~~~~~~~~~~~~ (the poetry) WORM ~~~~~~~~~~~~
36
Welcome to WORM 36. We hope you enjoy this juicy
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WORM 36 to the same address.
All the poems I receive are forwarded
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is made on our combined
scores.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Heavy Snow Before
Dawn
Our windows mirror the still kitchen,
last night's pots piled in the drainer
like the skyline of a little city. I am
the happy mayor of silence, and this state
of emergency is no more urgent than the pace
of my husband's breath as he sleeps, upstairs.
His dreams commute over a dozen
bridges
even though no one has been out to plow.
When light comes, slow and blue, our
yard
swoops white under it. I open the door.
How far outside is it to see each window's
dark
or lit glass? How many steps to forget
pride,
even ownership? Snowfall sounds like the
ocean
between waves, a breath drawn slowly
in,
mouthing the word now. Listen. Only empty
branches
mark the time, ticking together in the wind.
© Christine Potter
( Heavy Snow Before
Dawn: Editor's Choice of Rose M. Kelleher,' I love apt visual
comparisons, so dirty dishes
"like the skyline of a little city" charmed me.
"I am the happy mayor of silence" clinched the deal.')
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The Half-Fulfilling Art of
Joinery
I heard the
step
of no
one
on the
stair.
I looked out
and
saw no
one
on the
stair,
no one on the
stair.
I took the height, the
length
and made a
rod
and
template,
routed out the strings
and
undercut the nosing
for the
treads,
half-housed the
risers
so the
shoulders
do the
bearing.
I cut the newels and
the
balustrade.
and
then,
still wary of some
mistake,
I wedged and cramped
up
so it stands
elegantly,
massively,
being
there.
I looked out in the hall and
saw
no one on the
stair.
© Peter Stewart
Richards
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Clumsy
One
Your ankle turns as if the
sidewalk
had a soft spot in its
skull.
Knees kick out of true, arms
flail
against the lurch. Your top half
tries
to jettison the
bottom.
You claw for anchors in the air—
then crash into a snarl of
pyracantha.
The mockingbirds swoop down—
surely they were waiting in the
sycamore
for some dumb klutz like
you.
As they screech into your
ears,
you twist your head,
protest:
Let the bird who has never
fallen
from a branch cast the first
squawk!
© Fred
Longworth
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Essay on
Crit
Of all the poseurs posting in the
name
Of Poetry, the ones who cause me
shame
To be among practitioners of the
art
Are never those who swap the horse and
cart
Of syntax for the sake of rhyme—nor,
worse,
The champions of faux-Shakespearean
verse,
Those lovelorn, moonstruck, Junestuck cooing
doves
Composing forlorn sonnets for their
loves.
Didactic homilies that leave me
cold
As well instill forbearance, so I hold
No grudge. I suffer, too, the darling
hearts
Who, like the curate's egg, are good in
parts,
Where parts equates to effort; I can
weather
Their Hallmark bromides strung like pearls
together
along
a silken thread. I chafe at
most.
Some like to start their day with milque and
toast.
And
far be it from me to deem
beyond
The pale of poesy's sufferance those
fond
Of
threadbare rhymes, the cliched platitude,
Safe metronomes devoid of
attitude;
Who tell, where show is meet and tell
insufferable.
More wretched those who wallow in
unutterable
Obscurities of diction, sense or
trope;
But even with such emperors I can
cope.
No argument have I with those who
seek
To share the Pierian spring, to whom
critique
Is lifeblood; nor the tyros filled with lust
For learning, rosy-cheeked, round-eyed with
trust.
Ah, no. But-hark the witful Popish
Bull
Three centuries of progress cannot null:
'Tis not enough your counsel still be
true;
Blunt truths more mischief than nice falsehoods
do.
The beef is with those clever wits who
spit
Thin vitriol disguised as Holy
Crit;
The
coxcombs waiting laureate
selection
While practicing their acid vivisection.
If they be Wisdom's font, the font is
scoured;
If they be Poetry's cream, the cream has
soured.
© Peter
Moltoni
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Flicker
Vertigo
A parable unreels in air made
luminous
with silver nitrate and dust.
Glint
struck off a propeller tells a
story
begun far from
here.
Contrails corkscrew toward
animals
cringing in their furs like
dowagers
in a bad neighborhood. Two old
pilots
play chess in the park, hearing aids
off,
cataract eyes unable to track
disturbances
in the mist of newsreel
memories.
In their wars, charged images flicked
past
too fast to register. Information
received
at 15 spins/second condenses
thought
to pudding, ricochets off the
exits
with a perpetual threat of
fire.
Under a corrugated sky, wounds still
bloom;
where there is a pounding in the
temple,
fistfuls of summer poppies push
through
the scarred gray crust of
winter.
© Cheryl
Snell
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
My Uncle as King Lear
A flagon skulks in the grass
with crumpled multi-million
prize shares; I spy Uncle
fishing in the moat with Fool.
He grins, spectacles askew
on his moon-merry face;
stink of urine, chevrons
of damp in his trews; smiles,
"I was cutting Fool's toenails
when I stepped on my specs."
I come knackered from talks
with his erstwhile daughters,
his royal social worker Mimi,
his privy solicitor Leah, hassling
how to divvy up his kingdom—
yet he rum-tum-tums a jolly tune
as Fool somersaults
on the trash-strewn lawn,
tabard whirling with hearts,
clubs, diamonds.
© Christopher T.
George
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Etruscan
Places
Sunset fades; the golden
citadel
now darkens. Dusty blue, the sky
awaits
its first few stars. He places a lace
shawl
about her shoulders, then
anticipates
just how the evening might
unfold-beauty
and cruelty finely balanced. 'You seem
distant'.
She smiles, blows him a kiss, he feels from
duty
or maybe misplaced pity. Still,
persistent,
he talks at length of their museum
visit,
then reads aloud from 'Etruscan
Places'.
His voice trails off, as if to say:'What is
it?'
Remembering the long dead's vivid
faces,
trinkets stolen from a king's
sarcophagus,
she says,' The place reminded me of
us.'
© Alan
Wickes
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Crowd
A crowd presses forward,
thousands
with a single face.
Tonight
they are determined. The rain
intensifies
but nobody cares.
Wind
cannot disturb their steady
march.
Barriers fall. Circling
helicopters
beam down circles. It does not
matter.
One at a time they lower their
umbrellas,
look up and open their
mouths
to drink the
light.
© David
Chorlton
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Rallentando
There's something about a
stroke:
one small embolism, one small
occlusion,
and violins of pain quiver the fingers
into
a slow paralysis before the
final
scherzo of the
nerves.
And through her
eyes,
the bulging eyes that frog and
toady
blindly out on the blurred
world,
comes the plea the unstrung voice cannot
play:
the cacophony is
mute.
But when she calls
me
—calls me my father's name—
I shrivel like
sedge.
And beside her, her
books:
pile upon pile,
crack
-spined and
yellow
read, unread and half-read
still on the
shelf.
Vivace me non troppo
expressivo
Elsie, who took your books, your
books?
Who turned them bottom to front, back to
top?
Who took your glasses and dashed out the
lenses
as you lie in your bed, eyes hanging
out?
Who twisted you
outside-in,
inside from
out,
so you're buckled in the
bedsheets
unable to
shout?
Scherzando con molto
fortissimo
Elsie, who took your books, your
books?
Who turned the words into vipers, print into
whirls?
Who took your old hands and struck out the pencils,
so you writhe in your bed, gripping a
sheet?
Who knotted you, finger and
toe,
with crippling
pain
and warped you
completely
like
wood in the
rain?
And as the strings
subside
I give her face a final stroke before I
leave
—and the next one finishes
her.
© Nigel
Holt
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The
Bequest
I never saw him dress. Now,
bare
curiosity marks me as his
son.
We buried him in those
clothes
that, retired, were all he'd wear—
brogues buffed to a shallow
shine,
the suit that used to
Sunday,
cuffless links, draughty car
gloves,
scuffed old belt, a zebra
tie.
I search for a sombre
souvenir-
a pallid act of
interference
with the upcoming flat
clearance-
as if I am not a perfect
stranger
at this secret shrine,
overseer
of the scattering of last
remnants.
I renew my long
independence.
I cannot take a gift and be
sincere.
They are things he no longer
wore
waiting for their chance, like
children,
to be led out, to be
occasioned.
How easily the key turns in the
door.
© Philip Burton
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Peter's Request
(a
triolet)
Scatter my ashes down into the
Thames
from Battersea Bridge at
night,
its white lights blazing like precious
gems.
Scatter my ashes down into the
Thames,
who wears her bridges like
diadems
as the Empress of India
might.
Scatter my ashes down into the
Thames
from Battersea Bridge at
night.
© Mitchell Geller
(Peter's
Request: Editor's Choice of M.A.Griffiths,' This has a special
resonance for me as I grew up in London. The triolet is not
an easy form to
write successfully, but here the repetends add a sense of slow dignity, building
into a haunting and beautiful
poem.')
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Holy
City
One day, when you come
back,
all will have
changed.
Stone will be white or
clear
as domed sky. You will see
everything.
Gods and dolphins will be
sparkling
in the fountains, yet that old Franciscan—
brown and white like mixed bread—
will still be standing by his chapel,
smiling.
© Martyn
Halsall
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The
Periphrasist
A word with you if I may, a moment of your
time,
why thank you, I am grateful, I shall not keep you
long,
my father, it was, who often
averred
that
prolixity, sir, was a
sin
and verbosity an
indulgence
of the undisciplined mind, to say the
least,
and I am my father's son and will not,
therefore,
beat about the
bush,
but come straight to the
point,
for circumlocution, I know you will
agree,
is a great waste of breath and
time
and being a gentleman whose life,
I am sure, is as full and busy as I assure you mine is
also,
cannot afford the ineffectual and inefficient expense of
either,
so I will get right to the heart of the
matter,
not go round the houses in needless
perambulations,
for I eschew tortuous long-windedness, sir, deplore it
utterly,
for I am not, you will have
gathered,
from our brief acquaintance, by nature, loquacious,
my flow of words dams up with 'ums''and 'errs''and 'as it
weres''.
You understand, I'm sure, the need for pith and
punch
You are a rapier of swift debate, I'll be
bound,
an
abjurer of idle chatter,
the pastime of women and sparrows, sir, I always
say,
yes, a man after my own heart, I know
it,
damn my eyes, I knew it right
off,
not
a man to bluster and prevaricate, no penny-a-liner he, I
thought,
starve he would if he were paid per word, I
thought.
Am I right, sir, am I right? Of course I'm
right,
I have always prided myself upon my astute judgement of a
man,
and you, sir, I can tell at a glance, are a man of few
words
I can detect the odour of terseness about you, the aura of
brevity,
never use two words where one might suffice,
eh,
a coiner of the telling phrase, the apt
response,
the witty thrust, the barbed
word,
the bon-mot, the riposte that
disarms.
My old father, I mentioned him before you will
recall,
may he rest in peace, dead these twenty years or more, you
know,
choked one Easter on a piece of crackling from a Wiltshire
hog,
greatly upsetting my mother who was seated opposite
him,
as she had been accustomed to since they were
wed,
now
he was a man who could still a room with a
word,
admired around the town, he was, guest at many a
feast,
invited for his conversation, no less, which blazed finely with
brandy,
he was a person of some note, his savoir-faire
renowned,
his repartee a thing of legend, ah, the parties he regaled
but I digress, where was I
?
© Arthur Seeley
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Bloodlines
They're pictured wearing baubles carved from
bone,
woad-daubed and fur-clad, flaunting tribal
scars.
Such disrespect—such crude
depiction—mars
the memories embedded in the
stone
and in my blood, my every
chromosome.
Why paint their culture worthless next to
ours,
those men who traced the movement of the
stars
and built Stonehenge before the birth of
Rome?
Their mysteries live on within each
cairn
and megalith, though little else
remains:
like us they learned what pride and progress
cost.
If we could call their spirits to
return,
would they stand silent awed by all our gains—
or stricken, seeing everything we've
lost?
© David
Anthony
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Our Largest Tree
Falls
I should have known. The chimney's breath blown back
was dense enough to taste that night; we'd been advised
about the wind. We heard a crack and then a thud:
an offering received, no harm, a simple fact. You called it
nothing, having checked and seen a hundred years
of tree and roof as they had always been. But ash's savor
bothered me. Smoke burned my eyes. Then
came
the greater crack. Outside the window pane, a
gust
exploded: black and something close, alive,
and being torn away. A Norway Spruce had heaved
itself in two, a tree grown twice the house's height,
and thick enough to kill with nothing throwing it but weather.
It wavered and it fell, snapped hard once more across the creek—
high branches slapping snow to dust far up the other bank—
and somehow it missed
us.
The tree became a bridge no one could cross.
Brook-flow slicked its needle-tips in ice. Other trees
still swirled their crowns in windy curses. But you and I
could recognize what mercy we'd received,
as we stroked wood and water with our flashlight beams,
and tried to slow our breath.
We measured in the morning: three inches-just-from trunk
to window's wall. A blessing is what falls and does not
take you with it, what leaves you with more time, leaves you
the now-white sun on our carpenter's brown coat. He's stopped here
on his way to other work because he heard what happened. See how
he stands amid the great, green plumes of fallen boughs beside
our new-spared house? He spreads his arms—and
laughs.
© Christine Potter
(Our Largest Tree
Falls: Editor's Choice of Helena Nelson,' Reading my way
through a long list of poems, this one drew me instantly inside
its world.
It is well-made and precise, wholly satisfying in its measured tread and
assured completeness: "A blessing is what falls and does
not/ take you with
it..." I can still see the carpenter
laughing...')
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
frog
prince
call me racist, but i
prefer
skin that isn't a rich
emerald,
and five fingers on each
hand
he stares at me,
unblinking,
from heavy-lidded
eyes
above bulging
cheeks
this is a bad
dream-
feet caught in invisible
traps,
goosebumps all
over
nobody has prepared
me
for this: i try to coax
words
from my dry throat, in
vain
but what would i
say?
i know nothing of frog
etiquette,
and the thought of a
kiss-
he smacks his lips, as
if
he'd read my mind; he
croaks,
a sound like iron
rusting
webbed toes thump the
ground,
he dances towards
me,
broad hips
swaying,
drops his golden
ball,
but i refuse to bend; i wouldn't
put it past him to
jump
and then his
hands,
sticky and wet, his sickly
smile,
his
breath smelling of mud
.
the only thing-that
tongue;
i don't want to know just
what
he could do with
it
©
michaela
a.gabriel
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Pillow
Fight
I wake up and it means I'm not dead. Sunlight. Dried flowers. Frost
fingers cross the windowpane and I am alive, fuck you, fuck you, one more
day.
I say fuck you, good morning, and I'm
alive.
Feet and I glide the floor the kitchen, effortlessly, I'm flying. Ooo, I'm a
ghost. No, I'm awake. Cereal. Coffee. Pulsing in my veins,
hangover,
at least he didn't spend the night. Goodbye common sense. Hello mister penis. If
only the memories would leave as easily as the words
do.
Feel free to look through my underwear drawer. Hello strange man, strange men in
my roomy room room. Feel free to try to guess how much
change
is in the jar on my dresser. Chew toys in my bathroom and no dog in the
apartment? I could be a wacko. Better watch out! Where does the
poetry
fit in? Will I write about this? Will I write about
this?
I'm awake and it means I'm not dead. Aspirin. Orange juice. Sunlight. Crow's
feet grow as I watch in the mirror my eyes, my eyes, I am
alive,
fuck you, fuck you, fuck you, I say fuck you, good morning, I am alive. The
end.
© Holly
Day
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Dirty Sonnet
V
In my next life I'd like to be a prude,
a puritan of pedigree, a priss
who'd find the liberals too freakin' lewd
to bed down with, to hickey-fy, to kiss.
Yes, I'd like to be a prig, a goody-goody,
all buttoned up, from chin to toe, no sun.
A virgin for my groom-to-be, how could he
resist my flannel nightie, fetching bun
pulled taut behind my head, my cat-eye glasses
grannied across my face, the lights turned out.
We'd never see each other's goods, our asses
off limits to each other's hands, no doubt
he'll set me like fine china on the shelf,
take a lover on the side, my former
self.
© K.R.
Copeland
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Acknowledgement:
Flicker Vertigo previously appeared in
'Cranky'.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Author's
contact details:
David
Anthony.....................
http://www.davidgwilymanthony.co.uk
Philip
Burton........................... burtophil@hotmail.com
David
Chorlton......................... rdchorlton@netzero.com
K.R.
Copeland.....................
andre-kim1@comcast.net
Holly Day................................
lalena@bitstream.net
michaela a.gabriel..............
.
http://members.chello.at/michaela.a.gabriel
Mitchell
Geller....................... PMMBOB@aol.com
Christopher
T. George.......... editorcg@yahoo.com
Martyn
Halsall......................... martyn.halsall@ukonline.co.uk
Nigel
Holt.............................
nigel_holt@yahoo.com
Fred Longworth
.................. stereo1@cox.net
Peter
Moltoni.......................... petermolt@hotmail.com
Christine
Potter....................... chrispygal10960@yahoo.com
Peter Stewart
Richards.......... . peter.richards@chello.no
Arthur Seeley
...................... arthur007@blueyonder.co.uk
Cheryl Snell............................
cherylsnell@hotmail.com
Alan Wickes ..........................
http://www.alanwickes.com
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Compiling
Editor: M.A.Griffiths ( grasshopper@wordbug.freeserve.co.uk ) .
Associate
Editors: Rose M. Kelleher ( kelleher@ramblingrose.com )
and Helena
Nelson( HE11@beatonh.freeserve.co.uk )
Additional editing by Bob Cooper (
thebobcooperfive@hotmail.com )