Sunday, March 29, 2015

Man from a Dream

by Kat Comer

Gypsy man
you kneel outside my door
waiting ...

The bronze luster
of your skin
glows warm

as daylight sinks its eye
into furrows
creased along the earth.

The thunder of your body
held contained
beneath your skin

is tensed--
in silence.

A brooding power gathers
and is patient.

Ivory teeth flash
upon my face
in recognition.

Your half moon smile --
a beam,

and my blood roars
to drum beats
breaking the distance

as your swell bursts
like the sun inside me
and shatters a fountain

of tiny sparks
against the walls
that now contain you.

Friday, March 27, 2015

Wednesday, March 25, 2015


by Paige Ackerson-Kiely
From her collection entitled In No One's Land

Mild lamb, I would
gather so closely to me.
I raise my hand,
ask to be chosen.
Life was interesting
when I believed everything
I heard. Now
there is wool in my ear canal.
I give myself away.
Take this hay, take this
big heap of wet hay
in your pitchfork.
Move it somewhere else.
There is plenty of room
in the field. I smoke
behind the fencepost.
I know clearly that I will
remove my pants
when it is requested
I remove my pants.
They will call all of us in
on cold nights,
though no one calls
to me specifically.

Saturday, March 21, 2015

Sunday, March 15, 2015

How Does One ...?

by Bob Feeley

On an ash grey wooden bench beneath the black plum tree
he sat in the graceful garden and studied with tired eyes
the green, intensely green, climbing ivy on the red brick wall.
“How does one say ‘Good-by’?”
In the autumn breeze the shade of the plum tree flickered
and ruffled the tidy lawn: two maroon leaves flickered, fluttered –
darkly transparent in the sun – and settled on the white flagstone

The glowing afternoon sun scaled the garden wall, soaked his
body with its warmth, and drew the warm wool smell from his suit.
He pulled at the knee of his trousers: there were three creased
wrinkles just above the knee where he had crossed his legs.
The high sheen from the tip of his shoe shimmered in nervous
He raised a well-manicured hand to straighten his tie and ran
his hand along the side of his head and down his neck and sat
with bent head.

His shadow started.
The clacking of her beads and rustling of her habit brought
him to his feet.
The afternoon sun sloped behind the steeple and he fumbled
with his hat while they seated themselves on the ash grey wooden
bench beneath the black plum tree to do what had to be done.

Thursday, March 5, 2015

The Scarecrow

by Charles Simic
From his collection entitled The Book of Gods and Devils

God's refuted but the devil's not.

This year's tomatoes are something to see.
Bite into them, Martha, 
As you would into a ripe apple.
After each bite add a little salt.

If the juices run down your chin
Onto your bare breasts,
Bend over the kitchen sink.

From there you can see your husband
Come to a dead stop in the empty field
Before one of his bleakest thoughts
Spreading its arms like a scarecrow.

Sunday, March 1, 2015

Red Scarf

by Elliot

Red silk scarf
     - drying in the wind
Saturated with the fragrance of
     grass, clover, honeysuckle,
     rain-scented breezes,
     and musky perfume
A thousand raging crimson nights
     - twisting, wrapping
     in the sudden gusts
Moonlit masquerades - wine and roses - 
lakeshore promenades
     - contorting, writhing
     in the rising gale
Past, Present and Future
All memories and emotions as One
     - wrenching and grasping
     Until the tempest rises

With a sudden surge
     the scarlet threads soar
     of the line

To be blown
     onto some mud-trodden street
     used as an oil-blotting rag,
     to smear the filthy grime off
     a cracked bedroom window,
     to block the flow of blodd
     from a puss-infested 
     knife wound
     to flap in the wind,
     - wrapped around a cold, metal pole - 
     a banner for the future generation