I wasn't sure what to call as the theme of
this issue. I know February is the month of romance, with
Valentine's Day but at the same time I keep looking at the stars at
night and watch how the universe does unfold before my eyes. I
check my various star maps and look around to see if there is something
new happening. A couple of months ago, I watch the unique sight
of the Northern Lights move through the sky. It was awe inspiring
and I was mermerized to watch the ligths shift towards the south.
At one time, the Aurora covered Orion and the stars were covered with
the halo of the colourful Aurora. It was one of those moments
that made me wish I had a very expensive camera. Alas, all I have
are the fresh memories of that night.
So this issue, has views of the sky and words of
love. CW said he wanted to send some work that examined the
'darker' side of Cupid's day. I am remembered of the time I wrote
my own work on the darker side, the sadistic side of Cupid's aim and
humour. Sometimes the arrow flies and there is a smirk on
the face of the archer.
This is your issue, sit back and read these works
prepared for you.
Poetry
Wind Shy at Sandblast
The storm blows from south to north
where the birds scatter in minnow
formation when we hike the beach
and disturb the penguin-like long
beaks who fly.
They land and reform in front of our
pace -- why not behind us in their
previous place?
Only once did our hands touch.
More often control voiced monotonally
the day-to-day struggles of each
phrase of "effection". Sometimes we leap-
frog or fall one step only to bound ahead.
Sherrie Lee
Dark Side of Cupid's Little Day
the leaves
in the cold moonlight
lying
alone in bed I shiver
come to me once more
------------------------
touch
my skin my love
tell me
what I want to hear
at least until morning
-------------------------
we leave
the bar for her place...
in the morning
I leave my loneliness
and take away hers
------------------------
rising moon
disappears into the cloudy
winter night
and why do I weep when
you've said goodbye before
--------------------------
very cold morning...
decanting tea off the leaves,
steam warms my face;
then I hear the door open:
the sight of you warms my heart
CW Hawes
From my walk
On this cold day
the sky is already welcoming the dark
the shadows grow as a cool sun prepares to set
the wind picks up and i shudder
each step is hurried to make it home
for supper.
a look to the east
the moon rises
the pure white orb
against the reddening sky
it's brightness shines down
in contrast to the grey of shadow and still tree
A rush takes place
to hurry home
and capture the scene
on film.
Your sleeping form
when I can't sleep
I pretend to
keeping still so not to disturb you
and I lie there
listening
to the slow sound of your breathing
it tells me tonight
you're at peace
the dreams in your life are quiet
I hope they are dreams of us
tonight I lie here
still
just thinking
of that day
we said
"I do".
My Postcard
One day I thought
to send you a postcard
from where I was
Nothing profound or funny
just a couple of words
to let you know
I'm okay and doing well.
I had wondered what you did with it
after all that was quite a while ago
and you weren't too please I had to go
you could have thrown it out for all I know
or gathered it and tossed it with
that week's recycling
I did think that, then quickly forgot
after all, who honestly cares
about one simple postcard?
I was going through the garage,
cleaning out some papers
when in your box of personals
I found my postcard
you did keep it
I guess it was something
that made you think of me
the day
you got it.
Paul Gilbert
turbine
consider america born
out of crazy horse's blood
consider how little time
it took us to
take what we could from the earth
machines built
to disembowel mountains
and the smell of gasoline which
may be as close to god as
you ever come
and when i talk about dogs
i include myself
and when i talk about hope i am
thinking of my children
and if you believe that there is
no such thing as
a truly selfless act
then you are beginning to understand
listen
everyone hates and
everyone fears
a young boy found dead in
a cage
in someone's basement
won't cause the world to end
probably won't even affect
your life
and maybe this is the part that
matters
maybe the truth is nothing more
than what you can make
others believe
call it enough and move on
______________________________
"a house on fire holds no shame"
your shadow vague against the
wall of an empty building
your smile like pale sunlight
like a storm
approaching from the west
and of course i say none of this
i stand on the sidewalk and
close my eyes
and the wind devours
whatever we've built
the streets move
slowly out of town
brown lawns and grey hills
and you naked in a dimly lit room
myself next to you
and the weight of christ as
heavy as fallen angels
pinning us to the bed or
to the floor and
the paint peeling from the walls
the song you sing beyond words
my fingers
cracked and bleeding but
alive
digging or caressing while
the dead are roped together
and pulled ashore
while mothers scream for
god to show his face
the sunlight all
turned black without warning
_____________________________
absolute zero as a state of mind
here in this small piece of nowhere
with the afternoon pressed up
hard against a pale blue sky
with the shadows of powerlines and
of empty buildings
gouged into the streets
the dim light of neon signs in
the windows of bars and
the silence of dust and this sense
that all i've ever been is lost
this idea of motion without
direction
three teenage kids smoking pot
in a pickup truck
in the kmart parking lot
the knowledge that
this is the future and that the weak
are who we choose to be victims
consider the married couple
who rape a four year-old girl in
a wheelchair
consider the fact that
they film it
are these acts anything
you would kill someone for?
do you believe
that every question has only
one right answer?
or maybe all that matters is that
none of blood
spills from anyone you love
the age of filth
snow falling on rust in
the first grey minutes of the day
you
in the killer's car
thinking it's romantic
and then all he does is fuck you
leave you on the sidewalk
with the names of
120,000 confirmed dead
with your feet
bleeding like christ's
and the taste of gasoline in your mouth
and the rest of your life as obvious
as a pair of hands around
your throat
the birth of your child
a small step
but not in any specific direction
whatever money you can
sell it for when
the moment finally arrives
drowning in the house of truths
and having run out of colors
i say the afternoon is grey
crows in a dead field and the
inevitable pull of powerlines and
the slow spread of distance
me here and you there
the fact that i miss the feel of
your warmth and the taste
the fact that every poem is a
simple _expression of failure
is never action
but only afterthought
not a factory
but the ruins of one
poison seeping into the soil
and into the drinking water and
the way the children die
so easily
the reasons that money is
worth more than human life
whoever it was that
decided this
John Sweet
New to this ezine, Felicity Penner submitted a series of duets she wrote with her friend George Devon. Take the time to
the two voices bringing us this harmony of styles and textures.
EYES
When you look into my eyes
Do you see what is in my heart?
Can you tell there are no lies
When you look into my eyes;
That there is only love on the rise
And this has been from the very start?
When you look into my eyes
Do you see what is in my heart?
Felicity Penner
When I look into your eyes
I do indeed see what is in your heart.
Yes, I can tell there are no lies
When I look into your eyes;
That there is only love on the rise
And that it was so from the very start.
When I look into your eyes
I do indeed see what is in your heart.
George Devon
THE DARK OF THE NIGHT
In the dark of the night I call your name
To take away the horrid dream
Which rises a ghost and brings forth my shame.
In the dark of the night I call your name
And hope you do not think this is some game
I play or part of some sick scheme.
In the dark of the night I call your name
To take away the horrid dream.
Felicity Penner
In the dark of the night
I hear you call my name,
Your voice shaking with fright.
In the dark of the night
I try to make it right,
A little peace reclaim.
In the dark of the night
I hear you call my name.
George Devon
On A Winter's Night
When the house is battered by the icy winter wind,
And the lamplight is all a flicker,
Under the quilts in a toasty bed you'll find us twined.
When the house is battered by the icy winter wind,
And snowflakes fly all about the eaves undisciplined,
We simply pile the quilts on thicker --
When the house is battered by the icy winter wind,
And the lamplight is all a flicker.
George Devon
Under
The Quilts
Under the quilts, in each
other's arms,
It matters not about the
winter wind;
For quite soon it is as
though the barm's
Under the quilts! In each
other's arms
Can we resist that little
boy's charms
For very long? We're so
undisciplined
Under the quilts, in each
other's arms --
It matters not about the
winter wind.
Felicity Penner
AT FIRST SIGHT
I saw you standing on the quay
And knew those lips were mine to kiss.
I quickly ran, did not delay,
Seeing you standing on the quay,
And prayed no one would block my way --
For this was one chance I couldn't miss!
I saw you standing on the quay,
Knowing your lips were mine to kiss.
Felicity Penner
WHEN I LOOKED INTO YOUR
EYES
Love was there when I
looked into your eyes
And saw my name was writ
upon your heart
That night: for we never
said those
goodbyes.
Love was there! When I
looked into your eyes
And saw clear to your
heart, could I despise
The undespisable -- pierced
by his dart?
Love was there when I
looked into your eyes
And saw my name was writ
upon your heart.
George Devon
THE SOLAR SYSTEM
Richard H. Williams
The
Solar System
contains the Sun, planets, moon,
comets, asteroids.
We often speak of
it as the Sun together
with its nine planets.
The Sun is a star
with nine celestial bodies
that are circling it.
These bodies (planets)
are gravitationally
attracted to it.
The sun occupies
98% of the
Solar System mass.
One hundred and nine
Earths would be required to fit
across the Sun's disk.
Mercury is the
planet closest to the Sun
and second smallest.
Venus is called Earth's
sister planet---similar
in size, mass, volume.
The one planet in
the Solar System known to
harbor life is Earth.
Mars was named by the
Romans as their god of war;
called the Red Planet.
The largest planet
in the Solar System is
the ringed Jupiter.
2
The Voyager trips
revealed much of what we now
know about Saturn.
William Hershel was
responsible for finding
planet Uranus.
Planet Neptune is
in the outermost orbit;
and 60 times Earth.
The planet Pluto
has not yet been visited
by any spacecraft.
Of all the moons that
orbit the planets, Titan
is most noteworthy.
It is the second
largest moon and larger than
two of the planets.
It circles Saturn;
has an impenetrable
atmosphere and clouds.
The End
Tyler Wiseman
reports all is well with him. He's getting ready to go down the
road to find a new purpose and intent in America. If you don't
recognize him, just look for the one they call 'The Poet'.
First Movement
Migration,
I'm taking my wooly words worth
and moving on home
Diggin the concrete, time to break my teeth
upon the ample edge of indifference
I'm sitting with my pretty self
in the Santa Cruz Diner
where I was told in so many words
"Hippies use side door"
Just ordered a Jack Kerouac,
side of fries
twenty five and some scratch in my pocket
Menu, it says "life is unpredictable,
eat dessert first"
and I do
Lament for Father
I
Oh, what certain laments
we are subject to,
with fate a cruelty presiding
upon miseries throne
.
I was home again, a serf
bound to my familial servitude,
and grace willing in divinity
for, in truth, what nobler disposition
turns the indifferent cheek
from Paternal suffering
.
Yet, so it was to be
that I would sow regret's seed
depply in my breast,
and, sustained by mortal circumstance,
such as it were to blossom, mournful beauty
resembling my final diffidence
Madame morte births all her children still,
she likes it this way, it is her will and wanting
I'm a poet, and one that speaks
as a maddened prophet left to his own musing
Now I'm on a ghost ship
composed of the faithful wisps
It's a smoky quartz I look through
the ocean view to, and every soul is a whirl
Listen now to the captains command
speak nothing of a world but the sands grains
There is nothing to be said
that is not so profound as silence
There's nothing quite like
a 6 foot 9 tranvestite
giving you googly eyes
that makes you feel alive
I mean, it's the specific things
of a bizzare contemporary
which affirm our waking meaning
Maybe I'm just composing
the decomposition of great arts
left like sea anaeome, with gadflies
flittering away while tourists in wonder
for what buzz balances on the oceans wave
I smiled at (s)he, whom wished to know
my poetic compunctions and interpersonal
liberations in regard to love of the soul
Yet, I was drunk, so..
Oh, baby, I left you hanging
Tyler Joseph Wiseman
Sometime …
And the world such
big, such another's!
He already never more will swing open ,
And of me with my
restless soul
Will not protect, and
will not smile to me.
Dreams are lost,
fight is lost,
The ship of "Hope" is
thrown out to the land.
I shall not argue
more with destiny,
But I shall deceive
her, and shall send
my soul -
to fly where is a
forest, where air is pure
And trees are affable,
Where the silence is
flying from heavens ,
And near small river
is old village there.
There are the small, old log huts,
The bridge above a
pond,
In gardens
the apples and the
cherries redden there.
And we with you shall
come here
Sometime - in the
new, after this life.
A log hut with a
small garden on the edge of that village
Will wait us
patiently.
And the alive son
will meet us in that paradise
And will smile to us
with you happily.
After quarreling
When I quarrel with you, my loved,
All stars in the sky die away one by one,
Somewhere the moon hides,
And around becomes so gloomy,
that hope is not visible.
When I quarrel with you,
A wind is crying that "tomorrow" will not be more,
But will be only "yesterday".
The world is deaf,
And malicious cold
Can steal our love very easily.
When we quarrel, my loved,
For me is only continuous night:
without morning and without day.
And birds do not sing any more,
Only crows cry to all, that my
love - has died.
When we quarrel , my dear
I have neither my thoughts
and I in general almost do not
live.
I lose myself in main fight with
myself,
When I quarrel with you my loved.
Dina Televitskaya
Inspired by Connecticut's
Charter Oak Greenway.
As simple as child's play,
experiencing the thrill and
excitement of free-floating
and smooth-gliding,
like the vane of a feather
arrowing in,
swimming through the wide-
open sky,
your laps taking the lead,
a third-of-one-mile away,
a distance of three-and-
one-half football fields,
like a bright-yellow sunray
with gargantuan protective-
wing shields,
you stay afloat,
in gleams of such shining
armor,
strong and mighty,
flying high,
immersed in such
therapeutic soft-
white-water clouds,
exhilarating all of the
senses,
beyond nature's blue
horizon,
a refreshing drink for
the thirsty soul,
and a bountiful feast
for the hungry eye,
introspectfully and
reflectively whole,
baptized in a spiritual
expanse,
and submersed in
communion wine's
goblet of heartfelt
romance,
passionately pursued,
and not left to chance,
appreciating, savoring
for your life to enhance,
enjoying the music in a
warm and loving embrace,
while flying and swimming,
and learning to dance.
Anthuriums of Love
Your love turned my love,
from solitary confinement's
utter loneliness,
into paradise retreat's sweet
and warm embrace,
all my senses come to life,
I see your lovely face,
I feel your joy,
as my heart begins to race,
faster and faster,
and we exchange matrimonial
vows dance,
I hold you close,
midst life's pomp and grand
circumstance.
Your lips pressed soft, but
firmly against my lips,
tasting sweeter than any
wine,
succulent strawberries,
no longer wild,
remaining loyal,
long past June,
through the passages of time,
you are my blessed companion,
a joy beyond compare,
dreams and visions in the rain,
gentle and soft teardrops,
against my window pane,
laughter,
a great deal of mirth,
in the sunlight,
and passing through the clouds,
hope-filled rainbows,
dreams and visions in the moonlight,
a special place in my heart,
where my thoughts go,
in tranquil starshine,
brilliant and vivid images surround me,
in a sea of lasting love,
waves carry bursting fireworks,
exciting memories of you and I.
A life before us,
with much promise,
and so many treasured experiences
to share,
patience
acceptance,
and understanding,
more than tolerance,
our lives on a foundation of eternal
friendship,
blossoming into a fragrant love,
now and forever,
a couple,
two individuals,
joined together,
hand and hand,
to infinity,
music, dancing, and all that jazz,
kindling and re-kindling our firey,
romantic passion,
in anthuriums of love.
Circle of Love
Time is a circle,
a circle of love.
Time is supporting,
grace from above,
Time is reflection,
mirrors of dreams,
Time is direction,
not oft what it seems.
Pendulum's balance
swings left and swings
right,
making the difference
tween day and tween
night,
dreams so elusive,
follow your heart,
though disappointments
will tear you apart.
Go onwards and upwards,
forwards and backwards,
don't dwell on the past,
the present won't last,
moments so precious,
don't throw them away.
The darkness turns chaos
in calmness of night,
the daylight holds promise
of journey's delight,
erasing the hurt,
and healing the
wounds,
sky to in-fy-nite,
reach for your dreams.
Something to strive for,
to live for,
and die for,
finding meaning,
and purpose,
and a story to tell,
chimes mark the
hour,
to opp-pore-tune-ities
door.
Dreams to full flower,
but lost in confusion,
seeking direction,
pass through the rain,
dark clouds to bright
lights,
teardrops to rainbows,
erasing the hurt,
and erasing the
pain.
Time is a circle,
a circle of love.
Passing through blindness,
to visions of hope,
enjoyable journeys,
a life filled with promise,
and hearts filled with love.
Time is a circle,
a circle of love.
Len Bourret is 'somewhere-in-between', a
wanderlust marching to a different drummer, and
enjoying his journey on the way up to the mountaintop, hoping
for 'the Promise'. In addition,
Len is a a graduate student with a 4.0 cumulative point
average. He has completed numerous
courses in education and social work at Springfield College and
Roberts Wesleyan College.
He has conducted research studies, on the topics of
anger management and depression, using
a cognitive-behavioral approach, multi-dimensional assessment
(using various measurements
for evaluation), as well as single-subject and single-group
designs.
DRIVING HOME
Skyweave settles over as I drive
diminishing daylight
east into a night sky stripped
to its essential dark / brilliant
driving home under constellations /
planets / single stars.
Mars strikes his headlamp, stands
head-on against all
my poor horse-power (bottom-
of-the-line Tercel for which no star
has yet been named).
Between the brights (headlights, isolated
lit-up windows across unilluminated
canyon with its deep dark
river, and of course the stars in their
eternal designs,
there’s simply dark.
I wonder if faith could fit between
the lights, to come again
in the interstices / time-warp
with all their possibilities
of falling through a crack between
stars or
is it just the mind’s inter-
face?
FIRST KISS,
last kiss or something in-between,
the seats in the yellow bus were free
if you were in the Science Club
and Johnny Mathis was crooning
Wonderful! Wonderful!
as the bus lurched from its hunched
standstill in front of the chemistry lab
headed for the coast.
It took long enough to get there,
Johnny went through a lot of songs,
along with Perry Como and
The Platters, and then
the sun slipped down
the verge of the known world,
and
moonlight, beach and tenth grade
all converged in the guise
of grunion hunting
at the tidal edge of a smoky fire.
Slippery silver in a moonwash.
SERENDIPITY
You’re watching history on TV.
I’ve come upstairs to be alone.
As I slip a CD in the player,
your incidental music rises,
“Douce dame jolie” to join
my Renaissance love songs.
Couch to loft, we synchronize
perfectly. After all these
years, how could we not
play the very same music?
Taylor Graham
Photographs
Paul Gilbert
Valerie Noir
There is still a
chill in the air as I look out my window. The promise of spring
is fleeting and still seems a long way off in the future. The
clouds gather and cut off the sight of sky and I realize this is the
wrapping up of another issue of the ezine.
As I read the works submitted I am again impressed
with the style, the thought that went into each work. We are
still living in a literary age, where creativity and culture are not
controled by a few multinational conglomerates. While some may
think that Vivaldi-Universal, or AOL Time Warner as the gatekeepers of
culture, it is not true. Culture exists because you cannot stifle
the human desire to create. Culture is not something that can be
controlled it is spontaneous and surrounds our experience. If an
attempt is made to allow only certain types of culture, this invites
the rest to exist on the fringe, perhaps hidden but still strong.
As always, copyright is owned by the contributor,
respect their creative ability.
If you wish to contribute to future issues, send me
an email at abovegroundtesting@yahoo.com
See you next month.
Just a thought: as I was pouring myself a
glass of juice I thought about a possible theme for April and the more
I considered it the more I liked it, the theme is Poetry Noir. If you have ever
enjoyed the movies of the 30's and 40's you're familiar with the
concept of the film noir.
If you are not, the film noir is defined as
<>
Film noir is a stylistic approach to genre films forged in depression era detective and gangster movies and hard-boiled
detective stories which were a
staple of pulp
fiction.Based in large part on
the that grew out of naturalism, a movement in literature based on
realism. Film noir is French
for "black film", and is pronounced accordingly ("fīlm nwahr"): the transliterated plural is films noir. -Wilipedia.org
So get thinking on
how a poetry noir can be developed.
