamonds

Promised glass shoes that never shattered

Saintly happiness, a house with silk cream curtains

He failed his G.E.D. and his father dropped

The derelict farm over his head like a hammer

Smilingly, his mother cried for the impossible life

Finally, the girl passed her hand over his cheek

He bought the ring, then later gave it to his mother

The sentimental one who now felt like a new bride

The ring was going to rust but by that time
He could afford, maybe, a gold one
The future was hazy and grey, but with her
He saw magenta, emeralds, and pink diamonds
Promised glass shoes that never shattered
Saintly happiness, a house with silk cream curtains

He failed his G.E.D. and his father dropped
The derelict farm over his head like a hammer
Smilingly, his mother cried for the impossible life
Finally, the girl passed her hand over his cheek
He bought the ring, then later gave it to his mother
The sentimental one who now felt like a new bride

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Braid

Ten years later I met you beneath the glass

Of a lantern’s moon where we remembered

Our foolish hallowed conversations

Convictions that could never last

There had not been one touch between us

Toward a watery sky we talked of disbelief

How others did not see the magic we saw

How they treated us with mistrust

Now in your Armani wool coat

You shrug with every question, I make up

A consuming writing career, working late

A dot of a candle flamed a page

Cornered in the meeting’s disbelief,

I said I tossed my long braid into the green lake

Where books of tragic romance once blew

Open and shut upon our red picnic cloth

I meant the action as a sacrifice

I had to let go of your charming coldness

Insulted, you abruptly left

As I twined a ragged scarf around my neck

Dazed, I turned to walk in the slush of your boots.

Ten years later I met you beneath the glass
Of a lantern’s moon where we remembered
Our foolish hallowed conversations
Convictions that could never last

There had not been one touch between us
Toward a watery sky we talked of disbelief
How others did not see the magic we saw
How they treated us with mistrust

Now in your Armani wool coat
You shrug with every question, I make up
A consuming writing career, working late
A dot of a candle flamed a page

Cornered in the meeting’s disbelief,
I said I tossed my long braid into the green lake
Where books of tragic romance once blew
Open and shut upon our red picnic cloth

I meant the action as a sacrifice
I had to let go of your charming coldness
Insulted, you abruptly left
As I twined a ragged scarf around my neck
Dazed, I turned to walk in the slush of your boots.

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Songs

I have many friends I speak to

Some dead, some half alive

They walk with me

And hear me as a bird with many

Sad or joyous songs after

Dangerous nights

One tags along I do not know

Although his eyes seem to have

Seen all my days and lays down

With me at night where snow

Presses a pillow against every window

I curl up with him and go to sleep

His breathing the last song I hear

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Juliette

Homely in an artful way,

I wear suits as grey as October rain

And rent rooms in homes

Where children blow bubbles

In prickly grass roll just

To please an inner glee

Heads crowned with leaves

In my diaries I voice

A pointless quest to find love

In winds upon a park bench,

Quickly turning pages of

Romance novels, all nonsense

And frill at the throat, kisses

Baiting surrender with fur coats

And ardent laughter taking the self

If someone turned my way,

There is the rented room

And one dress I have saved,

But he would only want tea

And advise on Juliette,

Who arrives in chapter three.

Homely in an artful way,
I wear suits as grey as October rain
And rent rooms in homes
Where children blow bubbles
In prickly grass roll just
To please an inner glee
Heads crowned with leaves

In my diaries I voice
A pointless quest to find love
In winds upon a park bench,
Quickly turning pages of
Romance novels, all nonsense
And frill at the throat, kisses
Baiting surrender with fur coats
And ardent laughter taking the self

If someone turned my way,
There is the rented room
And one dress I have saved,
But he would only want tea
And advise on Juliette,
Who arrives in chapter three.