April 2005
VOL XIII Issue 4, Number 144
Editor: Klaus J. Gerken
Production Editor: Heather Ferguson;
European Editor: Moshe Benarroch;
Contributing Editors: Pedro Sena; Michael Collings; Jack R. Wesdorp; Oswald LeWinter
ISSN 1480-6401
INTRODUCTION
K.S.Subramanian
Anger on faultline(Tsunami attack in South India)
CONTENTS
K.S.Subramanian
Reversal of Roles
War a crime
Tributes to an Industrialist-friend
J. Donald Coonrod
Holy with the Worm
Halfway Men
Irish
Communion
Graham Tiler
THE DEATH OF POETRY
THE IMITATORS
ALL THE POETRY IN THE WORLD CANNOT SAVE YOU
Deacon Bruce
MAROONED 3: THE MAZE
Santiago B. Villafania
PRELUDE TO REDEMPTION
swansong of the sea
Pangasinan
To the Poets of Pangasinan
The Tumatagaumen*
Caboloan
Prelude to Redemption
David Sparenberg
psychosis
YOU
ASHOK NIYOGI
INADEQUATE WORDS
MESSAGE
ALONE
ELEPHANTS DIE
GOOD MORNING
Dan Gallik
The Distant, Quiet Clap Of Thunder
The Stroke Of The Bell Under Water
In Praise Of The Moon And Men
Roger Taber
THE WORLD THIS WEEKEND
ALT-CTRL-DELETE
BATTLE LINES?
POINTS OF VIEW
HOMEWORK
POST SCRIPTUM
Roger Taber
VIEW FROM A CHURCH WINDOW
K.S.Subramanian
Anger on faultline(Tsunami attack in South India)
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The wall of sea water roars
down in unsatiated appetite,
mashing all on the way;
Anger on the faultline
brooks no favours.
Many affrighted cries were
swept away; convulsive sobs
of the living choked in the
entrails of hopelessness;
Relief may or may not reach
them; where to retrieve the
roots from disemboweled sand?
Or to relive the agony of
renewal, the irreplaceable
loss of the dear ones?
On the trail of the mutilated
coastline the debris reveals
dessicated memories; The
orphaned stare at the bleached
skyline; smelling the stench
eagles circle high, darkly
eyeing the emaciated dogs;
vandals reap of windfall
out of sightless death.
Hearts open up in a tide of
compassion for the disconsolate;
Today's danger could return
in the morrow.
The joy of living expires in
the unforeseen tunnel of death;
And the despair of loss
amputating the mind.
K.S.Subramanian
Reversal of Roles
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Take a deep breath, let it out
slowly, as if gold not to be lost;
Over four millenniums ago, Buddha did
to cleanse mind of traces of soot;
'Not for a berth in heaven'- his candid
message; "No faith in after-life,
Keep mortality off desire's frost.
Death levels all, prince and the poof';
A different rumble in the eons;
"Time has seen reversal of roles,
shadows deftly blurring the lines
in faces, despairing for mundane goals;
Every Age sees a swarm of half lives,
Also a rainbow dazzling in the skies;
Shelley's clarion was off track Oh! West Wind!
How will sprout seeds the earth has disowned?
War a crime
~~~~~~~~~~~
Is Reason a torch to a blind alley?
From Stone Age has it taken humanity
to light, yet trapped in the tunnel?
Science, the precious gift of Reason,
a throwback to the Age of Stone?
War, fought with weapons antique
or modern, preys on the innocent,
leaving scars indelible on psyche;
Scars that are beyond the veil
of time, a crime no court can condone;
These queries, buried in the basement
of conscience, are ever alive to Man.
But Man and history are parallel streams,
ever at war, split at the seams.
Tributes to an Industrialist-friend
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
A long tiring journey; lids close
for the night, not for sleep;
Memories, some warm, some blase,
crowd in leaving no moss;
Under the blazing Sun, I take a peep
at one to let spirits rise;
He, on odd mix of mind and brain,
dallied with the wisdom of the Muse;
Self-made, well-travelled but withdrawn
he let his self warm into pen;
A student of Muse, not of its school.
Death nipped buds springing late;
A particle of faith, deathless in my file,
is his testimony to me, fellow poet.
J. Donald Coonrod
Holy with the Worm
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Creation's light, sunny as lemon
curled up in dawn, so mysterious
a pharaoh's muse could not
divine it's ten dimensions
and time; Superstrings
locked in loops, serpents
in ecstasy;
steaming life in a garden of Eden
where softly murmured death
remembers all too well
love forgotten.
I am old, a rock soaking up sun
in a kingdom created by
mathematical rhyme;
entropy, sine waves of birth
and death going up
and coming down --
Oh, I'm holy,
I'm divine, but
only with the worm.
Halfway Men
~~~~~~~~~~~
Those yearning youths
went too soon into an
archipelago of bitter doom,
taking their last communion
laced with political wine.
They forgot that their tumbling
adolescent bodies, touching,
reassuring each other
as halfway men,
could bring races
and faiths together,
not in war, but simply,
as they played
their tumbling games
among the leaves
and cold breezes
of spring.
Irish
~~~~~
Secret life
in a bog;
settled,
all sucked down;
the longing
rattles of morning
conversation, brogue
of fried eggs and coffee,
never hesitating to
fly outside the safety zone.
Mother's life
was secret;
dark haired Irish
ways any woman
who relished life
and won her meals
in constant combat
with the unreal,
envied.
Hers was a life of love
of sulfurous sounds
that stripped trees
of their blossoms
and filled the mind
with duty, and brought
the Celtic cross
home for a personal trial.
Communion
~~~~~~~~~
Flowers of ice
embroider frozen streets
on the way to the dark cathedral;
my breath rises heavenward
and I follow it
with the luminous eyes
of a great eagle in flight,
it's heart beating in my breast
as I consume Creation's wafer
of love and doom.
Small sins of my fifteen years
weigh on my soul--
dread that I will not awaken
when snow flowers rise up
from frosted graves to bloom
at the Resurrection--
but my longing to dwell forever
in skies where shadows
of love and death
form a single seam
brings eternal forgiveness.
Graham Tiler
THE DEATH OF POETRY
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Come quickly
The poetry is dying
Its been held up by scripture and song
All the doctors are holding up mirrors
But none seem to know where it's gone
It left late at night
In a taxi
But the taxi crashed into a wall
The walls name was Judas iscariot
But Judas was not meant to fall
Then the doctors they cried out for Judas
But Judas groaned
Poetry's been framed
I framed it for murder
From memory
I needed its love to be tamed
So Judas was placed in a prison
He escaped just by being to thin
You can't murder the poetry by memory
You just have to get under its skin
You have to burn holes in your memory
For poems to breath and escape
And if Judas iscariot comes calling
Then tell him he'll just have to wait
THE IMITATORS
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
My memory cannot be so intimate
Too much tyranny
And to little hope
I limit myself
To the imitators
Someone somewhere is impersonating me
The sound of their voice crashes against the morning
They are using my skin as a sleeve
And pretending to be a once proud king
ALL THE POETRY IN THE WORLD CANNOT SAVE YOU
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
All the poetry in the world
Cannot save you,
When the clouds to the moon
Do not call
And the lost and the lonely deceive you
Into believing that you cannot fall.
And in falling from truth and from splendour
From fortune and falling from grace
Prepare for your heart to surrender
To the ghost of your love without trace
To the ghost summon armies of soldiers
And captain those armies to call
To seduce you then into believing
That the poetry can help break your fall
On this road there can be no solution
So majestic to free you from pain
Whose bravado will call without longing?
Into breaking your heart once again
When the light of the heart falls to darkness
No solution in words can be found
Just a cruel sense of duty parading
Like a leaf as it falls to the ground
If the angels bring forward in rapture
A place for the soul to find rest
Make way for the words and remember
That alone you cannot pass the test
Though the wisdom of words may deny you
The pathway that leads to your heart
Or the fortune of future unknowing
The moment that love will depart
So all the poetry in the world
Cannot save you
It's just sounds that are trapped on the page
That Just keep you from living and breathing
And escaping from poetry's cage
Deacon Bruce
MAROONED 3: THE MAZE
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
My legs feel as though they are about to collapse
Beneath the weight of my fatigued body
I cannot believe that I have been in here this long
With no sense of direction and no sign of progress
The darkness is eradicating my sanity
And the loneliness is tormenting my spirit
In truth I want to end this journey where I stand
But somewhere within the still and silence
I hear a calm voice telling me to walk on
My frustration gets the better of me
With clenched fists I strike the concealed wall before me
And let out an agonizing scream that echoes in the night
Where are you?
Why won’t you show me the way?
Why won’t you lead me out of this maze?
Minutes pass without resolution and my rage subsides
Then as before I hear the gentle voice again
Closer to me and more soothing than ever
“I am standing right by your side”
It is difficult to believe that there is another soul
Anywhere within the resonance of my rave
But with strength from beyond myself
I am raised from my bruised knees to continue my trek
Never before have I more clearly realized the significance of light
Or longed for the last flicker of a dieing flame
With many doubts in my mind and fear in my heart
I stretch out my arms once again and place my sore hands on the wall
Very slowly I place one foot in front of the other
And begin to feel my way along the rough planes
Of the pitch black enclosure.
Santiago B. Villafania
PRELUDE TO REDEMPTION
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
swansong of the sea
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
that night i heard the swansong of the sea
the erolalias of nameless lovers
stealing a heaven and eternity
there was a crysong of a pilgrim bird
that punctuated the silence of the night
but the winds and the waves whispered a hush
i waited for the waking of the day
feeling the breathing of the earth beneath
the palpitations of the Milky Way
then Atlas moved a finger and it came
the gyrations and the sudden trembling
O the sea had wings of a tsunami!
death came without warning or a reason
to those who heard the psalms of oblivion
and then i heard the swansong of the sea...
and the crysongs of those who went away
Pangasinan
~~~~~~~~~~
here in the captive country of my heart
there is no bardic voice or Catullus
or a tenth muse to climb its Parnassus
and so i carry this primal passion
to paint with words and colours to reclaim
the emerald days of Caboloan -
its histories and legends written on
the translucent pages of oblivion
till i fall with years haply forgotten
my memory grey with uncovering
the fulcrum of my orient beginning
and the beauty of my unBabeled tongue
in time perhaps they will remember me
in parthenons i will build for poesie
To the Poets of Pangasinan
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
you left us with naught but remnants
of your past lives in earthen jars
your poems are flowers in the wind
that we no longer remember
you have no marble monuments
no monolith or obelisk
no remembrance of your prowess
but names in ancient syllables
your drowsy songs outlived your youth
though we sing them now at the wakes
and the spirits of your rice wine
too bitter now for our own taste
and the cup of your last supper
that too is buried with your earth
this is how you abandoned us
here in the crescent land of salt
The Tumatagaumen*
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
they disappeared one after the other
like epiphytic plants that once cupped
the breasts of our virgin forests
the muses left their sun-flowered brae
when they heard no more the stories
and the brown songs of Caboloan
the ricefields turned from green into gray
without laughters without poetry
not even a day of remembrance
they went away into silence
leaving their random biographies behind
unsigned in the province of our minds
now they are still forgotten
until we learn how to remember
and reclaim what is ours to reclaim
their place in the history of the living
*/Storytellers and poet-priests in pre-Hispanic Pangasinan./
Caboloan
~~~~~~~~
pliant bamboos here
once stood like stalwart soldiers
green with dreams of birds
bees and beasts of burden
they are Buddhas
reclining on the banks of Agno
proud of their bamboo songs
and grass poems
and like the red-breasted warriors of Urduja
they too went into the dusk
of their extinction
forgotten
no dawn
no history
not even a memory of their genesis
in the crysongs of cicadas
Prelude to Redemption
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
much younger now
we the poets
of the brave new race
killing each other
with manufactured nuts
and bolts
we are a generation
of serpent-tongues
and x y z
impatient
with the oldspeak
of post - neo-modernism
our poems
consumable fast-foods
bonsaic
haunted by memories
of punctuations and histories
of metres and rhymes
we live our lives
in penthouses of Ivory Towers
reaching it through a backdoor
we are the shadows
of the elders we stabbed to death
chewed and spewed the pages of their soul
to paint
a translucent image
of our selves
to sign
our signatures in time
and redeem our Adamhood
David Sparenberg
psychosis
~~~~~~~~~
erratic disruptions
in the syncopation
of time
inversion of space---
bizarre
semi-worlds and
implosive geographies
puzzles
without connecting
pieces
maps
of fool's gold
mazes
of minotaurs
peopled
by bizarre
demigods and
explosive confrontations
fragmentation
of personality---possessive
masks and
ominous costumes of
shard-identities
mimes, mimics
poses, ventriloquism
and the sadomasochistic
cabaret
of manikins
then, ultimately, catastrophe!
the telescope
and the microscope
the periscope
three ways of seeing
without ever
being seen and
ultimately
isn't tyranny, the
erratic but
ever persistent will to
control or crush the
realities
of others (utterly, intimately)
the politics
of psychosis?
YOU
~~~
the morning is a flower
it highlights the color of your hair
the morning is the world's
forever diamond
sparkling on the jewelry
of your throat
the morning looks with envy
into the glimmering sunrise
of your eyes
it is a song of kisses
the smiles, soft and tenderly
as if from angel's touches
on those lips
the mouth of you
the morning has your name now
it breaths your breathe
it lingers and grows vibrant
in the music
of your heartbeat
today when I awake
and find the glowing ribbon
of dawn
I know nothing
except that this
the earth, with shadows
erasing, the sky
with light coming on,
the brightening of the life
sustaining air, the whisper
of the breeze,
all and everywhere, the same
you
and only you
(the deep song)
I cannot sleep
I cannot live
outside this dream
I cannot dream
but to have you
as clearly and as
purely as the dawn
everywhere
timelessly
before, behind
around
and within me
what is the
name of this day
what day?
what is the time
of this hour
movement! eternal moment
what is the mood
mood and meaning
of this creation
what agony! what ecstasy, despair!
it is all in a single word
it is you
...you
and I am like a
fire burning, flowering
in the desert of my longing
dancing love and
living, dying
in the crucible
of the sun
what is that
shimmering or shadow
what is that
sound of torment
in those trees
what is this
trembling now,
my heart stops
oh but I am
lost now and forever
but when I look now
I am racing
everywhere, always
running in my blood
chasing
the horizon
where you are
one
one and the same
one
one and no other
for there is you
and there is nothing
there is all
and all is where you are
I, oh, oh, oh.....o lover
drama
of my flesh and soul
I am like a
brush fire in the desert
I am burning, blossoming
drinking heat and cinders
of desire
drunken
in the glory
in your morning
with
and yet without you
and my words
words, poems
sweat out of me
crimson, gold and scarlet
pink upon your naked
skin in image
the solar consummation
of your body
the zenith
of the sex - oasis
smile upon the mirror
of sweet waters
and ah! ah!
ah, I, o lover
dying, I am
dancing, love
and living
how I love you!
feel it - feel
everywhere
always - here and
here and here again
intimacy
the intimate touching
all of it all
and what is it?
what?
it is you
and only you:
you (in the deep song)
ASHOK NIYOGI
INADEQUATE WORDS
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Let me depart
This play with words,
And enter
Sounds of nothing.
An earthen urn
Echoes river music,
Flows with the current,
To the inevitable dialectic
Of whirlpool sounds.
Let the river churn my blood,
Permeate through osmotic skin,
Until bed sheets lie crumpled,
Keyboards are shattered.
In the autumn of night
A white page stares at me,
I beat my breasts
Like an agitated gorilla
Ululating his mating call.
Hillsides reverberate
With urgent madness,
That is the message
In it all.
MESSAGE
~~~~~~~
But do I meander?
Did I have to say
Something to someone
Somewhere in time,
Do I run away?
I had made it habit
To lull myself with tales
Of glory, that will never be,
Now time is running out.
It will soon be dawn,
The morning wind
Will remind me
Of debts I will not repay,
Shorelines I should have touched
Sails tucked in,
Like a well behaved boat,
Groomed in poetic forms.
I need not have smoked,
Or heard the sounds
Of melting ice
In an empty glass.
Or held hands in the park,
Smelt the ocean,
Wept with War and Peace.
Now I blame the rules
For not keeping track,
I blame the froth
For the foam in my head,
And crumbling plaster
On bathroom walls.
The ants taught me
To march in single file,
But I never learnt.
ALONE
~~~~~
This is as philosophical
As keeping the count,
Binoculars trained
For a whale
That will never spout,
This is not the season,
Hamlet knew.
The Pilgrim knew,
As did the Wife of Bath,
This is discovery,
A poem on the Underground
By Sylvia Plath.
This is the season of butchery,
Bullfights without rules,
Lions shot with a precision rifle,
Selective breeding
On Noah’s ark.
This is as dark as it gets
In a daylight forest,
As stark
As one isolated note
From an aria,
As lonesome as one straggler goose,
Squawking, ‘take me along’.
ELEPHANTS DIE
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
They hunt in packs
Alone they are nothing
The Bears and Bulls
Until the market crashes
And they are rats
They glow in the night
Red eyes in black shapes
They aggressively feast
On a moonlit carcass
In the clearing
They have appetites
They theorize
In mainstreams of thought
Prevailing in that day and age
They laugh at Socrates
Controlled though
Because they are seeking tenure
The old elephant bull
Knows it is time
To cross the River
Majestic and final
It reaches the scrap yard
Of skulls and tusks
And lays down to sleep.
GOOD MORNING
~~~~~~~~~~~~
I have never
Actually seen all this,
I just fantasize
In theme parks and pubs,
During an Alumni picnic,
Or while exiting bookshops.
Dreamland concoctions,
Warehoused in letters
After mundane names
Inherited from
A not so erudite father,
I would have the blood pumped in,
What goes out
Must, after all be replaced.
Lines and phrases
Twisted through history
This way or that,
Like autumn leaves
In a tornado of dust,
Isolated
On a sunny day.
Sounds tell me
That life has woken up,
Time for cotton wool
In kidney trays,
Time for squirrels
To gather nuts.
They will open
This sarcophagus
After me, beyond me,
Let the wisp escape the willow,
They will gather dust.
Dan Gallik
The Distant, Quiet Clap Of Thunder
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
He said, the blow given to the head
with a hammer leaves its likeness
behind it impressed like the sun as
it swarms into the eyes. I visited
my husband in jail a year after he
killed our daughter. He continued,
The blow caused a slight sound, and
a little movement. One chord in my
lute has the same sound. A likeness
of that sound remains within me this
day. I decided I wanted to tell Luke
what he had done. And I did. He did
not hear and continued, I say that
every body moved or struck keeps to
herself for a time. The blow does
preserve in itself the noise of its
percussion. Ears keep in themselves
the image of a girl?s luminous body.
The Stroke Of The Bell Under Water
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Jim was swimming and thinking,
a calmness I have, summer and
water and my wife. I close my
eyes and see all of this within
the warmth of light. My ears
are below the line. Pulses of
love?s vibrations coming into
this scene. The echoes bellow
a continuous thumping. But, but
now, they are intermittent, and
I open my eyes and I see my wife,
and my relaxation is finite, and
concave has become love. She is
there. And I feel alone. She
is coming in the water. Winks
are telling me she is leaving as
soon as she retires. Going on
her own holiday. Changing her
life away from me. She wears a
made up face today. As her hair
color dissolves. Her body looks
better. All of a sudden I am
not swimming. All of a sudden I
am wading to shore. As I walk
past her. Towards death or one
more woman or my mom?s house or
another life as a car salesman.
One has become many under water.
In Praise Of The Moon And Men
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Last night the full moon touched
my eyes. Linn finally was seeing
the poetry in her life. I began
to see it through the small holes
within my irises. The cold love.
The dull light. The way it shines
its weight over my awful life. I
have had a natural diminution of
time. I wish to dwell within it.
At this point, the sun began its
rise. Was a cold day coming. As
winter began to tame itself slowly.
The light showed a hardened Lake
Erie. Linn decided to walk out
upon it near Edgewater Beach in
her bathing suit. Monday, and
the hum of tons of cars sculpted
in a rush the Lakeland Freeway.
No one stopped. 1 gull stood out
a hundred feet from shore. Linn
called to him. He did not turn
around. Linn proceeded. As she
arrived the bird tried to move.
But his feet were stuck in ice.
I will lay down upon the ice and
suck your feet. And free you.
You will then fly away. Following
your counterparts. Then, I will
continue to look for the moon.
Be warmed by my only child who is
on the beach watching me become
a fool of myself. For he loves me.
Roger Taber
THE WORLD THIS WEEKEND
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
In pastures green, desert sand
slither silent, unseen,
lessons unlearned
Fear - like a dead man's hand
appears sound, washed clean
in pastures green, desert sand
Words - like swords at the land
ripping out its spleen,
lessons unlearned
Love - a living, moving strand
of hope on the world scene
in pastures green, desert sand
Time - to make a stand,
against war and pain,
lessons unlearned?
Faith - keep us safe and sound
nor leave our wounds unclean
in pastures green, desert sand,
lessons unlearned
ALT-CTRL-DELETE
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Blank screen staring at me
like a dead man's eye
as if taken by surprise
at the moment of execution,
expecting pulse, heartbeat,
a flow of blood to the works
in spite of those quirks
of human nature that put a body
on hold whenever its world
ceases to turn, civilization
burnt out among the ashes
of personal ambition;
From inspiration, no helping hand
to guide pen or brush;
Desolation, a lush
wading through risen waters
of the earth, baring pain
like a rose its petals
in acid rain, deserving better
at Nature's hand than a travesty
of imitation urged by Man's
jealousy of God
As melting ice caps start to flood
this world of ours, we can lose heart,
drown in its worst nightmares (poet
found dead at the keyboard)
or find a voice
Our choice
BATTLE LINES?
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Asian, black, white young people
expressing frustration, not least
with Society's perpetration
of lip service to
integration;
Equal Ops, well-intentioned
policy; political correctness,
clever diplomacy and
whatever happened
to honesty?;
Sex, sexuality, colour creed -
our individuality, a need
to preserve but not at
any cost - or the war
already lost;
Racial identity, no ready sword
to hurt for hurting's sake,
defying harmony - along
lines of cultural
bigotry;
Let's turn to Peace and Love,
spurn taboos and other
"No-go" areas, learn
from history's
battle scars
Or bury our dead, rivers
of blood
POINTS OF VIEW
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
It won't do to be gay,
you said;
It won't do at all,
whatever -
People may pretend
not to mind -
but most prefer the company
of their own kind;
It could ruin your
life forever;
Better play safe -
take on a wife and semi,
raise kids, bash away
at Promotion's door, keep
the neighbours happy;
Discover (for sure?) how
acting "normal" hypes
a higher dividend
than throwing in with
gay types - to the
bitter end;
Equal Ops, a revolution,
but same sexes at the altar
and adoption - hardly
a proper option
Points of view, certainly,
but you're you, I'm me
HOMEWORK
~~~~~~~~
Photos by the bed,
posters on the wall,
press cuttings on a chair
likely to hit the floor
if someone opens
the door;
So the door stays shut,
keeping strangers out
while anxious faces debate
human rights, pollution,
nature conservation,
our salvation...
education, discrimination,
traffic congestion, political
correctness (on the face
of it), safer sex, drugs,
always having to
be alert;
Clamour of voices kicking
the soul, like a football
across the room;
Conscience, scoring
an own goal - now
and then;
Questions, answers, lies,
half lies, home truths
like moths to a light;
Please, someone, open
the door - and
let us out!
Roger Taber
VIEW FROM A CHURCH WINDOW
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
There's a thrill of blossom
on the old tree,
a greeny-white chirrup of noise
bouncing gently, like
a ball in child
hands
Every nuance of creation
about the old tree
tuned to perfection; you and me
shaking our heads at confetti
coming down like
acid rain
A hymn to life,
such beauty!
Tiny wafers of noise
tongued lightly
at the kissing gate
over there
Here, a dim view
of immortality
as we pass our seasons by
grown deaf
to each
leaf
All poems copyrighted by their respective authors. Any reproduction of
these poems, without the express written permission of the authors, is
prohibited.
YGDRASIL: A Journal of the Poetic Arts - Copyright (c) 1993 - 2005 by
Klaus J. Gerken.
The official version of this magazine is available on Ygdrasil's
World-Wide Web site http://www.synapse.net/~kgerken. No other
version shall be deemed "authorized" unless downloaded from there.
Distribution is allowed and encouraged as long as the issue is unchanged.
COMMENTS & SUBMISSIONS
* Klaus Gerken, Chief Editor - for general messages and ASCII text
submissions: kgerken@synapse.net
Or mailed with a self addressed stamped envelope, to:
