Navigating the Ocean

I crave you like oxygen sometimes,
as if I couldn’t breathe without you and
this terrifies me, makes me want to
push you away, prove something,
find the key that unlocks this tether, set
you free, to go away but come back, choose
as if there was a choice,
as if I could become amphibious, grow
some gills, maybe a tail to navigate
the oceans of the loss of setting you free and not
drown; or possibly build a raft, to float above,
but not so far that I’ll miss your hand reaching
up out of the water to come aboard, in case
I can save you, as humans rarely do;
or maybe there will be a sunset and a night
when the ocean grows moon and stars
while a gentle current transports me to
somewhere my love for you is not so full
of need, will be refined of dross, capable
of anything.

The phone is ringing.
Maybe it’s you.



Spoiler Alert

There’s no escaping the constant whirs,
hums, chugs and buzzes of summer,
like birdsong, in variety and nuance,
but less conversation, more dictation,
as if to an old fashioned stenographer-
get this down, condense the languorous
signals of summer to shorthand,

We shorten grass, shrink hedges,
embarrass pieces of wood with hammers,
(to drown out the woodpeckers)
interrupt the lifespan of recalcitrant
weeds, till them under, nip and tuck.
Each hum, buzz, whir, chug
a jigsaw piece of putting nature

in her place, a pissing upon,
a tiny fist raised in defiance of ice-
storms, blizzards, microbes, death.
We oil and tighten, plug in and refuel
until the entropy of it catches up
in the end while the birds have
their say during the intermission.

Read more "CAROL CASEY – 2 POEMS"



The East End

Bonesy never seemed to mind
his old man staggering home
careening from post to car to door
zigzag cadence, leading downhill
from Happy Grill.


Happy Grill

Its beery smell
settles out of a dark doorway
where sticky wooden floors hold them.

the ones always there;
men – only men
unimportant outside
but with a place here
a welcome.

Time suspends
as they step in
and watch their glasses
slowing sips as a whole day waits
with too much time.


Abigail George – Exodus or the spark of life is electricity

Exodus or the spark of life is electricity
(for my mother and father)

He remembers hearing the words
we are not couples that fight all
the time. He looks at his wife who
is not speaking to him. ‘We are
who we are’. And thinks to himself
that the sea is tired. Perhaps
as forlorn as he is. He’s a man in the garden. He imagines the sun

covering the dark water. Cold to the
touch. He wonders what the right
language of love is for winter guests.
How to make peace with his wife.
He wants to embrace her. Take her in his arms

as if she was a girl
again. Brush her hair out of her
face with his granadilla hands.

Forget that he is in the autumn
of his years. He wants to forget
that he used to do this for a living.
He wants to know if his unhappy
marriage is on the verge of cracking up. He wants to know
if she’s finally going to leave him.

Read more "Abigail George – Exodus or the spark of life is electricity"