Daily Archives: June 29, 2009

18 posts

“Emergency Chills” by Mary I Huang

Like dispensing water from the hot spout and then the cold
I would have liked it better luke warm and left alone.

Back to that "natural" state, much like the apes.
"Healthy" when not too heavy and not too thin.
Not too extreme, in the normal range again.
Wanting to be special, to be amongst the top tier
An existential fear reassured by the insurance that
Uniqueness, and thus you, will carry on as a published legacy.

Commercials of packaged food
Followed by commercials of pretty people.
"Be like me, but don't eat these"
That look I get up and down - I try so hard to not do it myself
Competitors against our own kin
- self-will against self-will

Our resilience to survive, and find that perfect life...
Human desires abused, tainted, left unabated
Natural instincts as far removed as our feet from the ground
A rubber covering for safety—you never know what you might get
A disease! An epidemic! 9-1-1! Help!
Emergency protocols well advanced beyond our years
Prevention and preservation less clear.

Plan B better than watching what you eat
An artificial pace we have come to understand
Amongst the face-less messages of artificial tastes.
A constant beckoning back into the fold
Okayed silently by our longing for true community.

A desire to have something save us: Jesus
To help save someone else: service
to make a difference in someone else's life: a relationship
You fill in the blank and click OK: a goal.
Useful rhetoric to distract us from taking responsibility
for the life force within our own cells.

Losing the instinct of how, tell me what I should do now.
Instructions, please, for common sense
Modern answers emerging towards a conclusion...

What else is there but a breath in, a breath out--
culminating in a cease to our consciousness of this.
A cold understanding of the beauty of our own diversity

No one's yet to figure out how to change the automatic setting of the AC,
I prefer white noise over the sullen freeze
So I pull the heater in closer to my core and lay down to sleep--
A mini-death I take for granted daily.
Naked, with him, with no more blankets to ease
Chills of a lukewarm dream.

“Crossroads” by Mary I Huang

Traveling down this road
with guides known and unknown.

Sometimes I carry my own
but many a times I share the weight of my load.

This road's been quite long
with many helpful signs showing me where to go.

But now, my soul,
we have come to The Crossroads.

A few dusty signs,
but no straight and narrow line.

The sun still shines bright
the least of my worries is lack of insight.

But I've lost my anxious guide
she led me here.

Asked me to close my eyes
take a deep breath.

And dashed out promising
"the world is mine."

I could go Here
I could go There.

Or I could just stay
and camp out Anywhere

Indeed, there is plenty to celebrate all right here.
however...

These trained legs of mine cannot
run to stand still.

So I search my inner backpack
for a map.

Pull out the binoculars
to look back at the road past.

I veer into the stars
for a good time to start.

But this journey of mine
doesn't begin here, nor is its end near.

I drop my other worn-out fears
and pick up some more potentially useful gear.

Not knowing exactly where
the winds of fate will blow.

I take the hardest step forward
through the invisible swinging door.

For as long as this goddess in me
can reap, feel, and sow.

I cannot help but continue to
run, dance, and soar.

“Back Country” by Mary I Huang

A taste of heaven,
a feeling of earth.

Our needs on our backs,
and weight on our feet.

All the time a-listening:

To the ocean blues
awakening wind against the trees,

our conversation flowing
Compassion against my knees.

Splashing water on our faces,
to clear out the spectacular views…

A naked landscape of
what’s within with what’s without,

full of what is, and what has been—
all towards a calm assurance of what lies ahead.

Next time, next year, today, and tomorrow…
carried away from our existential fears

and everyday needs
that our breathing sustains.

The need-bes with mystic rhythms,
playing memories and dreams to my ears.

All the time a-rising to the sunny side of the rolling hills:

This moment, these moments,
I am next to you, dear friend.

Heavy of heaven,
and disappearing into earth.

“Pictures” by Domingo Forte

I've always been afraid of losing myself in streets
too wide for my eyes to contain in a single stare,
spending months studying maps and signs,
marking the unreachable points of many
infatuations of mine.

Everything to keep walking without
nightmares or scratches.

Even so, the streets that lead me to you
drew themselves in the dark.
No warning calls, no symptoms, no premonitions
at the bottom of my shallow-eyed dreams.

Two bodies, ours, made stiff by the useless litanies
of calendars and clocks, by the recurring faces
that pile up burned hours in old dusty boxes.

It doesn't hurt that I've paid to illude myself
of preserving a breath of color from you,
nor does the fake bloodless red that pretends
to illuminate your bed burn on my skin.

The true loss has been to walk away
with those pictures in my hands,
so precise and true that my eyes
yearn to forget that some day
a careless fire will take away from them
the illusion of preserving you for me.

“The Working Princess” by Anita McNamee

A pretty princess
is pretty usless
when expected, to work.

Her manicure may break
under the weight
of fake bling,
she lets the phone ring
too busy to pick up.

Watches her nails blow dry
and cannot understand why,
she is unloved.

“The Daring Swim to the Edge, the Weak Stand in the Valleys” by Keith Perks

can you hear the mountains?
they whisper what they see on the horizon.
in between the words, it's their laughter that haunts me.
what is it they see?

as a child i once heard them clearly.
they said to me, as i stood still in the valley,
"fear not the future, but the hands that bring it.
you are always ripe on the vine and they are hungry."

i pray for thunderous clouds to bring me rain.
to flood this damned valley.
i will kick, and swim, and float to the top,
fighting the waves just to catch a glimpse.

as the water floods over through the brush and trees,
i will grasp tightly to an oak.
for a moment i will see the light they see.
i will hear the answers like trumpets.

if only for seconds i will see and i will know.
it's the edge i dare to find.
i will let go and flow over into their hands
as a gift instead of a choice on a vine.

“An Invisible Cage” by Pat St. Pierre

I long to be free
To roam –
Instead this invisible cage
Holds me like an animal.
The chains, which bind me
Are strong;
The air I breathe
Is heavy.
I search for freedom.

“What Used To Be” by Michael Berger

I can remember how it
Used to be before everything
Went wrong and before we stopped
Talking to each other.
Things were good then, I had someone
To go outside with and play catch with
Someone to take me hunting and fishing
Just someone to be a dad.
Now that we don't talk it has
Killed me every day but it
Has made me stronger.
You may not be who you used to be
But that is how I will remember you.

“Hoboken Hooker” by Donald Cauthon

Well the boys were bored and looking for some fun
Jeffery on the phone
Tommy out in the yard soaking up the sun
I said c'mon boys lets go for a drive
See what's happening on the other side

We headed for this one Jersey town
We heard the girls were fine
We stopped for gas down by marker 49
There was a pretty little lady
Standing on the corner of Seventh and Vine
I said hey honey
We're looking for some sand and shore
She said well look no more
Take me with you cutie and I'll give you a tour

Jamie Lynn was her name
A gypsy woman, a hoboken hooker
Without an ounce of shame

They say when your driving
Keep your eyes on the road
But with Jamie Lynn
It was like living in the twilight zone
She laughed and she talked
We sweated and we joked
We all left with smiles and we all left broke

“When is the Right Time? – Zen Poem VI” by Charles Freundlich

TELL ME, MASTER –

WHEN IS THE RIGHT TIME
To listen to a lone wind chime?

WHEN IS THE RIGHT TIME
To choose a mountain that we will eventually climb?

WHEN IS THE RIGHT TIME
To eliminate man's descent into petty crime?

WHEN IS THE RIGHT TIME
For organized silence?

WHEN IS THE RIGHT TIME
For eradicating organized violence?

WHEN IS THE RIGHT TIME
To sit and just read?

WHEN IS THE RIGHT TIME
To peacefully plant a brand new seed?

WHEN IS THE RIGHT TIME
To stop being poor?

WHEN IS THE RIGHT TIME
For waging war – (mainly because we are indeed so poor?)

WHEN IS THE RIGHT TIME
To write words that are sublime?

WHEN IS THE RIGHT TIME
To create a sublime new rhyme?

WHEN IS THE RIGHT TIME
To take a chance?

WHEN IS THE RIGHT TIME
To do what we must to enhance so that we may advance?

WHEN IS THE RIGHT TIME
To discover the true role of the soul?

WHEN IS THE RIGHT TIME
To measure the cost of finding that soul when it is lost?


SO TELL ME, MASTER –
WHEN IS THE RIGHT TIME?

“A New Notion About an Old Story” by Nonnie Augustine

A dark girl, quite poor, who might have been four,
leaned on a statue of a horse and his man.
(The rider rode him in place, but as if in a race.)
Her dress needed patching, her heart needed smoothing.
She'd tried to sell matches all the cold night,
but none noted her plight 'til up to her came
a blond boy who was lame.

"Can you sell those, you think, for some food and
warm drink?" asked the boy who was bigger, and
dressed slightly better, but dirty as well. He'd
apples to sell.

"No, not a one. I want to be done."
Tears plopped from her eyes,
left streaks on her cheeks.

"Have an apple, why don't you? I've still these two."
The boy gave the waif his well-polished
fruit and a back-pat to boot.

"Do you two like that horse? He's my favorite of
course," said a girl, almost grown, also out on her
own. Her eye was blacked but she'd a warm coat and
hat. "I come here at night, when my Dad's fists
fight. Whiskey's his curse and he's home getting
worse." She pulled the tot to her lap with a plop,
and claimed the lad's hand. One's smile warmed
another's, till all three loved each other.

The horse, soot-streaked marble, was truly a marvel.
His coat livened to touch. His head tossed
with his snort. The rider, a soldier, stretched,
laughed, and fetched the big girl and little.
He soothed them to settle in front of his saddle.
Then he scooped up the boy
(who whooped high with joy) and put him
behind him and they all fit just fine.
The horse stamped his feet, whinnied,
and leaped as far as the stars.

By and by they arrived at the dawn of a day
in a place deep in memory, where, so happily,
they stayed on with others who'd
been far lost, woozy from poverty,
and froze from frost. Graced, none found hurt,
meanness, nor dirt, became grown-ups
who cared or children who shared.

Now I'm old and grown bold
and redone the tale
of the Match-girl's last night.
I'd cried hard and long
when first told her story.
They'd gotten it wrong-
now I've set it right.

“The Landing of Spring” by Davide Trame

You are far out,
still caught in the coils of a winter virus,
hands throbbing, breath puffing
in a dream of rubble.
Winter has been
a long blight on your skin,
ice burning the banana leaves
leaving them hanging like shredded paper.
Like your shredded soul
in the low light and cold,
like the familiar fog tackling
bricks and plaster from the foundations,
scraping the marrow day after day
with the patience
only still air has.

It's before sleep then, in the night,
when you sense the first whispers,
wind gusts like elephant tusks
probing, searching along the walls
or stars' crumbs breathing
while a shutter bangs,
rusty hinges giving off,
the dark concrete swarmed in
by the promise of light's fingertips.

At dawn light is suddenly large
as if it had been waiting
out there at sea,
arms crossed staring at the shore,
now it's spreading its wings,
displaying on landing
long soft claws
on the silent miles
of brushing roof-tiles.

And the herring gull cackles,
the sun’s throat is in its howl
absorbed by light
like circles enlarging in a pond.
You get up on a cleaned landing strip
and see no fences,
just the horizon and a few shrubs,
thin buds like eyes shaking in the breeze,
you, as ever, have been lagging behind
but this stretch doesn't mind,
empty like the palm of this hand.

“Just an Old Attic” by Virginia K. Muller

As we ransack Grandma's jumbled attic
in her blatant old house,
numerous ladybugs and even a mouse
snared in yellow dust, layered thick.

A rusty dress form displays only a hat
and a distant wall sports a battered ole' bat.
Boxes of antique shoes are
staged in a perfect row.

Scads of newsworthy magazines,
records of years past,
pictures, fashions of Victorian times
in frames, made of wood to last.

From a rickety stairwell
it's an effort to sneak a peek.
There's little chance to run around,
no space for hide and seek.

Large lofty windows appear to leak
as the floor feels unsound.
A passé leather trunk
full of winter scarves and such
sits on a mattress, once a GI's bunk.

Ah, there's a large Webster's lexicon
next to pieces of broken glass
from a battered kitchen hutch

A brass rack holds a faded quilt
draped in a heaped mass.
There's a wheel chair, a crutch -
wonder where those have been?

There's Grandpa's old uniform
with many medals, somewhat torn.
An empty silver flask that once held his gin.

A child's rockin' horse sits alone
beside an honest-to-god telly
with a cradle and faded numbers
from overuse of long ago.

A recipe file in a dark corner,
at least that's what the label says.
I wonder how often Grandma sat up here
after Granddad passed away?

Many old treasures, to her so dear,
as well as her bible and an old rug
upon which she would kneel to pray.

“Open Your Eyes” by Karly Gessler

The world is perfect
Nothing is wrong
Wish you could see me laughing
But there you are
Oh so blind
Because your eyes are closed
Please open your eyes
The truth is here
You have to see it
The world is bad
But it has its moments
Open your eyes
You cant live with them closed
You'll see yourself
You can see the doors open
You'll see others in pain
You'll see yourself fall
Your dreams fade away
Hearts get broken
You'll see your future
You'll see the spotlight
Your going to be a star
Open your eyes
Your going to be strong
Your going to make it
Open your eyes
It's the only way to live

“The End of Our Road” by Karly Gessler

Is there anything left?
Anything left in the tank?
Will this car start again?
Does the road split here?
Is this where it ends?
What do we have left...
But a car full of memories?
This is indeed the end
I feel it in my heart
We get out of the car
Look straight ahead
Yes, there...
The road does split
Our car is broken down
It's been a long ride
All the hills
Bumps
Rocks
Day and night
What should we do?
Give it another go?
Push the car back a few years?
Sit here forever at the end?
Its time to go
End it now
Put our friendship out of its misery
You look at me...
I look at you
Sadness in our eyes
I give a nervous reassuring smile
The sun starts to set...
We hug each other
We walk towards the sunset...
The split road
Are hands still together
As we look forward
The distance between the roads
The sun going lower...
Our hands drop
We walk onto our separate roads
The sun gone...
The moon is now here
I look at you
Just a shadow walking...
This is the end
But you will always be with me
Like a scar on my heart

“School Day Daze” by Karly Gessler

My hands write the notes
Without me knowing what they are
My feet move me through these halls
Without me thinking where I am
My eyes see all around
Without me seeing at all
Half my brain working
Other half, turned off
That's where I am
Moving without moving
Seeing without seeing
Thinking without thinking
Everything is moving
I'm moving too
Like a leaf drifting in the breeze
But I feel like I'm standing still
This is
My school day daze

“Sound of Rain” by Keith Perks

the lights shined
and the glorious
fat bastards made their way
to the machines
like mayflies to a light.
drones in wheelchairs.
oxygen masks.
cigarettes in hand.
they insert their money
and spin.
over and over
slapping down
arthritic fingers
on a blinking button
hoping to take more
from the indians.
belly up to the
triple red hot 7's.
tipping poorly
for their booze.
the lights glisten
in cataract eyes
while their mouths
hang open like
Triple Slingo is
the second coming
of christ.
there's a world
going on outside
of there.
grandchildren somewhere
i'm sure.
but the calls of
digital bells
have become more
important.

“How Do We Know? – Zen Poem V” by Charles Freundlich

HOW DO WE KNOW
When we should stop being bossed?

HOW DO WE KNOW
When we should no longer be forced?

HOW DO WE KNOW
When a vital struggle has been lost?

HOW DO WE KNOW
When we’ve paid too high a cost?

HOW DO WE KNOW
When it’s the right time to go?

HOW DO WE KNOW
When to let the arrow leave the bow?

HOW DO WE KNOW
When it’s time to be free?

HOW DO WE KNOW
When it’s time to be the true you or me?

SO TELL ME, MY WISE MASTER –
HOW DO WE REALLY KNOW?