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October, 1998 Of The Month
The RideBy: Peggy MakolondraThe dove, in mourning apparel, seized tight astride the bucking branch in a blizzard lashed rodeo, holds true to the ride. Though a gale screams his name he ignores the distraction, attention undaunted by furious foe. To reign as victor brings no adulation, no trophies to cheer or dismiss with a shrug. The branch, fiercely clutched through this desperate encounter, merely grants the survivor the flight of his life.
Copyright © 1998 Peggy Makolondra
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The Nature of Things
Another HymnBy: Christopher EckUnsightly beauty a chaos of cares, her form enough to frighten a physicist and his laws. Astounding wind - a weapon - the queen's. Betrayed like the sea, ridden by insolence, her fractal form a failure to science, asymmetrical, magnetic, stellar. On Tuesday she will call to me. She sings for a son, one without snares and, I must me naked or crazy because ancient goddess manifest allowing possession: her to I to her to I.
Copyright © 1998 Christopher Eck
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Christopher Eck Writer's Biography
June, 1998 Of The Month
Sectional Mourning PieceBy: Mike Walkerwhat is many? touched I was from the ease of the congealing a lot more than a little, vacancies stretching here then here now all I have made quilted of us all now it's spread so far and temperaments change readily, if not rapidly what would augment (steady/steadfast) the home of lost homes at long and labored last? all I have made burdened of us true, nothing more than my own speech but it settled down in contrary corners becoming absent like characters in a war epic.
Copyright © 1998 Mike Walker
Contact the Author: Mikewalker@geocities.com
July, 1998 Of The Month
Dancing with My Footnotes at theBy: Ron Watson
MLA Convention: Cindy Steps OutOur name tags have lines for professional titles. Mine says GRAD. ASS. Which I printed with a black marker Except for one of the A's, penned in red ink. Maybe I ask for trouble But you would think at a language convention Ideas would prevail. Try telling that to Dr. Winebreath, Joyce scholar and keynote speaker Who asked me to slow dance to Patsy Cline So he could play grab ass and talk into my ear. Last semester, his words raced through my head Toward the deadline on a Faulkner paper, And here was the horse's mouth Begging to breathe on my cheek. How could I refuse? My research did not prepare me for what I heard, But my mother did. Patsy came quickly to the point in "Faded Love," But I thought that song would never end. Near midnight, I danced a fast one With a stout lady in a string tie Who claimed to hold a Black Belt in Willa Cather. She was a scream, a portable riot. Later, After the songs ended and the laughter died, I was speechless. She kept asking What are you thinking, Honey? Each time I had no answer. Details were slipping away--already, I had forgotten the name of our song, Who asked whom to dance, Even the grounds for our introduction. Just trying to remember was all I could say, An outline of faces becoming a blur In my gradually vanishing Cinderella affair. Aside from a poet lounging around the coffee pot, I think I was the only one taking notes.
Copyright © 1998 Ron Watson
May, 1998 Of The Month
After LoveBy: Joy ReidHe lies small boy naked, fists curled into foetal paws his belly pale, frog smooth. He smells of tea tree fresh sweat and loam, a river bank odour of dark undergrowth. He lies shyly furred, tufted toes buoying in waterbed sleep. Wheat stubble cheeks hollowed, sun burn vee a fiery arrow at throat, eyes pooled beneath restless skin. He lies so and my love renews.
Copyright © 1998 Joy Reid
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April, 1998 Of The Month
Particles of the universe race through me. To them I am a false density. Like horsemen speeding through a forest of scattered trees, they're hardly veered by my substance. The weak organic bonds that glue my atoms to a unity are of no consequence to these iotas, that are the emissaries of the infinite. Dead roach on the wall, or rather a dangling hollow dried up shell, lifeless mote. The geometry of our common third dimension decrees that we are collinear. And between us is frantic traffic, an endless volley of fast paced star shards voyaging from infinite to infinite piercing both of us with equal ease.
Copyright © 1998 Richard Fein
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March, 1998 Of The Month
Night WatchBy: Linda HaysIn the a.m......02:00 to be precise, on the darkly enveloped, Night-Blooming-Jasmine isolation of my balcony, under the Big Dipper, I sit, slowly rocking, as the acrid smoke of my fifth cigarette fills my lungs and the honeyed tea in my Grandmother's chipped china soothes my throat. The sky is a ripped canvas releasing the light from beyond. The darkness is aflame in the shape of Andremada. A neighbor's light goes on. Are they insomniacal, also, or are they wandering the tall structure of home worrying about imagined slights of the day or was that just a babies cry I heard that shook them from their slumber? There is never light or movement from the apartment two doors down and across the lawn. Is that where the so-called crazy lesbian "widow", the children tauntingly sing about, dwells? Why does she hide? Is that HER shadow moving on HER balcony in this a.m.? I would wave but what would that mean? There is a seclusion about the mid-night that does not allow invasion. The tree off the westward side holds the secret of a blue jay's nest which is even more secretive in the silent dark. I watched them build with sticks and threads and lint from electric dryers. Silence? Did I speak of silence? Why then do my ears roar with so many sounds? Voices and hums and oh so indistinct sounds that make a description impossible. The apartment on the second floor, the one to the left, has flickering candled flame shadows escaping around the edges of the mini-blinds. Silhouettes dance across to the strains of Count Basie. A sigh, mixed with smoke, escapes my parted lips. That other apartment, the one over there, has its porch light shining brightly into the night. Such a young girl to live alone. Is she afraid of the beasties that go bump in the night? No need to worry, dear, plenty of eyes in the night keeping a voyeuristic vigilance. I see the glow of another cigarette on the balcony across the lawn. She too greets the night and ignores that I do the same. It is the code, after all. My eyes grow weary, I can feel the sunken sockets of exhaustion grow deep. I will sleep again, will fall back without a second thought but how do I stay there? How do I capture the elusiveness and keep it and make it mine for more than a few hours? When light of morn streams through the blind, and heat beats, cruelly mixing shadow and harshness, highlighting the pillow wrinkles on my cheeks, I will again rise and face a day that will soon again lead to night that will soon again lead to the fragrant balcony under the Big Dipper.
Copyright © 1996 Linda Hays
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February, 1998 Of The Month
ProgressBy: Rusty Fischercontruction plows through thursday's routine forever watch maytag trucks deliver huge dryers to the new laundromat gleaming chrome fake ferns and track lighting see the going out of business sign on my last visit to the suds shop already miss the mushroom wall paper mustard yellow chairs orange folding tables and those sluts from the tanning parlor next door who used to sweat on purpose i think
Copyright © 1997 Rusty Fischer
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September, 1998 Of The Month
Near Pueblo, ColoradoBy: Chris James KulkoskySilence of a century waits, hangs Near the land, a solace of grass hills, Trees glisten, no one walks by, Eagles seen aloft, afar, But the wind, less than we thought, More than we believed, Seems kindred and grows, As my hands dip blue water of a creek, A face I had not looked for arises.
Copyright © 1988 Chris James Kulkosky
Poetry of Chris James Kulkosky
January 1998 Of The Month
PrayerBy: Germain DroogenbroodtMAY MY MIND be as pure as this moment of sunlight and blackbird voice unconcerned about the why- to which all replies fail excepting that which in a multiplicity of leaves and colours may offer: the rose. Ronda, 11.3.96
Copyright © 1997 Germain Droogenbroodt
December 1997 Of The Month
the faint lightBy: Matt Welteri watch for the faint light the perseid's streaking the fresnel lens blinking a candle from which i shoos the moth away i write by the faint light the northern curtain shimmering red and green in fresh wet ink the sailboat's triangle that glides past an "A" from the far shoal buoy i match lights the kerosene and draws the moth in i dance with the faint light the veil of setting venus swirling across the channel to catch a red crescent the fireflies twirlings and flitterings they turn my eye from the far lighthouse i turn from the aladdin lamp and reduce it into a sequin in the moth's eye i am seeking the faint light the foxfire, the seine the glow worm, the milky way i turn from the bright light lighting near its edge like the mother bat i dip into the bright light only to catch the vine wing the soft foot the white eyes the moth
Copyright © 1997 Matt Welter
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November 1997 Of The Month
The Fiddler and His LadyBy: J. Kevin WolfeHe made his fiddle a lady in the exhaled haze of a Dingle pub As the drums and strums danced the clack of Keryl's spoons the old men scratched their violins But not Maguire's lady She cooed and sighed as his chin so gently rested on her body His peaceful touch drew across her like a warm breath through hair of silk Then the rogue Jim made her weep til she bit us with her pain and a drip of tears seasoned the Guinness But he knew his lady so well The instant he smiled and her hopes took wing She laughed like he'd never made her grieve Her chorts so loud they drew a curious boy who jigged on the stains of the floor She giggled at the jests of Macguire's bow and the boy floated above the hardwood his feet occasionally tapping the floor At closing time Jim laid his lady in her worn velvet bed and locked her away as if she only wanted to sing to him He hugged her under his arm protecting his rare lady from the damp chill of the Irish summer night.
Copyright © 1997 J. Kevin Wolfe
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house guest gone . . .
I undress for my bath
on the way
Copyright © 1997 Zane Parks
Zane Parks' Haiku Page