AS GRIEF GOES ON (ORANGE)
by
Kathy Kieth
I crawl out of bed to see bright violence
in the sky: deep orange flooding
a new year's morning: pain washing
over a weak blue. I fumble through
the bedroom, past a dark heap of a mate:
unlock the door to get away. But
this wave of orange spills out alongside
me, floods past my fleeing slippers into
the halls, over the sleeping cats, the shadowy
walls. In a flash, it roars through the sleeping
house, washing away soft edges, warm corners:
a violence of orange flooding over a flimsy blue…
Found on page 4 of the January
- February - March - 2001 issue of Poetry Depth
Quarterly.
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THE LAKE THAT DAY
by
Betty
Irene Priebe
I slipped into the clouds and blue sky
that were the lake that day.
My legs, my belly, chilled to the wet feel of it.
The clouds wavered and folded
as I spread my arms
to prepare my shoulders
for the chill.
Huge white clouds
slowly turned in a luxurious, drifting white silence,
the sun so high
it could not be seen.
I put my two palms together
and broke the sky in two
as I pushed off
into a swim.
Found on page 20 of the January
- February - March - 2001 issue of Poetry Depth
Quarterly.
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THERE'S JAZZ IN THE CATACOMBS TONIGHT
by
Joshua
Meander
Down the dark maze
The howl of a horn blows:
There's jazz in the catacombs tonight
Cool vibes and a beat played right.
Here beatitude flows
Down the dark maze.
Not where everyone goes,
But an outcast knows
There's jazz in the catacombs tonight.
A jam session in full flight,
A melding of free spirited pros
Down the dark maze
A wailing music of the night,
Saxophone mating calls and drum solos:
There's jazz in the catacombs tonight.
The bold stay till the morning light
To catch the last note, which glows
Down the dark maze:
There's jazz in the catacombs tonight.
Found on page 38 of the January
- February - March - 2001 issue of Poetry Depth
Quarterly.
|
ANONYMOUS WATERCOLOR & INK
BARTEL'S COVE, 1907
by
Ann
Silsbee
All but one
the boats are in,
hauled on the beach,
sails furled and oars shipped.
Fishermen carry buckets ashore.
spread nets on the rocks to dry,
home to their houses.
Two women linger
to wait the last boat in.
They lean together, arms
draping each others' shoulders,
voices lapping at the uncertain
shores of night. A child's shoe
scuffs in the sand, sea-gulls'
drowsy twitters settle the dunes,
a loon's laughter ravels the dusk
with wildness.
Imagine one ripple
hinging on the edge of west,
slipping into the bay.
Imagine a chain of silken stitches
binding off for one more time
the shroud of dark. Imagine
the slow creak of oars
the women listen for.
Found on page 39 of the January
- February - March - 2001 issue of Poetry Depth
Quarterly.
|
WINTER MAN
(For Richard)
by
John
Grey
The blue heron died
in the dead of the winter,
an ice sculpture perched
atop a silent brook.
The owl hoot froze
like a hand in the sky.
The Kingfisher squawk
shuddered then stilled.
Wolves stopped in their tracks.
Their tracks stopped in the snow.
The snow did not stop.
Every dead thing was made shapeless,
incongruous by more snow.
An old man lifted his head up above
the sheets like a fish through
a hole in the icy stream
to be seen one more time
in breathless air.
Found on page 47 of the January
- February - March - 2001 issue of Poetry Depth
Quarterly. |
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