Don’t know when I’ve felt quite this good.

A snapping turtle, a big one,

I can see it from a distance

right in the middle of the road,

the cars are trying to miss him, swerving

this way and that.

He’s pulling his head in, poking it

back out again, but they’re coming close,

too close, he can’t get himself across.

I pull off into the parking lot

of the farm stand, jump out,

walk right into the middle

of the street, stand behind him.

He looks up at me and begins to scurry now

because I’m behind him.  A little tap

on the back of his shell

where the tail comes out and he’s off

the road and into the weeds of a big field.

I’m standing there at the side

of the road with my hands on my hips,

feeling so good to

have just saved a life.

Then I saunter back over to my car.

A woman, a blonde pretty woman,

in a blue sports car pulls up alongside

and waves at me, a smile

bigger than life itself on her face.

Ali Pasha

My brother, Kerry, had an Afghan hound

named Ali Pasha.  He kept him out in

the backyard at Mom’s house.

The apartment he lived in

wouldn’t allow dogs, especially big,

long-haired dogs like Afghan hounds.

Mom would feed Ali because Kerry couldn’t

get over there every day.  But he’d come

on weekends and brush out the knots and tangles,

and clip his nails, and whisper

in his ears about how one of these days

Kerry would have a big place of his own

and they’d be spending lots

of time together.

AMERICA

One of the families in town,

(we didn’t know them)

recently moved out to California.

And we just heard that

they are all dead.

The rumor is that the father,

a normal middle-class, white-collar,

dim-wit like me, killed

his two teenage kids, then

his wife, then finally himself.

It was out in the desert.

But people aren’t really sure yet

if he used poison or a gun.

your eyes can play funny tricks

Driving to work,

I’m in the land of the aged,

an old man going 6 mph in the car

in front of me, an old woman

with a stupid looking beret

lopsided on her head in the car behind me,

two old ladies walking on the sidewalk,

another old man coming out of

the Bagel Hut, teetering

with his cane and cup of coffee.

Suddenly I see

a long white alligator crossing the road.

The other cars don’t slow down,

don’t see the alligator.

They run it over!  Oh my, oh no!

A long white alligator must

be such a rare thing please!

Please don’t run it over, don’t kill it!

I get closer realize

it’s merely a long sheet of white paper.

Tattoos

My beautiful daughters, both of them,

got tattoos. Laura’s is a subtle heart

out of sight, a little larger than a quarter

down on her lower back,

a pretty singing purple.

She’s 21 and put a lot of thought into it,

so she tells us. Robin, though,

is only 17 so her tattoo

is more a 17 year old’s tattoo,

very pretty, yes indeed, very nicely done,

the eye on her cresting dolphin precise

and staring from her hip across into her lap.

CITY
Piles of hoarding and neon signs
Lost me from myself beneath
The skyscrapers where
Crowds of men found a way of life,
And to my disgrace, I lost one.
None seemed to care
Even the arrival of dawn,
Since the difference in night and day
Were none and still like fools
All loved the joy of being artist
Of the unending drama.
Dollars and pounds, rupees and francs
Love lost existence in the far off ground
Which had sunk so deep that only few fairy tales
Could name, and it ‘just seemed Interesting’
To hear the same.
Losing all hope in the polluted air,
I dreamt of beauty I could find in love
Till a sound of coins woke me up
Thrown at me by passer-by
Thinking me to be a beggar,
Calling it to be a token of love.
At last I realised love’s existence still remain
But the way of loving has met an unprecedented change.
............................................................................

CHILDHOOD DAYS
The story is of two young girls
Who met in the road and stared at each other.
One was jealous to see other's ring
The other stared at the other's shoe
And at last they could realise
That they were unconditional friends.
They shared their laughter
And poured their tear,
Talking about their childhood days
When none had rings
In their delicate ears,
When both ran bare-footed
And enjoyed their plays.
....................................................
BELIEF
Far high in the sky a dim cloud looked
Like a shy princess adorned with smile
And which turned me blue.
A mild wind changed the very view; the princess
To a scary witch. My face turned black .
How do we cling our belief in things
When our eyes start
Singing the song of betrayal
When so long history
Which we've learnt and admired
Turn out to be a story of a drunken man!
.............................................................
ASHAMED SUN
Early morning when the sun comes up,
And to its misery finds the earth burning.
Hears the news of bomb-blasts in the night.
Sun feels ashamed and tries to hide.
It calls the cloud to cover it,
And remembers the earth which used to be good.
Hiding from a corner, moon calls the sun,
Tells of horrifying killings that went before the dawn.
Sun melts in tear but truth is truth.
It loves not to shine today, and it seems to brood.
The blame is on us my brothers, he says,
Love and peace lies only in few prayers today.
..........................................................
ME AND YOU, STAR
Bridge the gap between me
And you star, your glitters
Are driving me insane.
My heart is tough to behold
And my explanations are going futile.
Your twinkles have turned 
So dear to me but come close
And give me that heat. God gave
Me no wings to fly but the angel 
In you have taken me so high and still
You look ignorant about the love within.
My ways in life are dark, enlighten
It through like a guiding star
And turn me true, burn 
The evils that may still
Reside in my heart where
A home have I built for you.
But why do we still pretend
And just smile our love off
In this common air?
And I seem a scared butt
To have loved a princess
Above my grade.
 
 Raghab Nepal
Age 19
31 MM Koil Street
Sriperumbudur 602105




A BIT OF HAIKU 

I saw a Lexus.
It looked like my Toyota.
But triple the price.

II. 
Miami is great
and so is San Francisco.
New Orleans is best!

III.  
Are haunted houses
of interest? Try Poe, Rice,
King, and Bram Stoker.

IV. 
Writing Haiku Poems
is like eating warm cashews.
Both are quite pleasant.

V. 
Latin girls are loud
and colorful. I like them!
Never a dull moment! 

VI. 
I hear a soft sound.
Could it be Jack the Ripper?
Or perhaps Anne Rice.

VII. 
Tell them I was strong.
Tell them I was quite handsome.
Tell them I write poems.

VIII.
Faulkner is cryptic.
Virginia Wolfe is cryptic.
James Joyce is complex. 

IX. 
Haiku Poetry is
of Japanese origin.
It is now worldwide.

X. 
“Metamorphosis”
“In the Penal Colony”
Authored by Kafka! 

XI. 
She is not senile!
But her memory gets worse
for recent events.

XII. 
Immortality!
What plan will help achieve it?
Dracula is out! 

XIII. 
Causal relations;
Which one predicts the other?
Time sequence tells much! 

XIV.  
Look in the black box.
You’ll see another black box.
Infinite regress!

XV
. Louis Armstrong’s punch
and bounce. It simply made Jazz!
Scat singing also! 

Richard H. Williams

rwill4515@aol.com

The End \

Galloping over unnamed plains, 
your little cowboy spurred by time 
(just yesterday, 6 yrs old 
now suddenly fragile 17) bearing
all his possibly broken bones 
for love or money.

As if you could protect him 
with belts & iron armor
before the buzzer 
catches him loping miles ahead 
of caution, bareback riding his 
blood-bay wild side.


GLUE-STICK

You place the plastic cover on the desk 
and swivel up the stub of gummy white. 
“Here’s what that idiot wrote 
about my newest book, it isn’t nice.” 
You’re glue-sticking sheets of paper sheets together, 
then ripping them up to send the tatters flying.
“Poetry in Parts” flew by, a dead seminar. 
You glue the mouth shut on a front-page 
sonnet-activist and make a glummy wad 
of ARTIST-IN-RESIDENCIES (6 weeks overlooking 
the Grand Canyon; June in Crete). 
Next you go to work on your rejection slips 
until you’ve gummed a wad 
with as many fossil records as Montana. 
“Useless history.” Atop your monitor 
you affix the anthem that begins: “We regret...” 
The glue is almost gone. 
You open the top drawer of your desk. 
“So many drafts, so many dreams.” 
Scissors in one hand, gluestick 
in the other. You set about the joy 
of destruction that creates such worlds.


SCAVENGER ANGELS

Nature goes on heaping up waste
and hating it; learns to eat 
her leavings – see

the buzzard balancing
hunger on his tilty wings
above some carcass that maggots sing.

Nothing’s gained/lost.
Sloughed skin, Earth’s crust;
the spirit to an angel tossed.

A DEAD LEAF

From this morning’s rakings, 
I place one fallen oak leaf 
on the kitchen table: lovely
deeply-lobed magenta map
with parchment-colored oceans;
its ribs etched with saffron, 
rivulets joining into larger 
streams running down the stem.

Outside, the rain begins. 
It fills the lawn with ripples
dissolving the leavings 
of November, as the oak tree 
dips its roots in the flow
to float bare branches above 
the flaming of its leaves.

Here on the table, this one 
dead leaf has bleached 
and brittled in my fingers, 
crackling like old paper: 
writing erased and lined out, 
the words considered and
reconsidered. Crisp.


THE ESPRESSO-&-CREAMERY

Rush-hour coffee-break, the Holsteins 
are mooing off the walls
with painted purple morning-glories
and a cross-stitch “WELCOME” (yes, 
the kit’s for sale). House brew 
goes for a buck-99, but check out 
all these exotic roasts and blends, 
a phalanx of milk machines
in different flavors. French vanilla-
lilac, Brazilian burnt-banana.  

OK, just grab a cup of plain
old caffeinated black
and pull up a stool. Let’s digest 
this morning’s news.


GRIDLOCK, LOGJAM

The wrong way’s marked with yellow
chalk like center-lining. Everything 
ends up downstream anyway, afloat
on unfiled items; following the flow
to stack against jackstraw wood- 
scraps masquerading as beaver dam. 

But the fur-bearers have all moved on 
in a shriveling autumn. Winter ices
everything over, if you wait so long.
India
 

Taylor Graham

Closing Words

    With the end of this issue, I now look forward to the sixth year of publishing.  Already the August issue is looking good with some fabulous works already making their way to my mail box.  If you want to contribute to an issue, send your work to pabear_7@yahoo.com.   I'll read and appreciate what you send.
    Other exciting things, I'm going to be interviewed for the August issue of Poetry Life and Times.  You can learn some things about a chapbook I've put together and the inspiration behind some of the works.
    It was exciting being interviewed and I hope I sound all right.  So enjoy reading that and if you have a website you would like linked to a future episode, send it to me and I'll have a look.
  As always,  all work is copyrighted by the various authors, respect their creativity.  This issue is copyright ©2003.  Send me your email, I love to read them. Thank you.