Poetry
• HUNKER DOWN - Hal
Bogotch
• I REMEMBER - C.V.
Beck
• THE THIEF ON THE WATER - Charles
C Purin
• Untitled - Hillary
Kaye
• The Words of the Poets - Jim
Smith
• To The Vanishing Bees - Sherman
Pearl
• EXSTACEY - John O’Kane
HUNKER
DOWN
By Hal
Bogotch
Hunker down
for a battle of wills
that tests the mettle of
men.
The red glare of rockets
neither romantic nor
bombastic,
blinds the sight of those
who swan-dive in
quagmire.
Go straight to Well in the midst of
Gaza.
Toss in noble pacemaker and
hope
for humble
hummus.
Satellite-guided mischief
rains on scalps of the unredressed.
Blessed are thy acolytes
who wear T-shirts emblazoned W W J
D,
call letters of an ancient sect
who follow the lamb with
slaughter.
Jerry will not fall well.
Zippy taboo and R. Crumb,
too.
War is not healthy for vegan
free-range bison
with fleas and weak
knees.
We cry when onion peelers weep no
more.
Hunker down.
Dig in.
Keep your powder
dry.
----------
I
REMEMBER
I remember your
hand
on my ass
and
it felt good
too...
Did I pull
away?
I didn't mean to
--
My left ass
and
your right hand
and
that long
arm--
got all tangled
up
but you got there
fast--
your reaction time is
fine--
considering-- all your
baggage--
Oh, yes, and mine,
too.
C.V.
Beck
----------
THE
THIEF ON THE WATER
By Charles C
Purin
eagerness to
hear
pervaded the
universe
the vision of
all
greatness became
soul
of all living
beings
it will become
something
take it easy get a beach
chair
go to the
ocean.
----------
By
Hillary Kaye
encased in storage bins the
bodies begin to rot
the world had worked its
magic once again
the skies were not broken up
with stars or moons
now a darkness invades
the earth.
what had worked and what would
work now
it had to be agreed was not the
same anymore.
a new plan needed to be thought
out
but the architects were out playing
golf
and the women were having their toes
polished
the smell of feet wafted in a
stagnant air
humanity had gone to
sleep
and the vision of the
future
was more than science fiction could
allow.
----------
The
Words of the Poets
by Jim
Smith
Is it the inspiration of a
sunset,
Is it the sound of the
surf,
Is it the smell of the
sea,
that brings
forth
The words of the
poets?
Venice born and refugee,
alike
they wander on the
shore
walking past Her without a
glance
searching in vain for
The words of a
poet.
Their ranks are
thinned
by drugs, suicide and
commerce
but some continue
scribbling,
muttering, writing for days and
years,
then, they meet The
Lady.
And who is this Lady of
Venice
whose name we do not
speak?
She of the sand, the surf and the
sea.
She who protects, and
torments
the words, and the
poets
Before Kinney, before
Machado,
before the Tongva
people
She walked upon this
land,
not a goddess, but a
muse,
waiting for Her
victims.
And when they
came,
She wrapped them
in a gentle
embrace
that brings the
fog
and clears the
mind.
“Just one little poem,
and I'll leave you alone,” She
lied.
Like loved-starved
puppies
they surrender and
receive
The Words of the
Poets
the words, the words, the
words...
----------
To
The Vanishing Bees
By Sherman
Pearl
On behalf of the human
race
I apologize, bees, for making you
dwindle,
drift off,
disappear.
We've stolen the sweets of your
labors,
stung you, swatted you, cursed you
and now,
understandably, you've abandoned
us,
retreated to hives that
drone
like places of mourning for the
extinct.
I'm sorry for hardly noticing
your absence
till now–on this
late-breakfast Sunday,
tasting this honey on
toast.
The garden droops with longing,
nothing's
buzzing my ears, nothing has
lit
on the tip of my glass to sample the
nectar.
I still hear echoes of
you
thrumming above the pink petals. I
picture you
dipping into the stamens,
waggling
with ecstasy. I see you buzz
off
to the bee-loud glade I heard in the
Yeats
of my youth, to the
flowerbed
where once on a
dare
I captured a bee in my hand and crushed
it.
And who'll spread the pollen
now,
who'll tend to the garden's
nourishment?
Look, my shirt is off, my body
receptive as a rose.
Come sting
me!
----------
EXSTACEY
rest in rage
a day like many others except the
fluttering spasms won’t wait until
dark forgets the tears in grains
of
grandeur mothering answers
that
bypass questions asked in the
froth
of forgiveness
“hi
mom……..……….…………”
crystalline
scratches massage heart
itches in the
uteroflo
convexing orbs of dilating
epiphany
strive for the suffix at the
precipice
repulsing the chrysalis of
immutable
suspension
“……………….i’m
here………..”
but
succumb to the lord’s mercy me
what
have you done what will i do for
my
baby’s
“………………...........i’ll…be…..”
tongue-tied
terror respirates a sibylline
lifemask
facing the table of gifts and
the
void
the space expands to panoptic
infinity
where Janis and Jimmy bear witness
from the etherine waste of perpetual
unforgiveness
--John
O’Kane
Posted: Wed - August 1, 2007 at 08:00 AM