Poetry

MILES PER GALLON

I SPOTTED A DEER NEAR SIX EIGHTY

smack in the middle
of the cul de sac
winding up
black
through yellow brown hills
what do you wait for
ears perked up
hazel eyes
shapely ankle quivering hind
alone in the setting sun
run
this anaconda of cars
will eat you up
it slithers by
on six eighty

but with nightfall
it will sin
smell the gasoline
it will sense
your throbbing heart
under spotted skin
and turn your way

before you can turn away
like virtue does
and look at me
with appealing eyes
irresistible eyes
even as
I melt in slanting rays
and in liquid form
conjure ways
of mingling
with a waterfall
to thrash and crash
into the anonymity
of river ways
that flow
under scattered cloud
into the bay

do not stay
deer
run away




FALLEN

when you have a toothache
it still hurts my jaw
life has permutated and combined
to birth this wasteland in between
cluttered with useless forest flowers
voices aplenty 
oceans of tears
even a solitary giggle
that just cannot be suppressed

perhaps a stroll
on a bed of burning coal
with fallen drops of sweat
sizzling before they are vaporized
will express it best

even as we clutch at each other
in the back seat of a car
in the blindness of the freeway
like the deaf and mute




SKUNK

skunk
crushed under a truck tire
I smell you
skunk

drunk
I am sunk
in this quagmire of ecstasy
monk

in meditation
beneath a tree trunk
I pull out of wool
thoughts

that are only
slightly mad
mad enough
to give benediction

to freedom of expression
as necessity in brute form
crushes skunk
that smells so strong

now I stand
on precipitous needlepoint
while society adjudicates
or abstains
from commenting
about the carcass 
of flattened skunk
drying in midday sun



ADVICE

unknown cloud
on this horizon
low with leaf
shaking in gentle breeze
shadows lit
by fading twilight
impersonal
so incredibly cruel

crumbling masts and fading hull
old airconditioner
awaiting a coat of paint
roars across dry sea-beds
sharp with shards of alkali
I am alone with bleeding feet
and still a distance to walk

to the empty freeway
it is getting cold
perhaps a flash flood
mystery on hold

masks to tranquilize
with ‘purpose’  in life
this freeway leads 
to twinkling city lights
and fairy stories

you get involved
in your life’s work
let alcohol keep company
with impotent poetry





DARKNESS AND LIGHT

it is like a narcotic
this darkness in the room
streetlights
aircraft warning lights
car lights
strobe lights
lights through the front window
why do you want
this darkness early
today is only a weekday
when carpools work

the Mexican ice-cream vendor
went by on time

why then
this fetal huddle
in your blanket
why the feline eye
burning bright
why these eyelids
that will not blink
why this ship
that will not sink
why should it dawn
fawn colored dawn

through an aircraft window
freeway below
hazy black thread
perpetual gray dawn





FREEWAY

I wake startled
on footsteps
in front of glass doors
and ask
‘what brought me here’

I look back
there is no road
my feet dangle
there is no road
only fear

near the BART station
waves lap up the shore
methodically sifting small pebbles
I point a finger to beckon
gnarled twisted it is like snail shells

this pain
this interminable pain
this unbearable pain
the freeways have crushed my bones
all my bones and  
they grew back twisted

always at high speed
sometimes a brush
a side-on crash 
a headlong collision 
careening off the shoulder 
a skid and turning turtle 
always the ambulance the neck support 
the splint the IV drip 
the pouches of blood and the antibiotic 
 
this freeway has twisted and mangled 
and perverted my body 
gnarled and whittled my mind
while I was chewing and swallowing it up

so today I dangle my feet in thin air
I have gobbled up life
I have won 
this fifty-year war
now there is no freeway anymore




MOON

The top of a palm
Three stars
And a sickle moon

This umbilical chord
With which I 
Am tied to the woes
Of mediocre sagging eyebrows
It chokes

I can only look 
For divine inspiration
In gutters that overflow

Like a displaced alligator
I am a predator
With limited space
To flex my jaw

And yet
The gate opens
At the press of a button
Beyond is the street
Then traffic lights
Leading on to the freeway
That will flow into the sea

I cannot swim
To walk on waves
Would be a miracle
And it still is a long way
Give me wings

I will skirt the top of a palm
Navigate between the stars
And reach the sickle moon






NOW

The leaf right under the streetlight knows
The car window taped up again and again knows
The width of the deserted road sweats in the drizzle
but knows
The drunken feet have assessed
The incline
The height of the sidewalk
They walk like they own
Or are possessed
They will not rest
The mind has conquered its devils
Is conquered and vanquished
Ogres from the past march hand in hand
Leaders with Alzheimer’s take the band stand
In the morning sun
Absolute silence reigns
In this autistic world
The only drums are the ones I can hear
The only shrieks are mine
Echoes from Mount Diablo
We sing odes to lullabies
That will sleep us through life

Ashok Niyogi

D.O.G.

Word-free, he comes when you call
“Dee-OH-Gee” (backwards this spells
“god” to a wordaholic human master
forever fidgeting with meaning).

When will you learn to savor,
instead, the smells a canine loves
of earth and rot? You
with your massive frontal lobe

worrying everything backwards:
How “bark” in reverse is “krab”
which might be German for cancer
but isn’t.

Just open the door, and out
he rushes like a pagan god
to greet this new non-verbal


TRICKSTER AND THE POET

For years, you’ve been trying to sing
the Bear out of the woods. But now
it’s the Old Trickster, Coyote, you hear
before dawn, when you’re the only one awake,
sitting over coffee on your screened porch.

Outside, it’s dark as the bottom
of a carton of smoked-out Luckies.
This is as far as you’re likely to get
today: listening to Coyote heaping metaphors
of hunger in a harmonic line.

It’s been months
since you had the strength to tap out
a tempo on your old Smith-Corona,
or recite from memory with the breath
of gutted lungs.

So now you’ve shut those poems
tight between the covers.
The Bear’s in the books now.
Can you hear him singing
to get free?


RICE OF THE SUN
(photograph Nov. 28, 1955, Bettmann/Corbis)

They’re on the rooftop of a building
in Manhattan, as tall as anything around
except the sky. Pipes and vents anchor
this high-rise and let it soar, while,

in traditional Japanese kimono, she holds
a bowl of rice. Both wear glasses blanked-
out by the light, on which they focus –

so intense it might be worship. Before
them, the experimental solar cooker,
a sort of satellite dish in shiny silver
to catch the sun as it moves. No, surely

it’s they who move through space, slippered
on rooftop tile, while their grounded
shadows hold them to a line whose vanishing
point is sun. It’s four in the afternoon.

The rice has been gathering heat all day,
and now it’s cooked just right. A silver
saucer beams the news back home to Tokyo.
morning, back-side first.

A delightful Garden of 
Friendship.

Modest Russian flowers
Are blossoming on my balcony
In the summer:

Geraniums, camomiles, small roses,
Carnations, nasturtiums and a decorative string bean.

It is my tiny garden
Under the roof of the 12 floor of the house.
Probably, it is too high.

But the sun
Every morning welcomes us,
And the charming fluffy bumblebees visit each flower.

We have no summer residence
And of own garden on the earth.

Therefore a balcony
Is our favourite place
For meditations and rest.

... Somewhere away,
On the other end of a planet
My friends live in their countries.
I never met with them,
But I see their faces and characters

I hear their thoughts and fine poetry,
I feel joy and a pain of their souls.

I love my familiar unfamiliar friends
And I miss about them.
But soon they will send me
Seeds of own garden
and of their own home flowers.

How it will be wonderful -
to have box or pot with flowers
from each of them!

I shall look at their flowers,
To think about my far friends
and to pray
This summer on 12 floor,
On my balcony
In a delightful Garden of Friendship.

----------------------------------------------------------

The night flying

The gypsies bonfires burn.

Whence they here,

Near the closed gate of a school?

Probably, it is performance -

Show of school theatre goes?

But these dancings, this singing,

Swarty hands - in bracelets!

Fires burn, the gypsies sing

Their song are crying and calling you,

are inviting somewhere…

At night heavenly ocean

The ancient SAILING VESSEL is floating.

It has overtaken our window

And has taken us with you aboard.

And we, have not been puzzled at all or frightened,

We have left our home - moorage.

And our favourite cat the Peach -

 together with us here.

Maybe we shall find other shelter?

The gypsies wave one's hands to us,

and they beat(play) into magical bells

 and tambourines.

Our old sail vessel is floating between stars,

Somewhere Below, on the earth,

the guitar sings solo...

...But in the morning

Yard-keeper near school

Will clean an extinct bonfires

with his broom.

Dina Televitskaya

World Peace

In the future

What did I say?

Were you listening?

I said my piece

And then you were embarassed 

Walked Montreal streets

Found out the world

Screams at each other

World screams at itself

Heard a woman dumping a man

Pacing back and forth

While talking on her cellphone

Whole world is pacing back and forth

I pace when talking on the phone

We are all cordless

Cordless was made for me

Like the TV

Like the computer

Like the DVD player 

Take me apart on this sidewalk

Take me home

And we'll call it even

What you want and what you need

There is a lot of neon here

I don't look my best in flashing pink

I never look my best

Its not the flashing pink

You say its rose

Like it matters

Lets get a bus

Lets go home together

Another time

One last time

Perhaps one last time. 

 

OF BUSES AND STEM CELLS 

We have been

Begrudged,

And belittled. 

But now we belong

At least to each other

And perhaps some Belated happiness

Will come down our road

We will enter this world, our world

But happiness,

Does not enter this world easily

And does not stay of its own accord

It has its own transit schedule

Arrives when you least expect it

And is delayed when you need it most

Pulls away from the curb, while you are running

Waving your arms and shouting 

Now I am not being clever

Or whimsical

Not, on the road to happiness

There is no wrong route on this road

Even if the metaphor might be rescheduled

Or rerouted. 

 

Not what you asked for

The ability to be alone

Don't do it well

But company can't be demanded

Or often found

If its any consolation

I know that in our world

Even hope is often lonely 

You don't understand

Those who stand resolute

On their aloneness

When your needs, lean to taking something

Over nothing:

One night of not being alone

Is one night salvaged

From the junkyard of eternity

While the stem cell of hope

Waits in its petri dish

Waits to be harvested

Waits;

To circumvent all debate

And be implanted, To perhaps

Perhaps hope

Its not a strict science

There is no guarantee.  

 

FOREVER 

 

You can't make me wait

Not Forever.

Because I cannot

We don't have the timeline

Of a Russian novel. 

I can't sustain the plot

I can't keep coming to no avail. 

Though,

My love isn't finite

This world is.

This existence. 

Having a future tomorrow.

Like having a naked body beside you

Its all based on luck

Or being blessed 

What is forever?

But a very long time. 

Put my face to the window

Feel the glass against my cheek

When I was six

I went through a window

I still have the scars 

Put my face next to yours

Feel skin against my cheek

When I was older

I went through love

I still have the scars 

I took love/ for lust

Like sweetner for sugar

I have learned the difference 

Between birth and death. 

Once:

Walking to meet you

Was like passing customs

Walking down to the plane

News of the day in hand

Knowing I was going to fly 

Now my sentiment

Sounds like a bad commercial

And you are unsure of the product

We are so strange

We are so afraid of perspiration

But with one quarter moisturizer

We could sweat together

And still be smooth in the morning 

Perspiration, Sweat

Nothing like love.

Nothing. 

I am amazed that I am still here

I am amazed that the world

Can take so much pain

And still be here. 

I guess:

I was not suprised

When you cut your losses

When you closed the deal

I was not suprised

When you crossed your legs

I was not suprised

When you held your breath

Until you fainted. 

We all need sequence

We all need

Yes, sometimes we all need

Like vegetarians

Begging for meat, yes we all need

We all know- how to make a pass

We all know how to get naked

We all know the truth

But we don't. 

It wasn't me who said forever

No, it wasn't me

Who promised eternal life. 

God is dead

Not even a 21st century discussion

Love is dead (How Dumb)

I don't know. 

Its not that I don't want to

But not even my own words

Can make me cry 

It not that you don't want to

But not even the thought

Of me

Can make me cry 

Sometimes, I fear

That you will suddenly come upon me

Out of the darkness, on a winter night

On the sidewalk I will suddenly meet you

When I am not emotionally ready. 

But when was I ever

Emotionally ready to meet you?

And what will I do?

Will I/ Should I/ Look the other way

Pretend its not you? 

Its my property as a poet

To get maudlin

Its my property as a poet

To think that forever

Would last longer

Richard H. Williams

The Search

My first two loves I remember well,

Ofttimes my heart begins to swell,

Though many times my teardrops fell,

It’s a story of them I’d like to tell.

One was taken from me by God

The other one left me for God

Though many might see this as odd,

I think about them with love and laud.

It’s led me on a search to ease the pain

Through doctors, bars, fights and such

Which obviously didn’t amount to much.

But now the search is finally over

Sometimes like walking through fields of clover,

The One that’s like no other,

Essay

A Look back at the first 50

    How do I start this diary, I suppose a chronogical study of the events of the last seven years will do:


June 1998- decided  to develop a poetry webpage but what to name it.  After staring at the monitor for a few minutes the  phrase abovegroundtesting is chosen by me.  The first website becomes https://www.angelfire.com/on/abovegroundtesting.  Post a couple of poems and start to place link in various search engines.


July 1998

    The month I wrote the first ezine.  My thought was to showcase my own poetic efforts.  I realized that I didn't have enough work to keep it going and so I put a note saying I was inviting others to contribute.

August 1998
     Three people contribute.  Three decide to take me up on my request and offer.  Issue two becomes a reality.


September 1998.  I ask in an essay if webpages are narcissistic.  I still don't have the answer although I believe they are not, it's simply an effort
to let others know you're around.   This issue features work from Crackerjack2000.  The start of a poetic relationship with Cjack. There are people who were important for the continuation of this ezine and Cjack is one of them.  The letters and words of encouragement meant a lot and kept me going.  Thanks Cjack.

 October 1998.  I mention the music for the Ezine.  I ran this feature for a few months. 

November 1998  A few book reviews and some poems from Charlotte Mair, a great poet.

December 1998  First Christmas issue, first html issue. 

February 1999   Second issue of the new year, the theme ; "Romance".  The efforts, good.  The music was Prokofiev.  I've been a great 'fan' if such a word can be used for a classical musician, since hearing a documentary on the life and music of Sergei on CBC Radio 2. 

April 1999- I use an HTML editor that comes with Navigator to make this issue.  Kokopelli is the background.

May 1999- I commence another ezine, which lasts for 9 issue.  Avant Garde Times, I'm stuck on the initials AGT is an ezine that is geared to more experimental and mature theme works.  There is no restrictions.  It was quarterly.

June 1999 and another issue comes to an end.  So does the first year of publishing, will there be a second.

July 1999 Fire works on the cover, a Cover!  mulitple pages.  Special anniversary, it was my first.

September 1999  the infamous lost disc issue.  I misplaced the data for this issue, and it won't be the last time either.  I was scrambling to find everything.

December 1999  there's music and candy canes for this issue.  I was in the holiday mood that year.  What a change.

January 2000 We all survived the great Y2K  scare, remember it?  We were all going to lose our money and have to walk up stair in our apartment buildings.  Nothing of the sort happened.  I commented that the issue was now going beyond the North American continent and I had a contribution from Les Wicks.  Les opened to me the Australian sub-continent.  Over the years I've received a few of his poetry books, the guy is a great poet.  Read him.

February 2000 Look, another cover, a table of contents and romance.  I review Slow Fox by Patricia O'Callaghan.  I love her voice.

March 2000  This is one of my favourite issues, the Coffee Issue.  A thematic issue, beyond Christmas and Romance, that is.  I still enjoy reading it.  A number of poets took up the challenge of writing works for that theme.  I review Christine Fellows 2 Little Birds one of my favourite CD's of all times.  I mentioned it should have been the best CD of the year, sadly none of the critics listened to me, fools.

April 2000 the motto is because poetry can still be dangerous now that it's 2005 the theme holds true.  We are the last subversives aren't we.  Banging out our thoughts on keyboards, laptops and PDA's.  Inventing our own culture and reject the culture of the day.  I found the quote "poets are the parliamentarians of the world". 

June 2000- no cover photograph, no idea.

July 2000- somehow that issue has been lost, like August.  To disappear in the ether.  If anyone has a copy., please forward it to me.  Thanks

September 2000  A celebration of Ralph.  Ralph Alfonso the patron saint of the ezine allowed me to review his new CD, This is for the Night People and to interview Him.  It was such a thrill to email him some questions and get a reply.  Thanks Ralph, it really meant a lot to me.

March 2001  My Australia Issue.  What a treat it was to read works from various Australian poets.  This was a great issue to put together and I enjoyed it immensely.

July 2001 another annivesary issue.  Interview with Tony Garone.  I also reviewed his CD Epic of Gilgamesh, which is his interpretation of the great epic poem of the same name.

September 2001 an interview with another fine Australian Poet, Dr. Coral Hull.  It featured both her writings, her photography and as I said an interview.  She's an interesting person.

November 2001 in October I spent two weeks volunteering with the Salvation Army at Ground Zero.  It has to be the defining moment of my life.  I can look back and say I did accomplish something.  This issue features works inspired by my time there and some of my photographs.  I should say when I was there, they were really not allowing pictures to be taken of the site.  It was an overwhelming two weeks.

January 2002 Random Acts of Poetry.  My idea was for people to send people, at random, through the mail, poetry.  Also put poems up along the road and have them read.  Get your poems out there people.  It's still important.

February 2002 Valentine's Day at the Loser Bar and Grill.  My opinion of roses, chocolates and those cards.

March 2002  Interview with Christine Fellows.  She was great.

August 2002    Interview with Taylor Graham.  A regular contributor to this ezine and a fantastic person.  Go find the issue and read all about her life.  Also, photographs from Aaron LaFlora.  This person every so often comes into my life with a letter or some photographs.

I'm going to stop.  This has been the first number of years of the ezine.  I thought of including a write up on each issue but that proved a bit daunting.  You know a lot of material has been produced over the years.  I'm going to continue this in the August issue. This has been a look back at the first fifty issues of abovegroundtesting.  Much of my early ezine started on a pad of paper, a pad that included ideas, opening remarks, essays, a few poems, doodles and whatever else I wanted as I thought of my ezine.  Over the years this effort has consumed me and as the next study will point out, I did experience some burn out.

I did ask the question about narcissism and websites, how about ezines?  I started this issue with a comment regarding the number of fine ezines that no longer exist.  I am still here and going strong.  A friend asked me to be a bit more opinionated in my ezine.  Well, okay let me say, this is my ezine and everyone who contributes, ezine.  it's our my friends.  For the drive to produce is deep in us all. 

As always, this issue will keep the dream of providing that avenue for poets and writers to find a place to contribute and have others read your work.  It's the least I can do for all of you.

 paul@abovegroundtesting.com

 abovegroundtesting.com