Monthly Archives: April 2008

reverberations

The other day I sat in the sand
while cast out waves slapped
and sizzled to music I hadn’t
heard before.

The wet spray shocked me
into a time a place
where my father worked,

it teased me and flirted
with everybody to laugh to jump
in and go for a long swim.

It’s been a long line of dark
land and dry nights littered
with signs no swimming allowed.

And now I wanna go play
where my daddy went swimming
everyday. To stand, listening
to wave after wave,

letting them soak in beneath
my skin, then go swimming
further from shore.

Steve Thomas

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dancing warriors

blazing skies
hot rocks
she meets him
on the edge

old serpent tongue
he hasn’t changed,
they take up
where they left off

parallel warriors
she, sovereign of desire
he, outrageous, inscrutable

they ride the mindstream,
a dance beyond
heaven and earth

until quiescence reigns.

marsha sweet

Rape

It’s not the slap of
A hand impresses
Anxious for release
For the power that
Fear excites pulling
The plug out of the
Night pulling the rug
Out from under nail
Holed feet ’cause
It’s not possession
It’s just the fear of
Being touched by
Ignoring the ritual
Getting right to the
Point of intrusion
It’s not obsession
It’s a cloud covered
Sunflower in the
Eyes of a raven &
A fat man on the
Corner’s eating up
The future licking the
Lips of an angry lion
W/blood on his teeth
& consumption on
His breath

KE

Old X-Ray Poems From The Toiled Nights of My Mother

Lying in bed smoking a cigarette

An open magazine and a cold glass of ginger ale . . .

A thirteen year old boy empties mother’s ashes.

Into the dark soils of the mountain night.

She never did get to grow old.

Lying in bed with a bottle of morphine.

I stand by the foot of the bed.

Holding the ginger ale.

Tears making their way down my throat.

As mother is slowly, gradually losing her grip on life.

Father stands with a tray full of dinner.

The forest of motherhood grows dark

in the spilled ink of a blood stained letter.

Silent young children running quietly through the summer grasses.

Photographs tossed through the winds of youth.

Mother’s hand drops upon the old telephone linens of the night.

The last love letter of . . .

The last light . . .

The bottle of morphine spills into the morning of song.

Forever . . . . . . . . . .

Peter Leon

Foghorn

On a shipwreck
Night / freight train whistle
On a distant track

So deep
In melancholy / so strong
As to become something
Else / surrounded in a
Comfortable familiarity

That somewhere between
First sip & last call / where
Time dissolves into pure
Feeling

Like a book read
As a child / underneath the
Blanket with a poor light &
A rich imagination

When
Sleep was just a mosquito
Whispering in your ear &
Sirens only lured sailors
Against the rocks

KE