agt83

The Fields are filled with
fluffy bunnies
fluffy bunnies
fluffy bunnies

the fields are filled with
fluffy bunnies
hopping through the grass

they play they eat
they hop they skip
those fluffy bunnies
in the field

Of course, if this was a typical angst ridden poem of our age, the rest of the stanzas would read either:

they have so much joy
and I sit here
carving the word
"bunnies" in my wrist
wishing I was dead

or

they love my lawn
they love my garden
I filled the place with poison
and as I sit
they begin to go into convulsion
and die a harsh and painful death

Since this is not angst ridden or a violence filled issue, I going to concentrate on the happiness of fluffy bunnies. The purpose of this issue is to be lighthearted and enjoy life. I want to thank Jeff Crouch for the picture of a bunny for the front cover. The artwork and colour scheme match the intent of this issue, to be bright, friendly and fluffy. We need to be lighthearted, there are times we take ourselves oh so serious when the best thing we can do with life is laugh at it. This is not to discount the times of sadness and tragedy becaust they do strike. Then again, it seems the mainstream media has as its mission to inundate us continually to the point of supersaturation with the tragedy of daily life. We think happiness is found in the crass humour of a stand-up comedian and we mistake irony for jokes. I found this song:

Life is Great! So sing about it,
As we can and as we should;
Shops and buses, towns and people
Viage, farmland, field and wood.
Life is great and life is given,
Life is lovely, free and good.

Life is great! Whatever happens,
Snow or sunshine, joy or pain,
Hardship, grief or disillusion,
Suffering that I can't explain.
Life is great if someone loves me,
Holds my hands and calls my name.

That song was written by John Goss and if you are a musician, the tune is 'Praise my soul'. Our cynical age looks at it and laughs but he was a sincere person who understood two things, there are problems and there is joy. Too often we emphasize the former and forget the latter.
I hope I'm not getting too deep in the whole introspective thing, because we are writing about fluffy bunnies. This issue features a number of new to this ezine poets and I hope you will enjoy the works.

Poetry

Our first poet, Patricia Wellingham-Jones also did a reading for the February podcast, have a listen after you read.

Big Bunny whisks around the front yard and garden,
his beard and gray curls bounce in the breeze.
Tri-color eggs, eggs stamped and dyed,
the rainbow represented,
get tucked under leaves, in clusters of flowers,
the crotch of a tree, huddle against stones.
One even replaces the glass top in an old coffee pot.

Grownups keep grandchild away from the windows,
vow they aren't looking out themselves.
At the magic moment, Grandma flings the door wide.
Little one races out, a big basket on her arm.
Uncles, aunts and parents follow with one neighbor
sipping iced tea. Warned in a stage whisper
to leave the easy ones for Ragan, the adults
get caught up in the hunt.

Daddy, well over six feet tall, hooks a thimble-sized basket
on the crook of his middle finger. Mommy films the action
on video. Young aunt causes baby pouts
as her number of eggs mounts. The final count,
with a bit of help, puts small one ahead.
Big Bunny (aka Grandpa) watches, his grin
growing broader, as the hunt winds down
with some of the eggs unfound.

Little one squats on soft grass,
lays her bright-colored treasures in a line,
runs out of fingers to count them,
gives a satisfied sigh. Big Bunny scoops her
into his arms to give her the last egg
of the day and she unwraps the shiny paper, gives him
a chocolate smile.

And when the men look right through my skin
I'll just be glad for the shape I'm in

I dance a rumor
on the back of the davenport
feet swirl a kindlespire of flame
cello strumming
scarlet petals of anemone
anemone shrinking
in the tideâ€”turns spins
in the glass ball
of red rock scratching
the flame otter's name
resin drips
pine branch in my clutching grasp
I'm just listening
I say
through mouth-full
of scarlet accent
grazing the clock's breath banquet
Matches in motion
pirouette swarm
cat bones sharp
under velvet pelt
I wear black and tan
write about red
put scarlet, crimson, blood, sangria
sleek as a Jaguar convertible
racing through skimmer vapor
from zero to 137
Stalactites shiver
disappear through a kingdom
of firebrat minks
slinking toward their unruly queen
through flame flower blossoms
to nectar bumblebees crave
At snowgoose central
the wandering king
escapes to dream
of panthers obsidian
in moonlight, sleek in the sea
Chicory fills a woven basket
blooms of eye-blue
in the dangling grasp
of my loose fingers

Patricia Wellingham-Jones has been widely published in print and online journals and anthologies. She is a three-time Pushcart Prize nominee. Her website is www.wellinghamjones.com

by Inez Brinkley

“VoCab”

(“Your faith is growing phenomenally; your love for each other is developing wonderfully.” 2 Thessalonians 1:3b [The Message])

The vocabulary list body-surfed the breeze
while the children waved it away,
while the yard monitor chased it nearly
swept by the riptide into wordless oblivion.

Words could not express the sand-
Between-
The-
Toes.

Any mention of poetry was aired
past the seabreeze to worlds floating
beyond the waves.

There is no time for iambs with their
pentameters pinched upon their noses..

This is slap, crack, crash, slide underneath
the sonar of older frames and convention.

This is recess, this is high-pitch, this is underplayed,
this is over-the-top hopscotch of the purest kind.

Sterile letters upon a blue-lined page will not
jinx the girls at jacks or the boys at dodgeball.

This is living above-ground, where eyes-meet-eyes,
sometimes cry, but mostly grow until

Someone hunts the list back down.

Not missing the list a bit,

mark p.
lamppoet@gondtc.com

EMU-LATION

My mother would have wished a chic spring hat
with Emu feathers – stately flightless bird
of useless wings; plump earthbound acrobat
on long shapely legs built to dance. Absurd?
She was keen on millinery, I’ll warrant that.
While Mother, dead these 20 years, had never heard
of cultivating birds for Emu burgers, low in fat,
she thought a plumaged cap the very latest word
in style. She fashioned hats of satin, felt,
and crepe; with veils and roses; a Falstaff
swoosh of velvet, or a simple fragrant spill
of lavender; with Fox-fur or an Ermine pelt.
But not a single Emu feather. So, on her behalf,
belatedly I venture forth to find an Emu quill.

Another new poet to these pages, Ellaraine Lockie has also submitted some work to the podcast, so you can read and later hear her.