December of the Month

Sunflowers

By: Allistair Scott

Yellow rank on yellow rank
in blank and regimented rows,
a multitude
of sallow faces
moon the east
where, slugslow hours ago,
the sun arose
to pass them over.


Now in the haze of afternoon
they contemplate another dawn
while all around the air vibrates as
quick and nervous hoverflies
whizz in to probe and pierce and suck:
and bumbling baggy-legged bees
clamber 'cross the stoic dials
to harvest grist for larva-bread.


Silent they stand
dawn on dawn
to wait the end:
the blade,
the wind.


And as they wait
and slowly droop
and desiccate
and die,
bindweed winds up
their knotted legs
and trumpets to the sky.

Copyright © 1996 Allistair Scott

Comments to the author: bateleur@bluewin.ch

November of the Month

The Death of Mr. Potato Head

By: Marilyn D. McIntyre

The creaky cellar stairs
    that led down to "The Bin"
The devil always waiting there
    the eyes stare back again.
Hands submerged in rot and soil
    plucked up from the ground
Wary of the spider's web
    always lurking round.
The breathless dashing up the stairs
    the pot full-clunking sound
The peeling, paring, boiling
    and then the mashing down
Or mushed into a pancake
    purple, oxidized
Floured, onioned, battered
    and sizzled down to size.
The treasure waiting always
    when harvest is finally done
Buried deep within the fire
    maple-flavored, done.
Blackened lumps of coal black food
    dug from fire died
Burst open in our fingers
    snow white and hot inside.
I know I should be sorry
    for all that he has has felt
But I'm glad that he has died for us
    when the butter starts to melt.

Copyright © 1997 Marilyn D. McIntyre

Comments to author: mcintyre@mcmaster.ca

October of the Month

In a Hospital,
Anywhere, With Anne

By: CK Tower

        "Where are we going Walt Whitman?”
                                  -Ginsberg	

What visions I have of you 
	tonight, Anne Sexton, 
I dreamt you again.  You 
	sipping your gin 
at my kitchen table, 
	offering a cigarette 
when I couldn’t find 
	my lithium.

I sit up
	unconvinced of my consciousness, 
 unconvinced there is a difference in being and not. 

	I shuffle to blinds, peek out, 
look for any sign 
	of you, my good muse. 
But only see long slices 
	of silver interrupt shadows 
in the empty parking lot below.

I leave my room, 
	it looks like the one 
next door and next door 
	and next door, only difference 
the occupants, like you Anne, 
	here before on different anti-whatever 
medications. 

	I scuffle down dim lit halls 
in brown hospital-issue 
	gripper-slippers remembering 
your frustrations.

	I walk into the dayroom 
just as you light a cigarette 
	and blow smoke at the
"Thank you for not smoking" sign.  
	The nurses just nod and smile.  

Will you sit with me all night, 
	a companion to my bipolar thoughts?  

	We can sit and share 
a cigarette, dream of life 
	without bent chemistry, of a world 
of metaphors written without
	  insanity.

Will you sit with me all night
	Anne Sexton,
here in these long slices of silver?
	I have no gin 
and they’ve taken my cigarettes,
	left me alone with you 
and these brown slippers.

Copyright © 1996 Christina K. Tower

Originally appeared in AFTERTHOUGHTS, Vol.3 No. 2 1996

Personal Poetry Page Link: The Den, CK Tower

September of The Month

Migration Dreams

  By: truthtable@aol.com

Tiny fingers of moonlight,
Accusing fingers of moonlight,
Filtered by the waving winter trees,
Flicker on the snow,
As the cold wind nasties through the city streets.

He shivers on the concrete bench,
Wraps the rags more tightly,
Sighs and thinks once more of her:

Would she ever take him back?  

Doubtful.

Doubtful as the clouds that scud across the sky.

Was there really a sunny summer field once?
The rich dark smell of plowed earth?
Sweat on my strong back?
Sweet strawberries to pick?  

A dream perhaps.  A dream.
Was a dream that drove me here from Alabama.
Josie said we were poor as dirt.  

And we were.

If only I could be that rich again!

No, I had to come to the city. 
Be the big man.
And it worked...
For a time,
Till it all came tumbling, rumbling down around my head,
Tumbling down and roaring down around me with the bullets,
And little precious Tommy lay there dead, dead, dead.

Copyright © 1997 Truthtable@aol.com                  

August of The Month

What I Meant

                  -That is not what i meant, at all-
                  T.S. Eliot, "The Love Song
                  of J. Alfred Prufrock"


 I know it is not clear what I exactly meant
 but you have failed, my dear, to comprehend at all
 and you must try to understand: the light is bent

 away from us, its blinding rays somehow missent
 to drape these slim and separate shadows down the wall.
 And if it is not clear what I exactly meant

 when I cried, "Come, come lie beside me," my intent,
 though true, got lost with yours in sentient sprawl.
 I'll try to help you understand how light is bent

 to make ambiguous my meaning and descent
 into mere echo of desire's protocol.
 I know it is not clear what is exactly meant
   
 by what has come between us, and our impotent
 and foolish words to one another as we crawl
 toward some better understanding.  Light is bent

 against us.  Stay, and as we lie apart, quite spent,
 we'll lie together, almost touching, after all.
 If I have not made clear what I exactly meant,
 please try to understand:  the light, the light is bent.

  Copyright © 1996 Diane Engle
  Originally appeared in The Formalist

July of The Month

A Distant Question Surrounds

                      and
                slip       swivel
            words           locked
Sweeping                      in  a
                                        sound
                                        smooth
                                            as
                                           silk,
                                      seranading
                                accross
                               my
                           ears
                      striking
                         my
                        throat
                          silent.

                She now grows Still--
                Sapphire eyes shudder more
                than her body, slight
                against  the moon light--

                She bites her lip
                and stares at me intently


                       my hands meet my eyes

Copyright © 1997 Rich Lovejoy

Comments to author: RELovejoy@aol.com

June of The Month

The Phenomena of Cyberlove

By: Glen H. Faure

out of cyberlove I scarcely know
like wine I'll pour the morning dew
an hour then of reading these
soft and drifting words from you

soft and drifting words from you
the rhythm of my poem sets
a cadence that my heart finds clue
to place myself without regrets

to place myself without regrets
in arms that never touch my flesh
but hold my poetry to eye
and like a rose to make it blush

and like a rose to make it blush
the meaning of it levitate
from page or lips so fine a thing
escapes the bonds of tacit fate

escapes the bonds of tacit fate
to spin, a comet, into black
on black that layers light
of youth I never can take back

of youth I never can take back
of will through riot that has gone
to leave love spinning in a wind
the weave of it so come undone

the weave of it so come undone
unraveling boucle of dream
or wish I'm more than words can say
in this short hour's lettered scheme

in this short hour's lettered scheme.

Copyright © 1997 Glen H. Faure, Crete, IL, USA

Comments to the author: ghfaure@theramp.net

Untitled

By: Mackay Miller

May of the Month

If to find meaning
in your gaze lies believing
can we still turn-
twist and dizzy
the slow sweep of
the pine in empty space-
sneak away, down past
the tremblers and
Old God, the cranky
gatekeeper
until the crash
leaps to our feet
and we dive-headlong
lie on the bottom
all sex
and giggle to watch
the last of our breath
scamper in terrified
and shimmering climax
back to the tumbling
creation?

Copyright © 1997
Mackay Miller, Bozeman, MT, USA

Comments to the author: qmiller@avicom.net

Turbulence

April of the Month

By: Meg Lowery

You hold your breath
as you climb higher and higher
into the sky, leaving
everything behind you.
You try to look forward,
but you still keep looking back.
Looking back at what though?
Your painful past can't compare
with the journey you're about to take.
You'll run into some turbulence,
and wish you hadn't run
from your problems.
You'll head for a crash landing
and wonder....
Where am I going?

Copyright © 1997 Meg Lowery

To Elena:

By: John Murvine

March of the Month

Sun that gilds a summer day...

Burnishes fields of corn and wheat
Lends twilight tone to groves and forest trails
Save never braves
Past copse or cave,

Reflects and bends thru crystal waters
Aglow on the land, sweet fiery flame
Hushed in the dark
Yields not a spark.

Paints flowers of brilliant hue and tone
The face of God come down to earth
Dim dusk not know
Nor ember glow.

Eyes of gray fair crowning glory,
Petite sprite of forest stands,
Dulcet tones of gifted play,
Frolic with my heart today.

Rose petal dew upon your cheeks,
Sport thru glades of freshest green.
Honeyed dryad of ancient lore
Essence of love forevermore.

Sun that quits the day at journey's end
Lies no more upon the land...
Entranced with you, sweet pixie-elf
I know not, am not myself.

February of the Month

We ran races,climbed trees
Fell down and skinned our knees.
We waded in puddles, when it rained
You jumped from the garage, I did the same.

Shadow of The City

January of the Month

By: Mystic_K

As I peddled my two wheels, I stopped in front of the flashing light of the sidewalk traffic light... The clouds were closing in over the crescent moon as the city light became dimmer by the minute...

The presence of people enjoying the warm atmosphere of the city disappeared as the night dominated the city's auras... The dark, unknown presence of evil essence immerged from the edge as if it was the rat who came out at night to feed on society's waste...

The prestigious lady sitting outside of the coffee shop drinking cappuccino and reading ELLE was no longer there, but the old man pushing the cart looked through the help wanted section, sipping coffee from the Salvation Army... looking for new hopes and dreams...

There were only a few cars on the street and mostly flashes of blue and red... Sound of firecrackers rang my ears, but it was not the 4th of July... Then mourning of the poor soul who just lost his father screamed its story...

The man behind the bus station, enjoying the white illusion which lasted for seconds was craving for more, while the princess of the night looked for easy bait to lure, anyone who wanted to offer plastic or green for his self pleasure...

While this was happening the mother universe was rising from the west side, vaporizing the people of the night... and it was the beginning of a another day... Another fight for the old man who pushed his cart into the light...looking for a dream he once possessed... also looking for daily rations...

It was time for me to peddle again, but I was heading to the roof of comfort where my mother waited for me to give me a cup of hot chocolate..