INTRODUCTION
Maria Jacketti
Zinnias and Nectarines
CONTENTS
Mandy Pannett
A DREAM OF CLIMATE CHANGE
ON A SILVER NOTEBOOK RECEIVED AS A GIFT
BIRDSONG
Averil Bones
STICHES I – IV
Clifford K. Watkins, Jr.
The Helm of Madness
The Walking Aborted
The Purpose of Genes
May River Madness
Moments to Minds to Madness
Stone
To Venture Alone
Gale Sprinkle
These Are Not
These hands
Kelly Ann Malone
Golden California
Comforts of Fear
Mortal Seasons
The Body Bag
We Wish
Penny Lee Pincher
Just Lucious
K.S. Subramanian
New Tribe
A windless Cell
Laura Stamps
THE ART OF SUBTRACTION
THIS ISN’T A POEM
IT’S THE SECOND WEEK
Steve Klepetar
Clumsy
Doubt
Ghosts in Love
Harbinger
Here Come The Tourists
POST SCRIPTUM
Stephen D. Rogers
ASSEMBLY REQUIRED
LOST AND FOUND
QUICKSAND
Maria Jacketti Zinnias and Nectarines ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Let us plant zinnias and nectarines in our garden of green rebellion before flowers become illegal before the nectarine leaves for another planet -- let the zinnias wear loud hats -- and the let the nectarines sweat ambrosia and marry outlaw apricots – and plums and while they’re at it – may they weave and kiss alive new crops : the black sheep melons will smell like bubblegum and coconuts – or whatever they want to smell like. Welcome to the farmer’s market in my glove compartment, the pasture up my sleeve, where you and I will plant the kaleidoscope, where our old dungaree souls will be nourished once again.
Mandy Pannett
A DREAM OF CLIMATE CHANGE
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Hot winds over Bruges.
Lightning
in Paris slashes the Seine.
In these, the most ancient of kingdoms,
we
are waiting our turn.
There is no rain.
We snore on with dry throats and eyelids
prickled in grit.
A dream
of wild frogs
in a tangle of jelly and slime.
Amber on beaches drifts with the tide -
vicious
in stickiness, a desperate lie.....
Over the Channel the hot winds creep.
There is no comfort
of rain.
ON A SILVER NOTEBOOK RECEIVED AS A GIFT
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
You are new to me; a face well washed;
eyes scribbled shut against soap.
There are stories in hiding here, offstage,
walkie-talkies and whispers, intercom calls.
I will ink you out with my impurities.
Fill you with garbage and wet leaves.
You are a cheap recording of spells,
a gaudy, tacky horoscope,
runes and psalms and one for all.
You are St Francis bestriding Assisi,
Clare in her chastity, Sister Moon.
You are Abelard broken, an ageing star,
Eloise imagined, alone.
You are a herring of Mercury,
jazz in a quicksilver sea,
scatter of coins from Judas a-strangled,
Midas= alternative dream.
Are you the solitary footstep in sand,
spotted by Crusoe, lonely man ?
You are down as the curse
of the Prince of Morocco -
sliver of chill on a Belmont night -
Sentence – Celibate, rest of his life.
And maybe you witnessed the crises
of Arthur’s bully boy gang?
Mid life, menopausal, no longer
a-questing, nothing of value
to seek any more, nothing to find
but themselves.
You are all of these things my notebook and none.
Fantastic
the gift we’ve begun.
BIRDSONG
~~~~~~~~
to write without pain
skimming. Dazzle
of gnats
my nerves bending
like wires
around curves
not seeing the weasel hung on the tree
the spartacus cross
claws on the twig.
Grey light washes the darkness away
and I have been waiting an hour
for the sound
of the first bird song
Averil Bones
STITCHES I
~~~~~~~~~~
I didn't think I'd sleep much
teetering, as I was, on a
canyon's cosy shrapnel edge.
First time in your bed, I was scared.
A single touch would have sunk me,
sent me tumbling down
precipitous battering slopes.
I hated to think that by morning
you might have me rolled,
bruised and dusty, and there'd go
my heart again, swallowed by the earth.
STITCHES II
~~~~~~~~~~~
I woke (still balanced on an edge),
at least as much as a day-dreamer
sleepless through the dark can do,
and the warm sun fell like lovely honey
through the open door
as you rode out into the day.
I threw down the covers of the bed.
The crevice was quite plain in the morning light.
Threading my bone needle with
strings of limpid courage,
I pulled the ragged edges of the blue sky
sheets together at its foot, dizzy with the depth
of the fall below me. My first stitch snapped.
My thread was not enough.
STITCHES III
~~~~~~~~~~~~
I gathered the faces of those
who had fallen from your walls,
melted them with water in a pot,
and spun a hot toffee mix that
hardened the string.
The smell was butter burning
after knot and stitch, but it seemed
it might just do the trick.
Knot and stitch, knot and stitch, and
the tussle of a tangle to hold me back.
I am from a fishing family,
wholly patient, sometimes to a fault.
Knot and stitch, stitch and knot,
sealing up the last gusty gap.
The mattress bulged and bucked
so I tested it first with your cat.
It held, but the cat ran away.
STITCHES IV
~~~~~~~~~~~
The honey sun dried my hair quickly,
and I ate naked in the empty flat.
The bed was still, calm, whole.
I tested its pillows, got trapped in the
sticky mess of morning sleep, woke
to buck and moan on the canyon
stitched into fabric. Yes, it was enough.
Clifford K. Watkins, Jr.
The Helm of Madness
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
you're the vision that I'm lost w/out
roaming whatever realm the mind seeks out
jousting at immaculate skies
your eyes like vivid stars illuminate my darkest dreams
bedazzling the night sifting what seems
your face
a vermilion dream
so ethereal
so divine
time is out
nothing is in
where to begin
I'm a coward much to my chagrin
with each glance I cower
and don't know how to begin
I'm a fiend
a drunkard
a fool for your bitchery
mired in misery
eccentric
and utterly blue
there's nothing I can do
It's futile
I love you
you're so lovely
and I'm a fiend or something
traveling thru shades of doubt
roaming whatever realm the mind seeks out
only empty recollections season that room
roaming whatever mind
whatever realm
nothing's sacred beneath the helm
The Walking Aborted
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
the realest word is pain
motorists steeped in a traveler's brain
easily annoyed
an angry convoy
death is the new porn
awake reborn
flowers wilt
a blend with the earth
come again
what's it worth
one sin
dancing strangers
temptation
danger
flawless whores with no reason to entertain
spotless floor
just come again
does the orgie end
and amid this lunacy
fools on passenger trains
feasting
breeding
searching for something
without this heaven is nothing
eager road is dust full blown
towering tunnels
a vast cemetery
and liberation never known
enter the civil forest
examine
contemplate
and complain
wisdom is the silent chorus
accept
relate
and remain sane
some things can't be explained
maybe outer space is god slamming a door in our face
forgotten beings
maybe we've been misplaced
rejected
or snorted
Maybe we're the walking aborted
The Purpose of Genes
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
no one knows why we dream
only that we're here for the purpose of genes
that are carried on by expedient lives
unable to crack the enigma of minds
so lost w/out a clue
we feast
breed
and die
polish our statues
and ponder the sky
dying with every subtle hue
slowly progressing experimental beings
smothered by reality
eaten by oneself
a feast of finality
maybe some day we'll attain immortality
some say inconceivable
never
who'd want the burden of living forever
imagine the boredom of a two-hundred-year bender
lost with depression
tired of being high
sedentary sighs
and ultimate surrender
it would be too much for even the most devout pretender
give me a muse
a reason to read
to write
and to be confused
the numbing pain of unattained love outshines ample tranquility
if only it doesn't kill me
we're all so alone
numbing the pain
so tired
and stoned
counting the days beneath gods on hour glass thrones
I want to go home
but I'm carried on by easy lies
as colors travel thru my eyes
bored with my sins
restless depression sighs
forget suicide
for far greater uncertainty resides
death
nothing's more perverse
don't get any worse
but life is the real trip
trying not to slip
and go cascading down
like an overzealous clown atop a burial mound
I love life
there's nothing more than this
only a promise of bliss
could be grandeur
may be worse
mere dregs of the universe
trying to rise above the rabble
a performer spewing useless babble
trying not to unravel
I hate the drive
but love to travel
May River Madness
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
a fire burns between a circle of fiends
bedazzling eyes
descending from a sky of strange stars
the river's mouth gaped
senseless
deranged
rapidly sparks fly
embers lie
and reflections linger unchanged
souls swirling in the night
fools jousting at stars
so wishful
so bright
Moments to Minds to Madness
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
got my shoulders don't need wings
a morsel of knowledge is all I bring
so senseless
so blind
so ethereal
so divine
this yearning I can't define
these thoughts embody all that's mine
an existence so lost in mind
searching for something that I'll never find
tears descend from inclement eyes
we're so trifling
and skies never clear
clinging to shards of life hardly residing here
reflections on calm waters distorted by skipping rocks
racing the clock
another heart stops
the functions of feeling
thoughts reel
and ideas are spilling
to think
an invitation to sink unknown
moments to minds to madness
a world abandoned full blown
Stone
~~~~~
we're just stones lying in a hollow
all so alone
lifeless we reign
and rest unknown
if only for tomorrow
might we shed our bloody bones
we're scarred by wisdom
it reminds us that we're alive
like playing with fire
or running with knives
for every living head thousands lie hollow
for those who lie insane comes the burden of tomorrow
for those who die in vain
we cling to sorrow
I want to be consumed by dreams
and madness in motion
the rolling of tongues
and television screens
To Venture Alone
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
to venture alone
a single stone hurled into winds of anguish
I can't surrender
I'm a void with nothing to relinquish
I'm a joke
a trivial game
I could be anything
taking the lord's name in vain
a muffled scream
a mad dose of reality
mere fragments of a dream
I'm alive
I'm dead
the universe swirls in a severed head
I'm safety
I'm danger
I'm your friend
I'm the seedy stranger that sows the seed
the shard
and only remainder
Gale Sprinkle
These are not (elegy)
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The hands I want
can heal the soulfruit
of a thousand overripeskin bruises,
undying loves, and endless losses.
Can lift song from throats
of marble, compose music
that dares a hope thrilled future
braided from the sounds of keening brakes,
cornered rabbits, and dying birds.
Hi, Ho, who’s for whistling in the graveyard?
*****
These hands
are not the ones I want,
Stroking my hair, snagging
In the silk of my tender hidden places.
Holding the secrets of my sins,
gently, in spite of their size
His ring lies in a wooden box
Kelly Ann Malone
Golden California
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Dewy dusks of tangerine,
these vivid, citrus skies.
Silken hills of emerald green,
like velvet to the eyes.
Sequoia's on a mountain ridge
are solid and unique.
A rustic, creaky covered bridge
above a frothy creek.
The deserts with their thirsty dunes.
The rim of southern lights.
The blazing mid-day afternoons,
and soothing, aloe nights.
The oceans foamy, turquoise tides
that stretch along the state.
Where chiffon sand and surf collides,
and seagulls congregate.
The harbors with their ports of call.
The wharves tucked by the bays.
Its winter, summer, spring and fall,
is worthy of our praise.
The glory of Yosemite.
The coast of Monterey.
The population potpourri?
a cultural buffet.
This gate to the pacific sea,
can surely cast a spell.
Of this I'm sure most would agree?
'Where angels truly dwell.'
Comforts of Fear
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
You are the murky film that coats my independence.
Baptized in dread. Left matte and damp.
Muscles of freedom stay weak from neglect.
My deep inhale of contentment is halted by apprehension.
I pick the skin around my fingernails until they are raw.
The smoke from my cigarette stings as it infiltrates the open wounds.
My jaw aches from constant clenching, in turn dwindling the stature of my teeth.
You distract me from my life. Fleecing my destiny, one layer at a time.
You run so deep in my veins, slowing the flow, consuming serenity.
Yet I fear a cleansing transfusion.
Comfortable, abundant fear. Oh, familiar anxiety.
I can feel you. I can touch you. I know you are there.
Mortal Seasons
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Our graceful births in early hours, of perfect purity.
Wrapped and cared for in the arms of fall's maturity.
Supple skin, an agile wit. Our dreams are gently planted.
Assuming one-day, when we've grown, our wishes will be granted.
Balmy air and passions flame will generate our thirst.
Fully formed and confident, but easily coerced.
The subtle art of self-restraint, a lesson slowly learned.
And in the heat of summer's day, eventually we're burned.
Cooled tongues display control as autumn's mind evolves.
Our ripened soul's complacency forgives and then absolves.
Colder is the flesh of fall but deeper are the hearts.
The fast approaching bitter chill as life's December starts.
Cherished thoughts accumulate in winter's looming storm.
And though our youth is all but gone, our memories are warm.
Serenity lay just ahead. It waits for us to call.
But first release our mortal ties to summer, spring and fall.
The Body Bag
~~~~~~~~~~~~
My usual drive to work was in progress.
Streaming along the freeway, oblivious to others.
Up ahead were the brake lights that threatened my prompt arrival to work.
'Another crash', I annoyingly thought.
Slowly, the cars filed by a contorted wreckage, paying homage to a fallen motorist.
My turn in the precession approached. The street was littered with
pieces of windshield reflecting the sun as if someone had dropped a satchel of diamonds.
Exhausted flares had become mounds of white powder, warning no one.
There was no urgency. No edge. The Corner's van sat calmly with its back door ajar.
A gentleman leaned sedately against the van inhaling a cigarette.
Just past the vehicle sat the bag. Sable black, unzipped and occupied.
I stared at death, with its stiff hand exposed.
I envisioned the person within. A man, a woman perhaps?
Opinions, secrets, fears, plans?
Had they just washed their hair that morning, removing residue?
Whose heart will be broken by the afternoon?
There on the pavement lay the remains. I searched for other bags but found none.
Officers nonchalantly investigated the scene.
Blithely rolling an instrument around the parameter of the site.
Gathering details. Documenting tragedy, like they had done a hundred times before.
Turning death into a task. Estimating the decedents time of demise.
Nothing personal. It's just a job. Professionals can tune out the impact of shock.
I ached for this unknown corpse. Briefly connected to this soul.
Someone's father. Someone's mother? Someone else's unspeakable grief.
We Wish
~~~~~~~
We wish there wasn't vanity
to make us think we're whole.
Or decomposing sanity
upon a troubled soul.
We wish the nights that turned to days
would sound redemption's horn.
Not view them as a pointless phase
of darkness into morn.
We wish that we'd seek out our worth,
of which we all possess.
Why does the sky and noble earth
do little to impress?
We wish that we'd stand up to fear
and not remain distraught.
We wish that holding courage dear
was done without a thought.
We wish when faced with angry wrath
we'd always persevere.
And choose the more forgiving path
to keep our conscience clear.
We wish for acts of selfless deeds.
We wish for worthy goals.
But first we have to plant the seeds
Into our barren souls.
Penny Lee Pincher
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
You live below affluent means,
but oh the price you pay.
You dine on hoarded cans of beans?
three meager cups a day.
Your bank account is quite secure.
Your spending habits, slight.
Your stocks consistently mature.
Your fiscal outlook, bright.
You're proud of what you have achieved,
and gloat about your wealth.
You scoff at warnings you've received
about declining health.
You claim your recent dizzy spells
are simply from the heat?
Oblivious to dying cells
within your septic feet.
You over-draw your heavy drapes,
but never your accounts.
You stack your remnant foil scrapes
in equalized amounts.
Your bloated cash portfolio
increases without pause.
As does your swollen belly grow,
with little thought to cause.
You've bleeding gums and painful joints
and buttocks with a rash.
But ailments are minor points
compared to healthy cash.
Then one day trouble did arise?
you fell and broke a bone.
But no one heard your feeble cries
because you lacked a phone.
You lay there on the chilly floor,
as blood drained from your hip
No rescue party at the door?
no one to see you slip
You gather leafy mounds of cash
and place them at your side?
you stuff the bloody, open gash
with dollar bills and pride.
But you could not coagulate
and died with ample means.
Your body in a bankrupt state
from eating only beans.
Just Luscious
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Your coldness does not trouble me.
I'll not pay heed to chill.
Deliciousness is what I see.
You tempt and charm and thrill.
The taste of you upon my lips,
is caramel coated glee.
You place yourself upon my hips,
and linger, happily.
You care not of my bulging thighs.
We never fuss or fight.
You're joy, wrapped in a sweet disguise.
You keep me up at night.
'Tis ecstasy, our sacred tryst.
Just you and I as one.
Your creamy peaks I can't resist.
Our romance, just begun.
I dream of you, I'll not deny.
Seduce me without pause.
I'll shout it on a mountain high,
I love you, Hagen Das!
K.S.Subramanian
New Tribe
~~~~~~~~~
On soft mattress strut folk
in pink of youth, with smug brow;
eyes glued to the net, ever awake
to the vistas titillating here and now.
A chip on shoulder, they walk
as if the world is under their feet;
table talk spiced with right lingo
smile a credit card for business talk,
proud of the halo of the elite,
they've all the trappings of a star;
a vendor`s haggling on the street
has not the sheen of this suave war;
Holy Mary! Hail the entry of the new tribe,
All’re gilt-edged, not the least bribe.
A windless cell
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Beneath the dark tunnel of mind,
lurks the shaft of light, they say;
An intuitive feel for it, a la smell
of a rose, keep dark thoughts away.
I look back at the days in a bind
talent left to choke in a windless cell,
genies growing in a miasma of venom,
all for a few more coins, survival;
Restless as flies against the pane,
eyes seeing yellow for blue warm,
back withered by unending abuse,
manacled in the world of pettiness.
At the end of a eventless travel,
beatific light makes'em shrivel.
Laura Stamps
THE ART OF SUBTRACTION
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
My youngest cat jumps
to the windowsill, three
rubber bands dangling
from his tweezer-teeth,
and even though these
chewy hoops are his
favorite toys, after a
moment or two, gnawed
and useless, they'll drop
to the carpet forgotten,
as he dashes away on
the mahogany balls of
his feet. When I released
the burden I had carried
for a lifetime, healing
required emptiness for
a season, to be scrubbed
clean as a teacup, allowing
the sun to bake my slick
ceramic sides, learning
to delight in the hollow
husks of eggshells, bird
nests, and watermelon
rinds. But one day the
wood thrush graced that
windswept space with
its sapphire song, and
the divine liniment of
love rushed in like ruffled
waves at high tide,
salving the nubs of wings
budding beneath my
shoulder blades, while
clouds spackled the sky's
cathedral ceiling, and
crows wheeled from
tree to tree, star-dazed,
weightless, free.
THIS ISN'T A POEM
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
about the black bear
that roams New Jersey
neighborhoods with her
cubs in the summer-
time, splashing across
backyard swimming
pools like three ebony
satellites and climbing
porch railings as easily
as evergreens, but it
could be. Instead,
it is Tuesday, and my
energetic cat rolls on
the floor, wrestling with
a gym sock, wrapping
it around her head,
stopping at last to nap
on her back, the sock
an ivory veil covering
her face, convincing the
dark lake of her stocky
body that it is as fully
hidden as if she were
a black bear wintering
in the dimmest cave.
IT'S THE SECOND WEEK
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
of August, and almost
noon, when a tropical
storm, burbling up from
the Gulf, churns across
the midlands, the trembled
sky burning black as
charcoal, causing the
streetlights to flicker as
if it were midnight. Later,
after blustering clouds
christen the city with a
coronation of rain, I sit
at my window, watching
two stray kittens from
the pinewoods gulp the
food I place in the moss
and wild grass every day,
their eyes startled by a
blue jay and the waving
gloves of leaves. Through-
out the years, how many
cats have wandered into
the ferns and clover-laced
fields of my soul? Too
many to count, I'm sure.
Meanwhile, the mother
lounges behind the kittens,
her eyes glowing like
copper coins tossed in a
murky well, as she rolls
back and forth among
lichens and chickweed;
grooming her onyx face;
glorying in cerulean skies,
her growing kittens, and
whatever blessings the
day might bring.
Steve Klepetar
Clumsy
~~~~~~
"Shipmates, have ye shipped in that ship?"
Moby Dick, Chapter XIX
Clumsy, I stumble against rags
of this world. Thick fingers sparkle
to a hungry sound, at least a hundred
lonesome guitars. I have listened
to singing kings, hailed them
at dusk, wandered home through
drunken streets of dawn. All night
I have roasted flesh, scent and smoke
rising in prayer to starlight, a billion
pinpricks in the cushion of night.
Who will eat with me? Who will cut
charcoal steaks, watch hot blood
well and sluice in blade grooves?
Who will stare through wavy lines
of gray heat? Who will promise
to love the feast with me?
When will our ship set sail?
Whose captain winds through back
alleys tonight? Whose eyes burn?
How long before we feel swells
roll, our feet pacing wooden decks?
How long before we hail our ghosts
out on the purple wet bosom of sea?
Tonight we eat peppers and laugh
between our limes, sit al fresca in warm
air, pretending not to smell salt or fish or mines.
Doubt
~~~~~
I doubt the storm's cold eye
watches boardwalks split,
or waves splinter chunks
of beach to yawning gaps
of sand. I doubt that such
a cobalt eye would wink its
heavy lid or weep to life
great tidal pools. I will not
trust in the fertile rage
of moss nor the fiery wrath
of worms. I distrust any
union of fish and stars.
From where I stand, heels
dug into night with cloud
and moon, no sailors touch
the ground, no whales
hurl sweet songs over black
mass of sea. Horizons
disappear into glimmering
fog. Mist becomes rock
dissolving into foam.
I doubt the marriage of
squirrels and mice, having
crawled through narrow
hideouts searching with my
bleeding hands for napkins
and gifts. Not one soul has
burrowed deeper toward the
taproot of oaks. With dark
and doubting eyes I have
never seen phantoms
rise in the shadow flame of love.
Ghosts in Love
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
We skim across Bluefish
Pond, a couple of Jesus
bugs-
ectoplasm
filaments stretched, snapped
in long, thin coils.
We can do this now, we can hold
hands, reveal
ourselves as passionate
faces
glimpsed
above cattail and reeds.
We lick moisture
from humid air. Even dead
we suffer pain.
When we want to let
them, our bodies
glow. We penetrate the moon.
Sometimes our eyes peer
out through its pale
globe, side
by side, staring out toward brilliant
splash of stars.
We assume the form of owls
apparitions with white wings
stretched in moonlight,
grim red eyes. Never alone, we circle
dark pines, bob
into your headlights, her face, mine
two stabs of terror seconds before dawn.
Harbinger
~~~~~~~~~
Oh Angel, your return to Heaven's gate
Has filled our hearts with joy and soothed our souls.
We welcome you, for now the hour is late.
How tired you look, and in what sorry state,
As if your tender feet had trod on coals.
But now you've safe arrived at Heaven's gate.
What horrors brought from Earth must you relate
To us, whose names are written on the scrolls?
Please let us rest, for now the hour is late.
What story etched in blood, what dreadful fate
Has turned those lovely eyes to empty holes?
Do you stand weeping here at Heaven's gate?
Do you bring warning that the price of hate
Has grown so high and cost such mighty tolls
That we must act, for now the hour is late?
How blind our blessed lives to such grim state,
Like rabbits in a warren, or like moles!
But Angel, your return to Heaven's gate
With tears of blood, I hope is not too late.
Here Come The Tourists
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Here come the tourists
with their florid guide. As usual
they are out of time, out of place,
a moving wall of flesh picking
for bargains through the stalls of Hell.
Prematurely middle-aged, they search
for photo-ops, pose like souls in torment
before the towers of Dis or lie on their
bellies to poke lenses deep into a fiery shaft.
Some wear tee shirts that read
"I Abandoned All Hope at Mephisto's
Inn." They purchase necklaces strung
with frozen tears, sample chocolates with
bubbling hot centers of lava red.
Dangerous cafes offer strong, smoky
tea in souvenir cups twisted by demons
into the shapes of eyeballs or tortured hands.
Later they will cue up for rides in Charon's boat,
each clutching a penny for the fare
(though rising overhead has made the
cost closer to ten dollars, all included
in the modest package tour) and how they
will gasp when their living weight rocks the
craft and poisoned waters of Acheron, Lethe
or Styx splash at their broken-in shoes. And
now they watch with terrified glee as their bills,
in mock agony, burn, and curl, and writhe like snakes.
Stephen D. Rogers
ASSEMBLY REQUIRED
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
A large exploded view
Shows hundreds of parts
The thirty-two page booklet
Includes fourteen languages
All of which seem foreign to me
Arranging the pieces
On the floor by length
I create a work of art
Unable to explain what it means
LOST AND FOUND
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
There's a department
Furnished with surplus desks
Refurbished equipment
And retired employees
Where words are turned in
Words lost in translation
And sold from this office
As scrap
QUICKSAND
~~~~~~~~~
We walk the lonely beach
Discussing our future
Stuck in the past
Gulls screech and swoop and scratch
The tide sighs with every breath
A New Age: The Centipede Network Of
Artists, Poets, & Writers
An Informational Journey Into A Creative Echonet [9310]
(C) CopyRight "I Write, Therefore, I Develop" By Paul
Lauda
Welcome to Newsgroup alt.centipede. Established
just for writers, poets, artists, and anyone who is creative. A
place for anyone to participate in, to share their poems, and
learn from all. A place to share *your* dreams, and philosophies.
Even a chance to be published in a magazine.
The original Centipede Network was created on May 16, 1993.
Created because there were no other networks dedicated to such
an audience, and with the help of Klaus Gerken, Centipede soon
started to grow, and become active on many world-wide Bulletin
Board Systems.
We consider Centipede to be a Public Network; however, its a
specialized network, dealing with any type of creative thinking.
Therefore, that makes us something quite exotic, since most nets
are very general and have various topics, not of interest to a
writer--which is where Centipede steps in! No more fuss. A writer
can now access, without phasing out any more conferences, since
the whole net pertains to the writer's interests. This means
that Centipede has all the active topics that any creative
user seeks. And if we don't, then one shall be created.
Feel free to drop by and take a look at newsgroup alt.centipede
Ygdrasil is committed to making literature available, and uses the
Internet as the main distribution channel. On the Net you can find all
of Ygdrasil including the magazines and collections. You can find
Ygdrasil on the Internet at:
* WEB: http://www.synapse.net/~kgerken/
* FTP: ftp://ftp.synapse.net/~kgerken/
* USENET: releases announced in rec.arts.poems, alt.zines,
alt.centipede, alt.ygdrasil, alt.ygdrasil.film
* EMAIL: send email to kgerken@synapse.net and tell us what version
and method you'd like. We have two versions, an uncompressed
7-bit universal ASCII and an 8-bit MS-DOS lineart-enchanced
version. These can be sent plaintext, uuencoded, or as a
MIME-attachment.
. REMEMBERY: EPYLLION IN ANAMNESIS (1996), poems by Michael R. Collings
. DYNASTY (1968), Poems by Klaus J. Gerken
. THE WIZARD EXPLODED SONGBOOK (1969), songs by KJ Gerken
. STREETS (1971), Poems by Klaus J. Gerken
. BLOODLETTING (1972) poems by Klaus J. Gerken
. ACTS (1972) a novel by Klaus J. Gerken
. RITES (1974), a novel by Klaus J. Gerken
. FULL BLACK Q (1975), a poem by KJ Gerken
. ONE NEW FLASH OF LIGHT (1976), a play by KJ Gerken
. THE BLACKED-OUT MIRROR (1979), a poem by Klaus J. Gerken
. JOURNEY (1981), a poem by Klaus J. Gerken
. LADIES (1983), a poem by Klaus J. Gerken
. FRAGMENTS OF A BRIEF ENCOUNTER (1984), poems by KJ Gerken
. THE BREAKING OF DESIRE (1986), poems by KJ Gerken
. FURTHER SONGS (1986), songs by KJ Gerken
. POEMS OF DESTRUCTION (1988), poems by KJ Gerken
. THE AFFLICTED (1991), a poem by KJ Gerken
. DIAMOND DOGS (1992), poems by KJ Gerken
. KILLING FIELD (1992), a poem by KJ Gerken
. BARDO (1994-1995), a poem by Klaus J. Gerken
. FURTHER EVIDENCES (1995-1996) Poems by Klaus J. Gerken
. CALIBAN'S ESCAPE AND OTHER POEMS (1996), by Klaus J. Gerken
. CALIBAN'S DREAM (1996-1997), a poem by Klaus J. Gerken
. THE LAST OLD MAN (1997), a novel by Klaus J. Gerken
. WILL I EVER REMEMBER YOU? (1997), poems by Klaus J. Gerken
. SONGS FOR THE LEGION (1998), song-poems by Klaus J. Gerken
. REALITY OR DREAM? (1998), poems by Klaus J. Gerken
. APRIL VIOLATIONS (1998), poems by Klaus J. Gerken
. THE VOICE OF HUNGER (1998), a poem by Klaus J. Gerken
. SHACKLED TO THE STONE, by Albrecht Haushofer - translated by JR Wesdorp
. MZ-DMZ (1988), ramblings by Igal Koshevoy
. DARK SIDE (1991), ramblings by Igal Koshevoy
. STEEL REIGNS & STILL RAINS (1993), ramblings by Igal Koshevoy
. BLATANT VANITY (1993), ramblings by Igal Koshevoy
. ALIENATION OF AFFECTION (1993), ramblings by Igal Koshevoy
. LIVING LIFE AT FACE VALUE (1993), ramblings by Igal Koshevoy
. HATRED BLURRED (1993), ramblings by Igal Koshevoy
. CHOKING ON THE ASHES OF A RUNAWAY (1993), ramblings by I. Koshevoy
. BORROWED FEELINGS BUYING TIME (1993), ramblings by Igal Koshevoy
. HARD ACT TO SWALLOW (1994), ramblings by Igal Koshevoy
. HALL OF MIRRORS (1994), ramblings by Igal Koshevoy
. ARTIFICIAL BUOYANCY (1994), ramblings by Igal Koshevoy
. THE POETRY OF PEDRO SENA, poems by Pedro Sena
. THE FILM REVIEWS, by Pedro Sena
. THE SHORT STORIES, by Pedro Sena
. INCANTATIONS, by Pedro Sena
. POEMS (1970), poems by Franz Zorn
All books are on disk and cost $10.00 each. Checks should be made out to
the respective authors and orders will be forwarded by Ygdrasil Press.
YGDRASIL MAGAZINE may also be ordered from the same address: $5.00 an
issue to cover disk and mailing costs, also specify computer type (IBM
or Mac), as well as disk size and density. Allow 2 weeks for delivery.
Note that YGDRASIL MAGAZINE is free when downloaded from Ygdrasil's
World-Wide Web site at http://www.synapse.net/~kgerken.
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 - 2004 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.
All checks should be made out to: YGDRASIL PRESS
COMMENTS
* Klaus Gerken, Chief Editor - for general messages and ASCII text
submissions. Use Klaus' address for commentary on Ygdrasil and its
contents: kgerken@synapse.net
* Pedro Sena, Production Editor - for submissions of anything
that's not plain ASCII text (ie. archives, GIFs, wordprocessored
files, etc) in any standard DOS, Mac or Unix format, commentary on
Ygdrasil's format, distribution, usability and access:
art@accces.com
We'd love to hear from you!
Or mailed with a self addressed stamped envelope, to:
