The Rain
© Steve De France

Waking to the sound of rain,
I stumble to my keyboard
to rewrite a poem or two.
But instead, I sit quietly listening
to the soft footed rain walking around
my garden as my heart beats a quiet rhythm.
 
Yes, there were plants that needed nourishment.
the Pettisporum by the garage & the Japanese
Bamboo along the fence---all need this much
anticipated rain.
But very soon so much water comes down
comes down hard---it seems to threaten
to be more than just what we need.
 
Is it a fresh start---new life?
 
My heart beats faster & something emerges
sprouting inside my chest---a kind of hope
that after this rain
clears up---so will the dryness in my life
this long dry spell
this tedious & unrelenting dry spell
this time in the desert
this nervousness that makes me
stumble apprehensively
from my dreams---from my warm bed
from my sleeping cat
at 3:23 a.m.
this gnawing recognition that life is ephemeral
this knowing that not even a million poems
can hold back death & time for even a single day
this knowledge that a simple microscopic virus
can end our life & destroy whole civilizations
that have grown from my finger tips.
 
This night leaves me alone
listening
to the soft silver rain.
Guessing
at the length of my heartbeats.



a purpose under heaven
© Christopher Mulrooney
 
I shouldn't like to think at all
the pearls of wisdom
have stunt doubles
emerging from the giant clam
at the bottom of the sea
in the diver's clasp

he rises amidst bubblings
with a bag in one hand
a knife in the other
to the meniscus
among the water-striders
jockeying for position
in your dreams aquatic or maritime
in the books

furrowed fields not to be led
a dance
to a merry tune
not to have been led

a very merry dance
that signifieth
inexchangeable
proprietary virtues
in a pearl of great wisdom
a costly pearl

not to think of great ladies
shimmying down into the depths
either
no not down her front
the secluded string
nor extruded from ocean
the marginal waters
a fragrant selection
hand-picked
for the sellers' growers' market
in the city where anything
has its backvalue
in forefront shops
on quicksilver lanes
under a lapis lazuli sky
and clouds of tissue paper
felt grass
"a ruby heart that beats"
the measured gold of a sundial
telling the time

the clockwork stars
of a primal urge

to sanctified heaven
the waywarden assessing the purport of
this and that suspicion of chrism
on the waywoodware
supplied by travoys
in the Champlain fields
at Christmastide



Current
© Jennifer Lester

Ideology's strength
Is sometimes meant
To be challenged,
Subverted;
Uprooted by the root.
 
Enter the poem:
Open like a door,
Fluid like a stream,
Taking one far
From argument's
Tyrannical anchors;
From the concept
Of mooring entirely.



Who decides
© David E. Howerton

Outwardly we speak tolerance
yet inside we harbor hate
stoke its fire letting it burn us
out from within
leaving only shell filled
by cold.

Starts easy nothing overt
you make others victims
your choices can't have them
being cured.
As good citizens
they're inconvenient but
veneer them in evil
and throw them at the weak minded majority
as a group they become bogey men
and legally hated.

Torch them
burn them
drive them from town
keep them out of good jobs.

Then every year or more often
force them to register
fingerprint and a picture.

Bogeyman walks
but he's not the one you were warned of
it's okay to hate that one.

Be worried about those
standing behind curtains
telling you
it's okay.



All, or Nothing at All
© Luke Salazar

Variety, the stuff of life -
we seldom see in blacks and whites.
We have a “rainbow,” one might say,
of hues and views in every way.

So when a certain Senator
(for yuks we'll call him “Larry Craig”)
claims that he sends, and not receives,
it seems he's saying he's “half-gay.”

Some footsie in a bathroom stall?
Some interns plucked from Senate's halls?
It's just your life you've lost (so far)
being half of who you really are.

Some words of wisdom, buttercup...
“.5” is usually rounded up.



Theater Notes
© Jonathan Rapp
    for Nancy Rodwan

The almond grove’s features
Delicate not fine enter

Like a broken windshield
Floating away from its car

Held in place only by blue
Tint.

Who is whistling to them
Like a polonium-poisoned spy
Thinking of his favorite rowboat?

Who is stomping his feet?

Be quiet!
The light is playing thirty-second-
Notes    throwing its
 
Demisemiquaver.



Love on Paper,
                   Celluloid
© Hari Bhajan Khalsa

Mostly they’re a silent film: A grainy night, the long platform. A train
pulls in. The piano steams and clanks.

They love each other dramatically: galloping tenderness, animal
of their quarrels, of sex, sweet forgiveness, little notes pressed with petals.

The audience, married to their lips, leans in. He taps his cane. She fumbles
for a handkerchief in the furls of her dress.

Unconditional, comes to mind, swaddling, a lullaby to dreamlessness,
at all costs, throw yourself in front of a speeding . . .

(The glances. Shifting feet.)

In the balcony a baby shrieks.

He steps into the last car. The music swells. Smoke strafes the gas lanterns.
The train gains speed. Chase it, the script says.

Weep as if your heart would burst.
(Her shadow. His blurred reflection.)

Still the piano.

House lights rise. Credits roll. Fade to a whirling tunnel.



"Calling it" at 3 a.m.
© Jeffrey Alfier

After his wife of four decades coded
for the last time, the voices of the surgeon
and her kind secretary, faded to white noise,
the floor beneath him suddenly
like uncertain ice. As he ambled down
the stairwell and out onto the first floor,
he improbably noticed, for the first time,
how spotlessly clean the hallways were.

Around the corner a bemused nurse
nearly stumbled into his path,
their footfalls suddenly audible.
They tried to slip past each other,
taking a few halting steps, each seeking
to go their way. When he stood still,
as a gentleman, to let the lady pass,
she almost quipped, thank you for the dance.



All She Can Do
© Tobi Cogswell

Her tongue curls as if tasting hot chocolate in secret
she can’t make you feel wanted -
all she can do is kiss you sometimes, sighs
low, barely audible, not taking too much.
She might whisk the stars to make you look
but cannot help the clouds that shield her.
She stands at the fire to keep you warm,
ice crystals glisten as they fall at her feet.

The wind on the waves foams and
the smell hits the back of your throat.
The water is black, you can only
imagine the life beneath.  You want
to be floating in her arms
but all she can do is kiss you sometimes.
Watch as the nouns she’s forgotten
fly to the angels, she holds you close,
her white sweater hinting of marshmallow
and gold - she could begin and end in you.

The moon a neon sign of lonely, she
wonders if you are looking upward and
thinking of her.  She can still
write the words to make you blush but
all she does is kiss you sometimes.
And now it is so cold, she opens her
coat for you to step inside,
breathe –