TABLE OF CONTENTS
Angelic
ampla - by
Stephen Harrod Buhner
Have We Become So Enamored
of the Light? -
by
Stephen Harrod Buhner
Song of Generations-by Stephen Harrod
Buhner
Time Took - by Quinn
Tyler Jackson
Contrary Auction-by Quinn Tyler Jackson
Slipping-by Quinn Tyler Jackson
Poem #1-by Jorgen Nordstrom
Poem #2-by Jorgen Nordstrom
Poem #3-by Jorgen Nordstrom
Poem #4-by Jorgen Nordstrom
Poem #5-by Jorgen Nordstrom
Poem #6-by Jorgen Nordstrom
Poem #7-by Jorgen Nordstrom
Poem #8-by Jorgen Nordstrom
Poem #9-by Jorgen Nordstrom
Shakespeare, Snakespeare-by Kwee Tat Chew
Many Morrows But Only One Now-by
Kwee Tat Chew
Sisyphus Apologetic-by
Quinn Tyler Jackson
Jubilee-by Quinn Tyler Jackson
Hangover-by Jeff Leonard
story of bees-by Darryl Goode
Funny Guy-by Darryl Goode
lost weekend: 1AM-by Darryl Goode
Truckloads of Venomous Snakes-by
Dusk and Leslie Wilson-Weaver
We Spat Grape Hulls on the Hole (by that old arbor pole)-by
Dusk Wilson-Weaver, chronicling a true tale
Dreams-by
Sean Clark
Man of My Dreams-by
Cheri Ramberg
Ieri-by Cheri Ramberg
Angelica ampla
by Stephen Harrod Buhner
Do you think it possible
to dissect a human being,
render it down into its constituent parts,
feed them into a machine that measures such things
and determine from that its ability to paint
or create great music?
No?
Then why do you think,
that once you have done this with my body,
you know anything about me?
Have We Become So
Enamored of the Light?
by Stephen Harrod Buhner
There is a special kind of darkness
that happens in forests
that are old
and have been left undisturbed.
Have we become so enamored of the Light
that we have forgotten the importance of this Darkness?
Song
to Generations
by Stephen Harrod Buhner
I am the son
of white slave owners
and black maids
Dead Union soldiers
and rich plantation owners.
A signer of the Declaration
of Independence
and of English aristocrats.
In my body runs
the blood of
Cherokee people
and implacable Indian killers.
Fundamentalist Christian ministers
and Indian,
Celtic,
and European pagans.
Powerful political physicians
who outlawed
alternative medicine
and midwives and herbalists.
Irish freedom fighters
and English soldiers,
Irish, Scottish, and Dutch,
English, German, and Austrian,
farmers and peasants,
and rich industrialists -
Landowners! -
still live within me.
And my body is
made of the soil,
rocks,
trees,
and air
of this North American land.
My mind has been
formed
by human beings out of long years of history
and continents I have never seen.
And my spirit forged
by the hand of God,
the sweet, singing breath of the Pipe,
and the upwelling,
Sacred Power
of Earth.
The heady rhythms
of tribal Africa,
diluted by ocean miles
and four hundred years
were rocked
into my body
through the sweet smells
and gentle walking
of my grandmothers' maids.
The songs of
Ireland,
muted by distance and generations,
still sing melancholy,
sacred wisdom in my blood.
The primal pipes of Scotland
call me still
to stand with my people.
And Cherokee plant song
still stirs me to dawn awakening.
Over and above
them all
thunders the sacred song of Universe
and of Earth.
It is a cacophony of sound
or a great symphony
of the song of humankind
and the sacred
in interblended harmony.
Sometimes,
simultaneously,
it is both.
It would be easier,
perhaps,
to be the son of unblemished,
sacred,
healed,
tribally pure
father and mother,
whose healthy purity
stretches back to the dawn of time.
I, their whole
expression.
But there are few of us
that can make such a claim.
We play the hand
that Creator
has given us.
Still, is there
not beauty
in such a song
of interblended harmonies?
Such a song
of generations?
Do not our ancestors and teachers
come in the night
speaking to us of their lives
and times?
Cannot the
discerning eye
see them still
in the turn of a phase,
the movement of a hand
or the glance of an eye?
Are we not,
at this moment,
anything more than that
in a future time and person
that we cannot know?
Time Took
by Quinn Tyler Jackson
Time took away the blue chiffons
with poodles on the back,
and put in their place baggy jeans
and babies hooked on crack.
Time took away all of the guilt
that came with screwing up,
and put instead a magic pill
that clears the matter up.
Time took away the need to marry,
the need for picket fence,
replaced with a need to bury
every form of offence.
Time tore us all apart, and said
we were somehow nearer,
though all natural bonds grew dead,
all was somehow clearer.
Oh, don't be fooled to think I think
that "Good Old Days" were good;
they used to lock away the Stink
all for the Common Should.
But time does take its toll on us,
by tearing down "used to";
it doesn't take a genius
to figure this one through.
And if "used to" indeed made sense,
and time threw out the old,
what is our final recompense ...
if with the lead, the gold?
Contrary Auction
by Quinn Tyler Jackson
The sack is full of hammered wheat,
And yeast enough to raise,
Some wine to make the meal complete
As we break bread with praise.
What would the price of such things be,
If haggling were our wont?
What price upon it would we see,
If we declared a count?
What scaling would we weigh against,
What rule thy measure buy?
What volumed measure thou obtain'st,
To put it by the by?
What would the cost the seller call
Were such an auction held,
As jugglers toss the hocker's ball
And ups and downs are called?
I don't recall ha'n' set the price,
Nor hearing set by thee,
So call it out before the thrice,
What would the price now be?
Slipping
by Quinn Tyler Jackson
Slipping in sleep
little bo peep,
no time to keep
at the door of tomorrow's
five.
Let me not the
the marriage of
lithe minds admit foreshadowments,
sleep is not sleep
which alters when
the clock ticks time on
afternoon moons.
Stretching, asking
jumping to other
errors that we know
knots and lots of.
Poem #1 (Primary
poem)
by Jorgen Nordstrom
the constant rush of the ocean
whispering an unbreakable promise
of transiency
still, beyond the white mocking grin of the sea
I can see eternity enclosed in every moment
betrayed by the cavities
in the sweeping steel grey quilt
of the shy winter sun
Poem #2
by Jorgen Nordstrom
with the feeling that everything was past
that you had gambled away every chance
you leaned over the sill
exhaled a bluish toxin
that was caught by the wind
maliciously howling
away down the sleeping alley
down to the park, through the foliage
that trembled with delight
Poem #3
by Jorgen Nordstrom
waking up, frightened
through the weak haze of the moon
and the stars
naked aspens and maples were black, waving cracks
on the night cinema sky
Poem #4
by Jorgen Nordstrom
in the soft starlight
that made its way to the bedroom
you could barely discern
the girl with the innocent eyes
who had been huddling up
as if to cover a perpetual, and all pervading
bad impression
Poem #5
by Jorgen Nordstrom
it must have been a voice calling me
someone knowing why it was necessary
why else was I in such a hurry
there
where I was arching
where I began the journey toward my face
where I suddenly existed
in a hard, tangible way
Poem #6
by Jorgen Nordstrom
1.26 a.m.
you are not here
and though your absence is conspicuous
the room seems darker
as if you were stealing oxygen from my fire
though you are breathing
beyond reach
Poem #7
by Jorgen Nordstrom
never saw her coming
chained to the inland parts of my kingdom
I only caught a glimpse of a shadow
felt the soft breath of air
as she cupped her hands at my ear
and let me hear the ocean
Poem #8
by Jorgen Nordstrom
in the echoe of my steps
that subsided down empty streets
I thought I could hear the menacing sound
of a creeping predator
as the first morning light
silently erased the stars
almost one by one
Poem #9
by Jorgen Nordstrom
the high summer grass
a sharp prolonged sound
that slowly died down behind me
as I walked on, toward the outside
toward the internal
toward myself
away from the world
Poem #10
by Jorgen Nordstrom
dirty shop windows
animated stains of light
looking through the polarized glass
of my minds' shades
I could see what was going on behind the panes
lay figures, frozen
in every motion people had denied
and stopped within themselves
Shakespeare, Snakespeare
by Kwee Tat Chew
Have you read Shakepeare? If so, how does it feel?
Hamlet, oedipus complex if you must know
Romeo & Juliet, characters tragic in a love thrill
Othello, fallen hero, tricked by debonair Iago
And yes? What's all the arrogant fuss?
English spoken by incomprehensible braggarts
Sounding like people wearing hernial truss'
Complex stories to break the brain's innards
So what's the mystery?
Shakespeare, Snakespeare, or ice beer
Who cares in this world of misery?
When half the world lives on less'n two dollars a day, my dear
Many
Morrows But Only One Now
by Kwee Tat Chew
Do not fear whatever the morrow brings
Percolating mind, untrained and running
It's the here and now that everything sings
Catch the "hare", through mindfulness of breathing
What is there for all to see, hear, and touch?
Beg not for the hour but for the second
Beg not to ask: "are we here yet, fake watch?"
Enjoy the journey, my dear mendicant
Breathe mindfully, in and out, in and out
Sense the minutiae of kinesthesia
If the anger emerges big and loud
Be silent, watch it boil, then disappear
Our problems will always be here, that's sure
Be present, watch and listen in the now
Sense the great sorrow, joy, or whatever
There're many morrows, but only one now
Sisyphus Apologetic
by Quinn Tyler Jackson
I did not come in knowing, but have learned,
I did not come in flaming, but have burned,
And though I came not with a lick of whit,
I thought of turning, but have never turned.
I did not come with discipline to speak,
I met this world among the very weak,
I pressed upon life's stone with all my might
Not to move it, nor with my might to break.
And when the stone, right at my back pushed to,
I asked if this chore I could carry through:
I came not to move life's stone at all,
I thought not to move the boulder, but you.
Jubilee
by Quinn Tyler Jackson
Why do you weep as if my forgiveness
Is something that you must somehow secure,
As if the wrongs you've done I must endure,
As if for me you must procure redress?
Why do you moan and pull at your tresses,
As if, ascetic, you must mar the more,
As if to me you must regret declare,
Do not you know you have my tenderness?
Be done with all regrets of this torn page,
Be done with all remorse to me, right now --
It's not for me to stand in judgment seat;
I have, indeed, my own long list the rage
Of righteous men would surely raise, and how!
Do not seek to repay -- the debt's complete!
Hangover
by Jeff Leonard
The head grew out
of the ground like a turnip
Turgid half-blind eyes with baked crusty skin
Braced in an upside-down world
Lamenting the azure sky
story
of bees
by Darryl Goode
the long graceful game of belief
loses its best players to
time & heat
As the rain becomes intimate
with the demarcations given to a trial
by passion, caged
in human flesh.
Songbirds daydream in the
hollow trumpet's wail of black petals, enduring
the stagnant beauty that hails
naked taxi cabs in a gray city.
I remember
candles lit with swords of fire,
shining on the ephemeral garden of wildflowers;
eyes remain moist with the first pearl tears:
Sweeping up all the broken clouds,
a moment of nectar collects itself
as a concupiscent dress of rouge,
slowly drowning the bees
as they put honeycombs
into the machine.
Funny Guy
by Darryl Goode
Come out O painful clown
come to run in the river
come to see where you're surprised
to where the day teaches tomorrow
that the lessons are unlearned
where the teeth lay gnashing in that red moon paper hat
where the architects encase the silver-tipped ghost ballet
to gaze upon the dilapidated sunset rooftops.
Come to leap over those great blind mornings
over the lucidly crowned eve
to where dry dreams sell their souls for tsunamis
O painted man cry for yourself just once
leap and wail
as you crash through the sky with
eyes creaking furtively in the lighting hooded house
flooded with your own incomplete design.
please release yourself O rainbow of might
unto the time of riches
we have not time but joy in our sails
quick to calm the tired triumph
I wish you'd just sing
and quit all your talking
You're killing me all the time
as I wring out my heart on those dusty beaches
with rocks cutting sharply
and porcelain girls crying for me;
the tide takes care of my end
caressing my soft smile.
lost
weekend: 1AM
by Darryl Goode
A surprise on the springs
she made me wither gently in the twilight wrapped television
dead flicker,
the soothing fall-out of evaporated memory's reality monotone--
And it was on Friday where I noticed hope in the frosty glares,
eyes moving like burning coals;
I really surprised myself.
When the soul pours itself onto itself all night is quiet;
the sanguine movements have lost their appeal, this night I
nullified
chance--
Action breaks its ends fulminating amidst angry smiles quietly
begging for
mercy.
A surprise upon the sunrise there will surely be.
Truckloads of Venomous Snakes
by Dusk and Leslie Wilson-Weaver
It all started quite simply with Adam and Eve
And one sleazy snake with no good up its sleeve
But things went from “no good” to real bad to much worse
And they quickly descended right into a curse
And the Garden of Eden was all shot to Hell
Why, you can’t even go there to sit for a spell!
And that eavesdropping snake heard what God told those two
About fruitful multiplying - it’s strange but it’s true -
So snake trouble it doubled, quadrupled, and grew,
Over and under, all around and back through,
And that lone snake that bid them, “Of this apple, partake!”
Has become truckloads…of venomous snakes.
Yes, the modern man sees that all his misery equates
With all those truckloads…of venomous snakes.
Halitosis, thrombosis, and sin, and how Murphy gets under his skin,
Decline of the dollar to the yen, and his yen for the wife of a friend;
You can see for yourself - goodness sakes! - that his bunions and the neighbor he hates
Are due to truckloads…of venomous snakes.
Financial instabilities, the breakdown of our families,
Mutated new strains of disease, and the snap, crackle, pop of his knees,
And even wildlife on low-level lakes, including hapless and long-missing drakes,
Feed greedy truckloads…of venomous snakes.
The loss of our ozone firewall, his dog that won’t come to his call,
It’s the source of the ills of us all, spring forward and back in the fall;
What nightmares lead up to dawn’s break! What new disaster awaits when he wakes?
Another truckload…of venomous snakes.
Racial tensions and social unrest, the many evils of reading ‘bout Seth,
And the twelve leading causes of death, the very reason he can’t catch his breath;
It’s obvious that lopper-smashed gates, and a sad dearth of blueberry pancakes,
Hark back to truckloads…of venomous snakes.
His quagmire of credit on a card, sorry biscuits that are made without lard,
Autumn leaves that fill up his front yard, and any time that he can’t keep a hard,
Varied mysterious outtakes, sundry mathematical mistakes,
High tides, tornadoes, earthquakes, and a world of divorce and heartaches,
Yodel-o-de-o-loathsome cheap fakes, and that bullcrap they call “station breaks”
On account of truckloads…of venomous snakes!
Oh, yes, those truckloads…of venomous snakes!
We Spat Grape Hulls on the Hole
(by that old arbor pole)
by Dusk Wilson-Weaver, chronicling a true tale
We spat grape hulls on the hole by that old arbor pole
And we thought that stomachaches (from eatin’ too much grapes)
Was the worst that could happen at the most
But when that hull-plugged hole did bulge, then blew off our grapey lid
Well, God forbid! - what had been hid - made us call on the Heavenly Host.
For it was Yellow Jacket City; it was a town without pity
That sent out every resident in flight
What to chase us till we cried, what to sting us deaf and dumb
And to give us all one heart-stopping fright.
So we took off ‘cross the yard: one man, one boy, one dog,
And we pumped our legs like Mark Twain’s jumping frog
Oh, we really hauled some ass; we were traveling first class
Till that swarm of bees caught us near the trees in a horrible yellow fog.
We must’ve looked like homemade sin; we must’ve made one hellish din
As we flailed and hollered, “Jesus, help us please!”
For if you ever have been stung by the awful likes of them
Then you must know it’s like a hammer blow; and then an aching, quaking quease.
(Chorus)
But the Good Lord smiled on us, at least the boy and me, that is
For every one of those yellow jackets flew
Right to the jet-black coat of our faithful-fleeing pooch
And they tried and tried to nail his hide through that long, long hair he grew.
And it was Yellow Jacket City, it was a town without pity
That sent out every resident in flight
What to chase him till he cried, what to sting him deaf and dumb
And to give that dog one heart-stopping fright.
So my boy and I we raced to the coiled-up garden hose,
And we turned it on; we let that water rip;
And we damn near drowned our dog, blasting off that yellow fog,
But blast we did - an’ it’s no lie, kid - back to that pole we took a hiking trip……
And it was Yellow Jacket City, and we gave that town no pity
That’d sent out every resident in flight
Yeah we burned the whole thing down; hey, we burned it underground,
Then we ate and ate another ton o’ grapes, till the coming of the night
Oh, we ate and ate another ton o’ grapes, till the coming of the night.
Dreams
by Sean Clark
Dreams are the Deomon's tool;
Echoing the desires of within,
And expelling them through
Silent screams and
Forgotten tears.
They tell of the things
Buried deeply within;
Appearing only
With the beckon
Of the Shadows of the Night.
And those tainted images
That unspeakable hysteria
Echoing...
And ultimately showing
The forces of the Desire
Which is Man.
Man of My Dreams
by Cheri Ramberg
Man of my dreams, diaphanous delight,
Embrace me to arms recumbent tonight!
The caress of your love, fleetingly found
Eluding my sadness, so earthly bound.
To youth immortal my soul conspires,
Revealed in the truth of hidden desires.
As deep in the twilight of conscious mind,
Shrouded in mystery, I may briefly find
The girl, who left me behind in her youth-
Whose fairness I lost to my own eyes truth.
Through only your eyes do I see her face;
Echoed glimpses of a faded grace.
And within such time a comfort to know;
That softly her charms may sparingly show.
While ever suppressing her passions' wealth
She will dissipate, with quiet, cruel stealth -
Leaving me hollowed in darkened despair,
And grasping a future no longer there.
Yet content and secure, behind closed doors
I push the pain to peripheral shores,
And lying in his encompassing light,
The man of my dreams, holds me ever tight.
Ieri
by Cheri Ramberg
I close my eyes and sometimes feel,
Warm, scented breeze caress my skin,
While echoes of a distant life
Speak to me softly, from within;
Of mango tree’s pendulous fruit,
Sugar cane flowing everywhere.
Bamboo with its towering shoots,
And asphalt steaming in the air.
With laughter and a loping stride,
We play childish games of cricket.
Crying out in protest, when we
Fail to ‘knock’ the stubborn wicket.
At Balandra bay, pounding swells
Would threaten to engulf the light,
Against the force of churning tides -
My father’s arms, securely tight.
Warm towels and my matted hair
A picnic by the sun soaked sea,
And shading us with feathered fronds
Tall, gently tapering palm trees.
Praying mantis and butterflies,
Rest, on the stately immortelle;
While, birds of iridescent hue
Sip deep, from pretty flower bells.
Pot hound dogs and decrepit souls,
Seek sheltered doorways in the street,
While vendors with their donky carts,
Sell richly, tempting things to eat.
Scarlet plumes with loud, raucous cries
Greet the setting tropical sun,
Mangrove swamps, with putrid taint,
Assault our senses one by one.
As night descends, the bats emerge,
Along with many monstrous beasts -
Jumbies, Soucouyant, Loups Garoux -
In search of gruesome tasty, feasts.
Shades of people long departed
Drift vaguely through my mind, and then
I see great grandmother's kind face
As I mourn for her once again,
She dwells now in a pristine space-
Her Carib people softly heard,
Whispering in their special place,
Ieri, land of the hummingbird.
