September 2007
VOL XV, Issue 9, Number 173
Editor: Klaus J. Gerken
Production Editor: Heather Ferguson
European Editor: Mois Benarroch
Contributing Editors: Michael Collings; Jack R. Wesdorp; Oswald Le Winter
Previous Associate Editors: Igal Koshevoy; Evan Light; Pedro Sena
ISSN 1480-6401
INTRODUCTION
subramanian subramanian
1. Tributes to an Industrialist-friend
2. Recast the Web
CONTENTS
Michael Lee Johnson
Bread Crumbs for Starving Birds
Now That I Desire
Catch On The Fly
Coffee Time, Fuller's Restaurant
Silent Moonlight
Cicada Bugs & Carol
Dove Poem
My Lady, Maria
Pickle Juiced
Gotham, Oil On Canvas
Blind Man In Café
Wind Chimes
Bipolar
Christopher Mulrooney
a sorry sight
gryphon
the price of admission
Goliath (the wit of the Philistines)
to the well again
the arts writer
to Stanton Macdonald-Wright
ARUN GAUR
1. Taxi Stand
2. How the Dragon Changed
3. A Step-Ladder
4. Hog's Head
5. Durtlang Boy
6. At Chandmari Square
7. Bamboos
Phillip A. Ellis
The Fall from Heaven
Dawn and Dusk
I Melt
Poet in Exile
Beggary
Joshua Walker
Atomic Age
Felino Soriano
Vagabond's Vision #74
Vagabond's Vision #75
Vagabond's Vision #79
Vagabond's Vision #107
Vagabond's Vision #108
Vagabond's Vision #109
POST SCRIPTUM
Del Corey
The Black Pool
subramanian subramanian
1. 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Self-made, well-travelled but withdrawn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.
2. Recast the Web
I slip into the nest,
and await the harvest;
The spider eyes its catch,
with no toil to match;
It's born with nature's boon,
For me no easy way to moon.
The harvest is no fairy
to shower its manna on me.
Awed by blue hilly terrain,
rhythmic sway of the train,
steep recline of the vale,
soft hum of birds in the dale,
frolicked with mates in the alley,
picked rubies of love with glee;
Child is the mother of Man,
buoys him up for the next span.
Youth furrowed in toil,
seeking light in midnight oil,
darkness encasing the Crescent,
sparks in the hearth of the Present.
I remember it was then
the web of dreams was spun.
But the coveted harvest was lost,
the web in pieces, to be recast.
My web is no seer to say,
life will shape like the Milky Way;
I may tend my park fair,
but keep weeds off its lair?
Days are beads of sweat, no crown,
I hear its echo every morn,
I need to weave my web,
'cause it mothers a radiant cub.
Michael Lee Johnson
Bread Crumbs for Starving Birds
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Smiling across the ravine,
snow cloaked footbridge.
Prickly ropes slick with ice,
snow clad boards pepper sprinkled
with raccoon tracks, virgin markers,
a fresh first trail.
Across and safe,
I toss yellow bread crumbs
onto white snow, for starving birds.
Now That I Desire
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Now that I desire to be close to you
like two occupants sharing a twin bed
sensing the warmth of sweating shoulders,
hungering for your flesh like wild wolf
leaning over empty carcass,
you're off searching unexplored cliffs
& climbing dangerous mountain tops,
capturing bumblebees in broken
beer bottles for biology class,
pleasing plants & parachuting from clouds
for fun.
In clouds you're closer to life & nonsense,
a princess of absurdity, collector of dreams
& silent sounds.
In clouds you build your own fantasy, share it with
select celebrities.
But till this captive discovers a cure for caring,
a way of rescuing insatiable insanity,
or lives long enough to be patient in longing for you-
you must be vigilant,
for with time snow will surely
blanket over this warm desire.
Catch On The Fly
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Full barrel up 53 north,
heading to Lake Zurich, IL,
Christian talk radio 1660
on the radio dial,
crisp winter day
sunbeams dancing down
on the pavement like midgets.
85 mph in a 65 mph zone,
just to aggravate the police,
black Chevy S10 pick up,
shows what a deviant I am
in dark colors.
Running late for a client appointment,
creating poems on a small hand held recorder
knowing there is not payment for this madness
in this little captured taped area of words.
Headlights down the highway for a legacy
into the future, day dreaming like a fool obsessed.
Working out the layout of this poem or getting my ego in place,
I will catch up with the imagery when I get back home.
This is my life, a poem in the middle of the highway.
Scampering, no one catches me when I'm speeding
like this.
Coffee Time, Fuller's Restaurant
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
(Edmonton Alberta Canada)
June 29th, 1980
3 a.m.
& I'm getting older by the minute.
Thinking about it makes me tired.
Outside traffic crawls slowly over
slippery pavement like inebriated turtles.
Inside, at the coffee counter, I flirt with a waitress-
fresh young fruit from Montreal. She insists
on calling me Vincent Price & speaking
French in Alberta.
I'm trying to read Periods Of The Moon,
By Irving Layton, selecting the human
Condition, repetition, & insomnia as
My main themes.
Next to me, a street gypsy drooping
over the counter beside me, pulling
scraps of dog-eared aged newsprint
From a doggie bag. She stares
squint eyed at a picture of John F Kennedy
for 2 hours, manages to laugh an incredible
29 times,
Sorry, 30 times, 31.
Counting makes me tired,
makes me take notice of the gypsy
& disapprove.
Silent Moonlight
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Love lost
in silent moonlight
tortures heart
with rising sun.
Silence snores.
Sunlight scatters
shadows in
spotty rain.
Cicada Bugs & Carol
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I walk
this pain & joy
like a deity
with you
4 life it seems
inhabits us
like a run on
sentence
4 no assumed
reason.
17 years together
since the last calling
of the cicadas-
nothingness
but for their noise,
loud buzzing wings,
no reason to stay
no reason to part.
We smell
Lilacs bushes
together briefly-
take down
an apple or 2-
ride rusty
old bicycles together
to a destination
neither of us
have been
to before.
Nymphs drop
to the ground
& burrow the wood,
again.
Will I see
you in 2024?
Dove Poem
~~~~~~~~~
I hear
scratch of
little dove feet
I hear peck
of little dove bill
in bird seed basket
on my balcony-
in near silence
on rain filled
afternoon-
thunderstorm,
lightening
overhead dark,
cramped up with rage,
holds off a minute
so I may
hear these sounds.
My Lady, Maria
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Like a good Rembrandt,
or a unique bar of soap
carefully handcrafted,
shaped into a delicious
figure with hot butter knife,
you are natural, beautiful, proficient,
honest as opposed to fake.
Pickle Juiced
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
My skeleton is in
a large glass jar-
x-rayed for dental remains,
half dead, detained
& vibrating in nerves endings.
I walk through
this night pickled juiced,
caged in.
I know who I am by
the words I type,
the fonts I chose,
the poems that
didn't nurture
in my brain, aborted.
Behind my shack
a trailer park playground
of juvenile tormentors
shove basketballs
through netted rims.
A skinny redhead
named Randy
urinates then
hammers his basketball
against the side of my
bathroom wall for practice-
shatters glass, the scent
of ice blue Aqua Velva
permeates shaky
shadows on the wall.
But these pesky human
insects are gone my midnight.
The displeasure of
the laundry mat doors
slamming relentless against my
living room wall lock down at 1 am.
Cordless, powered by inebriation
I toss this fried skeleton box
into a cheap twin bed,
wrestle with the quiet
for 3 hours.
April 15th, taxes are due.
Poverty is a pair of scissors
cutting dull across the foreskin.
Gotham, Oil On Canvas
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~`
Chatty women at the dining table
in 19th century garb-
red hats & hair pins
caked with rubies,
ghostly faces acutely obscured,
hue blue matted hair stretching
down like dripping wax.
Menus open out white
as bleached sheets
with no black typeface.
Wine glasses filled with white
Clouds, no red juice-
begging in silence to be
lifted up, to be touched
by the missing lips of strangers..
3 mirrors hanging from
frozen air behind the bar
away from the dining area-
circular globs of white reflecting
nothing but moon shapes.
At the dining table ladies
pointing fingers at each other,
ears filled with gobs of paint.
Dull lights in the corners
depicting form, faint
in near darkness.
Their pictured world,
frozen in time, is slapped on canvas.
As the evening wears toward midnight
the painting disappears, emerging
silent characters into madness.
Blind Man In Café
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Blind man
fingertips
dancing across
table tops
crooked smile
on his face,
searching for
a seat in a
crowded corner.
Wind Chimes
~~~~~~~~~~~
The wind chimes
on the balcony
today,
different
sounds in all
different directions-
my thoughts follow them.
Bipolar
~~~~~~~
Awake
night
light
jungle
twisted branches of thought.
One character linked to the
insane personality of the other.
Bipolar in a universe of singles.
The fear of aloneness hearing
cracks in your walls; the joy
jumbling into the municipal pool
in Hillside, Illinois at 3 am.
Bipolar, bewitched, and alone.
Late to work staring at your
employer dart split eyes.
Tattered with memories dancing
on the tablecloth with glee
slapped on the face with a teaspoon
just to feel the sadness leave.
Bipolar, bewitched, and alone.
Seldom ever hear happiness
that doesn't sound like a fire
siren camping in your eardrums.
Meds crank up & crank down;
moods follow the meds
or do meds follow the moods?
Personal wars echo words in my ears.
Even during silent times the night
roars like street jungles.
Bipolar, bewitched, and alone.
Michael Lee Johnson's first chapbook of poems and prose is available
for preview and download at: http://www.lulu.com/
http://www.lulu.com/content/936633
"The Lost American: A Tender Touch & A Shade Of Blue"
Christopher Mulrooney
a sorry sight
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
a discreet point
I should insist on this
really I should at all events in every respect
not for a minute now
do you believe me
not for a few seconds
no now
frightened to the limits of our experience which you have
all behind me now
the plain matter is scarce to be discerned
that is the whole of the problem
my version is
not like the pages of history
with doodling at the last
gryphon
~~~~~~~
bonerattling unto the junkyard
at the request of the same scuttling
boneyard merchants who wheeled
demolition refuse into the park
to exalt the valley
into a dripping heap of gas
to make electricity with
all under the guise of recreation
to help stop the cruisers
furiously circumambulating
and clogging the roads and trails with
happy crumbums
half the roads were closed
fountains and springs
turned off
the plantations were by the board
gleaning the last sheaves of
the nostalgic past
as tourism by the cartload
in the cultural center
great shopping arcades were built
to fend off the city
no new roads were built
the vomitoria choked
whatever the wastrels
lingered in my city
remained
the piebald angler
gives me the fisheye
the price of admission
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
you kick the sign in your forehead
with your own left foot
it isn't a guarantee by any means
something about your grace when doing so
must win the heart of the machine
Goliath (the wit of the Philistines)
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
his god tells him all things
he knows
his is the kingdom of light
in the upper reaches
the fault still lies with
his adversaries
he would have an Israelite
to his bitch
to the well again
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
barbel the knight in his grand effigy
tirelai tirelai be his dirge
he has any tales to tell
ark! my toes goes in my stirrups
so's
the wars the bloody awful any warres
an' if the blandishment were thin
we broke bread
holy the thanks
we met
tirelai tirelai
and the scroungers
we gave ground to never you may
see the like of them again
the arts writer
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
balked of her very easy prey
she complains of abstractions in modern verse
she for whom Byron Haskin and Moliere
are abstractions
to Stanton Macdonald-Wright
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
here are the children
late from the school where they're brought
whistle-sky-eyeing
from the day they're born it seems
like cicadas fly the caps
dark unwelcome world
where it has no moon black night
naught wholesome daylight
we give the clapper water
as it goes by for the birds
here's a mistake scribe
why and here's another clerk
to run up totals
gadzooks is the warcry now
and fudge all our reckoning
the light of smudge pots
scored the television screen
that frost night of old
what there was was oranges
and oranges made the news
old woman the sheaf
you carry upon your back
it must have the breeze
and sunlight bouncing from it
and your kimono as well
ARUN GAUR
1. Taxi Stand
At the Dawrpui Taxi Stand
a big clock is locked in a wooden box
just above the reach of man.
A bird would fly out of gabled-aviary
now and then.
Where would you like to go
on a bright Sunday morning like this?
—Chawlhmun, Bethlehem, Tanhril, Thakthing,
Zemabawk, Phunchawng, Dinthar, Kulikawn,
Durtlang Hospital, T.B. Hospital—
Where to?
A white-haired man,
fresh from the church,
twirled his torso in infinite pain
to drag a woollen cap from his side.
He stretched it across an infinite distance,
between his finger-tips
and finally managed to put it
on a small head.
He went arching to the clock
to have a look at the time.
It was too steep to notice
that seconds were rushing through
just rushing through
small infinities.
Out of man’s reach.
A bird may fly out of gabled-aviary
to tell of the ticking time.
Beyond
a green banner across the road
reminded that it was the World Food Day.
2. How the Dragon Changed
My God. How the dragon changed.
From shape to shape.
It was hidden somewhere
somewhere in the spread of fire
or somewhere in the black ominous clouds.
All fire in the center.
Turner's colors.
Lost, hidden, in Turner's colors of the sinking ships or ships all afire on
the luminous ocean
flamboyant ocean.
A bird has thrown its golden feather
or shed by chance
and it scintillates
it scintillates unwittingly.
Or a phoenix about to die
in the last of the luminous fire
the last conflagration
to be born again.
In the last and the greatest splendor
of dying fire
of the dying bird.
Or the golden cosmic egg.
Or a fight between the two dragons
black and the gold.
Gold dimmed with splinters of the black
with puffs of the black
puffed across the golden splendor.
Gold becoming more gorgeous
with splinters of the dark.
Then in seconds dissolving, frustrated, decorated, and fumigated,
only a subduing sheen in the middle of the dark
touched with soothing peach.
Dark frustration in the center.
Then orange grew
and expired
and the pale golden silver linings grew
sinuous
on the edges of clouds turned gray.
And in between only dark and dark.
Dark and dark.
Then suspired the little cotton fluffs
suddenly turned golden.
Ginning ginning
from the darkened overpowered
to spread elsewhere the seeds of the dying plant
or dying something.
Suspired the puffs of the spinning geny
light crimson, light orange, peach not dark not light.
Sohrab's last blood
dimmed and thinned into last peaches
peaches in the lap of his dark brooding father.
Last peach taking the shape of a crab
with pincers stumped
or a frog upside down
turned turtle
pinned to the board for dissection.
Then Sohrab died and the seed
and the frog and the crab and the turtle.
Then only distant but well formed little billows
on the vast black
arcs and arcs.
As if a last nuclear explosion of Hiroshima.
As if many little Hiroshimas.
As if the last of the luminous child
of the vasty deep
of the vasty dark
of the black dragon.
Golden Phoenix.
Golden Oriole.
Golden cosmic egg.
All suspired.
Then the rearing face of the dragon,
proud, invincible, laughing
a little tilted.
Rough paws pummel vasty warted chest
silently.
And last remnant of the sheen on the horizon.
The black dragon and
the light gray sky.
3. A Step-Ladder
That log with notches cut into a step-ladder,
coated rough white,
gives the idea of immensity
as it slants up
through snatches of shades and light
and by-passes
many crosses and half-crosses
to propose perforated ideas, gaps
and empty spaces
and reaches the closed door
with squares and squares of glasses
—pointed arches
trisect glasses into a three-petaled rose—
to climb to the double-storey bell-tower’s
white shimmering cross pitched
into the navy of
sky.
I think that these are the green Kelsih chilies
and rice spread to dry in the sun on big mats.
A cock wanders about.
4. Hog's Head
Fixed to the handle-bar of the gate
the hog's head is a big prize.
Scrubbing of its skin
cannot conceal the fact
that it has come direct from a coal-pit
or a wagon-car.
While its ear-edges curl smartly
through 360 degrees,
a little eye-slit opens sideways
always catching you.
With a broad grin, a moist nostril,
it understands well
the power of the Mizo youth
that chant loudly the Christian chants
in the gymnasium hall.
All are seated in red plastic chairs
on badminton court amid wood-planks.
Some light falls through the vents;
one strums guitar without a sound
and is back-lit in grays.
5. Durtlang Boy
Durtlang boy was a Bad Boy.
How bad?
Under the rim of his cotton-cap
his eyes were white
as those of an arctic owl.
So innocuous
white in the depth of shadow.
His cigarette smoke
went curling up his nose and eyes
to nurses' bodice, apron. socks,
colored bed-sheets spread on a line;
then it climbed up further
to meet the blur of belfries, clocks,
inscriptions of the sacred words
and down to the old woman
bringing up a swath of broad green leaves
for dinner on a bridle-path.
Finally it went into the eyes of a Micky Mouse.
6. At Chandmari Square
Everyday of my existence at Aizawl
I used to come to Chandmari
on one-rupee-ticket.
April showers were quick and short.
Wind was great coming straight at the breast.
Girls and boys latched on high college balconies
watched in glee tight huddled groups
under church shades and shops
or gamesome passers-by.
When in the Christian book-shop,
Francis from Imphal and his big brother came to know
that I was leaving without saving my soul
they gave me a cassette of long drawn Lalpa songs
and hoped that grace would fall from somewhere somehow
wherever I am
and since then I am singing
Hosana O Hosana with strings of guitar.
There is the brother and sister pair at Glenary.
Generally that shop-girl in corduroys
with little gold ring in her ear
laughed excessively
when I thundered: Where is my brown bread?
As if it were a Shakespearean drama
and I a Falstaffian man.
And it were a serious or sacred play
buying and selling of the brown bread
in which she had a burden of laughing role.
Thari of the narrow street
how stylishly she returned my good morning
every time with the little jerk of her masculine head
as if much hinged on that style
and when she found
that I had stopped going to
Denikons (or what was that called?)
for egg-noodles
because they twisted hens there
and that I was living now
solely on banana crop and lay custard
she haggled for every piece she sold.
But my goodness! I don’t know
the name of the lady of the computer shop
that hush of a woman
gently skilled in sweet ceremonies
who gave me a Mizo shawl
when parting.
I had liked the touch of her hand too much.
I have always liked.
7. Bamboos
Every door is ajar-
bamboo barricades unattended.
Over the Bachelors' Hut
two or three shirt-like things
hang high in the air on a bamboo-bar
in the still blazing sun.
Still higher on the woven platform
of broad bamboo strips
stocked fodder dries in the sun.
Something like a four-rayed black-star,
or a manta-ray,
is stiffly attached to a
pointed bamboo end.
Or is it some huge black bat
—spread and stiff in the air-
fossilized?
Phillip A. Ellis
The Fall from Heaven
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I heard the break of trees, the roaring sky
that bellowed in blind pain, and battered ears,
that broke upon the world like sightless waves
which rule and tear the town upon a cliff
and cast it deep beneath the ocean's veil,
that blinded the day's dreams with fulgent flash
brighter than suns, fiercer than Hell's own heart.
I felt the fire unleash a flood of dust
that broke upon the hills with a threshing roar,
that smote the limbs from trees, with a burning laugh,
that tore the trees from earth with a harsh howl,
that rent the world with wild electric screams.
I choked upon the bitter, acrid dust
that lay upon my eyes like cast-off shrouds
flung with the rise of corpses torn from graves,
and animate with ceaseless, unquenched thirst.
I saw, with eyes that ruptured, spilling tears
untamed and unfurled clouds that writhed in pain
across the sky, and smothered the high sun
like slaves dismembered by crowd's cries for death,
or flies and crows that rise to feed on flesh
that hangs within the gibbet's metal fist.
I swear I smelt the choking death and ash
from fires that birthed in darkness--a damned night
that fell upon the unsuspecting day,
shrouding the world with wings of cloying shadow
like some dark heaven-demon dark and malice
that keeps destruction warm in an ebon heart.
The earth had writhed and quaked as a wounded beast,
with screams become as winds that burn and rend.
In a dark moment, something fell and flailed--
as drowning men may clutch in frenzied fear
and break apart the wrack that saves their lives--
that clutched at trees, breaking as brittle grass
feeling the fall of wolf-dismembered kine.
Was fire its form or pain, or death a part
of train that followed, spreading dark and deep
across the land, a coldness-quenching light?
But did then the earth knap at a god's passage,
or angel fall in fire and caustic trains?
Did bitter star, unloosed, and torn from spheres,
fall on the sweet and softly sleeping earth
to swell and bust in clouds of fire and ash?
What weird decreed I live whilst earth was slain?
Dawn and Dusk
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I know the tales oft told in the dark to me,
I know the tales oft told in the day to you,
but both the tales of the night and day seem
wrong in the dawn and dusk we both love.
The dawn is slow to rise for the both of us,
the dusk is quick to fall for the both of us,
but both the dawn and dusk are twin hours
set in their beauty and full of glory.
The magpies sing at dawn for you, sing for me;
the flying foxes fly in the dusk for us:
come, see the flying foxes fly past,
come and be moved by the songs the birds sing.
I know the tales oft told in the dark to me,
you know the tales oft told in the day to you,
but both the dawn and dusk have tales too,
tales that we'll love for all life, like sweet dreams.
I Melt
~~~~~~
I melt into something
incomprehensible,
a small, broken dumb thing,
foolish, fractured numb thing
something,
something stupid, dumbed down,
smeared brown,
something,
something other than the 'I' I was.
Poet in Exile
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I remain on this threshold
of air, a solitary god, staying
still, fresh of face and lairy
of an ill-seeming nature, dreamings
of word, world, the Lord's will
burning, as Swedenborg's love,
burning. And I free just a dream
from boredom from below,
from beneath, from above, and none
know my name and nature,
none who have heard me praise.
Beggary
~~~~~~~
I shall make my way, a spiritual beggar,
bearing my load of childish dreams,
for, when I appear before the court of reason,
I shall lower my load, unwrap them
and watch them fade into puffs of grey smoke.
Joshua Walker
Atomic Age
~~~~~~~~~~
Scene: Student Apartment
[enter, MOTHER, FATHER, SON]
MOTHER: I still say you're being awful quiet today.
SON: Yeah, well, I'm still feeling sick.
FATHER: That was an awful game. Terrible.
SON: They couldn't get anything going.
FATHER: No, nothing.
MOTHER: And the pass protection was terrible
SON: The defense, too. They were moving the ball at will.
MOTHER: That's what I meant, the defense.
SON: Oh, you mean 'pass defense' then
FATHER: You have some wine around here?
SON: Sure, up in the cabinet.
[pause]
MOTHER: I sure do like your new apartment Everything's so clean,
especially the bathroom.
FATHER: [laughs] Yeah, everything. This cabinet?
SON: No, over one to the right.
MOTHER: But you're really not feeling well? Still?
SON: It's good to have a clean apartment, though.
FATHER: Oh, Shiraz.
MOTHER: What's a Shiras?
SON: A red, Californian.
FATHER: No, Australian.
SON: I think it can be both.
MOTHER: Now if only it wasn't raining so hard.
SON: Yeah, but then we'd have to walk around campus even more.
MOTHER: This is so nice, though, just us and our – Headache?
SON: Could have been a better game.
FATHER: We stuck it out well in the rain, though.
SON: Here are the glasses. Look, real glass.
MOTHER: Was that thunder?
SON: No, I'm not sure what that was. Real glass.
FATHER: Not thunder.
[pause] [pouring]
MOTHER: Ah! [Knocks chair into table. A loud sound]
SON: Careful there, mom.
FATHER: Yeah, the neighbors downstairs will call the police.
SON: Again.
MOTHER: What?
Son: Joke.
FATHER: Here's your glass.
MOTHER: Okay, I'll be more careful with this!
FATHER: Nice view. Do they play soccer out there?
SON: When it's not raining.
FATHER: That should be most of the winter, right?
MOTHER: How are classes?
SON: Hold that thought, I'll be right back [exit].
FATHER: Good wine.
MOTHER: Shiraz?
FATHER: Yes.
[pause] [turns on computer]
MOTHER: What do you think this is on the wall? The crumbled paint?
Everything's so new. [pause]. We'll have to ask him. Bill?
FATHER: This computer is Stone Age slow.
MOTHER: We'll have to ask him.
[pause] [buttons]
FATHER: Make sure that's all the way plugged in?
MOTHER: I think it is.
[pause] [enters]
SON: I even have toilet paper.
MOTHER: And pillows for the couch.
FATHER: Nope, more rain for tomorrow.
SON: And the next day. And the day after that.
MOTHER: I think it's nice. Nothing like in Arizona.
SON: How's the Shiraz?
FATHER: Good.
MOTHER: Great.
SON: I tried an experiment with that stuff last semester.
MOTHER: Oh?
SON: Yeah. You would have been real proud of me, dad, real scientific.
turns out, the more wine I drink, the less time it takes for me to
finish my lesson plans. Now try to explain that.
MOTHER: I don't think that's very funny.
SON: No, probably less brain power spent worrying, right, pop?
FATHER: What is wrong with your computer?
MOTHER: [stops drinking]
SON: [nods] Glad you like the wine.
[pause]
MOTHER: So how have things been going?
SON: Fine. Fine.
FATHER: Oh, the Suns aren't on tonight.
SON: I told you, Pop, I checked already.
MOM: What this over here on the wall? It looks like crumbled something.
SON: [leans it to the computer] They'll be on ESPN Monday, but I've
got class then.
FATHER: Monday night?
MOTHER: Oh, Jacob, I really like this painting.
FATHER: We never had physics classes that late.
SON: Different species.
MOTHER: I swear that was thunder.
SON: That wasn't thunder, mom. It doesn't lightning here at all.
FATHER: Ha ha ha, I'm sending you guys something.
MOTHER: And classes?
SON: What about classes?
MOTHER: How are they?
SON: Teaching's okay.
MOTHER: And the classes you're not teaching?
SON: Fine. They're fine.
[pause]
MOM: What should we for dinner?
SON: What do you guys want?
MOM: What do you want?
SON: I don't care.
MOM: Chinese sounds good.
FATHER: Should I do a search?
SON: No, dad, I know a few places.
[pause]
FATHER: Aaron's not sure the Dercell project will work out now.
MOTHER: Oh.
[pause]
MOTHER: Did that ever work out, playing tennis with that girl?
SON: What girl?
MOTHER: That girl, you mentioned her on the phone.
SON: Right.
MOTHER: So?
SON: Sort of. She's good.
MOTHER: But you're good, too.
SON: Not that good. You know?
MOTHER: I still don't understand what's with this paint.
SON: Did you hear that sound?
FATHER: No.
MOTHER: What?
SON: [laughs] Now I'm the one hallucinating. [laughs]
MOTHER: [laughs] this is good wine.
SON: I'll be right back.
FATHER: I'm next. [exits]
MOTHER: He was going to ask that girl out.
FATHER: What girl?
MOTHER: That girl he went to play tennis with.
FATHER: How do you know? Did he say something?
MOTHER: No.
FATHER: How do you know? It's about time.
MOTHER: But he's never had problems.
FATHER: Problems? No.
MOTHER: What's the weather for tomorrow?
FATHER: Rain.
MOTHER: Right.
MOTHER: What was that?
FATHER: What?
MOTHER: Jacob?
FATHER: He's still in the bathroom.
MOTHER: I know. Jacob? [goes to door]
FATHER: Ask his if he's rather do Mexican.
MOTHER: Jacob? [knocks]
[pause]
FATHER: So?
MOTHER: He said Mexican's okay.
FATHER: Or maybe we should try some fish.
MOTHER: You know I only eat salmon.
FATHER: Salmon's fish.
MOTHER: How cold is it tomorrow?
FATHER: I told you, raining.
MOTHER: But lightning?
[pause] [rushes to door] [opens door]
Oh my God! Oh my God!
[curtain]
Felino Soriano
Vagabond's Vision #74
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Abstract preconception, lost otherwise
to well known thinkers,
set across teeming tables of desolation,
heard by screams scraped off by the alone,
a poet of himself scribbling metaphors
of four vowels describing forests maintaining
distance, never restoring a mother's melancholy root.
Tears overcoming well advanced in advance trembled
before landing, tricking minuscule eyes,
trying to focus on unabridged deceptions
without truncation.
Poet's sadness was appropriate,
genuine, for the poet's mother
organically in original dance finale
threw son from highest branch,
and he balanced mid-toss, documenting
morbid desolation in stanza sketches,
landing allegedly away from preconceived
sadness.
Vagabond's Vision #75
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
A free falling follower unafraid of being followed,
followed drinking unobstructed many,
steps toward forward destination.
Follower fell, regained unbalanced balance,
began again following
hurried message within
chemically conversing brain.
Follower flew atop free flowing
horizontal concrete, navigating flowers
high above normal finger touching halt,
dedicated to following with fingers
petals of irreversible return.
Vagabond's Vision #79
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Weaponry lost in flaming miscalculations.
Tongue-weapon, an of-course,
teasing from miscreant toward
intellectual obese awaiting.
Tides of conversations teetered unevenly,
smeared fog across malfunctioning seesaws
nearer never than from close at hand had miniscule
chance to compose simultaneous victor.
Neither underwent prior nor post depression,
miscreant leaped toward mischievous metaphor,
delegating earnings, monetary delusions,
escaping into bladed room of ambidextrous
defeat.
Vagabond's Vision #107
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The forgettable not exactly that,
embraceable memories still linger,
written around forehead of index
card or finger of right hand, most
dominant hand. Air crisp, breakable
as burnt toast, serial spenders are covering
spending unthinkable monetary amounts,
buffoons, budgets circle outside
windows impersonate unmatched
serenading snowflakes.
Vagabond's Vision #108
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Callous crossways grass
light low mostly crawling,
grass brown dead in the idiom
of gardening. Rain maintaining
distance, far in the expanse
terminology. Talking feet donate
shedding skin atop barriers of browning
topography, lengthening more into
shoving pass forth language
of travels even along paths
of the interim living.
Vagabond's Vision #109
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
A leaf which fell,
documenting alive-once,
dying-now, so perfectly
swaying percussionist's
echoing vibration,
one-handed solo
yet slowly for which an encore
not needed—might an apparition
guide a branchless leaf
with fading veins,
bug-eaten circle-square shape
across the body of its once silently
perfect diamond appearance. Landed
it did, faded by wind's organic
huff away near a burgundy barn
where disappearance shaved its
last and thickest beard.
Del Corey
The Black Pool
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
(To Nathaniel Hawthorne)
Such a black pool my poor soul
has had to swim in, in secret.
With each dream, I dip my memory
like a pen into the black well of evil,
and write again on the sheet of conscience,
the many past acts, hidden unforgiven,
that I have masked, to appear perfect
to my perfect neighbors.
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 - 2006 by
Klaus J. Gerken.
The official version of this magazine is available on Ygdrasil's
World-Wide Web site http://users.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.
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