A Most Familiar Thing

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You see it everywhere,
this detached oddfellow
rolled up in gutters
leaning on lamp posts
dust covered and weed riven,
in every town from Marseilles to Berlin
along the Mississippi,
washed up by the Seine
this scatterling castaway
not able to hold on
skidding off into oblivion

Unfastened Flying Objects
that can’t find their cars
from the top of Mt. Everest
to the parking lots of Mars-
plastic moon hubcap
cheap modern design
ubiquitous fake chrome fixture
an alien creature
from the planet Audi, Ford or Fiat-
a testament to the fact
that man cannot permanently
fix anything.

D.E.Stevens
https://stevenspost.wordpress.com

My Silent Occupations

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although the nearest neighbours
are a mile away, I tell myself
these silent occupations
are designed to not wake them.
What is there to do at 5 am?

I scan the room, decide to proceed
with a needed floral funeral
to remove the now-colourless
and wizened jonquils that once
were inserted precisely
to add colour to philodendron cuttings
set in water to grow roots.

The viscous brown stems
now in the shadow of a cannister
are living worms, seemingly mobile,
soft and ready to wiggle
on the kitchen counter.

I shudder at the ghoulishness
of an autopsy turned vivisection
but manage to distract myself
with the amusing paradox
that plants must be sunk in the ground –
buried – that they may live.

c.m.anderson
http://allpoetry-classic.com/catimini

still life in prose and on pastel board

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you stand against
an open window

i can barely discern
the outline of your body

merged with light
it becomes light itself

powdery and fragrant
like talc

the foreground
is a vase of tulips

a lavender-blue
light strikes

and disperses
from their stalks

still life with woman

who writes poems
and buys herself
flowers

she likes the
calm proportions

what stirs inside
their closed tulip hearts

Seema Chopra

Quotes floating on the editor’s desk. No. 1

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“All of that art-for-art’s-sake stuff is BS. What are these people talking about? Are you really telling me that Shakespeare and Aeschylus weren’t writing about kings? All good art is political! There is none that isn’t. And the ones that try hard not to be political are political by saying, ‘We love the status quo.’ We’ve just dirtied the word ‘politics,’ made it sound like it’s unpatriotic or something.

“That all started in the period of state art, when you had the communists and fascists running around doing this poster stuff, and the reaction was ‘No, no, no; there’s only aesthetics.’ My point is that it has to be both: beautiful and political at the same time. I’m not interested in art that is not in the world. And it’s not just the narrative, it’s not just the story; it’s the language and the structure and what’s going on behind it. Anybody can make up a story.”

― Toni Morrison

Farewell Spit

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the longest spit
of sand is called
Farewell
it comes and goes
as moon dictates

its sickle talon
snatches shallow fish
and beckons whales
to beach
while overhead relentless
sun and swirling gulls

local folk arrive
with buckets
and wet sheets
cold nights are spent
with new, warm-blooded friends

but when dry sand prevails
then others come
with knives
the bones belong to them
they shout

but whisper as they carve
to keep away
the toxic fear
that haunts this golden bay

Maggie Z Brown
https://allpoetry.com/Margrit

Over 300 pilot whales were recently stranded and died on this sand spit in Golden bay, NZ. Whale strandings here are not uncommon and have been happening for generations, but the actual cause remains a mystery.

A BOUGH IN SIX DIMENSIONS

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I
Perched, its shadow
bleeds the bough,
spring is rising sap
and blackbirds waiting.

II
On the highest bough
a caterpillar contemplates
the possibility
to butterfly.

III
Bless the tender twigs
clinging to the bough
who tend to dewdrops
before they fall

IV
The circumference of the bough
is larger than
a soldier’s arm.

V
Can boughs dream of
being carriers
of eagles’ nests?

VI
Poetry is born from
timber, boughs and pulp;
paper ink and muse;
it’s wood and blood.

Björn Rudberg
https://brudberg.me/category/poetry

ON HIS DAUGHTER’S COMING BIRTH

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She’ll be here – yet ambivalence
is the moonlight on my bedroom floor,
moonlight whose heart is turbulence
reaching my windows and door…
I feel she’ll see joy walking on her floor,
joy maybe carrying her all over earth,
yet dangerous is the human birth.
Shall I, as millions of parents do,
feed her the “light” as spread by mine,
later pour for her what I take to be wine,
feeding and pouring my confusion too?
She’ll be here – yet I can’t avert what’s true,
that while I’ve grown, I’m far from wise,
that confusion still stirs behind confident eyes.
Respectability means nothing in wisdom’s eyes
nor does financial independence.
She’ll be here – this child received
in joy, celebration – ambivalence.
I can prod her into doing well in school,
but what is highest, subtlest is not taught there,
perhaps can’t be taught and is rare.
She may leave it an educated fool,
no wiser at all in dealing with loss,
in dealing creatively with disease and dying.
I’ve dealt with them somewhat, unborn still.
Yet I’ll be cradling her in my arms soon,
one still confused, with limited skill,
one with his demons and cocoon.
She’ll be educated, she’ll – I hope –
immerse herself in knowledge
widening her intellectual scope,
find a caring lover, make it on her own.
Yet the thought of freedom snowcaps my thought:
I want her, I need her to be free
as my mind and heart still are not…

Yacov Mitchenko
https://yacovmitchenko999.wordpress.com

Tea Party In Wonderland

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Alice presides:
agrees to be mother,
although she’s as mad
as a snake on crack,
she clatters the cups,
cups her breasts
offering sugar;

slaps down the paws
that clamour for more,
Strings of her pinafore
stretched to breaking.
Wishes she hadn’t accepted
the invitation that led
to the hood where trouble
resided;

where even the ones that were fed
are still wanting.
Read us our fortunes,
they beg.

Alice, who never learned
to say no
empties the pot
and pours over the leaves.
The March wind sweeps in.

Maggie Z Brown
https://allpoetry.com/Margrit

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