(this didn't go through a workshop, I'd love your critique!)
VIEW OF A BEHOLDER
as if a pair of chapped lips kissed creases
of steel in the folds of blue your lashes shade.
In the depths of your eyes I see the ocean,
clear, bottomless, pure, fringed with the sun's
dazzling reflection as your smile gently
reshapes the waters within. The power
of your eyes unnerve my shoes they shake me
so much. It's almost as if I've tripped on
my stomach simply because the steady
coolness of your eyes, so confident and
knowing, touched mine, a protected green, a
forest hidden. In that second I see
a future full of friendship and laughter
and love (?) resonate... and yet I look away.
I always look away.
~Jomi
2/23/06
2/19/06
Family
One day I stood outside the orphanage
in doubt, like the day before, and before
that. Twenty-two and unmarried, I saw
a girl, frantic on the phone with her mom;
a child, sobbing and scolded by dad for
losing his little red balloon; and an
older brother who wouldn't wait for his
younger brother. Then, I saw a girl, red-
ribboned, cheery, and lovely, skipping home.
She stopped next to me, like a lady-bug
on my hand, and said, "This was my sister's
home," and galloped off, reinless. I opened
the door and met the manager, Mother
Chelsea, with a child, shy, holding her arm.
- Bob Richardson
in doubt, like the day before, and before
that. Twenty-two and unmarried, I saw
a girl, frantic on the phone with her mom;
a child, sobbing and scolded by dad for
losing his little red balloon; and an
older brother who wouldn't wait for his
younger brother. Then, I saw a girl, red-
ribboned, cheery, and lovely, skipping home.
She stopped next to me, like a lady-bug
on my hand, and said, "This was my sister's
home," and galloped off, reinless. I opened
the door and met the manager, Mother
Chelsea, with a child, shy, holding her arm.
- Bob Richardson
2/17/06
All For One
ALL FOR ONE
Leaves dance
in the alley, like marbles
dropped
in a deep glass jar,
both tornadoes of
purposed chaos.
Above, their brothers
twitter appreciatively
applauding from their branch
the dexterity
shown below,
though fettered
and clamped,
the muskateers
judge not.
Surge up,
up until Aeolus
directs his attention to
some other world's
corner,
the leaves
gently rock
back to the earth
as hypnotically as
rested gulls
ride
the wave.
(I'd love to hear your thoughts!)
Leaves dance
in the alley, like marbles
dropped
in a deep glass jar,
both tornadoes of
purposed chaos.
Above, their brothers
twitter appreciatively
applauding from their branch
the dexterity
shown below,
though fettered
and clamped,
the muskateers
judge not.
Surge up,
up until Aeolus
directs his attention to
some other world's
corner,
the leaves
gently rock
back to the earth
as hypnotically as
rested gulls
ride
the wave.
(I'd love to hear your thoughts!)
2/16/06
Happy Birthday
Poet Emily Dickinson was born 175 years ago this month in Amherst, Massachusetts. ''G'' -- for girl -- was the scant description that the town doctor noted in his record book. "Writing in the preface to Dickinson's first edition of poems published four years after her death, Thomas Wentworth Higginson noted the primeval power of the work. ''These verses will seem to the reader like poetry torn up by the roots, with rain and dew and earth still clinging to them.'" miamiherald.com (Tue, Dec. 13, 2005)
2/5/06
Bless Him
Down the dusty, cavernous hallway,
I saw a man, whose youthful visage
contorted in such a way, that my own
face emulated his life-knowing
anguish.
His face melted, as if Salvador Dali had
painted it. An arch below his nose,
whiskers glistened with the gush of
salty, green goo.
Red buttons to the sides
burst forward, like crackling embers,
thicker with the tug of the arch.
What could it be
that has caused this
misery?
His eyes welled up with tears and
one trickled down his cheek,
as if it were the last shattered fragment
from a broken, star-stained sky.
His face rose to the shards
split asunder from the heavens,
flailing and wailing silently,
despondently.
Needing a mother to cradle him in her arms, surely
dejected by and rejected from
society. His sorrow cleaved my heart in two.
I wanted to talk to him, to plead with him,
"Please, sir, what could possibly torture your poor
soul so?" But then, as the paramedic words
mended my heart...
He sneezed.
- Bob
I saw a man, whose youthful visage
contorted in such a way, that my own
face emulated his life-knowing
anguish.
His face melted, as if Salvador Dali had
painted it. An arch below his nose,
whiskers glistened with the gush of
salty, green goo.
Red buttons to the sides
burst forward, like crackling embers,
thicker with the tug of the arch.
What could it be
that has caused this
misery?
His eyes welled up with tears and
one trickled down his cheek,
as if it were the last shattered fragment
from a broken, star-stained sky.
His face rose to the shards
split asunder from the heavens,
flailing and wailing silently,
despondently.
Needing a mother to cradle him in her arms, surely
dejected by and rejected from
society. His sorrow cleaved my heart in two.
I wanted to talk to him, to plead with him,
"Please, sir, what could possibly torture your poor
soul so?" But then, as the paramedic words
mended my heart...
He sneezed.
- Bob
Tomes
They stand in hushed rows at attention,
spines straight, keeping their leaves tucked tight
between covers—some bruised, some wounded
here, an amputated afterword, there, a new recruit
smelling of paper, ink, and binding. Most were drafted
by an author who has long since set aside his quill,
extinguished his candle, and slept without waking.
Many have not seen action for years, for decades.
All around, the library is filled with a quiet warfare
of silent knowledge held fast
against the darkness of an empty carrel,
uncaring world. Each soldier guards the voices
of the dead, and in their purple hearts
beats the ancient rhythm of poets and sages past.
-Elizabeth
spines straight, keeping their leaves tucked tight
between covers—some bruised, some wounded
here, an amputated afterword, there, a new recruit
smelling of paper, ink, and binding. Most were drafted
by an author who has long since set aside his quill,
extinguished his candle, and slept without waking.
Many have not seen action for years, for decades.
All around, the library is filled with a quiet warfare
of silent knowledge held fast
against the darkness of an empty carrel,
uncaring world. Each soldier guards the voices
of the dead, and in their purple hearts
beats the ancient rhythm of poets and sages past.
-Elizabeth
Erasing
Coal-black board,
a vast expanse of midnight sky,
once dotted by fragmented constellations
of scholar’s sutras—jeweled teachings marked
in brilliant, powder-white.
Smoke now smudged
in long, arced streaks across the dark.
Chalk fades and moves in embolden borders
from top to bottom in thick eraser tracks.
It’s as if God had taken his hand,
broad and perfectly angled,
and it pressed firmly against the depths of night
to wipe all tiny, diamond suns from view
and leave us with his prints of cloudy grey.
Neither dark nor light would exist:
only the murky moments of pre-dawn
on a sunless, foggy day.
--Alison T. davis
a vast expanse of midnight sky,
once dotted by fragmented constellations
of scholar’s sutras—jeweled teachings marked
in brilliant, powder-white.
Smoke now smudged
in long, arced streaks across the dark.
Chalk fades and moves in embolden borders
from top to bottom in thick eraser tracks.
It’s as if God had taken his hand,
broad and perfectly angled,
and it pressed firmly against the depths of night
to wipe all tiny, diamond suns from view
and leave us with his prints of cloudy grey.
Neither dark nor light would exist:
only the murky moments of pre-dawn
on a sunless, foggy day.
--Alison T. davis
National Undergraduate Literary Journals
DELOS National Undergraduate Literary Magazine
Accepts poetry, short fiction, longer fiction, excerpts from novels, plays, & screenplays, essays of creative nonfiction, literary criticism, and photography. Electronic submissions encouraged. Submission deadline for July 2005 issue EXTENDED: 15 April 2005
THE ALLEGHENY REVIEW a national journal of undergraduate literature -- "One of America's few nationwide literary magazines dedicated exclsuively to undergraduate works of poetry, fiction, creative nonfiction, and art. Published annually, the periodical showcases some of the best literature the nation's undergraduates have to offer."
FURROW is an excellent magazine that accepts submissions from undergraduates nationwide. Published locally by the students at the University of Wisconsin--Milwaukee. For submission guidelines write to: Furrow-UWM, Union Box 194, University of Wisconsin-Milwaukeepo, Box 413, Milwaukee, Wi 53201, or email furrow@csd.uwm.edu.
WHITEWATER REVIEW: An Undergraduate (Electronic) Journal -- "this e-zine is a place where undergraduates and graduate students from any higher educational institution in the world can have the opportunity to publish their work in a friendly, competitive place."
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)
