As I mentioned, one of the enjoyments of putting this together is the poetry I can read. Here are some for you to read and enjoy. Old friends and new contributors mark this issue.
The first poem comes from Veronika Muendel: this is her first work on these pages.
We
the
light
in
a bottle
Feel
the whine
of
death itself
and
contemplating
but
foolish tears cry
rather
wating
watching
wavering
towards
-interruption-
this
stagnate
life
u
n f o l d i n g
Charlotte Mair brings another work for us to read and ponder. She has a new chapbook coming out, watch for more information:
Tribute to THE BUK:
This one's for you!
A
ten - spot to buy
for
the old man
with
the map of hard times
not
so easily read
and
engraved
like
royal initials
spelling
wear
before
his time
on
a rudied face
a
set of fish-netted gams
for
the barfly
wielding
a beer septre
"to
all his friends"
while
fables pour
to
entertain
new
day brawlers
of
the roundtable
slop
a drink
to
his majesty of word
steady
the shakin' hand
of
last night's drunk
with
a shot of rye
and
beer to boil the blood
til
the bar of ivory sinks
we
won't forget you Hank
here's one for you!
Valerie brings this work:
i am bandersnatch
Wild
one,
take
me,
with
your gnarled senses
ravish
me.
Bizarre
as you are,
accept
me
for
i understand
and
can see in you
a
reflection of me.
These work comes
to us from J. Kevin Wolfe. He has included his bio for you to read. He
sent a number of poems, which will be featured in future issues and perhaps
in "Avant Garde"
The Bubble
All
of life
seemed
to be in the tiny bubble
he
had just blown.
His
little breath gave it life
as
it grew and lifted
off
the wand.
A
twisted rainbow danced
in
the thin soap sphere
as
it rose.
It
glided
out
a window.
It
sheened in the sun.
And
floated into the bluest of skies
until
it vanished.
I
know now for sure
it
died
in
a sudden burst
not
far from the window.
but
as a child
you
could
never
convince me of that.
Do They?
it's
the pebbles
that
make life insurmountable
boulders
we
expect
but
too much gravel
we
trip on
when
it's
so black all day has ceased
when
life is as bleak
as
bleakest jet
i
lie back
look
to the core
of
the charcoal night
i
gaze deep
into
the soul
of
the ancient pitch
and
ask "do
the
stars still shine tonite?"
all
poems copyright 1997 by J. Kevin Wolfe
This
affliction of poetry: there is no cure. It was only in remission
all
these years I've written humor on a nationally syndicated radio
show.
Through the numerous articles printed in Writer's Digest
Magazine
where my cartoons have appeared as well. Even through the
passion
of writing three cookbooks. Why do we write poetry: because he
have
to. I thoroughly appreciate those involved with the Web poetry
movement
which is putting the most real of things back into our virtual
world
and giving us an electronic brick wall to spraypaint the graffiti
of
our souls.