Poetry


• Cool, evening sea - John Davis
• After we talked - Hillary Kaye
• Lasso your Love - Vessy Mink
• Zorba etc - Pano Douvos
• Changing Seasons - Miranda
• Venice, California - Bill Fleeman
• Impressionism - Ivan Smason
Almost Indigenous - Sheila Bernard


Cool, evening sea mist touch my face,
Sun of the beach warm my bones,
Loving people of Venice strengthen my heart,
and help protect our home.
–John Davis

************

After we talked
about freedom
and dreams
everyone left
to go make a living.

– Hillary Kaye

***********

Lasso your Love

By Vessy Mink - www.vessy.com

One life
Yours for the molding.
Water forming, foaming dirty beaches.
Lately running from one place to another.
Calling out for Silence and soft touch.
The people, the people.
Their hungry belly's swollen.
Who is responsible for your actions?
Venice, California... community of progressives.
A day in the dream of a better tomorrow.
Wanting the children not to be forsaken.
Their resilience has a "best if used by " expiration.
The U.S.A. leading the world with the most hungry...
Hungry for Art and JUSTICE... not justification for the
Cuts in funding a more colorful tomorrow.

***********

Zorba etc

By Pano Douvos

The worlds oldest 20 year old is interrupted
State phones offering in-home-support service
he needs no stinking service

All’s under control forget one blurred eye-ball
content in studio apartment over-looking main street
the Venice boardwalk his back-porch
the beach and broad Pacific his back yard

friend of sun-bathers seagulls and street-people
a competent voyeur our struggling artist diversifies
writes poetry swimming-with-dolphins stuff

a helpful earth-bound friend suggests a will
could be timely
but the young oldster says no to nay-sayers
leaps a mighty ocean-shattering leap
knows life is a grand feast to savor

for so spake Zorba
and Kazantzakis
etc

***********

Changing Seasons

By Miranda

Your weather-beaten body of past toil and sweat reflects in your face.
Memories within me of changing seasons and how you changed with them.
Picking the land for harvest, the smell of earth on you, fall, winter, spring and summer.

Your listless bed-ridden body lying now against sterile, white hospitals sheets.
The seasons come and go.
But I can no longer smell the earth on you or see the fall, winter, spring or summer.

Dedicated to my father, Guillermo Miranda: Jan. 11, 1090 - Oct. 20, 1979

************

Venice, California

By Bill Fleeman
 
like paris,
a woman.
not elegant.
far from elegant.
faded old dress
run-down shoes.
without makeup
so beautiful
strollin along the
promenade, wind
in her hair in the
early morning
light.

************

Impressionism

By Ivan Smason

Take a few steps back with me
The picture becomes clearer
Eduoard Manet and Claude Monet were both Impressionist painters
Manet and Monet
Manet and Monet

They got hip to what Jean Baptiste Camille Corot and
Gustave Courbet were painting
Corot and Courbet
Corot and Courbet

They loved to paint in the great outdoors
Painting their impressions of the
sunlight’s effects on landscapes and panoramas
Manet and Monet got it from Corot and Courbet
Manet, Monet, Corot, Courbet

Take a few steps back with me
The picture becomes clearer
Manet and Monet were different
Manet had more stylistic range
Monet was the ultimate Impressionist

Claude Monet, Edourard Manet
Manet impressed Monet
Monet impressed Manet
Corot and Courbet impressed Manet and Monet
Manet and Monet impressed Corot and Courbet
Take a few steps back with me
The picture becomes much clearer

************

Almost Indigenous

By Sheila Bernard

I came to a place. I lived there. I loved the place.
I did what I had to do, to stay.
I had to pay rent. I paid it.
I had to keep my music down. I kept it down.

One day, they said I had to leave.
I asked, “Why? What did I do?”
“You did nothing,” they said.
“You are a good person,” they said.
I said, “Then why do I have to leave?”

They said, “Because another can pay more
Than you are paying,” they said.

So I said, “Do you need me to pay more?
I can pay more,” I said.
“No, you don’t understand,” they said.
“Not just more, but much more,” they said.

So I asked, “How much more?
What do you need from me?”

“More than you have,” they said.
“Much more.”

They said I had to go.
But I could come back later
If I had enough to pay them.
I knew I would never have enough.

I had two choices,
To go, or to stay.
“If I leave this place,
Will I find peace in a new place?
Or will I have to leave that place too?”
I asked myself.

“If I have to fight for a place,”
I said to myself,
“Let me fight here.
This is my home.”

So I stayed and fought.
Months became years.
Years became decades.
Still I fight.
My children grow.
My hair becomes gray.
Still I stay.
It’s a good fight.
It’s a good life.

Posted: Sun - June 1, 2003 at 02:43 PM          

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