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~~~~~~~~~~~~ (the poetry) WORM ~~~~~~~~~~~~
34
Welcome to WORM 34. We hope you enjoy this juicy
selection of poems.
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All the poems I receive are forwarded
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is made on our combined
scores.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Passing Time
You were warmer then, when suns were younger, small
enough to fit between the bales and hide,
both snug against the straw and the dinner call
seemed far away; old mister sun always lied
as he fell, singing, slowly singing,'Tomorrow,
tomorrow, always tomorrow', and off you took
from shades of fields to cornflower-coming sorrow
glinting in the eye of the fence-post rook.
You were warmer then, when Elsie said goodnight,
for the cold has found its way inside since then;
when you catch the scent of roses at last light;
when you remember fields and the straw-filled den
—but we are all in there, inside, and warm:
as warm as if the time itself were form.
© Nigel Holt
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Love in a Time of Pragmatism
The touch of your hand always cools my
fever.
I recall our tryst in the Egyptian museum, my
scotch,
your gibson—an onion bobbed in your
glass.
Perhaps they watched us even then,
plotting?
Beware the sapphire eye of Osiris, the
transit
of Venus behind the Moon. Some gods hate
joy!
I sealed our plans in the papyrus
portfolio.
I will wait in the olive grove for you,
love.
Wear your lilac veil, your pink
sneakers;
if a green light winks from the fortune
teller's
in the hollow, all will bode well: an
omen
to set beside the scarab, the dead cat.
© Christopher T. George
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
My Mother's Parents
I come from stock, who, like swans, mate for life.
Grandpa Levine, while gazing at the plain
and broad-hipped girl who soon became his wife,
declared, "She is a goddess!" Was she vain?
Perhaps. Not with the narcissist's conceit,
but just from knowing that she was adored.
Between them burned refulgent light, and heat:
a glance, a brush of hands, and passion soared.
When he, still broad of shoulder, slim of flank,
saw her Hebraic nose and thickened waist,
he took the time to praise his God and thank
Him for a love that presaged Heaven's taste.
I now can see, while watching "Lac des Cygnes,"
the pas de deux of Sam and Bess Levine.
© Mitchell Geller
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
World in
Hand
('Kifa, nabki, min zikra habibin oua manzili, 'ala sikkat al'liqua"
:
My
friends, let's stop here and weep, in remembrance of my beloved,
on
her traces, here at the edge of the dune.' -- 'Imru Al
Qays)
Majnun sifts the dunes that cross his
hand
to seek his love within their
caravans;
for Leyli lies within one grain of
sand.
Amidst the arcing scorpion's
ampersand
and death in desiccating
finger-spans,
Majnun sifts the dunes that cross his
hand.
Her light has passed beyond this
hinterland
of night; of worthless jewels; of cold
divans,
for Leyli lies within one grain of
sand:
her world, the footfalls of a
saraband,
circling dust-bowl, sand-bound
Calibans.
Majnun sifts the dunes that cross his
hand;
his tears of loss mere pearls from
Samarkand;
his memories, soft Honan
courtesans,
for Leyli lies within a grain of
sand.
Yet still he seeks, in vain, to
reprimand
himself for lifting the veil: still he
plans;
Majnun sifts the dunes that cross his hand
for Leyli lies within a grain of
sand.
© Nigel Holt
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Attention
(for Arthur
Miller)
When I turn over stones I see the
world
of a disclosed and fetid
underground
—a rude reality—another kind
of living room. Decay and damp, the
wild
that calls to those that live there in the
mould
unites them creeping, cold and pallid,
lends
the wet and ghostly sheen of something
spawned
and not yet quickened, like a life
withheld.
But they do live. Attention must be
paid
to life. Our own criteria of
air
and light are only felt by stirring
motion
of more solid things or shown inside
a frame of shadow, or the dark
fear
in guts and marrowbones. Turn over stones.
© Peter Stewart
Richards
(Attention: : Editor's Choice of
KAThomas, ' I chose Attention as my favorite poem because
of the tension the poet creates through language & structure. He
explicates Miller’s aesthetic seamlessly in this sonnet..')
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Puritan
Fear
("Musical experts who want you to stop liking what you like,
literary experts
who want you to stop reading that trash you grew up on, speech experts who
want my neighbors out here in East Jesus to talk, not just distinctly, but like
New England professionals, and so on...fuck 'em all. I have even met fishing
experts who frown on cane poles and nightcrawlers. Fuck them, big
time..."
--Paul
Sampson)
Isn't this misapplied
venom
an example of what it
derides,
a
silk-wearing ass dressed in
denim
with holes in the pockets,
besides?
An expert on experts, he's
ranting
on clean hands who's covered in
dirt—
it looks like the cant he's
decanting
is impertinent if it's
expert.
It's Puritan fever we're
seeing:
a cave-dweller blinks in the
sun;
he fears that at sex, golf, or
skiing,
the experts are having more fun.
© Marcus Bales
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
My Son the
Critic
Read me a bedtime poem, said my
son.
So I read him
this:
We say
hippopotami
but not
rhinoceri-
a
strange
dichotomy
in nature's
glossary.
But we do say rhinoceri, he said. Look it
up.
So I read him
this:
Life is
unfair
for most of us,
therefore
let's have a
fanfare
for those that it's fair
for.
I smell a slant rhyme, he said,
sniffing.
So I read him
this:
While trying to
grapple
with gravity,
Newton
was helped by an
apple
he didn't compute on.
My teacher says that's not poetry, he
said.
So I read him
this:
René Descartes, he
thought
and therefore knew he
was.
and since he was, he
sought
to make us think. He
does.
That made me think, he said. But not
feel.
So I read him
this:
My hair has a wonderful
sheen.
My toenails, clipped, have
regality.
It's just all those things in
between
that give me a sense of
mortality.
Did the earth move? I asked.
Anything?
Nothing moved. He was
asleep.
© Edmund Conti
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Danelectro
Not for you the cheap or the obvious
-
the black and white Telecaster from South
Korea,
or a Gibson copy with amp and
fakebook.
Not even the red sunburst
Jaguar,
complete with whammy bar. Instead, you hurry
me
at a hundred words a minute to the Academy of
Sound,
and stand spellbound, while I
worry
about looking too lost on this side of
town.
And it has nothing to do with action,
harmonics
or tone. Everything is glamour, from the twin
humbuckers
to the star-shot coral
finish.
Leaving, backs bent by case, bags and
boxes,
you're already playing your first
tune.
As it happens, the same old
song.
A silent hymn that this time, where dreams
lead,
fingers and thumbs will play along.
© Matt Merritt
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Another fine
edition
1
The elevator walls herself in mirrors. Floor to
ceiling.
Her
doors open on you, entering you, approaching you,
flanking you, & close. You see beyond the first rank
over your shoulders, the back of many
heads,
a castle, checkmate infinitum, uncountable variations,
pushing all the buttons, all rising together, realizing
this is how she sees you, seeing you. Inside her.
An impossible multiplicity of you inside
her.
2
The doors stay pressed together, two
doors,
two
hands clasped together like a charm bracelet
around the wrist of the one you love, the whole room
rearing up on its gears, her way of carrying your memory
into the next century, from one to ten, up
to
the next level, from vehicle to tenor, as in metaphoric
ascendancy; & you either play chess with all the mirrors
intact, on an upwardly mobile tilt, or you don't.
3
She opens again, but this time, when you step
out, leaving her alone with herself, again,
her mirrored walls, you know, almost at once,
what you have left behind, you cannot leave behind.
You push a button, but only she brings you
back
to
earth. You step outside, but she walks between
the floors. You carry her face, her fragmentation.
She transfers, she metastasizes, she elevates.
© Mike
Alexander
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Large Nude Walking
When I remember, I want to work as you
did:
long days until the light's gone, then slugs of
gin
to quench our silence, to twist an arm
to pose for one more year, then another
to cover felt-tipped pen marks on
flesh
with plasters to keep them fresh to
measure
distance and check and check
again.
This is the picture in my memory:
thin fags, damp Rizlas, you
mumble,
'A fraction to the left, a fraction
more.'
the smell of turps and farts mingle with
linseed
and stiff, salty coffee. My skin's a mass
of
marked goose pimples. You grunt, 'Yes...'
©
Christina
Fletcher
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Gold Rush
Women
Brave, they call us, pioneer women;
but who asked us whether we wanted to go,
pregnant or not, and leave behind sisters,
mothers, homes, all our pretty
things?
This is our new life: wagons, wilderness,
doing men's work; but we will not
complain.
We trudge on, wade through mud, still believe
in the sun as rain beats down on patched canvas.
Behind us lie the snowdrifts of Eastern winters,
before us the promised land, a tale
spun
by fathers dreaming of a better world,
husbands longing to live closer to the
sun.
Around us, the prairie bursts into wildflower,
yet rages with sickness. We keep count
of the newborns, the cripples, the
dead,
the makeshift tombs that pockmark these
plains.
We try to forget companions gone
mad,
young brides widowed on the
banks
of untamed rivers, and remember
instead
a glorious sunset, gay fiddles on the 4th of
July.
Girls giggle, share secrets, cast eyes
upon young men, twirl in a dance,
lift our spirits for a little
while,
until fear and worries seep in again.
How will we silence our babies' cries
when there's no more food, all cattle dead,
and hundreds of drab miles
still stretching further
west?
The Sierra Nevada looms large,
but the wheels roll on, making
history.
When the dust settles for the night,
who cares what we
dream?
Red men's shadows creep through the dark,
while we lie awake and
wonder
who will last until sunrise,
who will dig the next
grave.
© michaela a.
gabriel
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The building's burning down,
and we speak of blue jays swooping
in and around the catalpa.
Kevin likens them to bees on zinnias,
and Maggie to lovers' eyes fluttering
upward toward the moon. Suddenly,
the smoke grows heavy, the halogen
lamp by the bay window muted
like a candle at wick's end. That fool
Pablo fights to breathe, while the rest of us
switch the TV to the Blair Witch Project.
When someone stumbles into the fire
and screams, Betsy insists it's a person
from the movie. Always the wit,
Charlie compares the jays to maggots
crawling about a week-dead rat.
At once, the roof caves in, the walls
crash down, the whole damn place
a heap of embers, ash and char-broiled
flesh. And still we sputter on, babbling
corn cobs on a turning spit.
Blue jays? Why, they prattle on the roof
like rain drops, then gather on
the eaves and dribble to the grass..
©
Fred
Longworth
(Not in Ice : Editor's Choice of Glenda
Cooper, ' I was immediately drawn into the vivid world
of the
poem.')
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Tempel 1
(The space probe, Deep Impact, is
scheduled to collide with this comet
on July 4, 2005. Scientists anticipate a
sizable
crater.)
For eons, willy-nilly, comet
fists
have struck the earth, ejecting base
debris
into the air; and when those poison
mists
arose, great craters formed beneath the
sea.
Those blows are now a source of
consternation
to humankind: knuckles of dust and
ice
could clobber us; a random
combination
or one good poke could knock out
paradise.
Technology, our loaded glove, brings
hope:
Deep Impact, built for NASA, will
assume
the lofty task of helping us to
cope
with stressful fears of cataclysmic
doom.
We’ll size it up, learn what its secrets
are–
land a sucker-punch and leave a scar.
© Vaughn Fritts
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Cucamonga Express
"Rickity-rack, rickity-rack;"
a bulging stack
bellows the load
into dark, comfortable danger.
Interminable hills, a prelude
to sierra pinnacles slope
into thirsty
brown—
rationing water until midday.
Colorado's
abyss shelters rails,
sky-reaching walls narrow
the strip of blue above;
burst out into waving acres
where ranch houses stand estranged.
At Missouri's northeastern tip
the river moon spreads
its saffron layers. Planets
follow the train, weep with me
as I lie on caboose bed
humming "tatooee, tatooee.'
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Mr. Gray, by the Yard
The canvas of my yard serves for my character's billboard -
others draw the assumptions I use to further my social status.
The ritual of drawing a weapon from the armory of my shed,
toiling till sundown etches my figure into the subconscious
of the area. They acknowledge me with toots on horns, waves
and the occasional thumbs up. Each gesture boosts self-esteem.
Recognition seesaws close to an addiction. After reverently
moving reel mower and broadcaster aside, I break out the tool
for today—a sharpened dowel rod. I'd noticed an incursion
of mole tunnels from the neighbor's yard yesterday. To mask
the scent of humanity, I slip on disposable gloves, take a pack
of fruit-flavoured bubblegum from my pocket. The concept is simple-
the tastty gum gets eaten and the moles' systems won't pass it.
As they keep feeding, their stomachs swell until they explode.
All the stink and mess stays buried. On my knees, prepared to drop
in the first piece of gum, a solitary BEEP from a passing car
elicits a smile. I bring my eyes up along with the beginnings
of a wave that freezes mid-motion when I see who's honking.
The tinted window slides down to allow an alabaster hand
encased in a glaring white cuff and dark suit jacket to extend
from the invisible interior of a hearse. A "gotcha" motion
with a thumb and finger gun dissolves into a waggle of wrist.
The hand retracts, the window slips back, the car proceeds
out of the neighborhood. I back away from the fence line,
continue to poke holes into all tunnels I find and drop in
small chunks of watermelon-flavored death. I am vigilant
for crabgrass and make a mental note to ask the wife
when the mortician got a new car. I had thought his was white.
© Tracy
Estes
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Meat
Snuffle the trough: come
December
they'll tie your leg across your
chest,
drag you to the yard and puncture your
throat.
Krystka will cover your corpse with
straw,
singe and scrape away the
bristles
and when your eyes and peeled
hooves
are thrown on fresh snow, it'll take all the
men
to lift you to the butchering table.
Don't squeal, you're part of the
family:
they
tell you secrets when the light's
out.
When your bladder's
emptied
to wash those frozen stones, head boiled,
guts fed to the dog and you’re
squeezed
tight in your own intestines,
chickens
will peck the blood and little
Celestina
will munch your ears with gusto.
© Christina
Fletcher
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Baptism
Summer hummed with
machines-
we staggered toward the
river
to absolve our ringing
ears,
arms filled with seashells,
ridged,
shucked absences that would
prove
it had been no
dream
when the drowning
began.
Loss flowed into me like
light.
I opened my mouth to an alibi of
dark
and exhaled the stars. Surf pulled
back
from the shore,and we
disappeared.
Along the horizon, heads turned
away,
interest already lost in the shells that
arrived
with our leaving, though the trail reached
back
far as a reckoning, the line long
enough
for light to follow.
© Cheryl Snell
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Not-so-desperate
housewives
Before days burned up in laundry and dishes,
we bought the promise of the airtight seal: time
stopped,
aging prevented, all with the burp of a lid that
always
fit.
A generation later, we find
ourselves
spoiled despite the matching bowls. Wrinkles
etch our once smooth faces, age spots reveal ruin
Nestled elbow to elbow in this living room, we want to trust
one more purchase will return us to freshness, erase
the bruises, keep us from being tossed too soon.
Between murmurs over the possibilities, I catch a flicker
in your eye, remember our pledge
to be unpreserved, loose as air,
acceptably fragile, to stop pretending
anything can be kept
and stay fresh.
© Julie
Damerell
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Commin wom fromt'
pit
(A Lancashire dialect poem)
Eeh lad, what's tha skrikin like that
fer?
Thi eyes ul be ar red un
raw.
Stop mekkin that noise like er babby
er thi mother ull gi thi wot for.
Neaw, thi must be skrikin fer
summat.
The's summat that's mekkin thi
yell.
Neaw sit on mi knee like a good
lad
fer am certin am not gooin' ter tell.
Aye lad, tha's breakin thi
heart
un a know, tha just corn't
understand,
so here, wipe thi eyes, wi mi
hanky
sted er wit back er thi
hand.
Neaw spit it or eawt, tell thi gran,
neaw
un a promise, al nor have er
fit
bur a know it must be summat quite
badly
fer thi dad's not come wom yet fromt' pit.
Cos, a saw um ar runnin, whent'
siren
went off with a long wailing
cry
then a heard an explosion like
thunder
that sent ar that smook in tert sky.
Neaw lad, just bi brave, cos al tell
thi
no news, is good news, tha
knows,
so, sit thi sel deawn on mi knee
neaw,
un wipe snot, fromt' end er thi nose.
Tha's not said er word, fer a lung
time
unt' fire's almost eawt, i yon
grate
but mi shawl is keepin us warm,
lad,
unt' candle ull burn until late.
Hush, summat's happ'nin' eawtside,
lad,
A con hear some pit clogs int'
backyard.
So, lad, wakken up, un be brave
neaw
un owd tight, ter mi hand, very hard.
Neaw it's me, who's bin skrikin i'stead,
lad,
cos a corn't si so much i this
leet,
onlyt' shadows dancin ont' white
walls
unt' gas lamps dim flicker int' street..
Eeh
lad, what's that laughin like that
fer?
Tha's soon changed thi tune, un am
glad,
A con just make him eawt, is cum wom
neaw
so run wom ter mi son, un thi dad.
© Sally James
(Commin wom fromt' pit: Editor's Choice of
M.A.Griffiths,' This year is the 20th anniversary of the U.K. Miners'
strike. My father came from a small coal-mining community in S. Wales,
so I know how everyone dreaded the wail of the pit-head siren,.Without the
dialect, this poem might have seemed almost mawkish, but with it, I find it very
tender and moving.')
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Looks Aren't
Everything
Even in flats, she's taller than her
little
man, who stands just under five foot
four.
At fifty-plus, he's soft around the
middle.
And hairy! It's too much, she can't
ignore
that back, those furry shoulders any
more;
he'll have to wax. A word about his
skin:
Cadaverous. What's worse, his posture's
poor,
his bottom broad and flat, his calves too
thin,
a bald spot you could do your makeup
in.
Enthusiastically, he
compensates
for all he lacks in looks; his impish
grin
more eloquently states the case than
Yeats.
Though homely, he, you see, has got a
knack
her handsome husband hasn't in the sack.
© Rose M. Kelleher
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Acknowledgements:
My Son the Critic previously
appeared in 'Slugfest'.
Commin wom fromt'
pit will appear in 'Mindfire
Renewed'
Mr. Gray, by the Yard : an earlier
version appeared in 'Crescent Moon
Journal'
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Author's
contact details:
Sally James........................... tynewydd3@msn.comRose M.Kelleher.................... kelleher@ramblingrose.com
Fred Longworth
.................. stereo1@cox.net
Additional editing by Helena Nelson ( HE11@beatonh.freeserve.co.uk
)
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~