MM's Represented Poems for 2007 Options

[Cleo_Serapis]

JANUARY SELECTIONS:


The Ravin’ by JustDaniel

Oft I dream, my body shakin’; worried wife cannot awaken.
Though I’m safe abed, she’s anxious; twice I’ve fallen on the floor.
Once she woke me from my slumber… seems I swore… a nasty number!
3 AM today, while tremblin’, something nearly soiled my drawers.
What’s that high-pitched screeching, screeching? She’s awake now and beseeching,
“Dear, what is that awful shrieking? Peek inside the closet door!
Only this, and nothing more!”

“Why don’t you? You are awake now… and of course you have the know-how;
must be Ollie trapped inside there; crazy cat’s behind the door.”
“No, it’s something else,” she worried; still she wished that I had scurried.
“Hurry up; get up, you crazy, lazy lump… but watch the floor!”
Still, I nearly fell… then righted, while she watched, now more affrighted
as I stumbled, bleary-sighted toward the stupid closet door…
now expecting blood and gore.

Tripping over clothes not laundered, step-by-step, in dark I wandered,
squandered time as I moved nearer, nearer to the closet door.
What’s behind it…? Now I’m fearing… and the fear’s not disappearing!
What could be there crying, crying? What’s behind that closet door?
Inch-by-inch… then hesitating. Why is she so obligating?
She could look herself inside it… I’m a man who’s scared… best hide it!
“Don’t you worry!” I implore.

Then I feel my body quiver… kidneys, bladder, even liver…
it’s gut-wrenching, teeth now clenching; I hear something like a snore.
Looking back… my wife is screaming, and behind, a light is beaming,
beaming till my eyes are burning… burning fire I can’t ignore.
“Turn the light off; I can’t stand it!” I yell back… yes, I demand it!
“Wake up, Daniel; stop that screaming!” It was I that I heard snore.
‘Twas a dream, and nothing more.

© Daniel Ricketts 30 Oct 2006

Sing to Me by Eisa

Cradle me, Mammy --
in your warm arms I’ll inhale
the fragrance of your skin;
playing ‘butterflies’,
eyelashes flutter
against each other’s cheeks.

Sing to me, Mammy,
lift me with your spirit
in rousing hymns;
soothe me with lullabies,
swaying ‘til I rest.

I’m growing old, Mammy,
yet that little girl lingers --
longing for the solace
of your embrace.
When sleeplessly tired
I ache for the lilting
timbre of your voice
to wrap me in peace.


© Eira Needham December 2006


Mammy – Welsh dialect

The Phantom by Merlin

I

When dawn arises, spreading dulcet rays
across her vast expanse of peaks and draws,
nocturnal creatures tread on silken paws
back to their lairs ahead of morning’s haze.
A herd of horses in one treed retreat
begins to stir and move to grazing grounds;
spry, frisky foals carouse in leaps and rounds
as docile mares choose grasses fresh and sweet.

A cabin, nestled near a forest crook,
takes life with golden lamplight glow; its smoke
ascends in blue-gray plumes to disappear.
When Josh awakes, he takes a yearning look
to where his hills turn sable-cobalt-oak
and Hogback Ridge keeps chanting in his ear.


II

To local folks, The Phantom is a myth
like many kept alive across the plain
by cowpokes long in tooth and tough in grain
who claim they’ve felt this stallion’s fiery breath.
Those tales relate how he’s a patriarch
that keeps his harem free from spur and bit,
though loudmouth punchers brag how they’d outwit
The Phantom, but each effort missed its mark.

Josh rode his grula through an open green,
exploring Hogback Ridge’s weaving streams
and chanced upon a fresh, but well-worn trail.
He rode uphill to check what could be seen
and watched as wonderment change into dream –
light wind caressed The Phantom’s mane and tail.


III

Where mountaintops are capped with ice and snow
and stillness fills each valley to its brink,
a youngster stops to give his horse a drink,
dismounting while cool, placid waters flow.
Josh hears a whiney as The Phantom throws
his head around, now sensing something wrong
and starts to move his trusting herd along
the bottomland. A soothing zephyr blows.

Josh checks his cinch, remounts, and heads for home
since noon has passed them by some time ago;
his grula breaks into an easy trot.
With mind awhirl, Josh wishes he could roam
wild as The Phantom, free as west winds blow,
his restless spirit never to be caught.

[Cleo_Serapis]

MARCH SELECTIONS:


On the Wire by AMETHYST

I appear a threadbare crack
against an ashen sky,
unnoticed,
if not for the winds
that sway me.

Society confabulates
a chaotic void
through my cylindrical sphere;
easily dismissing
my existence,
until God's breath
breaks me.

Steadfast, I endure,
second by second, uniting
family to distant family,
closing the miles
into a hair's-breadth,
connecting conversations,
creating friends from strangers.

I'm privy to their private notions,
entrusted to carry off dirty confessions;
dark and sate of passion, sacred
truths, and unholy lies.

It is lonely listening to chatter,
in all their apathy--they hunger
for consolation; I bring solace
in a single ring.

I am a conduit of universal need,
funneling energy of an over extended perseity-
a conducer of their lives --

and yet, it is the birds, perched
along my fibers that contemplate me.
As sparrows rest and blue jays sing,

"Tek, Tek" an ebon crow calls,
inviting human-kind
to pay homage to my silent prominence.


Transcendence in Alice's House by azurepoetry


"...the Arts transcend limited social boundaries like class, race, and nationality."
– Turiyasangitananda (a.k.a. Alice Coltrane, in memorandum)


Tuned to the burning stars within our cosmos,
she touched the harp, releasing
souvenirs plucked like musical notes
from collections of journeys beyond her inner ear.

How can I chart the depth of dripping candles,
that measure the spiral shadows of a staircase
or calculate the dimensions of a black hole
that fills the space between ivory keys?

She drew a line from her legacy
to the cluster of Pleaides--seven sisters
intertwined in her delicate hands,
yet independent like the sturdy legs
under her grand piano, when she played

bop that transfigured the teardrops of Shiva
into falling grains of sand.
Encircled in fire, He also beat the celestial drum
for her lover, who rose through divinity
around the cleansing scirocco of tenor saxophone,

into the mythology of jazz.


Juxtapositions by Gregory



Earth Envy

Deep, deep is that purple distrust
that hangs over the moon’s eyes,
an inviting veil in some exotic dance.

She looks out on space
alone
in her craggy emptiness,
rocky barrenness,
at that supple, wet, glorious
green and blue blossoming beauty,
so favoured in colour
by that same fearsome sun
who burns one half
and leaves the other
for the frozen wastes of space.

Moon Envy

She is beautiful tonight,
in her mottled, gilded, lace,
sewn with precision
never faltering, arc by arc
into orbit.

Serenity pares her eye
then lends it light
unfalteringly.

From bliss, what could she yearn?
This mess of extinction arbitrarily
emerging from fertile soil?

This bewildering organism?
To be locked in the ever-returning,
what bliss!