March - Poem 21
Persona Poem / Kathleen Bednarek
Poems that start with titles
end in poems titled “Poem.”
Fallen to earth in the land of the living
a sign from a number sequence,
this poem’s lines are a paper cut,
a 99 cent origami after the penny
has been retired.
A blender gifted to a stranger.
Nah, give it to a traitor, since it was won
at a 50/50 raffle.
Beauty is just symmetry.
The structure of flowers that fit
to the rods and cones in the eyes of invasive species.
I need a key cut to get into vaudeville.
Whoever lost money wiping windshields
and selling oranges to buy more
used this poem to even the score in an informal economy.
It was used to fill in the gap in the toe of too big shoes,
then was pressed too small by midnight
your heel slipped.
Sprayed with itching glitter,
flustered by strobe lights,
given its blessing to exist as a mirror,
it hooked on a feeling that wouldn’t quit,
then wandered over…
Tossed a magazine aside. People.
Red Name / Mymona Bibi
after Emily Skaja’s black lake, black boat
red rain, red raid,
streets know us better
than we know each other
red sky, red sun,
catch us in existence
in the fog, in the crowd
of foes
flash red, speak red,
tongue cherry, flavoured red,
clutching the flyers
in your pocket
red doors, red yards,
know your rights,
red writes, red wrongs,
don’t let them pour
your brothers blood
into your cup
red bins, red buses,
bodies cover bodies
hidden body
behind body,
red docs, red doxx,
the city is listening
‘that’s my name in its mouth’.
The eyes of the stove / Susan Hankla
have read and reread The Coloring Book of Revelation, because beyond its vivid colors
it is worded. In the dark at 4AM, after cooking over a hot stove all day long, cooking up
something art-reverent the eyes can't leave the olde cookstove all day long, unless the stove
is moved into a museum of has-been-appliances in the warehouse a stones' throw from
the Telephone Museum, our favorite stop.
The stove is still good, it functions better with use, even though it's an apartment sized,
even if a pound cake must be hand-rotated, lest it be raw on one side due to the floor here
in this house being uneven, even slanted. Yes, we know to turn our cakes and exactly when.
There's always something cooking up in here. We've got out the pressure cooker about to consecrate
jars for the grape juice of sacrifice to be drinked with the now-rising, Bread of Life. The prettiest
tea towel with tiny strawberries embroidered on it is draped over the rising dough in the tunnel
pan on the silver radiator in the sewing room.
Outside, the Mulberry tree keeps us in purple ink so we can keep ahold of newly created
recipes, which are harder to write than most poetic forms, because of the no gray areas
which their intricate chemistry demands. We have made a swinging desk to hang from our ink
pen tree, to swing in when we are falling-down in the spirit and need to be lifted-up from the dust
on the tent revival floor.
The Coloring Book of Revelation comes along, & we want to thank those who have financially
contributed to its construction. And also those who have demonstrated their faith in us.
Letterbox / Amy Haworth
Opened a drawer
and crossed into heaven.
How can it be
your words are here
on a card
when your soul is in heaven?
Somehow you knew
cursive swirls
carry your embrace
from everywhere
and nowhere.
Your thoughts
and encouragement
— now stars —
of your constellation.
Arranged as a life cut short
by a needle and relief.
A voice recorded
by your hand
and saved in the drawer
As if I knew.
For the Girl with the Wooden Cart / Christina McCleanhan
I have searched beneath layers of
rotted leaves from
harvests long scattered by
springs and snows for
daffodils and hope.
And I have lingered in the desire to rest.
I have twirled into rooms
filled with professed love, empty love, social love
and walked away with
one hand clutching at safety
while the other reaches for
a tree with limbs that
prepare for nesting birds and warm rain.
And I am amazed that life continues to feed me.
I will conquer the mosquito army
by the stagnating overflow...one day.
Not Easy / Elizabeth McGraw
It slides into the week
a day of rest
but rest is not so easy.
The week’s not yet done
but the shades are drawn on the work
that is not yet complete.
Roll into the weekend
and come with your list.
It won’t finish itself
you know this.
Close your eyes and wake once again to a day like another and wonder where is that day of rest we were promised?
RETIRED SHEPHARD DREAM ANALYSIS / Alexis Wolfe
been running on E like buzz buzz blap
earlier walked over to C’s studio sat beneath
treeshade told me about this dream his friend
spun jungian I’m sat in my little kid closet again
same one where I floorflat I can see the Christmas
lights all my toys same place I hid porn and H calls me
I’m knee begging her back and she says certain STOP
SHEPHARDING ME and I woke fast and we laugh
saying retired shepherd and ex-herder and Flock Off
these sorts of things then chirp his med change / walking around
in sleepstate three years never choosing
the person you’re choosing and sorrow that some lifelong
version of love is only ever winner / loser / winner / loser
N says it’s inability to integrate the feminine
aspect of self communication without sight
the closet is key a shepherd tends but wants control
it's biblical I tell him desire to keep flock is older
than the flock to know yourself a powerless animal
and bury this truth—amass amass amass hooves to trample it
