Chinese Whispers

her words are jewels i find
walking down the silk road
she carries the wind in her speech
gentle as the stroking of  piano keys
but firm enough to uproot
trees
her feet are unbound and impressive
i touch her skin and read
my destiny
her body is the shade of an
almond
that never loses its tone
even in winter
she loves to spin around like a windmill
when the jazz piano
plays
her hair is black as a murder
of crows
her breasts dissappear into
my mouth
as i lose myself in the crow's
shadow
as  the jazz piano plays

-- Erren Geraud Kelly

The Indian Dress

Moon white stomach
Revealed as she walks
Old and new worlds meet
In the sway of her hips
The walk of sex

-- Erren Geraud Kelly

Hasbian

She missed the prose
Of a man’s body
She found him through an online
Personal’s ad
The first time she sketched him
She was taken aback by the topography
Of his chest
She joked that lately all
She’d been painting was her house
There most recent date had been
At an art gallery opening
And even though she no longer
Played on their team
She still wore a rainbow flag
Out of support
He didn’t think you could quit
A sexual orientation
Like you could quit a sport
His mother thought she was cute
Though she felt she didn’t eat enough
When she was younger, she was a stick insect
But time blessed her with womanly curves
And bulbous breasts
She didn’t consider herself an old maid
But she was past her child-bearing years

Saturday mornings, they lay together
He’d pinch her raisin nipples
And she’d get on top of him
And ride, joking she was close
To the mountaintop
“It’s not how long you do it
But how you do it, that matters,”
She said, as she rubbed his bible black muscles
He tasted her and discovered the ocean
She pushed him on his back and said
“Let me do the honor,” as she
Mounted him
Even after 20 years she never forgot
Love is the only sport that matters

-- Erren Geraud Kelly

An Anniversary Poem

After this many years, the when and where
And even the what have become a bit blurry,
But the why is never a question. Love is, after all,
Like that, year after year. The number of years is
Both scary and reassuring, doesn’t seem possible.
We have been places, done things, have watched
People come and go. Things change, and yet here
We are, something that doesn’t ever change in
Any important way. We know each other, the way
We think, the things we value, the things that can
Frighten us, and the things that make us who we are.
We still call just to say hello, to hear each other
Say the things we are used to saying, even the way
We say them is the same, reassuring and essential.
We wait for each other, anticipate arrivals and still
Dread departures. We have seen beginnings and
Endings, but know that being we, being together
Makes all this worth it, these forty-five years.

-- J. K. Durick

Balloon

The balloon you won you lost
Let go, your prize rose up,
Freed, it floated at first, then
Fluttered and flung itself
Into the breeze; there was
Joy in its dance, its playful
Ascent into the momentary
Heaven of the morning sky,
Even as it climbed smaller
Going away, quickly changing
From itself close up, to a ball,
A bubble, a perfect red jewel,
To that tiny red dot, the period
At the end of this sentence
We watched, we read describing
Its final small, willful triumph.

-- J. K. Durick

Willow Tree and the Rain Falls

Willow tree where the rain falls,
two loved pets beneath these roots,
Mo Joe and Joey parakeets,
gray sand like dandruff packs
them in close and tight.
I offer the Lord’s Prayer
a form of biblical relief.
Thunder at 3:37 A.M. Thursday night    
wonder of my dream mind loves thunder rain.
It is just a part of me, loose with wind.  
I know in the A.M. blending in the moisture
birds will chirp sounds blasting echoes
against the surface of the sun.  
Before the dawn light, small minds like my own
become active gearing thoughts toward work−
economizing each part of me, loose like threads in wind.
This is the willow tree where the rain falls.
I am self-employed, in my
primitive occupation selling pens,
pads of paper, calendars, tee shirts
names customized printed on them.
It is just a part of me loose with the wind.
Life as an author is a daily man grind
to coffee grounds and skeleton bone leftovers−
with the thunderclaps, and lack of sleep, well deserved.

-- Michael Lee Johnson  

Sadly, We Die

Sadly, we die in little black suitcase boxes,
cave into our fears and the top falls down.
Save the laughter, celebration, thunder clapping,
rats experimentally test shed light at end of life's tunnel.
Death is a midnight stoker, everyone living goes home.
All windows bolted, all smiles switched off.
Sad on examination tables,
in little rooms, red, with lightening we die,
move on.

-- Michael Lee Johnson

Turnip in the Still

In shadow wooden structures
stalled highway up staircases
to the top, the redwood scares me looking down.
Murders of the past, hidden in blue walls, lies,
bullet marks on the right side in plaster
confirm my belief that Jesus only works part time.
Let me look at this mirage
picture photo one more time
find the turnip in the still.

-- Michael Lee Johnson

Road Buggies, Recession, Depression, Obama

$50,000 Hummer,
struts bumping
up down
pop holed streets.
Recession, depress, Obama.
Whatever word choice fits
on your tongue at the time,
or a eye refection of gas prices.
Faith is here, but so is fear.
Mirror held reflection vision of our times.
Skelton bone, starvation, and Indian folklore;
George W. Bush, Yale playboy drunk, transition,
best jackass of the decade candidate,
layover, hangover, fussy cat eater-
residual economic leaves that were left over’s
convenient forgot to rake, residual links.
Daddy asked me to come home to the oil fields
comfort, and keep my mouth shut.
Sky blues, anxieties touch nerves, resorts
to prayers, however do you define it:  Muhammad
drenched in Islam and child perversion, Christianity
Jesus Christ no sin, Buddhism many gods
in a shack, a sling shot for hope.
Buddha, the wasted years, the big belly
that has always needed a diet.
All are sinners of the clove and the garlic.
Piles of money mount in an Arab land.
Wasted dollars in Iraq that could have been
used for health care.
Simple sentences poetic and prose,
syntax undefined in desert sand nights.
Notes, bitches to myself:
$50,000 Hummer,
struts bumping
up down
pop holed streets.
Recession, depression, Obama
George W. Bush.

-- Michael Lee Johnson

Mysteries of Nature

The kitten’s ears perked
His gaze intent upon
His target…
The bumblebee
Who buzzed methodically

From tiny clover
To tiny clover
In our backyard
As my father and me
Sat near the picnic table

Observing.  
“Watch out,” said I,
But my father said,
“Just wait and see.”  
The kitten stalked

Rocked his hind quarters
Thrashed his tail twice
For balance
And pounced
Pinning his prey

Beneath both of his
Tiny paws.  
I waited breathless
As with a few struggling
Buzzes, the bee  

Slowly freed herself
And I, still breathless as
She flew off heedless
And resumed her chores.  
I thought

For decades
My father was many things
But also wise; yet since he
Is now long gone am
Left to wonder:
Did he know?  

-- Tom Rubenoff

So Many Hummingbirds

This August evening
so many hummingbirds
helicopters of the garden

hover and dart
iridescent in the dusk
flower to flower

sipping perhaps
a last supper
then flying South

before the leaves  
before the snow
us at the window

praying they'll stay
knowing they can't
praying for spring

-- Donal Mahoney

Observer of Current Events

It's not de rigueur
to believe he's there
behind the sun,
the stars, the moon
watching us
holding a burnt match
from the first Big Bang,
a souvenir, and
holding another
yet to be struck
the day he says
"No more!"

-- Donal Mahoney

Seamus and the Rest of Us

After Reading 'Blackberry-Picking' Again

For many years
Seamus Heaney wrote
while the rest of us typed

none of us striking
keys as grand as those
in "Blackberry-Picking."

Not a sour syllable
nor bruised word
in any verse.

"Blackberry-Picking" tells
the rest of us to keep typing.  
Excellence never dies

although it may not be ours.
We will hear poems
Seamus is writing now

when we sneak into heaven
and Seamus gives them to
the Seraphim to sing.

-- Donal Mahoney

the sound of darkness

a holy hush
descends
on the hills

the king crow
and the green
bee-eater
and the pied
bush chat
have yielded
their dominion

crepuscular
colours
paint
the horizon
where cloud
and hill
kiss or
fail to kiss
like parting
lovers
in unwilling hurry

the chengi
river
receives
the garmented
sky

from the
hindu village
teaked
from view
cascade
the darkling horns
into the vale

and from the vale
toward the hills
rolls
the muezzin's
catabatic call

a choir of crickets
contribute
their refrain
inspired
by the humid heat

and sound
for a while
becomes
the unseen
the unrevealed
the unknown

the darkness

-- Iftekhar Sayeed

an opaque afternoon

stratocumulus opacus

a thin film
of rain
is falling

curls
of mist
between folds
of hilled forests
are rising

a bedraggled
black drongo
perches
on a patient
branch

nine spotted doves
on an electric wire

wait
wet

an independent
stork
in white flight
over green paddy
glides under
a treetop

the sodden
cattle
crop
the sodden
grass

the syllabled rain
gives language
to leaves

a somniferous
susurrus

the chengi river
enthused
with rain
muddies
and eddies

no urchins fish
with outsize nets
no flash
of white
announces
a maturer hand

the parenthetic
ferry boat
has long ago
oared its
last passenger
from shore to shore

yesterday's fire
that felt
like heaven's ire
dissolves
in rain
and the pyre
loses its focus
behind
stratocumulus
opacus

-- Iftekhar Sayeed

Egg King

Twenty-seven thousand chickens!

I’d retired as a neurosurgeon
and fancied my image:  
six-foot four, a straggly moustache
ostrich cowboy boots
Lord of Layers
out in a far corner of the Valley

The tin roofs of my chicken houses
my mirrored shades
reflecting glare
a two-mile driveway
oval as an egg
ending at my mansion

My reverie is broken
as I remember how badly I piss off women
It won’t be long before all these damn hens
are frigid and eggless

I turn to my business partner
who considers himself
my buddy

and demand to know:  
What the fuck are you thinking?

-- Mitchell Krockmalnik Grabois
 

Luna

Kayla blames Luna for her moodiness
and Denver banned fireworks this year  
 our streets filled with smoke from Wyoming
and Colorado Springs
Moon and stars are all we get
No rocket’s red glare, no bombs bursting in air

Five new wars ready to break out  
our military exhausted
I covet other’s explosions

Fuligo Septica (dog vomit slime mold)
lights up Careaga’s strife-torn Oakland sidewalk
with bioluminescence
Walking up his stairs jars the memory
of other years without celebration  

But Kayla’s hot as a cherry bomb
I remember her in junior high
wearing a black mini- skirt
 sitting on my hand

-- Mitchell Krockmalnik Grabois

The Cambridge Men

the Cambridge men in borrowed galleries
self-assured of superior minds
(also, with Abercrombe’s blessings
scented, coifed and haberdashed)
believing in little else and a few
close Cambridge friends as of this writing
still pointedly delighting in their own
well-read psycho-philosophical repartee  
while with slightly drunken knowing faces
pan nearly everyone else’s verse
.... the Cambridge men do not care
to hear in Cambridge if sometimes
amid the general elitist din a voice other
than their own lays bare the emptiness
of their own.

-- Tom Rubenoff

in homage to e. e. cummings

Twin Girls, 1948

Beth was always different
marching as she did
to an armless drummer.

Her sister Kate marched
to another drummer,
one with arms on certain days

but never with a drum
that caught the sticks Kate
kept in the air flailing.

When the girls were young
their mom and dad took them out
for walks on Sunday

afternoons in summer.
The girls waved to butterflies
but never to anyone else.

It was hard for other kids
peering from porches
to understand the problem.
 
When the twins were small
they didn't call it autism.
It had no name on my block.

Now the illness has a name
and different medications
that sometimes temper

but never cure.
The girls are women now
old and living in a big home

with others in a small band
some still playing instruments
no one else can see.

-- Donal Mahoney

The Parish Carnival

That's Bernie's wife on the carousel
laughing and waving her arms.
Once again she won't get off
even though Bernie is yelling
next to the concession stand
jumping around in his wheel chair.
He's finished his cotton candy
and wants to go home.
He probably has to pee.
He never goes anywhere
except to the parish carnival.
He loves the cotton candy.
He says it's the same as when
he was a kid years ago
before he fell out of the tree.
He needs Stella more than ever now
to push his wheel chair and she does
except when she comes to the carnival
and gives old Bernie a big plume
of cotton candy and hops on the carousel
laughing and waving her arms
once a summer every year.

-- Donal Mahoney