TABLE OF CONTENTS - POETRY, page 3

Poetic Genius - Maria Claudia Faverio
Woman - Ngoc Nguyen
Brief Essay On Man - Paul Nachbar
Beetle - Daniel Phillips
The Boomers' Reunion - Thom Hadley
Sneering Pumpkins - Mark Norman
Little Visitors - Ed Glomski
Thee Door Betwixed - Mark Norman
Of Sawan, Squashes, and Exhortations - Thom Hadley
All - Daniel Phillips
The Sun, The Moon, The Circle - Ed Glomski
Tasberry Street - Ed Glomski
Phantasms - Thom Hadley
All Of History - Paul Nachbar
Seeno Street (Redoubled Rondeau) - Kay Lindgren
American Ennui - Paul Nachbar
Signs Of Autumn - Sharon Norman

Poetic Genius - Maria Claudia Faverio

Whispers
have surged into inspiration,
overcoming the peculiar singularity
of black holes
and boredom.

They have found their way
through mazes of constellations
forgotten,
neglected,
endeavours of being
dead
before they know
they are.

They have deciphered
the cryptic language
of the soul,
graffiti of sound
and light.

They are tired now,
inebriated with happiness,
like he who has discovered the sea.

Whispers
have surged into a fortissimo of words
and notes,
like the Allegro Finale
of Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony.

The profane stops his ears,
shuts the window
onto the violence of light
intruding into the cuddling blackness
of unawareness.

But the genius,
the poet marked by sufferance,
walks into the tunnel of light,
runs,
crying and laughing
at the same time,
stretches his arms
towards the visions
shaping themselves into reality
under the spell of verse.

And a new poem is born.

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Woman - Ngoc Nguyen

As nectar is to the honeybee,
Thou art equally lovely to me,
And the radiance of thine face,
It moves inside me all of time and space.

Thou art a beautiful mystery,
Embodied in corporeal epiphany,
Whom from Heaven's emerald gates,
The Divine Creator made to be my earthly mate.

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Brief Essay On Man - Paul Nachbar

I do not know what Man actually is
Maybe we all invented him?
I do not know, I do not care
To endlessly argue here
Man isn't feeling very well these days
I think he is, despite all claims
A bit more than he thinks and feels he is.

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Beetle - Daniel Phillips

beetle beetle
on the ground
with your effervescent frown
how I envy your simplicity of life
creeping crawling
slowly passing
time and space are but for sassing
the in all end all
and be all is no concern at all

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The Boomers' Reunion - Thom Hadley

Amidst am I, in this milling Scene,
slyly watching how
now with bald pates, great paunches
old jocks sniff after high-flouncing haunches
of faded, degraded Homecoming Queens

the Shrimp has become bloated
the Bulldog, toothless, demoted
to a short chain in his own back yard...
the brightest star is good ol' nerdy "Retard"

only the eyes can now tattle-tell
of the spirits trapped in wrinkling shells
the wrack of time wreaks revenge
upon callow youth; I cringe...

Who Be these old people around me?
Wherefore such lack of hope, utter resignation?
I cast my gaze about, catch a bright reflection:
I marvel, "Who is that ol' Coot?"
Mirror says: "'Tis Thee!"

I swear by God and Peter Pan,
I shall never-never, ever Surrender!
I will run, play, guffaw in the Sun
not rot away, a Cul-de-Sac-ender!

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Sneering Pumpkins - Mark Norman

It's hidden beneath the pumpkin patch's leafy canopy
lurking amid the bracing autumn wind
with rancid, pus-filled green eyes glaring upon the coursing clouds
relishing the surrealistic moon of October again.

You have met this special thing
with its long slender icy cold fingers
groping your soul and gripping at your heart.
It's found in all the dark places: backyards, alleys, and parks.

When the only thing that stays
you, from quickly turning your back
is that special thing that's not there
but it freezes you in your tracks.

You fight to snap out of the daze
and run, its sour breath pressed upon your neck
driving you deeper into the mind's maze
when you hear the echoing rustle of footfalls next.

Bare tree limbs swoon,
crack and sing as you stumble past, warning
of that special thing closing, nearing fast
it's Halloween arriving soon, soon at last.

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Little Visitors - Ed Glomski

Timid little visitors,
you treat me with disdain,
Hesitant you seem to be,
To dwell on my terrain.
You need a little prodding
You've made that very plain.
And so I sit and wonder,
Why do you so refrain?
Too slowly come ideas
Into my lazy brain.

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Thee Door Betwixed - Mark Norman

Thee door betwixed thine kosmos be hinged ajar
Rattled, unbarred by the gay children's cackle
From a satisfying fall harvest, gratified
full little bellies, tired late to bed
The orb haunted, full moon above is now possessed
The nocturnal screams for mother in unison
Collectively clamor, bars the door shut once,
but once again.

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Of Sawan, Squashes, and Exhortations - Thom Hadley

An auspicious Guild, Be this Wordwrights' Exultation...
Each poem a vital Feather of the Raven...
We not a crows' Murder be,
not a Soul herein would deign be so craven

Upon the Orange Orb, Carve away, kayzelle!
may Thy Blade glide as the Artist's brush so gleams...
beneath a Harvest Moon be Thee Dancin',
a Gazelle leapin' 'cross these poets'-pages' sheaves,
diamond-bright hooves in Luna's light, proudly prancin'

Mark the Norseman's Pumpkin does verily frighten
Intimating of that "special thing" that is
but is not there, icy fingers grip to Throttle;
his boney trees, (as Pippin's Ents), forewarn us

MacNiven's given wisdom; Capital Letters do
convey, when prosaic Lucidity has failed us...
a taste of the Olde Way lends
flair, gravity to a Noun, gravidity to the Soundlesssss...
fraught with double-entendre
they lend weighty Import to
Mundane phrases that confound us

Edward knows our wee Visitors come not to stay
but Dance upon our dimmed Periphery
tinkling, tiny Voices whispering snippets
of Wisdom, of Mischief, of wry confabulations
taking sly Glances, askance, so furtive...
Coquettish, such Sprites, yet, bits of Sagacity
plop like ripe Plums from twisty, Cryptic phrases

these Faeries of the Muses, (so hesitant, apprehensive),
huddle behind disused, dusty Books in our cases
whispering of Delights, Dreams, of Never- and Evermores,
of Secret, Desirous, of foreboding, Forbidden places

Shadows "lurking" behind th' mottled Leaf I also Spy
whilst dark Winds' Breath blows from Nether Regions
Goblins in gaggles cackle behind Harvest's stacked sheaves...
What is that creaking, sneaking in my ears? Alarum!
The Door betwixt Worlds stands cracked open!

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All - Daniel Phillips

sky           sky

tree         tree

grass     grass

flower   flower

here there is no power

only what was and what is

come over and see

come here and listen

Talk not, speak not

Feel the all

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The Sun, The Moon, The Circle - Ed Glomski

In the night in a dream,
I saw Ursa Major and Polaris,
And the mighty Orion,
But there was no moon,

The sun set thirteen years ago,
After suffering much,
And now the moon is gone,
Into that ethereal region.

I am an orphan
Under the stars,
Alone in the night,
In my desolate dream.

But I am the sun,
For another one,
And she in turn,
Brightens my midnight.

And if the circle,
Is left intact,
I will leave her ,
In a sunless world.

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Tasberry Street - Ed Glomski

On Tasberry Street
everyone is content,
With plenty to eat
and money for rent.
The children who live there
all smile as they play;
This is a place where
all is okay.
No parent will desert them,
their lives are filled with love
And nobody can hurt them,
they're protected from above.
No one is in a hurry,
life is so-so sweet,
And no one has a worry,
On Tasberry Street.

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Phantasms - Thom Hadley

greymist ghost sits in ragged suit of bones
mem'ries lay lank as hair 'pon its stringed skull
boney digits joined with dried desires
grasp at firefly souls whirling about
black sockets where
the lamps, th' windows of the Soul
once were lit so bright

nameless, voiceless, devoid of Flesh
Greymister rattles up the steps
his knuckles, sharp as barnacles, rasp th' wood
Now, flee now!
If only I could...

Greymister enters, I hear his dragging chains
his moans, the thudding of his steps
bruises my brain, my temples throb, my throat bereft
of Breath, I strain, believing yet not believing
he will open my door...

I hear the Raven's cry, the Wind rattles my panes
The willow moans, bending, to caress my roof
Ghastly intimations of Death's seduction, Its Truth...
With Heart thumping a tattoo of Hysteria
I lurch to wrest the door open, damn Fear!

Aghast, incredulous,
I confront the Phantasm, eyes wild and wide
it is Me in my very own Mirror!

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All Of History - Paul Nachbar

so easy to end up
haunted by history
one's own/transpersonal
fragile envelop of one's own life
floating quite endlessly
in a stream
sometimes quite utterly mad

humiliations here
you would like to reach
for some historical perfection
not one's own
impossible/impractical
the world goes on
it's cheap and crass and funny too
most horribly imperfect foundations
for anything
despair
perhaps one is not so good or great
in any case
were they?

the others get their blues
it seems
with me all pitch black
the wise ones tell me
don't look back
oh sure/backwards glances
feverish
pillar of salt

turn on the television
turn the video on
damn I'm slow sometimes
but the world goes on and on and on

one slips in sleaze
fake badness fake madness
still searching for
some infinitely sensitive thing
ah I could live if
I could release all the tears
expel dark ink of memories
those poisons in my white white skin

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Seeno Street (Redoubled Rondeau) - Kay Lindgren

I lose my history on Seeno Street:
The house where I was born (if it still stands)
veils its face in the fog's maternal pleats.
I cannot part these curtains with my hands.

Not far from where Pacific's churning sands
make coastal rocks their palimpsest, delete
the eons' cryptic glyphs and ampersands,
I lose my history. On Seeno Street,

day used to shatter when the fishing fleet
and canneries screeched rise-and-shine commands.
Now, Cannery Row snubs all but the elite.
The house where I was born, if it still stands,

no longer is embraced by warm verandas
where roses plaited trellises with sweet,
red-violet perfumes. A shadow lands
and veils its face in the fog's maternal pleats.

Here, where the wills of myth and truth compete,
I gather up my days like beads whose strand
has snapped. Clouds blindfold me and snare my feet.
I cannot part these curtains with my hands.

When the crowd of cumuli disbands,
my memory becomes a balance sheet
of debits: a spatter of red ink expands
into tomorrow. Before today is complete,
I lose my history.

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American Ennui - Paul Nachbar

Nothing great could happen here
I've adjusted to the rest
and the truth is awfully clear
it is just good better best
never ever let it rest.

None of this could quite inspire
anyone who gave a damn
all activities do tire
still I wonder who I am
somehow I cannot reach higher.

We shall chat then take our pills
When life puts us in a mood
time for work and time for thrills
work here is the greatest good
while tending to the flow of bills.

Life is nice, who could complain
bad folks somehow always near
put their poison in your brain
here it is absurd to fear
policemen put me in good cheer.

And the radio is good
And I love what's on TV
I guess I do just as I should
Here there is no misery
But if I somehow only could...

We work hard to build a dream
It is somewhat like release
Here sometimes we slightly scheme
I shall show you my new lease
Literary masterpiece

Nothing here is very good
Nothing here is very bad
Yes we did just as we should
Maybe somehow we've been had
We look up to Mom and Dad.

Here I can say nothing new
Somehow I just can't complain
Experts know just what to do
And the residue of pain
Is just some neurons in my brain.

Nothing great come come of this
Nothing here that's really bad
Somehow here we lost ourselves
And we seem like mom and dad
Think you , dear, we shall go mad?

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Signs Of Autumn - Sharon Norman

A solitary road
threads lazily
over patchwork hills of green and tan.
Crimson leaves
dance like woodland fairies
to the rhythmic beat of the wind.
A regatta of farmers
hurriedly reap
the season’s final crop.
Autumn trees,
drenched in syrupy radiance,
paint an abstract sunset
against the steel grey expanse.
Geese, ducks and starling
on their migratory routes,
create a chaotic discord overhead,
demanding more than a momentary glance.
Squirrels scamper
about the ground
gathering a feast for winter stores.
Listen carefully,
and you’ll hear cicadas
announce with increasing crescendo,
“Autumn has arrived!”

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