www.amazon.com/gp/product/1418489565/104-8454011-6722310?n=28315
From the pen of Jeffrey Williams comes these poems:
Denial of Self Realization
I stood on the corner for hours,
Under
the gray clouds of light rain
Thinking about my next move.
It was an eye
opening reality check
A glimpse into the now,
The here and now.
I had
to play the game by their
Rules, not mine.
I had to be better, stronger
and one step ahead.
It was go time. I was nervous but confident.
Now to
conquer the way I should,
The way I am expected.
I took without being
asked,
Without being offered and without permission
It’s mine now. I have
success in my grasp.
Now I need to learn to hold on to it.
All-American Eagle
An eagle flew across the
air
Looking below to see what's there
It landed gently with a damaged
wing
Searching for aide but didn't find a thing
He
walked around for miles in the pouring rain
Hoping for a hand to rid him
of his pain
His journey lasted for hours without delay
Then
he saw a doctor’s office one block away
He
went to the doctor seeking first aide
They told him an
appointment must be made
The date was set but he couldn’t go
The
poor little eagle had no dough
He
said: “This isn’t happening, not to me”
“This is not America this is
lunacy”
Frustrated with bureaucracy he took a chance
The eagle was fully
treated in the country of France
Over
Time
I am one-forth the
person I was one year ago
But I am only one-half the person
I want
to be six months from now.
However, I am one third the boy
I was
eighteen years ago
And one hundred percent the man
That I knew I
could be.
The Unfortunate Plan
I leaned over
for a taste
And swallowed some human waste
Stupidity and Greed
made me do this thing
Now I’m the hospitals crowded west
wing
This was my dumb idea
So I’ll leave at the rear
Sneak
out late at night
With no one in sight
Before I try I’ll
pray
That my plans don’t go astray
I won’t be at home soon
enough
And the walk without shoes will be rough
I’ll hail a
cab, it’ll be fine
I’ll be home in no time
The lights are
out, now I can go
No one the wiser, no on will know
I can see
my house just ahead
Tonight I’ll sleep in my own bed
I paid
the fair and opened the door
I found my wife naked lying on the
floor
She had no pulse, my wife was dead
Her beautiful face
turned beat red
They questioned me and took me to jail
The
judge ordered me held without bail
I escaped from the hospital,
what a mistake
I have no alibi, my freedom now at stake
www.jlwonline.com. Visit his website, it's fantastic!
Dina Televitskaya sent this poem of feelings. Her letter to me spoke of the grey weather of the northern climes.
Americans say, "we are fine"
Here, in the Russia, we know
about American "OK!" or " fine!"
Maybe, indeed
These words are the most right.
But I cannot say "I am fine",
If I have the hard problems.
Instead I share them with my friends,
Who will hear me, understand me,
Who, maybe, will give me a good advice.
My friends tell me
about their hard problems also,
And I always try to help to them.
Yes, when I am feeling bad,
I answer ," not well".
Many persons in Russia do too.
My dearest American friends!
If even you do not like it,
I ask you,
Tell me, please, about your problems,
And I shall hear you ,
I shall give you my kind words,
my understanding
and good advice.
But anyway, I ask you,
"Be happy!
Be "fine"
Taylor Graham responded to my request for opinion on the upcoming
wedding of my daughter with a poem for her. She also sends
another poem Elihu Burritt
A DAUGHTER
lisps her first word, Papa,
in several different languages;
in each of them, Papa is the same.
In time, you teach her to dance
to the stereo, 3/4 waltzes
filling the room, so all the family
and the neighbors hear.
No private music
plugged into the ear. No,
music the communal tongue
pierces a heart so deftly, she
leads, no matter how
you play the teacher. Such
are daughters, that today
you offer her your arm, she leads
you down the aisle,
then pirouettes away.
Another partner.
But see how sweetly she
looks back, the oldest word
“Papa” still on her lips.
(I asked her if she really wants me all that teary eyed). It worked.
BRUSSELS IN SEPTEMBER
[Elihu Burritt at the 1848 Peace Congress]
How far you traveled, Elihu,
to see all these ruddy
British faces from across the Channel.
You know them from little upper rooms
and overcrowded halls in London, or
Liskeard or Aberdeen, rowdy gatherings
as if farmers had driven their herds
inside to hear you; air so close
you could hardly catch breath to speak.
You recognize Friends in sober garb,
men who took you into their homes
and talked peace long into the evening.
Here they all are in Brussels,
stepping off the train within cannon-
range of some battle or another,
such a press of greetings
and arranging for carriages. Opening-
speeches are just hours away,
English and Scots, French and Germans,
Dutch – so many languages
trying to be understood.
How far you traveled to bring them
all together here,
as the afternoon lingers
on its promises of peace,
and the shades pass over Ypres
and Waterloo.
Christopher Barnes sent these poems. You will also find a
photograph of him and also a biography. He has a website that is
connected to the BBC. When I asked him how that came about he
sent this reply:
met a woman in a pub to get the bbc webpage meeting people in pubs in newcastle is always interesting for lots of opportunites
Pepote’s Dog
His foxhound must still
remember him,
Surfacing, back from the Plaza Mayor’s
Out-of-house cafes, greasy spoons
Or the transit
From the chattering angel’s fete
Loaded with Christmassy tassels,
Scriptures, doves.
Must unavoidably think on his face
Learning the poster of Picasso’s Guernica
Ransomed at the glut market, that bombastic
Booming, snatch-purse shambles,
Hand-me-down clothes, GI surplus,
Budgerigars, whistle-stop canaries,
Sun blinds, razor blades, masterly antiques,
Taiwanese-moulded wavelengths,
Machetes, cocaine spoons.
Choraled in boozers by chance Tunas,
Accompanists and singers with calamanco,
Felt waistcoats, fidgeting, passing
The hat, before the potter home
West along Calle Mayor,
Towards the Royal Palace,
Through Plaza de la Villa
With its wiredrawn tower.
The eleventh hour slow procession
Conducting the coffin,
An avenue of pine,
Birds swarming thermals.
From the Castles in Spain poems
Perfect Holiday
The sun is a big pan
With a prawn in it
Your bubblestorm smile
Relieves the heat
Of its redness
Oxygenated we sit
Unbalanced in dunes
When the solar
hinges its web
Gold breathes of grey
Oiled acorn lids
Remind us
We smelled the pond’s grass
Where the blue hills are dying
Like a smashed glass vase
Under a watery tansy
Perfect Pizza Co.
Bottle-holders thumb-tap
Dialling code memories.
Pardon me, no slice of life.
Parsley specks, a boiling fume.
We open doors
As if it were
Sober soft-cheesed reality.
Yuk.
Good dough galore (spend spend)
Open wine on steamy second rate
Which never fails to unfulfil.
Personal Mute Sufferings
Monday.
I’m a peel of skin about to rip
From deep-set pressures. The sky is waiting.
Freckle-coloured Ahamed Yacoubi wants to learn
The chromatic scale of my art.
The eye of Ahamed is all cheetah,
He’s tutoring a gingery technique;
Under dried-up stars we distinguish fine detail,
Moonlight spice on a brush.
Wednesday.
The last cloud died two days ago.
Catastrophe’s louring – he’s interned
Without the suspense of trial
(tempting a 14 year-old German Adonis)
Scuffles leap out, a real to-do.
Burroughs
takes time out from The Naked Lunch,
Scribbles to Ginsberg,
“The Arab dogs are upon us.
Many a queen has been dragged shrieking
From the Parade, the Socco Chico,
And lodged in the local box
Where 60 sons of Sodom now languish.”
Thursday.
There’s a strain in bleached mortar,
Butterflies trembling in the dirt.
I’ll drag on nevertheless.
Bundling gifts of food and canvases
Past the prison-house commissionaire.
From the Francis Bacon poems
Photogenic
The turn of cliffs
Tautening sea-floor blues.
A palpitation in the eye.
Pick-Me-Up
Didn’t we?
Did we rocket through see double doors
On the Paris Metro? Imaginable.
At strong-taste docks
Where slosh waters fidget
We read Genet.
Bonesetters heedfully shog my skull
Repositioning memories – stewed towels,
Haute cuisine,
The town-taled Piaf.
Christopher Barnes, UK
Some bio details...
in 1998 I won a Northern Arts
writers award. In July 200 I read at Waterstones bookshop to promote
the anthology 'Titles Are Bitches'. Christmas
2001 I debuted at Newcastle's famous Morden Tower doing a reading of my
poems. Each year I read for Proudwords lesbian and gay writing
festival and I partake in workshops. 2005 saw the publication of my
collection LOVEBITES published by Chanticleer Press, 6/1 Jamaica Mews, Edinburgh.
On Saturday 16th Aughst 2003 I read at theEdinburgh Festival as a Per Verse poet at LGBT Centre, Broughton St.
Christmas
2001 The Northern Cultural Skills Partnership sponsored me to be
mentored by Andy Croft in conjunction with New Writing North. I made
a radio programme for Web FM community radio about my writing group.
October-November 2005, I entered a poem/visual image into the art
exhibition The Art Cafe Project, his piece Post-Mark was shown in
Betty's Newcastle. This event was sponsored by Pride On The Tyne. I
made a digital film with artists Kate Sweeney and Julie Ballands at a
film making workshop called Out Of The Picture which was shown at the
festival party for Proudwords, it contains my poem The Old Heave-Ho. I
worked on a collaborative art and literature project called How Gay Are
Your Genes, facilitated by Lisa Mathews (poet) which exhibited at The
Hatton Gallery, Newcastle University funded by The Policy, Ethics and Life Sciences Research
Institute, Bioscience Centre at Newcastle's Centre for Life. I was
involved in the Five Arts Cities poetry postcard event which exhibited
at The Seven Stories children's literature building. In May I had
2006 a solo art/poetry exhibition at The People's Theatre why not take
a look at their website http://ptag.org.uk/whats_on/gulbenkian/gulbenkian.htm
Walter Ruhlmann sends these three works of "Rex and the Cyclops". Enjoy.
Rex & the Cyclops # 2
The tool box was locked and I needed a hammer to fix the heart-broken
lift.
Sally wasn’t bad in her trousers and her breast lifted up proud and
sincere.
Allan was watching her from the top of the ivory tower but she didn’t
see him.
And the Cyclops was crying. He took a tissue from the box and tore it
in
halves; he needed nothing more.
***
Rex & the Cyclops # 13
James fell
into the wine bottle.
Injured sensitiveness
the grapes
won
the race.
***
Rex & the Cyclops # 14
Hughes, have you found you way
again?
Tomorrow
you can carry on tramping.
William will always have
polish
for your shoes…
Walter Ruhlmann
Robert Demaree returns to this ezine with these two poems. It's been a while.
FAITH-BASED
INITIATIVE
The maple
by the dock turns first,
Not the oak,
Remembering shaded swimmers in
July,
Or the birches,
Thinking they may try to ride the winter
out.
Always this maple and not
others,
Every year, without
exception,
Apple green to orange and
red:
Does that sound like a plan to
you?
SUNDAY SUPPLEMENT
I have a confession:
Sunday nights I like to
read
Those newsprint
magazines
Stuffed into the
thickness
Of the morning
paper.
You know the kind I
mean:
Recipes, tales of rock
stars
Pulled back from the edge of
Madness and
despair,
And, best of all, the columns of
people
You figure can’t be real,
Answering imaginary questions
About icons of pop
culture
Unknown to me:
So what’s she up to these
days,
What’s next for her?
Settle a bet, a meal’s riding on
this.
I like to think
I have no prurient interest in
the answers,
But it comforts me to
know
That if one week has
ended,
Then another has begun.
Robert
Demaree is a retired school administrator. His most recent collection of poems,
Fathers and Teachers, is available through
Amazon.com
Scenes and Takes, from Felino Soriano
Scenes and Takes # 31, 1
The child who dedicated footsteps, artwork,
dissipates. Too, breath, twirled, mimicking
a language of foreign entity, sprinkled atop
an ear of English-only. Some may categorize
this dissipation as unjust. The translucent
arrival of empty sock drawers, filled cough
syrup containers, a mother's incessant desire
to categorically cry on command. Truth in objective,
outside observance cannot accurately outline
tomorrow's occurrences: mother-son
bond broken at the weakest link of accidental
incidents.
Scenes and Takes # 32, 1
Virago, self-appointed. Important.
She wanted
rescue from such a disastrous
self-inflicted definition, reflectional
of pushiness and etched with identity crisis.
Power, typical. Yet, tired of population
one, she, fabricated a fallacy, an à la mode
shell to showcase contemporary, available
status. Important.
Scenes and Takes # 33, 1
The postcard was a seller of intricate shapes,
modern realities: abandoned, if aware. Barn and
keeper of black birds: released its children: stilled
above its silenced and enigmatic roof.
Scenes and Takes # 36, 1
February's burgeon, hands' splay
releasing indigenous
cold, here, calm. Melting
not in surplus, distant thought,
cousin to interactive deluge of
fingerprints
hanging within air's pausing
grandeur. Love is in shadows,
in shadows' ruling over deadened
leaves, browned to the position
of oily documents. Disfigured
metaphors read as literal alphabetic
terms: trees as if floating
amid a language of space,
delineate bird homes
from
imaginary persons anchored
to the injuries of their reprimanded ankles.
Winter, mid-flight. Justified opaque
nights
akin to spaceless flocks of ageless
avifauna,
spearing angles across a humbled
attachment of gaze, weather.
Felino Soriano, from California, is a case manager working with
developmentally disabled adults, and philosophy student. He is the
author of a chapbook entitled "Exhibits Require Understanding Open
Eyes" published by Trainwreck Press, 2008.
His poetry appears at Otoliths, Blaze VOX, Zone, Ygdrasil, Hecale, and
elsewhere.
Visit felinosoriano.com for more information.
The announcements for this issue is, the Premier issue of Avantgardetimes has been published. Your editors, Dr. Charles Fredrickson
and Saknarin Chinayot worked hard to make it the reality it is. It is an international issue, featuing poets from Thailand, India, Iraq, United States
and the UK. If you are interested in submitting to the new ezine, check out the wiki. All information regarding themes and upcoming release dates
will be posted at the site. If you wish to contribute, send an email to : avantgardetimes@gmail.com. My function is that of webpublisher, which means
I take the works the editors send me and publish it to the web. It also means I get to be grumpy and complain about all the extra work. Just kidding.
abovegroundtesting will continue its normal monthly schedule and so I look forward to reading your submissions each month. As always I am
looking for new poets and writers, so if you have friends that have been hiding their talent, this is the avenue by which the world can read their works.
You too can be a published author. Should you have other work published, please include abovegroundtesting in your list of published mediums.
To submit, send an email with 'submission' in the subject line. Any style of work will be accepted, poems, short stories, essays, painting and
photographs, are welcome.
All work is copyright by the authors, please respect their rights of creativity.
This is issue #107, March 2008.
This issue was produced using Nvu web authoring system. The operating system is Ubuntu 7.10.
abovegroundtesting.com
