ll: My parents’ books will be the death of me.
ll: My parents’ books will be the death of me.
I have to move out of the one-room walk-up apartment by a certain time, but I know I will never get that shelf of books with the old-fashioned decanter at the end of it packed and ready to go, and I am wondering if I really need the History of the Italian Madrigal in three volumes, but I cannot leave it behind, or any of them, or even the decanter, for that matter, familiarly useless, and if I’m not ready—:ll (repeat)
Visit Lorna Wood’s Author Page or her blog or find her on Twitter @drlewood
Read more "POETRY: LORNA WOOD – II: My parents’ books will be the death of me."
ON THE EDGE OF A VERY SMALL TOWN: Poems Old & New
By Mark Jackley (2016)
Last night I read Mark Jackley’s new poetry collection ON THE EDGE OF A VERY SMALL TOWN, and this morning I’m anxious to bolster its popularity. I really appreciate Jackley’s pace, brevity, confidence and unassuming style.
I read the book in one sitting and that’s important. It means I didn’t get bored, but instead got held in a friendly way, in an intimacy of distance where anything can be said. The poems are short, seemingly simple and usually expansive. There’s lots of white space and I was flipping pages like a champ which was fun. Remember flying through a book of poems that’s just deep enough to keep your critical mind engaged, but just light enough to be relaxing and palliative? Reading ON THE EDGE OF A VERY SMALL TOWN was like that for me.
The images are clear and uncluttered; for example, his poem “Happiness” starts here: Sometimes it rises quietly / like water in the basement. I like how he draws our attention to the sound of the water that may soften something / you’ve lugged around for years. Also, what a satisfying defamiliarization of happiness that the first two lines provide. Are you happy when your basement floods? Jackley’s speaker is and that’s refreshing.
John Hartford used to say that style is based on limitations. Jackley is confident enough to cut the pretension from these poems. Isn’t this the type of poetry we need now when elitism is under attack? This kind of verse that invites you in and holds you, and bears witness to a poet on the very edge of a small town?
If you would like your own copy of Mark Jackley’s new poetry collection ON THE EDGE OF A VERY SMALL TOWN, all you have to do is email the author at firstname.lastname@example.org and ask for one.
Review by Jim Thompson
Read more "REVIEW: ON THE EDGE OF A VERY SMALL TOWN – MARK JACKLEY"
Vin’s Last Game
no rat pack or elvis
just vin scully calling the dodger’s game
and like kofuax’s fastball, down the pike
vin’s delivery is smooth as silk
through your transistor radio
leave the pyrotechnics to the other guys
you’re thinking, he calls it like he sees it
and vin’s voice follows you like an old friend
as crew cuts gave way to long hair down
to your ass and dylan and hendrix
and santana, you listened to vin’s delivery
while doing volunteer work at glide church
in san francisco
vietnam was no place for you
but nobody wanted to go then!
you couldnt always keep your daughter
from the losers in the world
but vin’s voice, calling hank aaron’s 714
or kirk gibson’s world series game winning home run
was like watching picasso create a masterpiece
now, youre winter, but the revolutionary fire still
burns, bernie sanders still convinces you
you can save the world
Vin scully’s voice floats effortlessly like the boats
on the water
For Vin Scully and Paul Kleyman
Read more "POETRY: ERREN KELLY – Vin’s Last Game"
Escape from Sierra
ten-year-old brain can’t solve.
Scotty could beam him up
if the Starship Enterprise
orbited his warp-less Earth,
but Gene Roddenberry
shoved whirring teleporters
beyond this fifth-grader’s
Carter time frame, past supermen
power grabs, past nuke exchanges.
So he endures taunts spewed
about his fake Spock ears,
not to mention upside
down insertions into
reeking trashcans and toilets.
Stained clothes washing, aggie
patterned planets beckon him
5pm each weekday on
No phasers would he wield
against thugs if he boldly went.
Easing school strife with pale
bursts of quick molecular
evaporation might solve
detergent supply issues—
fewer bullies at large
equaled fewer dunkings
equaled fewer Maytag loads—
but followers of Surak
let logical awareness
frost hot first intentions.
Self-scrutiny reveals this:
his tormentors split his mind
worse than the two-body
bifurcation of Kirk
in the “Enemy Within.”
He hates them. He loves them.
Read more "POETRY: Chuck Von Nordheim – SELF-PORTRAIT #6"
A real Vulcan could meld two
minds and learn what secret words
tamed middle school monsters.
Grandpa’s Death Watch
Grandma and Grandpa
inhabited their tenement
like two distant countries.
Grandma cooked and
cleaned in the kitchen,
Grandpa lounged in his smoker’s
chair wedged behind
the dining room table. They
slept in separate bedrooms,
framed pictures of Jesus
leaned back to back on the
wall between them. For
fifty years they kneaded
their secrets into loaves
of tall, crusty bread,
hid them behind white
Read more "POETRY: FRANK MODICA – GRANDPA’S DEATH WATCH"
porcelain shaving mugs.
“Charlie was not my first love,”
Grandma whispered to me
as I drove her to the hospital.
Jonestown massacre loving my soul
there is no kool aid but down
and down isn’t real either
underneath my soul
there is a freeway
it is a Los Angeles freeway
heading from Pasadena
down to downtown
and into heaven
where I was born
Heaven is a place in Los Angeles
with lots of devils
and lots of rock music and pretty girls
where the wave is the universe
blasting your head off like a shotgun
under the roar of fascist music
in my life love and heart
where the grief runs lower than a 60 nanosecond jack
on some car of the future
ripping me into orbit
Visit Robin Wyatt Dun online.
Read more "POETRY: ROBIN WYATT DUNN – GRIEF RUN"
I think its time
to go to the woods again,
away from clash and roar
of politics and war.
Perhaps I could even suffer ticks,
mosquitoes, and black flies,
sit around a campfire,
forget about obituaries
and my Roth IRA,
drink Pabst Blue Ribbon
and toke weed,
on what it’s like
to be fearless, careless,
before the uniforms arrive.
Read a review of Dick’s new poetry collection Once In A Lifetime.
Check out F. Richard Thomas Amazon Author’s page.
Read more "POETRY: F. RICHARD THOMAS – THESE DAYS"
He watched her back a long time. Her soft sway
kept slow time steadily, his metronome.
Her elastic music measured his day.
Not a dancing creature, his mother would say,
he herked and jerked stiff as a moon
clock. Her soft back was long, a controlled sway
was her weapon of choice. She liked to play
roles: child, temptress, wayward wife whose next home
was elastic as music. All working days
bored her. His hot gaze was modeling clay
her cool hands enjoyed. He lived on his own.
She watched him back. The swift time held soft sway
over each of his steps. Her eyes delayed
his dreaming self and her diva mask loaned
him elastic music. He measured days—
rationing them. He was trying to save
Read more "POETRY: Mark J. Mitchell – Stranger Dance"
her like coins but knew she’d remain unknown.
He watched her, lost in time, her soft sway
stretched musically through his measured days.
To Hachijō Island in October
We look out at you
split into your full
and we think
it’ll pour here or it won’t
there’ll be food for us
or we’ll rumble up at
the full-bellied clouds
we’ll find a bed
or we’ll sit up
counting the stars
upon the Philippine sea
think I’ll halve you
at your waist
and fold your
two peaks into
a ball as warped
and cragged as
the earth itself
then I’ll roll you
back to Tokyo
in the harbour, dyeing
the gunmetal water
the dark green
of your many
Read more "POETRY: David Eves – To Hachijō Island in October"
Bionic Just The Same
I pulled a nail
out of my head
the other day,
more out of anger
than in a panic,
it’s a real bitch
I’ve taken a knife
to my womanhood
in front of the world,
I know pain
and I have been dead
I know what it’s like being dead.
That scares an audience;
that and being a man-made
Mulling around in my afterbirth
looking out of my one good eye,
feeling my way through life tragic,
picking metal shavings from my own vomit.
So VERY punk rock!
Eh, the ruminations
of a tired poet,
reality of dinner for one
and horrible coping skills;
it’s made me the woman I am today.
Bionic just the same.
Read more "POETRY: Abigale Louise LeCavalier – BIONIC JUST THE SAME"