Welcome to another special issue. I
had hoped to include an interview with Rachel Kann, but her work
schedule was such she couldn't return the questions. She is
interested in doing the interview, but she is an extremely busy
individual. So look for the interview in a future episode. On the
subject of interviews, I am in discussion with a musical group for an
interview. They are releasing a CD soon, so we're going to tie the
release with the interview. Also, on my Vox blog I received a
posting from a person who has a book coming out in the Fall of 2007,
perhaps she is another source for me to consider. It just keeps my
busy. So this explains the late date for this ezine. Well
these things do happen so we must take it all in stride. Right now
I'm working on my back porch, es the weather has finally warmed up.
My plans after today is to give the ground just a few more days to
dry and then I'll work in the garden. I think I shall plant more
Sunflowers this year along the back fence. Sunflowers are always a
delight to watch grow.
So hello everyone and
welcome to issue 96.
Michael Johnson sends us these poems
Jesus Knelt in Grief Over the Death of Children
Breaking out of silence,
Jesus
knelt to his knees
in
moist desert sand
&
wrote messages
with
his fingertips
to
children-
“water
is water, toys are toys,
but
by my fingers burn with life,
though
I toil over tombs with grief & tears-
I
am the living & I am the dead-
I
was born to life to bring
new
hope into the death of children.
I
am the messenger of the morning sun
the
prayer book between the morning dew,
&
the play fields of your daily adventures.
When
I kneel here again, the end will be the end
to
all-fire willed into my words-
driftwood
& sand turn to stone-
drag
my fingers across hot sand once more-
&
morning coming without a daybreak.
Birds
no longer sing, & crickets lose their songs.”
Rainbow in April
April again,
the
wind
falls in love
with itself
skipping
across asphalt
and
concrete bare
with
the breaking weather.
A
rainbow
Is half
arched,
broken off
deep
into the
aorta
of the sky.
It
hangs
from
elastic
rubber
bands
of mixed
colors
dipped in
God’s
inkwell,
airbrushed
by
the fingertips
of
Michelangelo.
April
again,
the wind
steps high.
From Toronto To Ottawa
She comes,
and
she goes,
unnoticed.
She
walks,
and she
talks,
to no
one.
Her night
is
the long city
street
sheltered &
protected by neon.
She
amuses
& she
entertains,
swaying
her slender body,
…but
no one offers,
&
she shouts outfor no reward.
Mr.
Michael Lee Johnson lives in Chicago, IL. after spending 10 years in
Edmonton, Alberta Canada during the Viet Nam era. He is a freelance
writer and poet. He is heavy influenced by Carl Sandburg, Robert
Frost, & William Carlos Williams, Leonard Cohen. He is a member
of Poets & Writers, Inc; Directory of American Poets &
Fictions Writers: http://www.pw.org/directory/.
5 Top Things Mr. Johnson likes in his life:
1) His interests in the study of spirituality, religions.
2) Nikki, his beloved kitten.
3) His fire deep in his belly for universal health care in the United States so everyone has access to care, not just the rich or extreme poor.
4) His drive to find a way to survive old age in poverty.
5) His need to leave a legacy behind for others, no matter how humble or small the contribution.
He is presently self-employed, with a previous background in social service areas. He has a B.A. degree in sociology, worked on a Masters Program in Correctional Administration, started a pre-Phd program & quit. He took a creative writing course in university on a pass/fail basis-he failed. A sample of published poems can be found at:
The Orange Room Review
website: http://www.freewebs.com/theorangeroomreview/;
The
Flask Review: http://www.freewebs.com/theflaskreview
Apollo's
Lyre: http://www.apollos-lyre.com/
The
Foliate Oak Online Literary
Magazine: http://www.foliateoak.uamont.edu
Ken*Again: http://kenagain.freeservers.com
Michael Lee Johnson
Itasca,
Illinois
60143-1542
E-mail: poetry
man@walla.com
From J. Williams
comes this selection of poems.
Taylor Graham sent
this opening note and poems:
Thanks for the new issue -- 95,
wow! Here are some poems for next time, if you can use them.
I've
been researching a distant relation, Elihu Burritt (1810-1879), the
Learned Blacksmith, who taught himself about 50 languages and was an
advocate for world peace, among other causes. Two of these poems are
about him.
Happy
spring,
FLUENCY
One
unbroken, unabated stream it was of profound and lofty and original
eloquence.
-Nathaniel P.
Rogers, on hearing Elihu Burritt speak in Boston
It’s
hard enough, Elihu, to teach yourself
to read another language.
Harder still
to put your own words on paper. It must
take
genius to write movingly
in a foreign tongue.
But how
ticklish, without language-labs
or tutors, to speak
the lofty
words out loud, to master
accent and emphasis; inflection
and
the affective pauses.
Elihu,
I confess, even with quick-
and-easy travel tapes, I can’t
form
my mouth around the word for “no”
in Greek. My Spanish will
not
romantically roll its “rr”s.
In Paris, you gave
your script up
to a Frenchman, believing your correct
grammar,
in his fluent mouth, might
fire the world to your passion
for
peace.
THE BARN-CHAPEL ON THE HILL
...[the
services] were unsectarian, so simple that the poor need not feel the
burden of ‘dressing up for Sunday’
-Ellen
Strong Bartlett
We’re looking for a President
again,
Elihu. It’s got to be somebody
who appeals to the
religious right
with all its family values, but doesn’t
threaten stem cell research, a woman’s
right to choose, or
the freedom
of all to worship as they wish.
Remember your
Barn-Chapel, Elihu,
that rough-built farmer’s place
of
prayer? Is it still open to everyone
who rises early, sketching
lines
through dew on grass, townsfolk
who left their
denominational hats
at home to file across the
meadow?
Christians all – Congregational,
Episcopal, or
Baptist. But within your
walls, they had no names for sect.
Are
your doors still open on the hill,
and perhaps to Muslim,
Buddhist,
Jew as well, to anyone who comes
in peace, hope,
and praise?
John Meany sends these three works. He is a new to this ezine poet.
Glamour From The Other Side Of The Fence
There
ears never seem to hear my mind’s well-read intellect;
my
knowledge of world issues,
or just my daily perceptions pertaining
to ordinary life in general.
No.
They are far too preoccupied
with my blond, boyish good looks.
I expose this insight to make
clear that this sort of thing doesn’t only happen to women.
Men
of glamour are also often viewed as mere sex objects.
Fog Banks Gloom
When
the decade old graves were dug up,
as ordered by the high badge at
Scotland Yard,
each creaking coffin was discovered empty.
Nothing
remained of the grisly murder victims.
Not even their decaying
bones. Or lingering hair follicles.
Theory has it,
demon
wolves, unseen creatures that wander the graveyard night,
had
devoured all remaining fragments,
where dead voices still
sometimes whisper in fog banks gloom.
Time
Rule
The human race is in a hurry to go nowhere.
Tick!
Tock!
Tick!
We’ve been this way since the dawn of
creation.
Look at the guy who’s not in a rush,
yet feels the
need to drive well over the designated speed limit.
Or think of
the impatient loners at the store,
who pressure the cashier into
swiftly moving the line along,
as though if they don’t make
there transaction in two minutes flat,
the building might
mysteriously catch fire.
Yes.
There can be no denying the human
race is a mortal slave to time.
I hope you enjoyed the recent interview with Dr. Charles Frederickson. He is a fascinating individual and it is always a pleasure to include his work. He writes this note:
Celebrating Songkran, the Thai New Year – 2550, auspicious best wishes for health, wealth, prosperity,
continued success and heartfelt Thaidings of Joy! RED BAMBOO Dense hard-walled thickets skyward bent Steadfast upright soldiers at attention Resolutely erect vertebrate spinal taproot Hollow tubular echo bleeding green Plotting coordinates parallel lines merge Kindred soul mates clumped together Reedy woodwinds shrill high-pitched flutes Breezy swayback resounding moonlight serenade Exposed naked truths laid bare Stalking lonely ghosts play hide-and-seek Edible segmented worms timid creatures Peekaboo offshoots night crawler striptease Cylindrical ringed joints culm flexed Clenched fist brass knuckling underground Entire grove singular tunnel plant Antsy burrowers dig express subway Towering fronds holding up firmament Interwoven fringe casting shadowy webs Atlantean columns shrug shoulder blades Droopy nature terminal blossoms wilt Elusive talc flowers flaccid cheeks Six anthers fraying threadbare nap Seedy pollination sowing butterfly dismay Ephemeral fleetly existence spiritual regeneration
FIELD HANDS Endless uprooted sterile fields unfurl Soiled earth tillage licked clean Cast-iron calibrated sundial ticked off Secondhand sere minutes turned to Lingering hours stunted leftover spoils Meager cornucopian bounty dumped out Fearsome crude ragged stick figure Petrified scarecrow nailed to stake Shadowy posed crucifix holding still Scratching chelae grasping pincers snapshot Harrowing straw boss stuffed cavities Murder of ravens strangely missing Limp pointless fingertips clawing thorns Moonlit lunar scythe dusky silhouette Fenced barbs razor strand twists Rust sowing corrosion piercing silence Rats scurrying across clumpy trenches Gathered grim harvest reapers homebound Hunched shoulder tattoos stooped over Unaccustomed muscle strains craving relief Furrowed sweaty brow dripping relief Bloodstained clay clogging shower drain Ingrained routine clinging to tradition Longing chap touch-and-go beyond horizon
HILL TRIBES^^^^^^^^^^^^^ What always was isn’t anymore Untold stories hand-me-down traditions waylaid Virgin spring trickle-down bamboo viaduct Steamy teakettle puffs spouting change Besieged lowlands lost nevermore found Innermost feelings defiled by outsiders Betrayed innocence seeks hilltop refuge Humble upstarts above timberline bounds Supernatural beings govern every realm Wild mountain valley spirits tamed Possessed cave ghosts shaman exorcised Sacred circle dance celebrating joy No fences only ceremonial bridges Build for magical soul-searching rituals Sagging horizon lazy hammock views Eventually everything disappears including us Nothing remains hidden behind masks Groovy slits baiting nebulous void Desperate human essence leaking out Groundless soiled apparitions staking claim Raw opium oozes from scored Pods up in smoke addiction Cash crops tobacco coffee sesame Replacing poppies chili peppers sun-dried Wheel of fortune pointlessly aswirl Roundabout spellbound compass lacking direction Stuck needle in limbo trance Crossing over into borderless beyond Shivering forest thick with refuse Full moon hollow trunk echoes Uprooted stumps bark stripped clean What never was still isn’t
I read your Letters
Yes
I do a number of letters about the ezine, and so let me share a few
of them with you.
Even
though I was not represented in this issue (busy with some other
commitments) I enjoyed reading your interview with Dr. Fredrickson
and the poetry.
While
I have had poems and prose published in many other magazines and
on-line, I have a spec ial feeling for "above the ground
testing". mainly because it is so personal.
I
think it is you whot has made this on-line publication such an
excellent one.
Si
You are truly amazing - full of positive energy, verve and pizazz! I love the article and send you the bestest best heartfelt thoughts and wishes for continued success and prosperity! Cheers! Charles You have a letter you would like read? Just send it to abovegroundtesting@yahoo.com
Other News
Alright. Here's the news, I'm resurrection avantgardetimes,
my ezine of poetry, prose and short stories that go beyond the
conventional. It's always been my hope to start it again and
since I've increased my angelfire account, I've got more space. What
does this mean to you? It means another journal of creativity
by which you can experiment. It is the place for the
conventional and the dangerous. The theme of that ezine is
poetry can be dangerous
and it can. It can upset those who prefer all things nice and
pleasant. We know that's not true so you now have a place to
exercise your freedom. If you want to contribute, send your writing to avantgardetimes@gmail.com
I don't know when the
first issue will be released, I suppose when I have enough
contributions. The former ezine of the same name was quarterly,
if I can, I can, perhaps it will be occassional until I can build up
a presence on the web. I hope you will consider this venture
as the place for you to experiment. When you go to the
homepage, there's a link to the past and you can read some issues to
gain an understanding of the flavour of the ezine. Yes
abovegroundtesting
continuing to move forward into
the future.
There are some changes. I've changed my hosting company so there will be a time before abovegroundtewting.com gets transferred over. I've decided to upgrade my angelfire.com account. It's just more comfortable for me.
The address to reach me is abovegroundtesting@yahoo.com
This is issue 96. April 2007. All works are
copyright by the various authors. Always respect their rights.
Enjoy reading them and share your love of poetry with others.
