Whole in Theory

Maybe life died that day

after all

my feet froze in place

and my hands turned a grape-shade of

purple while anxiously struggling to clutch

the China teacup.

I wanted to stroke your face

the way curious children finger a newborn’s features

but your body was cold

and only my mind could dart from the fallow position

that callously seized

me hostage.

Revelers rejoiced somewhere

I know they did,

oblivious to the ache that seized my

innards.

Even ordinary

tasks like defecating in an oval hole

seemed laborious in every sense of the

word.

I stared for a while,

at the slight bump dressing your

otherwise delicate nose and loveliness I would never again

be honored to inhale.

Breathing in everything that made you real

while capturing a mental snapshot

to soothe

for future desperations

or occasions

I simply need my mommy.

Twenty-four winters have passed

since that somber time,

war’s brutality

peered its unkind eyes

and lines claimed squatter’s rights by my lips.

Now

I value days when obscurity is gracious enough to

grant a respectable distance.

Perhaps life didn’t die,  

it just became a bruised variant

of whole.

— Cheryl Sommese

Honorable Mention, EOL Poetry Contest 2011-2012

THE FLOWER GARDEN

I love the lilac, lily, chrysanthemum flower garden

That lingers under the milk of a fresh moon, late

At night as it pours its light into our delicious

Spot, where we sit in piles of chocolate pudding.

The dirt sifts through our fingers like the day

We drove five hours to the beach and we

Lived in the sand, our fingers drinking its warmth

And thinking that we could dig a hole to China. 

I miss those days of floppy hats and large

Sunglasses and too much sunscreen because

Our mothers knew that the sun likes to leave 

Its mark, sort of like us. 

Remember the big maple tree we visited

After we had enough of hiding under the snack bar

Windowsill, where we carved our names

Like explorers who wanted everyone to know

We made this journey together; I miss that.

But I love our spot under this windowsill, 

In the dirt and company of the moon. I love 

The big maple tree and the porch and the wooden 

Swing that likes to sing out of tune. 

And what I love most of all is that after 

Eighty years,

You seem to love it too. 

— Christine Barba 

CREATION

Kicking the beer bottles under the driver’s seat, 

He fastened his Smile Sandwiches visor, threw his

Apron over his neck, and looked down, the creases

Under his eyes congregating, like the lines painting

The sky that day. Sighing, he gazed at the sun peaking 

Through the clouds, blinding him, as he walked towards 

A new beginning, sun beating on his back, and tuna, 

Turkey and lettuce, awaiting his arrival. 

A little pigtailed girl came up to the counter, uncertain. 

Can I have a glass of water please? He looked down at her,

Wanting instead to give her the globe in his hand. He nodded, 

Scraggly black hair bouncing with the gesture. Walking

Over to the soda machine, he pressed the water panel,

And watched the way it filled up the cup, making his 

Hand, no his body, feel full. He handed the cup to the

Girl. Thanks, she smiled taking his gift.

He stood there, gazing at the broom. I should clean up,

He thought, staring at the bread and bacon crumbs

Scattered over the dry ground. He pushed pieces

Of crust to the corners of the counter, watching it 

Shift back and forth with the broom, waiting for

 It to be uplifted into his dustpan. Then someone asked

For broccoli, peppers, lettuce. Vegetation, he thought. 

And as it got later, people continued shuffling in, 

Looking at him work his seven hour shift. The sun

Became stronger until the clock’s hands moved 

To the right, and through the swinging door he

 Could see the moon, watching him, and the stars

Aligning more precisely than the customers in line. 

And then the shipments came in, more vegetables,

Meat, sustenance, and he watched as the birds dotted

The sky, flying by him, and he stared at the tuna on his

Butter knife, thinking of how it made him thirsty and 

He took a glass of water, but some tuna fell into it. 

And finally, after several hours of work, he watched

Customers flocking in the door, and he thought, maybe

They are pleased with the work that I have done. He smiled

At the men and women, coming in with baby boys and girls. 

By the seventh hour He finished the work He had been doing. 

He sat down, mopped his brow, proud of the sandwiches He had

Created, and left the sandwich shop, deciding to go to church. 

— Christine Barba 

THE FACE OF COPPER

I peel off a price tag and stick it to your astonished lips, and

you rush to the department store mirror, gazing at the mark

I have branded you with. You remove the scar, with a cloudy grimace,

 stammering,  “b-b-b-u-t this price tag reads $0.01!” 

And I smirk because again you have misunderstood me, 

and I remind you that many people overlook the fact that 

copper was once one of the most precious metals, 

and unlike the fools who discard their pennies, 

like the flu – throwing them into the Delaware River

or trampling on Abraham as they pass him by,

I keep mine safely encased in a glass jar, housing every penny 

I’ve received since I was five, and like the penny - I am still – 

clinging onto you.

— Christine Barba 

THE WATER'S EDGE

Lets not waver, wander, weather by the water’s edge,

Lets not gaze, gather, and falter as the wave’s progress.

Can we bask, bathe, and celebrate in the sea instead?

When we jump, there’s no backward, only looking ahead.

So come with me and by the sea we’ll transform our misery.

Dive into the waves, dive into the bay, for here regrets are untrue.

Lets not waver, wander, weather by the water’s edge. 

She asked you not to come here; she needs you at the water’s edge,

Yet you must traverse ahead with me, basking in the sea.

Don’t wait and watch her stand there with her many men. 

I wait not in fear; I stay until someone joins me here. 

 I don’t feign that I’m waiting for you, nor do I wait in vein, 

But I’m aware of why you wait; last time you didn’t waver;

You dove far in and met a jagged rock. You were shocked. 

But lets not waver, wander, weather by the water’s edge.

For the past is something far away and we must accept today. 

You chose the wrong day to dive; today, you will alter your mind

Don’t be afraid; embrace the wave, for I will keep you safe. 

I’ll meet you at our new horizon, where you will be filled with joy.

So come with me and by the sea we’ll transform our misery.

Lets not waver, wander, weather by the water’s edge.

But I cannot stand by the water’s edge forever.

Escape the jetty’s grips, escape the pain, untangle any jabs. 

You’ll let go of the ropes, I can hope, for forever’s a sad eternity.

Don’t examine fate, for I may not wait though I

[Want to] waver, wander, weather by the water’s edge

[Together].

— Christine Barba

Ash Wednesday

Ash Wednesday I saw Quinn again,

first time in years, sailing the streets,

weaving through people,

collar up, head cocked,

arms like telephone poles sunk

in the pockets of his overcoat,

the brilliant pennants of his long red hair

waving over the stadium

where years ago he took my handoff,

bucked off guard, found the free field,

and heaved like a bison 

into the end zone.

Tonight, when Quinn wove by me muttering,

I should have handed him the ball.

I should have screamed, “Go, Quinn, go!”

He would have stiff-armed the lamppost,

found the free field again,

left all in his wake to gawk

as he hit the end zone

and circled the goal posts,

whooping and laughing,

flinging the ball like a spear

over the cross-bar,

back to Iraq.

— Donal Mahoney

Loud Guitar

The seeming grown woman

goes for a thirty nine year old

guitar playing bad boy. It’s how

he plays—not who he is. He doesn’t

know that yet. And the woman

gives out jobs that’s what she does

she has always given out jobs

This Madame of Music

treating whores as artists

artists as whores.

Where are the drugs? The booze? The yelling

in the speakeasy, the flash of the knife?

They are lost in stories, but

the Madame of the Music

gives out jobs

despite the fact she knows that

lovers go to other rooms

and whisper their secrets

over other wooden tables

with initials carved into the surfaces

with butter knives.

— Elizabeth Swados 

R-E-S-P-E-C-T

I walked through the cavern

of the mall in Abu Dhabi.

I was as layered as if I was

a scientist in the Antarctic

in winter.

Pants under a dress.

A long sleeved shirt over the

top of the dress.

A scarf around my neck. Everything but elbow length gloves.

Respect for Muhammad’s culture.

Two men in their dresses and head

scarves

slid next to me and

purposely bumped into my side

as if we were doing a sixties dance.

They didn’t laugh. They simply walked on.

I wanted to dash after them and

scream “Why am I dressed like a

toddler in her first snow storm if you

treat me like a whore anyway?”

But I turned and stepped out the

glass door into

the flat inexpressive heat.

respect for Muhammad’s culture.

— Elizabeth Swados 

Poor Hudson Boy

Poor Hudson Boy

No one I know

ever sank with a ship,

but I heard of a boy with a guitar

who smoking pot

laced with powders

misunderstood the

words of the current

and tipped on the rocks

while, with lifeless arms,

was taken under like minnows

sucked into a riptide.

And, no more to sing,

reappeared as empty

a floating red and black flannel shirt

the guitar a shattered bow

all the finish rubbed off

raw wood

like a cross in a bombed out

wooden church.

— Elizabeth Swados 

Time change

My stomach is in New York
My mouth in Abu Dhabi
My sneakers walk unsteadily on
Sidewalks that shift like sand
My ears ring.
The distance between myself and
Those to whom I speak
Has grown
And there’s that hum again.
Only chocolate bridges the gap.
To get out of bed in the morning is to
Feel disappointment and confusion like
Blankets that are too heavy and hot.

— Elizabeth Swados

Romance

 doesn’t really seem

 that bad to me

 adam & eve

 expelled from eden

 they had each other

 if god really had it in

 he would have expelled one

 made the other stay

 but then

 forever apart

 there would have been no kids

 end of story

 what would god do

 for entertainment?

By Peter Jones 

Making Love with Solitude

I lie alone,
                 but not quite.

 
a touch,
a sound’
a glimpse…

 
It is dark,
               But not quite.

 
I feel my heart
struggling to beat
through your fingers
scrunched up in a fist
of your hand.

 
my heart in your fist.
your fist in my gut,
my gut in my throat.
my throat…is dry.
…so dry…
              from the screams it couldn’t scream,
                         the words it  wouldn’t speak,
                         the songs it didn’t sing.
              and the laughter…silenced.  

 
My bed is empty.
My heart is cold.
My body is trembling,
against your hold.

 
Your hold tightens.
an embrace..? 

 
I am wrapped in you.
You seep into me,
        course through me,
        running inside me,
        bombarding against me,
you settle, within me.

 
I am sleeping with you, 
                         within you.
You are growing inside me.
growing, breeding. breeding, growing.

 
I roll over,
pull my blanket to my chin
and open my eyes.

 
I am lying beside you,
in the darkness…
            alone!
 
— Saheli Khastagir

A Romeo's Comeuppance

Coming toward young Tony now

it’s the husband and his wife,

the older woman from last night,

the one he danced with New Year’s Eve 

while downing Heinekens and shots of Jack,

the one he didn’t know was married.

She told him he was tall for just 16

and that he danced like Fred Astaire. 

But now it’s noon on New Year’s Day 

and thumping off young Tony’s face, 

the husband’s fist strikes a note  

truer than the band last night.

Falling backward like a slab, 

Tony sees the golden halo of the sun 

swirl until it disappears.

Later on the gurney, Tony never hears

the doctor give the nurse his diagnosis, 

“a Romeo’s comeuppance, not to worry.”

— Donal Mahoney

Untitled

Wake me

in paroxysms of twilight

Its soft voice

under the trees

Spent beams

quivering in a dim arc

above faded stone

Guide me

along moss-bejewelled

thoroughfares 

heraldic frescoes

of silver and blue

Let me kneel at the river’s edge

rake my fingers

through incandescent loam

Wake me

where threadbare pennons

from gothic bowers dangle

Lift me

with mornings untamed requiem

Wake me

among the dead lamps reclusive bleeding

Wake me in the twilight.

—  Jason Alan Wilkinson

To A Circadian Rhythm

The sky is ever deliquescent

moulting ephemeral

sanguine pins

a juggernaut dancing gloveless

in the architecture

beyond torpid hostelries

words unravel characters

fall and blackened men

construct gauzy daydreams 

neath a long, silent carapace

:spawning dark agents

Meadows basque

purblind and bliss-weary

travellers on the damp leaves

restored by Summer’s fawning bouquet

sprawl among those unabbreviated pastures

to catch the whim of its lingering breath

Along the floss windows blush

their scarlet panes like burnished flowers

Eyes maladjusted to Dawn

her pale torch crowning the heavens

flutter before a cascade of sharpening light

Where druids gleaned laconic wisdom

through a dusky flame

and the now derelict

moss-covered spires

with footsteps rang

Where voices trapped amid fluted yarn

spun hircine dreams

a cobbled web now

reaches to the sea..

—  Jason Alan Wilkinson

Death Of The Sitcom: An Abjuration

Never shall I argue with hinges

forgetting the lurid anatomy of Daybreak

under flannel

nor gather silhouettes at eventide

sewn among tempestuous, vernal plaits

Where fields of dross are beaten

I cast no searching eye

no shadows in the blackening paddock

no airs to vaunt my weightless claim

Beneath lambent waters

my rhythm is coiled

unguided by this cryptic trance of Living

I dance upon the wet stones

To beg the wind its insuperable mercies

baiting starlit peaks

with rubicund idylls 

hermitic sang froid

to raze their hoary-crested diadems

Alas, where faint beams rattle

The proscenium waves tantrically

Sped on to delirium

by the click of a silvern hasp

a bare foot

through tall-flowered esplanades

paler than gravity.

—  Jason Alan Wilkinson

The Friars Of St. Joseph

Used to walk around in leather

earthen crewel powdering flagstones

diseased traffic

exchanging whispers

They had a rectory garden

shaped like the olde cross

with helices emanating 

from its prismatic centre

Unpainted benches

intimate a frangible diadem

-lolled neath spires of auburn and jade

The church bell’s terse, metered prose

beyond rumpled wainscoting 

deciduous flora

mouthed in a turbulence of chimes

held the ear as if by fetters

Darning Time round their lone orbit

hemming the quilted grass

advancing in pairs

robed men trace

gullies of iron

From blithe hollows

whom eulogize the Earth

with tremulous ablutions

unspoken murals

invoke ebullient hermitage

They pass among sophic boughs

mantic spines of luminosity

They graze demurely

chiding the lascivious heat

guided by song.

— Jason Alan Wilkinson

hu mbug

hu
mbug
 
we  run
past neighbors
chasing wayfaring cats
relieving displays of light
overturning trash receptacles
deflating Santa and his reindeer
alone at the table
mom rips open envelope
after envelope demanding
immediate payment for health
coveragelatefeesoverdraftscellphones
will there be no presents for loved ones
dad’s RC planes skim
oil prospects with the potential
 to cover bills and pollute ground water
perhaps it would be better to remain unemployed
yet without fuel how will children return home for the holidays
in  the  end
we all wind
up in cages
 
but oh!
 
a friends turns
to join us on the path

— Barbara Steinhauser

At Stepford Jewelers

If it snows on Christmas

I’ll get it all for free

Every glittery gem

Gold bangle

Teardrop earring

I’ve maxed out everything I own

On the line for nature’s miracle

Of snow as white

As the pearls I’m holding

If it snows on Christmas 

I won’t be that 99 percent

I’ll be occupied

Never wanting for another thing

Finally worth my weight in gold

— Frieda Babbley

Ebenezer’s Christmas Card

So what the dickens! Calling me a scrooge
for thrift and working like an honest man?
Do I employ a shameless subterfuge
to outsource Cratchit’s job so that I can
secure myself obscene amounts of wealth?
The money that I have is what I earned
by honest enterprise and not by stealth.
In fact, it’s from your ethics that I learned
that no one gives you anything in life.
Isn’t that what industry’s about?
I ceded pleasure and potential wife
to earn not near the money that you flout
conspicuously with transparent pride,
while most in your constituency bide 
 
privations that would make this miser blush
from shame. You like to fabricate straw dogs
to pummel while you unctuously gush
out festive carols by your yuletide logs!
Yet all the time you’re feathering your nest 
and leave it to the poorer of your peers
to borrow funds from their retirement chest 
in order to partake of Christmas cheer.
And so what if I loathe commercialized
indulgences that lure us into stores 
so credit unions can be subsidized 
with interest rates that annually soar?
It’s true I didn’t have to be a scrooge.
But, being so, prevented a deluge  

 
of bailouts jeopardizing all you banked 
upon to comfort you in future years.
That caring sprit you deem sacrosanct,
and Dickens touts when Marley’s ghost appears?
I didn’t see too much of it when I 
was left alone to scramble for myself,
beset with longings most folk satisfy.
Nor did my stocking on a mantelshelf 
solicit Christmas cheer and merriment
that you could ill afford. For you denied
me love who, even now with smug content,
berate me for my bitterness and snide 
behavior. You ignored a sad youth’s plight 
that would have cost you nothing to set right 
 
beyond that Christian charity you boast 
about when reading my creator’s book. 
What’s more, no grouch can entertain a ghost
unless he has the empathy to look
inside himself. For ghosts just haunt a heart 
receptive to the warmth that lay within.
And after all I played my paltry part 
in emulating Him who’s free from sin.
But I still get a table in the rear
when I set out at night to eat my meal. 
Alone, I add! For it’s just once a year
that relatives emotionally feel 
some kinship with a grump set in his ways.
This notwithstanding, Happy Holidays!

 
— Frank De Canio