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Poems by ISPS Members June 2008 |
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More ISPS Poems
Deep-Fried Twinkiesby William Vollrath
Fields(for my husband Tom)by Patricia Gangas
Davidian Sonnet Deviationby David McKenna
Living on Borrowed Timeby Mark Hudson
On Passageby John E. Slota
Lunar Eclipseby Donna Pucciani
Prostiticianby Farouk Masud
The Pace of Waitingby Jason Sturner
Confessionalby Theresa Broemmer
Dragonsby William Marr
The Life I Never Got to Haveby John Pawlik
Reciprocal Poetry Reviews--
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Fellow poets, near and far whether at home or in a bar, come and join us in a bee to meld our mediocrity. You review my book and I will yours. We'll lend our thoughts on poetic tours of each other's work which we've collected, pored over, parsed, and then connected. Your book was lovely, its poems deep. I read it all ere I could sleep. Each line, each theme, each metaphor, kept me enthralled and wanting more. I give it four stars and nothing less. Of the many I've read, it's among the best. So as you savor this glowing review, remember that mine is perfect too. |
The Garden of Songs
by James L. Corcoran
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Plant here the alphabet some patchouly some wine there in the garden sprinkle a little lyric on a poem and see her hand come up to it orphic tantrums caught in spring flowering symphonies from dawn beaming through the dance amidst bliss carrying rhapsodies of swirls of songs exhaled of Sirius and mirth of magic and melancholy songs of birth and death songs ruling day and more songs the music of Apollo played on the pipes of Pan rendering the serenades of sirens and silences the measure of rhythm and the rhyme of jazz songs that make you start singing in your feet and make you stand up and yell songs of the gypsies that tell stories and games of songs medleys and melodies sojourning and meandering poetry and music and prose the songs that chime and songs that hail songs that sum up and quantify notes of quality digital songs and analog tunes runes of notes of songs gone by and then a song for all that is forgotten a song of songs |
Relationships
by Caroline Johnson
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A yellow goldfinch on a tall sunflower pulls seeds from the brown center, gathering what he needs, while every day life slips away from us, a smile lost, a hug that never quite reaches outstretched arms. We yearn for symbiotic relationships--a nod of the head, the ring of the cell phone, horseback riding with a friend, easy conversation with a cup of Java. We need the familiar among the strange, turning on a light switch in a darkened room, petting a cat whose whiskers graze your hand, understanding a sentence in a foreign tongue, cutting your knee only to have a nurse dress it. Losing your senses only deepens the connection-- a Braille book describing sunsets, a signed conversation about Spanish infused Jazz. (Published in Prairie Light Review, Autumn 2006) |
When I Knew
by Wilda Morris
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When we were walking across town and suddenly the cardinals and robins ceased their songs and wind dashed through windows blowing papers off desks, and rain spilled from the grey bowl of sky straight down, washing the green Pontiac, bouncing like balls from the asphalt, rinsing leaves of oak and cottonwood, snowball bushes and daisies on front lawns, the squirrel pulled its tail over its back, twin boys in matching blue overalls with sea-blue shirts, shoes in hand, giggled through the gully oozing from the pavement ignoring their mother's calls to come in, and the teen who had been sauntering down the street in blue jeans and tight tee dripping as if she just got out of the shower, cursed under her breath because her curls had washed out, accepted a ride from the boy whose scratched up Ford squealed to a stop when he saw her, and watching them, I slipped from the walk, falling into the edge of a not-yet-planted garden and you reached down and pulled me up into a muddy hug, oblivious to the dirt smearing your shirt, it was then I knew. (First published in Willow Review, XXXIV, 2007) |
There's War
by Sandra M. Bringer
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I Said the well heeled to a Sudanese, what have you to say? Your face is worn, your clothes torn. When's the last time your hair was shorn? Humiliated and frightened looking over his shoulder he whispered, There's War. II Outside observer here for the day files reports to superiors about the disarray. Hey Iraqi, what's your story? Look at this place, not one happy face, no trains or planes to take one's leave. When can we expect a democracy? Unarmed civilian fist raised, belligerent shouts, There's War. III Holy Land tourist to Palestine curious to know what's new on the home front? More woe and defeat, your energy spent, your people beat. Is all you can say the same status quo? Clenched teeth, defiant, veiled ready to die, no end in sight, There's War. IV Their eyes are on fire a fact finder notes. Child soldiers your mothers are weeping. Young killers, days filled with rampage and horror, sleep without peace. Enough tears for a lifetime, when will your pain cease? Disappearing in war's black hole child voices softly cry, There's War. V Do-gooders say rally citizens. Can you not see? War's not your fate, it's unseemly. Look how we give. Pray like us, this may all go away. The lectured throw their hands up filled with despair, if God's not on our side can anyone care? Sitting in refugee camps, dependent on small mercies, afraid of reprisals, careful what they say, There's War. VI State officials and newscasters repeat words coined for public consumption. Insurgents, catastrophic, genocide, advances and waves, stay the course; updates will follow, with more troop reports. The stakes are so high it's a sin to ignore these words are echoes from wars fought before. Few lessons learned, no solutions born, There's War. VII Today's newest ware refugees plod on their way, half-hearted, mired in mud, weakened and sickened at family blood. Numb. Feet as heavy as stone wonder if they'll ever see home? Ammunition smoke rises, baby throats burn, the aged drop at each turn. The world heaves her greatest sad sigh for all those fallen and the next to die, There's War. |
All of Us
by Dr. S. V. Rama Rao
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All of us wanted to return to India after completing the education. Never dreamt that our stay would be so long - years and decades are passing by, we are still here - all of us. Our parents, brothers and sisters are there in India and we in America. Our young daughter born in this land of opportunity, performs Bharatanatyam classical dance of India, chants Bhagavad Gita the holy book of Hindu religion, and eats our Indian spicy food in a funny manner - mixing all the curries including fried-okra with curd-rice. When she speaks in broken Telugu, our mother tongue from South India, it sounds like she is singing in English. She keeps the American and Indian flags on her study desk, watches romantic movies in Telugu language and sings American pop songs. America is not an alien land, simply a different country like India, she says. For the two countries she is the connecting bridge. Water is the same in all the rivers, and in any country the snow is white. The lake water in my home town Palos Hills, a suburb of Chicago in America and the canal water in my birth place of Gudivada of Andhra Pradesh State in India are the same except in name. Where we came from shows the mirror, where we are heading shows our daughter. |
Ireland in Summer
by Bonnie Manion
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Geraniums splash whitewashed cottages in giddy red under the splay of early morning light, and a jumble of raspberry brambles garlands the knobby cobblestone roadside girdle. Bursts of lavender rhododendron bejewel glades of dappled apple-green, while meadows patched with brilliant gorse blanket the languid afternoon. Clover and heather fling their pungent scents, cling wild afresh moldering ancient slopes, and rose boughs tumble down innumerable walls of crumbling memorial ruin. A fusion of blooms lingers in the gloaming, a plump mothering scent calling me home across the gathering skirted darkness of twilight shimmering on the Irish Sea. |
piracy policy
by Andrew Rafalski
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I read the Terms and Conditions the piracy policy calls for severe penalties if you use software without paying for it in addition it's not your software even if you pay for it your rights may be withdrawn at any time it says so right there and if you violate the terms you may be prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law and more: by twisted interpretation of the Patriot Act you may be found guilty of sedition or treason and be sent to gitmo and no one will ever hear from you again until a new Cuban revolution might free you and wouldn't that be ironic or maybe peachy but don't repeat this I may be prosecuted just for daring to think it to the full extent of the law it says so right there in fine print click Yes if you want to keep breathing |
The Wolf by the Bed
by Mardelle Fortier
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I lay huddled in my old flannel gown, my chill sweat cringed. Buried in thick gloom, my bedroom seemed disconnected from other rooms. Far from parents, I watched the wolf prowl toward me, only the ears showing above the blankets. Those hyper-alert ears knew all about me: my exact position on the narrow bed and the locked state of my tongue. My hope had gone down with the sunlight. I was nothing but a frozen ball of dread and fear. No sounds, small and tremulous, fluttered past the chains of shadows. I forgot my clothes, my books, the order of grammar, math and science. I lay still as the lump caught in my throat. I never analyzed the origins of the wolf as it drew closer...breath was jailed in dim cramped lungs and heart raced in vain to get away. If only I had known: this wolf too was trapped; it came from my own brain. (Published in Prairie Light Review, Spring '08) |
Little White Circles
(Angels of Love)by Rick Sadler
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Little white circles surround me in a photo I can't explain why they are there as though They are angels there in my little garden As if they are protecting me and guarding Me from all evil that trouble me in life Sent from Above to take away my strife Maybe they're one of nature's special effects As drops of rain in the sun's light reflects To the camera lens is a part of my soul That you see standing by the bean pole I like to think of them as angels dancing Around me in my imagination enhancing My love for God and all the marvelous of Wonders in our universe in angels of love Dedicated to: Jessica Hall |
When Poems Are Still
by Alan Harris
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It is calm of times now, poems having disappeared like a mist. Yesterday's nagging scintillations that promised a tryst of wordings now lie content below any saying, any art. Quite free from poetry is almost any peace until some brazen poet arrives to stir up some alphabet soup-- but the very deepest calms, like a sea bottom, lie mute beneath all chop of words and wind. Today let there be rest from poems and from other twistings of the mind, for it is calm of times now, free enough for wordless breath, and breath, and breath. |
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