~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ (the poetry) WORM ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ 19
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Cebolla Church

Nothing smells of martyrdom,
the ruby blood of that tired Christ,
as if tragedy had been washed away
by tears of the Magdalene,
that woman with a life of her own.

This is no palace for some heavenly king
with room for whispered traps
in a thousand dark corners,
no solid stone skeleton laid out
in the shape of a crucifix.

This little church belongs to life.
I almost expect the aroma of freshly
baked bread to twine around this simple
white cross, mingle with two oval clouds
in the space where a spire could have reached.

But all that drifts from wooden windows
is the memory of cheerful hymns,
their undying echo raining quietly
upon this spring's first grass.

(Inspired by the painting of the same name by Georgia O'Keeffe)

You could never take them so

I did the job on my own.

You watched me, nervous as ice

while I sneaked them from their homes

and arrayed the spoils. Some on my shelves,

a few in each room, three on the stairs.

Two stalwarts in the garden, like gnomes.

And of course there was the one

I took for you. You won’t need it now.

So here I am with my collection.

It’s hard to live with them though.

They fill the whole house

and their implications grow.

Evolution


Starling divebombs my skylight,
slamdancer glancing at me like a con man,
one eye at a time. What does it think
with its cellophane brain?

Why does the squirrel drag its bloodied mate
out of the line of fire
when crows the size of satchels
stalk dead and dying along the interstate?

Is it all instinct with you?

The man next door hoards his trophies,
piles them up like garbage in his attic.
My concussed bird, misled by the gleam
in the window's eye, feels its heart beat
with desire, and in mid-air, flutters
outside the glass with a hope like ambition
at a fraudulence spread too thin.

© Cheryl Snell

Stained Glass

The quality of light: this,

a piece of late evening sky.

How darkness can shine:

last of the sun, first breath

of the stars, a waxing moon.

Judas walks out of the small room.

They are still dining. No one knows

but Jesus, and his head is turned away.

They can't escape, these protagonists,

caught between ruby and green,

the dark blue light,

the black bars of lead.

© Dick Jones

How to Dream Realistic Dreams


~ Awareness ~

First, buy them as if you were buying spices --
spices good enough for an eschatological meal.

Inhale their presence summarily at the outset,
then with slow, deep breaths that fill your lungs.

~ Logic ~

Arrange them as if you were arranging prized books;
books that would impress a bibliophile. End each end
with disapproving gargoyles or flat flowerpots.

Scan from left to right, then right to left,
until every story has told you its story.

~ Inference ~

Read them as if you were reading a lover's letter,
a letter that beseeches your company in person
or words. Go over every word, every pause.

~ Escape ~

You'll want to close your eyes, think of the chasm,
and build a bridge to take you far away, take you home.

Shadows

When you are young, shadows are shapeless,
only the vague form of horned monsters
and crazy creatures
in the cavern of your closet
and under the bed pester your dreams
until you sleep in Uncle Frank's backyard
because "It's hot inside and won't sleeping
under the stars be nice, dear?"
and the shadows on the side
of Frank's old weathered barn take the form
of the old sow that ate Tippy or the horse
which ran over Chuckie.

When you grow, shadows take a solid cast
of partners, lovers, taxmen, strangers,
teachers, doctors, lawyers, friends,
children, cops, parents, politicians,
tolltakers, clerks, critics,
molesting your mind
and you no longer sleep under the stars
unless you want her to give it up.

When you are old, shadows thin
until they disappear and you go with them.

Collapsed

Automatic doors chomp

swallowing people whole.

Inside we have difficulty

finding you,

no longer tagged by

familiar clothes you

have to flap a feeble arm,

an encouraging sign, but

soon dashed, when in

fitful sleep you dribble

half-words, half-formed.

I notice from this high window

large puddles of stars,

then measure the likelihood

of this illusion,

against the chances of your recovery,

and decide yes,

worlds do cave in.

No Gas

no gas
no hot running water
in what passes for an english summer
my wife
in her upstairs study
hogs the electric fire
downstairs
I put on an extra sweater

switch off the boring TV
place Johnny Cash in the CD player
dip into an anthology of Chinese poetry
lounge in the lazyboy
sip spring water
and await
the sometime-coming
plumber


© Gerald England

By Bosch

You are the master of machines, my Bosch -
when I dispense the enzyme soap I know
only the strength of your intensive wash
can make the fibres of my fabric glow.
All the old marks - accumulated spills
of booze or sex with - well, who was the bloke? -
the stink of nicotine on cuffs and frills -
I have surrendered them to Extra Soak.
Safe in your swell of suds they'll toss and twirl -
they've always been in need of proper care -
so drain and rinse and drain and rinse until
your hydrosensor says the water's clear
and then I'll watch your silent drum revolve:
your vortex - where my stubborn stains dissolve.

© Christina Fletcher

Omens

When the world-famous surgeon completed
the operation
he looked up at the arc lights
past the curved blade of his scalpel
and saw a scimitar jeweled
with rubies hanging by a thread.

*

In the senior citizens¹ recreation
room the old priest
is tying flies. Red. Yellow.
A speckled feather. He is
becoming a fisher of fish.

*

Perhaps you think those crows mean
to settle down among the branches
for the winter. Those are not crows.
They are black apples left
by the first hard freeze.

Home alone

It was the slow tick tick
of the clock that told me
that time had
lost its meaning
and there was nothing left
but the stretch
of a long straight road

It was as if the edge
I walked along
had grown wider
and the only sound
was my breathing
and the only light
a pale sun
in a three o'clock sky

The kettle bubbled for tea
each second boiling
like a timed egg
the brown bread
a curled leaf
flaked into crumbs
and the dogs whimpered

There was no whistle in the air
no yelp of a boot on a stone step
and the silent phone slept
a red lobster on a black plate
and time collapsed over the arm of his chair.

Sketching Rhubarb

Radio news came through the garden on short
gusts of words, wobbling like an anxious child
cycling for the doctor. The high, stretched cloud
provided a fine light for sketching rhubarb.

She drew slight arcs on stalks, like spines
tensed in the heat of lights before an injection
and leaves like umbrellas chrysanthemummed
to sudden blossoms in the monsoon season.

The radio briefed her on an Asian epidemic.
She remembered the cracks in the ceiling as sky
broke inwards, cloud tumbling in boiling dust,
sudden darkness masking the fever ward,

sluiced air cleansing stench, for a time,
as rain tin-tacked roof’s rippling iron.
More stillness among rags and mattresses,
less anguish among faces flash-lit by suffering.

Later rashes would leach as watercolours
spread like infections, the green stream over
the brown to add depth to pimpled stipple.
She tried to worm it deeper, like a bruise.

She would hear music reassert its calming purpose
through the lessening percussion of drips on teak
as the storm departed; feel heat’s brass reassertion.
Notes wafted into mist; mud dried as scabs.
.
The Academy declined to hang her picture.
An italic note regretted too many submissions
were strictly domestic, this year. The judges
were seeking some width, that shared the universal.

Peter

Sunlight through his bitter
slides trapezia of amber light
across the table, where one finger pins
a beer mat; slides it back and forth,

back and forth, he scratches
his sunken sallow cheek,
mouth puckered on a sourness,
pouts for a silent whistle.

Vague eyes that peer out
from a delicacy of lashes,
unfocussed as a captive bear’s,
strain for lost horizons

or scan the wastes of a tundra,
dark, bleak and locked
beneath the stains on his waistcoat.

Haiku

See breathprint, in air
so cold, it floats like a kiss
blown between lovers.

Way of the Cross


In this foreign white land with its rains
of rice, I thought we'd walk forever.

Outside the closed gate of veils
there were rocks on which I stumbled.

In our marbled house, I found myself
speaking in tongues only Mother knew.

You inhaled my words in silence and blew
smoke to a face I'd forgotten was mine.

The table where we had played sex dried
to dead wood that crucified our bodies.

Behind newspapers and tv noise
we cut our mouths on bent forks,

sliced through steak and burnt potatoes
with knives up our sleeves.

Hands stained with matrimony,
we fed on cold lumps of distaste.

Party Plan

Ann Summers comes tonight. We sit and drink
and laugh and blush at objects that you see
only in modern female company.
We stroke the silken garments, scared to think
how much they cost. A baby squeals and skirls
on Jessie’s knee, as conversation flicks
from battery toys and crotchless ‘naughty knicks’
to pregnancy: would we have boys or girls?
‘Oh, not a boy,’ says Jane. ‘Think of the hassle—
he’d be driven nuts by me going on
about Respecting Women.
Nipple tassles!
Look, girls—look! Get me some of them, Yvonne.
Yes, red ones please.’
(She’ll wear them, I suspect,
for purposes that may not breed respect.)

Author's contact details:

Arlene Ang... .................. aumelesi@libero.it

Gary Blankenship........... http://www.writershood.com

Karen Doherty ............. karendoherty80@hotmail.com

Gerald England ............. http://www.geraldengland.co.uk

michaela a. gabriel........... http://www.geocities.com/lillith1971

sally james ..... .......... ... tynewydd3@msn.com

Dick Jones... ................. patteran@ntlworld.com

Christopher Major........... chris@major987.freeserve.co.uk

Sandy McKinney............ mckinney3@earthlink.net

Helena Nelson................. HE11@beatonh.freeserve.co.uk

Seshadri Veeraraghavan. sveerara22@hotmail.com

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Compiling Editor: M.A. Griffiths

Associate Editors: Frank Faust ( http://www.TalesofFaust.com ) & Christina Fletcher.

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