As we have closed the books on another holiday season, we look to the promises of another new year.  A year that we hope and pray will be at least as good as last year, or a whole lot better.
        I've been thinking about a few things over the past couple of months, and one idea that came to my mind had to do with distributing poetry to people.  As you can read, the phrase that came to mind was "Random Acts of Poetry".  It occured to me late at night, just prior to falling asleep, a dangerous time for ideas, right?  My thought was, sending poems to unsuspecting people.  The question is, how to do it, where to get the names?  What I came up with, and this is probably not a new idea was to get some postcards, write a couple of poems and mail it to people.  To keep the idea going I'm going to go to the local library, grab the phone book of some city and select a name or names at random.  The concept of using a postcard is a good one, especially in light of the anthrax scare that followed 9-11.   So this is the plan, finding people at random and sending them a postcard with a poem.  Of course at the bottom will be the phrase "random act of poetry".  We have random shootings, acts of violence and why not an act of poetry.   So if this idea appeals to you, why not follow along and flood the mail with poetry to unsuspecting souls across your country.    The postcard can be easily found and if you live in a larger city you can probably find the free ones which can be sent out to people.  The type of poem will be important as well, something positive I should imagine;  this is not the time to write an angst filled prose of how bad the world is and how bad life sucks.  Who knows, the words written may lift someone's spirits for a few minutes or the day.
    Another idea for the month and this is something that has been done by a lot of the DIY group, pasting poems on telephone posts and in the public way.  Just getting the word out is the important thing.

poetry

    This month we have a couple of new poets contributing work to the ezine.  Enjoy what they have to say. 

A TO Z OF POETRY

 Magnetic poetry's pathetic
 Alphabetti Spaghetti
 Verse is worse.
 You open the tin
 And start sortin'
 The words and letters out
 Moving them about
 But you get a little peckish
 So half the  P's and Q's vanish
 And you can't possibly finish
 Without them
 So your poem
 Comes out a  complete mess
 Hardly a  recipe for success
 And  what you contrive
 Force out and derive
 Buggers up your hard drive
 In ketchup and pasta sauce
 So you have no other recourse
 But to  use pen and ink
 So write what you think
 Instead of  finding  your inspiration
 Without   using your imagination
 By opening up a box or a tin.
 Go now to your peddle bin
 And put your magnetic poetry in.
 It's your ideas I want to read
 You have a mind. That's all you need.

                                Arthur Chappell


TABLE DROID 5

At a restaurant  that seems to be run by the Stepford Wives Where 
there's
more Sheffield Steel in the staff than in the knives
The six-million dollar bionic
Clockwork win(e)d Up waiter asks yet again
If we're enjoying our meal. Moronic
As we seem beside positronic brain
Power like his we assure him all's fine.
He Spidey-senses our irritation,
Programs himself a five second deadline
To conduct further investigation,
Downloads another sincere auto-smile
Which, while beating surly indifference
Makes him a brainwashed zombified servile
Slave so we don't slag off his performance.
He'll activate his self-destruct chips
If customers don't leave him  decent tips.

     Arthur Chappell

 ZAP!  YOU'RE FAT!


 I was once a legend called The buffet slayer
 Because I used to eat all the Vaul-o-vaunts
 And pork pies in trip after trip to the food table
 I ploughed my way through layer after layer
 And portion after portion. "If no one wants
 That, I'll eat it," I'd say, and I seemed effortlessly able
 To manage it because I could eat and eat and eat….
 Drink and drink and drink and and drink and drink ……
 Without putting so much as an ounce of  weight on
 Which I thought was pretty cool and neat
 I slurped and munched,  just to show off I think
 Without realising that one day I would weigh a ton
 When all the fat arrived together in one sudden go
 And I lost sight of my feet and went all zeppelin shaped
 In a huge spectacular sideways volcanic eruption.
 You should have seen me a few years ago
 Before the fat man  inside the thin man escaped.
 How much do they charge for hippo-suction?


    Arthur Chappell



  Arthur Chappell. 64 Arbory Avenue, Moston, Manchester M40 5HJ England

Arthur Chappell ,  Born February 1962,  is a Manchester, England based 
poet,SF-Horror writer with a collectuion of performance poetry successfully launched on audio CD,
 and many  poems, stories and articles in print.
Arthur has a degree in literature and philosophy which he took after escaping from an extremist
 religious cult in 1985,  (he had been withthe sect for four and a half years). Arthur writes 
to prove to himself and to others that he has some identity  and something to be remembered for
other than cult experiences.
 

 
 

MORTAL MAN.

Walking through the grass so green,

I saw a beautiful Fairy Queen.

She was combing her golden hair,

All I could do was stand and stare.

Turning, smiling, she looked at me,

And said she'd grant me wishes three.

Choose carefully mortal man,

For I cannot increase your life's span.

So wish not before you think,

For I have driven many a man to drink.

All that glitters is not gold,

These three wishes can make one old.

You may wish for health and wealth,

Or much happiness for yourself.

Oh Fairy Queen, Majesty fair,

As you stand, combing your hair,

There is nothing that I want from you,

I have my health and happiness too.

My five senses work quite well,

The crafts of my hands I can easily sell.

As I walk though this grass so green,

Breathing God's air so fresh and clean.

I thank the Lord for a wonderful day,

Also for sending you my way.

As you may see, by my words of reply,

My aspirations are not too high.

For I have all that I need,

My heart was never filled with greed.

So I bid you farewell as I go on my way,

Save your three wishes for another day.

The next mortal man that you may meet,

Might find your wishes extra sweet.

But I am content just as I am,

An ordinary happy, Mortal Man.
 
 

GOLD.

At the bottom of a Rainbow, So I'm told,

If I look carefully, I will find some Gold.

I am a little disconcerted as my poem will show,

For each Rainbow that I come to, moves away you know.

And the closer that I get to the promised treasure,

Other things that I see give me more pleasure.

Like tiny drops of rain on leaf and flower,

Or the sweet smells, I smell after a shower.

The song of a Bird high in a tree,

Is a fascinating reward for a man like me.

A thought has come to me it is very profound,

Who has so much gold to bury in the ground.

But the birds in the trees and the drops of rain,

These common treasures, they come again and again.

So I will look for a rainbow high in the sky,

But for buried Gold in the ground, not a tear will I cry.



You can read a bio of Bernard Shaw at: http://members.chello.at/bernard.shaw/my bio.htm
 
  

IN A TIME OF ANTHRAX

I send you this dead oak leaf
from just outside my window,
a tree aflame this fall in scarlet
with saffron freckles. I wonder
if the postal inspector
will let pass this random
act of beauty
under the latest bio-
threat. Will his scrutiny
finger it to dust, mistaking
it for having to do
with death? No matter, I send
you this oak leaf, token
of fall’s eternal flame
for spring. So is life
forever
misunderstood.


HOBO CONSIDERS THE ROAD

Again before dawn he’s left another
city that smells of last night’s
ham and cabbage. Tar lies in puddles
along the rails. But still,
what shadows could mar such a day?

Beyond the outskirts, a goat-girl
in a flowered hat drives herd
through a meadow gray with morning,
a dozen stubby tails. Or so
it seems, so quick the vision
and then gone. Never trust
a conductor’s destinations,
a billboard’s vision.

Hailstorm hits like the east-
bound bearing mail. What messages
as a late sun shatters nimbus
to write its rays on a passer-
by’s heart.


CREATION MYTH

Aboard the same ship on unfriendly seas
they come together as if friends:
Clamp and Wings and Horn and Crouch.
What god could be always looking down
on a ship tipped on the hectic waves
of this first morning, to prevent
fratricide (all creatures being
brothers)? And so they watch
and practice a tricky peace

until they learn to step: paw
and claw, talon and cloven hoof,
lightly along the gangplank
onto a lethal world?


ROOM 101, 5:40 A.M.

Here in a one-night rented dark,
the bathroom fan’s still dozing
among a refuse of towels
and toiletries. Our dogs
go on breathing
different parts of their sleep-
songs, the young bitch twitching
dreams of unchased rabbits,
the old dog gathering his bones
for the load-up call:
our pickup truck pointed
northbound, the dawn
that’s almost here.

  
Taylor Graham
piper@innercite.com
 
Rental Car

Got the keys? I asked Chuck 
I locked my door in France 
Got the keys? I repeated 
I pressed the knob in Andorra           
Got the keys? I chanted 
I checked the handle in Spain             
                                                                      
It's Sunday 
The Pyrenees live 60 kilometers 
from anyplace 
I forget to ask  

The keys sway in the ignition
from the noose of a chain
half a meter 
behind tempered glass 
My Swiss Army knife learns 
how sturdy Peugeots are made 

Two Frenchmen 
leave their picnic, wine and women 
They cram two screwdrivers 
above the window  

Pulling down   
my fingers are in 
Pulling down 
my hand is in 
Pulling down 
my elbow is in 
Pulling down 
the window leaps the track 
thunks into the door 
'Voila' they smile  

It's summer 
Snow flavors the wind 
We have no window 
'I got the keys' 
Chuck says 

from 'The Year of Purple Lawn Furniture'
c2001 by J. Kevin Wolfe


bad hair day for hitler
 
a jew beat you hitler 
in the war 
you started 

einstein 
(you missed this one) 
finished it  

your mustache was precise 
his hair misbehaved 
but all the aryan brains 
wouldn't divulge 
his secret to you 

so adolph 
who turned out 
to be the putz? 

from 'The Year of Purple Lawn Furniture'
c2001 by J. Kevin Wolfe 


Eve in Fall

Maples blush 
apples blush 
your cheeks blush  

Bite the fruit Eve 
Then share it 
The drip is cold on my chin  

The serpent lives 
in the track of juice 
and in the hiss of the fireplace 
that will get too warm 
for these sweaters 

from 'The Year of Purple Lawn Furniture'
c2001 by J. Kevin Wolfe 


A 2-Year-Old's Advice to a 23-Month-Old

Ask for more 
when your plate is still full 
and you're done eating  

Keep a pocketful of dirt 
After they wash you 
wipe your face with it 
They'll never get 
your magic trick  

Hold your plate upside down 
If food falls off 
gravity still works 
and the world is safe 
so smile 

Ask why? until they shout 
'just because!' 
Checkmate  

The moment the macaroni 
hits the disposal 
scream 
you want it back  

Don't say you need 
to go to the bathroom 
or ask 'are we there yet?' 
They're copyright 
by three-year-olds  

Smear dinner on your face 
to cool it
so it doesn't burn your tongue
Then lick it off                                        

If your eyes get 
big enough around puppies 
they let you pull ears  

Fill your mouth with food 
slowly dribble it down your chin 
It takes practice 

from 'The Year of Purple Lawn Furniture'
c2001 by J. Kevin Wolfe


The Teaman Appears

On any Himalaya 
Mr. Chetri claps twice 
and a teaman appears  

In his paws a rack of glasses 
(wiped not washed) 
and a Chinese Thermos 
green with red flowers 
For a rupee he pours cha  

Darjeeling steams 
with crude sugar 
half milk 
spiced with smoke 
from the mystic wood 
it's steeped over  

The test of tenure 
is to scald fingers
and not 
set the glass down  

You learn to honor the taste 
of cremated trees 
In these mountains 
all wood is rare wood 

from 'The Year of Purple Lawn Furniture'
c2001 by J. Kevin Wolfe 


All poems from 'The Year of Purple Lawn Furniture' (c2001 by J. Kevin 
Wolfe), afree ebook of poems in various reader formats.
http://home.att.net/~jkevinwolfe/  

The author grants web publishing permission for free public viewing and 
one-time paper print rights of these 5 poems. All other rights 
reserved. Author also gives permission to publish his email address for reader 
comments. Poems have been submitted for consideration elsewhere.

Bio: J. Kevin Wolfe's poems have appeared in over 60 ezines and in a 
dozen print publications. 'The Year of Purple Lawn Furniture' is a 
collection of new poems.
  I have the time to read some more of the work of Kevin.  Take the time to download and read 
his latest.  Follow the link.  You'll be glad you did.
DAYS OF WINE AND BRUISES

I guess I better start

with the rattle of her keys

echoes of echoes

like blood in the ventricle

the time doesn’t really matter

the place is a tiny hole in a door

one of those slum lord specials

that always open outwards

there was no whisky hello

no amphetamine humming

just the eerie sangfroid

of a bird in a cage

what followed, though, was an entire conversation

conducted in blindman’s semaphore

complete with the shadows

that followed her home

that couldn’t quite decide

which wall to cling to

but maybe the worst part of all

was the bandage dipped in vinegar

that creeping air of normality

like a little time bomb in our genes

lit by the burning log

the crackling tv screen
 
 

PRAYER

just now

watching dawn break

through the charred stands

peeling this way and that

like the down from some mythic flight

I thought I heard a voice

drift up the gully

gentle as the nights up here

brushing a single leaf

on every tree

and it carried your name

or at least I think it did

one syllable: flat consonant hard on open vowel

come from nowhere out of nothing

an idea without an application

but it got me thinking

if I listened hard enough

would I hear it echo in the plumbing

whisper in the choking neck of this dying roach?

or would these big barred doors clutch onto it tonight

like a deep breath carried down into the cool dark waters?

Justin Lowe
Katoomba NSW AUSTRALIA
 

Site of the Month
 

I received an interesting notice on my guestbook about this site. "79 Words Per Minute" is a poetry site/ezine operated by Echo Poetica.  It's purpose is to publish the poetry of college students.  It's quite an attractive site and offers some very interesting work both poetry, articles and essays.  the address is:  http://envy.nu/madrigalblue.  If you're not in that catagory, visit it anyways and give her your support.
 

Well, this concludes another issue.  Think about the opening words and consider what act of literary anarchy you can inflict upon an unsuspecting world.
    There has been a change for next issue, I had hoped to have an interview with Christine Fellows.  This is part of the celebration of the release of her new CD.  The CD not out until March, so while I have the interview, it will wait.  Since February is the month of romance, the theme will be romance.  As John Keeting said in "Dead Poets Society", 'men write poetry to woo women', and to make it a gender free statement, we write poetry to woo the individual that we are attracted to.
The poetry can be the stuff you used to woo that special someone, maybe you want to write about love attempted and failed, or the blues of romance.

    I'll look forward to reading your work.  Just send it to my mailbox at: pabear_7@yahoo.com.  This is where you can send all submissions, articles, essays, rants, notes of appreciation to other writers, or just about anything.

All work is copyrighted by the various authors.  Respect them.  Everything else comes from me.