by Steve Hellyard Swartz
The article said the nursing home has 112 beds
With an Alzheimer’s unit
My father died of Alzheimer’s
He had Parkinson’s first and then he got worse
I used to visit him and he’d kind of grumble a little when I said
Hi, Dad
He’d grumble not like he knew me but like what I was doing to the morning sun
Was bothering him
He’d grumble, my Dad
And, his hand shaking, point at something – not at me, at something past me, how far past I never knew
When the gunman walked into the home past the healwoman and the healman and the sickmen and the sickwomen when the gunman began shooting the people at the nursing home in Carthage, N.C.
What did the Alzheimer’s patients see?
When my father was dying a nurse in hospice said we should keep talking to him
That he knew we were there
That his soul which was in transit
Still loved for us to visit
When the gunman shot the woman who was 98
What did the Alzheimer’s patients think?
Did they point their shaking fingers
The way my Dad pointed
A little past me
Or did they point
As the gunman did
Directly at what this life has come to be
Steve Hellyard Swartz is a regular contributor to new verse news. His poems have also appeared in best poem, switched-on gutenberg, Haggard and Halloo, and The Kennesaw Review. He has won honorable mention in The Allen Ginsberg Poetry Awards (2007 and 2008), The Mary C. Mohr and the Anna Davidson Rosenberg Awards. In 1990, his film, Never Leave Nevada opened at the Sundance Film Festival in Park City, Utah.
_______________________________
Tuesday, March 31, 2009
Monday, March 30, 2009
GONE
by Spiel
your fingerprints
are threadbare from
sweat on grindstone
barely gripping
the skinny side
of a faceless dime
you wish tomorrow you could
sing that old song once again
how your dime was worthy of
your hard time
and you could share your song
with multitudes
and that old song would last you
all day long
There is no NEA nor MFA influence in diverse writings of personal conflict and social consciousness by the poet Spiel, published frequently, internationally, online and in independent press journals. His latest books are: “she: insinuations of flesh brooding,” March Street Press and “once upon a farmboy,” MadmanInk. Learn more about Spiel at: www.thepoetspiel.name.
your fingerprints
are threadbare from
sweat on grindstone
barely gripping
the skinny side
of a faceless dime
you wish tomorrow you could
sing that old song once again
how your dime was worthy of
your hard time
and you could share your song
with multitudes
and that old song would last you
all day long
There is no NEA nor MFA influence in diverse writings of personal conflict and social consciousness by the poet Spiel, published frequently, internationally, online and in independent press journals. His latest books are: “she: insinuations of flesh brooding,” March Street Press and “once upon a farmboy,” MadmanInk. Learn more about Spiel at: www.thepoetspiel.name.
Sunday, March 29, 2009
RED SHIFT
by Peter Branson
Before this latest mess they pestered us
to use their cards, take out cute kit-your-home
out loans. Phone call, spam mail or snail, TV,
imprint; end of the day, we fall. Roll up,
ring out same tired theme tune: “It trickles down,
prosperity, so all do well, d’you see.”
Don’t say when they’ve recouped their share, be bare
bones left for you; blind rambling downturn blues.
They bind us to them heart and soul, refine
with clever marketing how we consume.
The bubble burst, black hole, the butterfly
effect, dark stuff; weird quantum alchemy,
base lead from gold. Though Jack’s all right, Next-door’s
redundant, fifty-two, requires CV,
asks you. No gay Antonio to bail
him out, needs money –"Mortgage, bills to pay."
Recession don’t change much ‘less you’re in debt
or on the dole. Destabilized, may be
too late; the toy balloon, inflated, grasped
by finger tips, released. No siren’s raised;
no fire engine, police car or ambulance,
that drop in pitch to signify you’ve flipped,
blue chip to sheer insolvency, worn out
your credit-rating stations-of-the-shop.
They’ll goose you while you’re healthy, salmon-pink,
try not to drain you dry; mostly you cope:
‘Consolidate your debts into one place.’
Then it’s red shift. Micawber’s “Something will
turn up” won’t do. You’re irredeemable,
can’t turn the tide. They take the reins: “The deal
was all explained to you before you signed.
See there, small print, the bottom of the page.”
They charge-you-till-you-bleed and when you do,
they seize what they already own: buy now -
pay later stuff, your car, your home. You’re in
a mental Marshalsea. They’re in control.
“I’m being reasonable. Don’t take that tone
with me. It’s here in black and white. What’s that?
You didn’t realise? Why? Can’t you read?
Those tears won’t wash. There’s nothing I can do.”
Peter Branson is a creative writing tutor. Until recently he was Writer-in-Residence for "All Write" run by Stoke-on-Trent Library Services. He began writing poetry seriously about five years ago and has had work published by many mainstream poetry journals, including Acumen, Ambit, Envoi, Iota, 14, Fire, The Interpreter's House, Poetry Nottingham, Red Ink and Other Poetry. In the last two years he has had success in several competitions including a first prize in The Envoi International, a second place in The Writing Magazine Open and a highly-commended in The Petra Kenney. His first collection, The Accidental Tourist, was published in May 2008.
__________________________________________________
Neither a borrower nor a lender be. (Hamlet)
Before this latest mess they pestered us
to use their cards, take out cute kit-your-home
out loans. Phone call, spam mail or snail, TV,
imprint; end of the day, we fall. Roll up,
ring out same tired theme tune: “It trickles down,
prosperity, so all do well, d’you see.”
Don’t say when they’ve recouped their share, be bare
bones left for you; blind rambling downturn blues.
They bind us to them heart and soul, refine
with clever marketing how we consume.
The bubble burst, black hole, the butterfly
effect, dark stuff; weird quantum alchemy,
base lead from gold. Though Jack’s all right, Next-door’s
redundant, fifty-two, requires CV,
asks you. No gay Antonio to bail
him out, needs money –"Mortgage, bills to pay."
Recession don’t change much ‘less you’re in debt
or on the dole. Destabilized, may be
too late; the toy balloon, inflated, grasped
by finger tips, released. No siren’s raised;
no fire engine, police car or ambulance,
that drop in pitch to signify you’ve flipped,
blue chip to sheer insolvency, worn out
your credit-rating stations-of-the-shop.
They’ll goose you while you’re healthy, salmon-pink,
try not to drain you dry; mostly you cope:
‘Consolidate your debts into one place.’
Then it’s red shift. Micawber’s “Something will
turn up” won’t do. You’re irredeemable,
can’t turn the tide. They take the reins: “The deal
was all explained to you before you signed.
See there, small print, the bottom of the page.”
They charge-you-till-you-bleed and when you do,
they seize what they already own: buy now -
pay later stuff, your car, your home. You’re in
a mental Marshalsea. They’re in control.
“I’m being reasonable. Don’t take that tone
with me. It’s here in black and white. What’s that?
You didn’t realise? Why? Can’t you read?
Those tears won’t wash. There’s nothing I can do.”
Peter Branson is a creative writing tutor. Until recently he was Writer-in-Residence for "All Write" run by Stoke-on-Trent Library Services. He began writing poetry seriously about five years ago and has had work published by many mainstream poetry journals, including Acumen, Ambit, Envoi, Iota, 14, Fire, The Interpreter's House, Poetry Nottingham, Red Ink and Other Poetry. In the last two years he has had success in several competitions including a first prize in The Envoi International, a second place in The Writing Magazine Open and a highly-commended in The Petra Kenney. His first collection, The Accidental Tourist, was published in May 2008.
__________________________________________________
Saturday, March 28, 2009
WRONG SONG
by Martin Galvin
Some wars we seem to want we do not need to win
Despite the spite with which the fight is made,
Despite the call by those we call our leaders
Despite the shame imputed to the shameless many.
Some wins we want do not need a war.
A war began yesterday but does not end today,
Goes on for years, goes past all reason down
The road we didn’t want to go and past the road
Would take us back where we had been as boys
And girls safe in a place we could not place
Anymore for it is far foul gone for evermore
From mind and map, from war’s foul aim to win
Despite the difference between want and need,
Despite the love we could have won together.
In the last ten years, Martin Galvin has published over 170 more poems in a wide variety of journals and magazines, including Poetry, The New Republic, The Atlantic Monthly, Commonweal, Midwest Quarterly, Alimentum, OntheBus, Image, Poetry East, and New Issues and in a number of anthologies including Best American Poetry 1997 and Poets Against The War edited by Sam Hamill. In 2007, he was awarded a month-long residency at Yaddo.
__________________________________________________
Some wars we seem to want we do not need to win
Despite the spite with which the fight is made,
Despite the call by those we call our leaders
Despite the shame imputed to the shameless many.
Some wins we want do not need a war.
A war began yesterday but does not end today,
Goes on for years, goes past all reason down
The road we didn’t want to go and past the road
Would take us back where we had been as boys
And girls safe in a place we could not place
Anymore for it is far foul gone for evermore
From mind and map, from war’s foul aim to win
Despite the difference between want and need,
Despite the love we could have won together.
In the last ten years, Martin Galvin has published over 170 more poems in a wide variety of journals and magazines, including Poetry, The New Republic, The Atlantic Monthly, Commonweal, Midwest Quarterly, Alimentum, OntheBus, Image, Poetry East, and New Issues and in a number of anthologies including Best American Poetry 1997 and Poets Against The War edited by Sam Hamill. In 2007, he was awarded a month-long residency at Yaddo.
__________________________________________________
Friday, March 27, 2009
HE WORKS WHILE I WATCH
by Meredith Escudier
The toothless man
across the street
can be found every day
of the week, Sundays included,
lying with legs in lateral display,
underneath a car.
With monkey wrenches, screwdrivers,
rags and spigots, valves and filters,
he tinkers away, doing lube jobs,
oil changes, wiring and re-wiring,
welding, gluing, sanding and painting.
Sometimes the hood is propped up,
over an array of dark metal parts,
an open cavern of coal-colored castings,
a battery with colored buttons,
a radiator with a screw-on cap.
Sometimes the dashboard is disentrailed
and a rainbow of spiky wires reaches out
like a limp porcupine, still impressive
if past its punchy prime.
The cars vary. There’s the silvery one with
no hubcaps and the run-down multi-purpose pick-up,
the once-white Tercel and a BMW with no lights in view,
a ‘72 Buick and a ‘75 Ford.
Everyday, my neighbor gets up and slips into his overalls.
Everyday, he sips consommé bouillon with rice balls.
Everyday, he lights a cigarette and contemplates a car that awaits,
a project that beckons, a vehicle that might run today
or not.
No bailout for him, no stimulus package in the offing,
no industry to save, no clauses to waive,
just keep puttering, just keep on puttering
'cause sooner or later, this baby'll sputter and purr.
Meredith Escudier’s non-fiction work has appeared in various literary magazines, anthologies, the International Herald Tribune "Meanwhile" column and as an ongoing column in a monthly based in the south of France. She has just started submitting poetry, which is a genre that suits her more and more.
__________________________________________________
The toothless man
across the street
can be found every day
of the week, Sundays included,
lying with legs in lateral display,
underneath a car.
With monkey wrenches, screwdrivers,
rags and spigots, valves and filters,
he tinkers away, doing lube jobs,
oil changes, wiring and re-wiring,
welding, gluing, sanding and painting.
Sometimes the hood is propped up,
over an array of dark metal parts,
an open cavern of coal-colored castings,
a battery with colored buttons,
a radiator with a screw-on cap.
Sometimes the dashboard is disentrailed
and a rainbow of spiky wires reaches out
like a limp porcupine, still impressive
if past its punchy prime.
The cars vary. There’s the silvery one with
no hubcaps and the run-down multi-purpose pick-up,
the once-white Tercel and a BMW with no lights in view,
a ‘72 Buick and a ‘75 Ford.
Everyday, my neighbor gets up and slips into his overalls.
Everyday, he sips consommé bouillon with rice balls.
Everyday, he lights a cigarette and contemplates a car that awaits,
a project that beckons, a vehicle that might run today
or not.
No bailout for him, no stimulus package in the offing,
no industry to save, no clauses to waive,
just keep puttering, just keep on puttering
'cause sooner or later, this baby'll sputter and purr.
Meredith Escudier’s non-fiction work has appeared in various literary magazines, anthologies, the International Herald Tribune "Meanwhile" column and as an ongoing column in a monthly based in the south of France. She has just started submitting poetry, which is a genre that suits her more and more.
__________________________________________________
Thursday, March 26, 2009
WAITING FOR RELIEF
by Cary B. Ziter
Self confidence and the dove have flown.
Marrow swells in slumber, in the dizzy monotone.
Inane diplomacy rules cold slate clouds.
The flat water of my living room brings television
talk of adored warheads and subtropical pain killers
that no longer help abused genitals.
For three unemployed months the ringlet curl has unwound
and I have sat here missing my manager's daily interrogation,
his buffed leg irons applied to ankles, attitude, eye lids.
Crime over love, blood over heart; they'll never take
me back. The Brooks Brothers suit has given way to soap
opera as sick as the tobacco itching my yellow teeth.
Soon I will write down all my prime investments,
dine on stored sonnets, on disputes and tragedies,
live only to forget the recent past.
And shudder at the hissing sounds in my head, voices
full of falsity that roll in like wild funeral grief
each time I plead for new relief.
Cary B. Ziter is the author of three published books for young readers. He earned his MFA from Bennington College and currently resides in upstate New York.
__________________________________________________
Self confidence and the dove have flown.
Marrow swells in slumber, in the dizzy monotone.
Inane diplomacy rules cold slate clouds.
The flat water of my living room brings television
talk of adored warheads and subtropical pain killers
that no longer help abused genitals.
For three unemployed months the ringlet curl has unwound
and I have sat here missing my manager's daily interrogation,
his buffed leg irons applied to ankles, attitude, eye lids.
Crime over love, blood over heart; they'll never take
me back. The Brooks Brothers suit has given way to soap
opera as sick as the tobacco itching my yellow teeth.
Soon I will write down all my prime investments,
dine on stored sonnets, on disputes and tragedies,
live only to forget the recent past.
And shudder at the hissing sounds in my head, voices
full of falsity that roll in like wild funeral grief
each time I plead for new relief.
Cary B. Ziter is the author of three published books for young readers. He earned his MFA from Bennington College and currently resides in upstate New York.
__________________________________________________
Wednesday, March 25, 2009
SACRAMENTO
by Eliza Kelley
I just sold
my mother’s diamond ring
to pay for last month’s heat.
This is no parable
wrestling angels with golden bows.
The lesson here must be
the terrible hymn of a pearl
become dust, too long bereft
of human touch, disintegrated
into its own dry weight
like the rising number of tent dwellers
sorting through
thin
garments
down
to the bottom
of the last supper city
mission bin: finding nothing to fit, just
the lost pearl, broken loose
from its button place.
We hold only this truth
self-evident, a bauble
crushed in the palm of our hand, stand
together, alone, wonder
who will lift us up?
We are suddenly wise
who find nothing left to pawn.
Portrait artist and writer, Eliza Kelley, teaches Native American and Minority Literatures, Human Rights Discourse and Creative Writing at Buffalo State College in New York. Recent poetry and fiction appears in CONTE, RKVRY, Origami Condom, and Trillium.
__________________________________________________
I just sold
my mother’s diamond ring
to pay for last month’s heat.
This is no parable
wrestling angels with golden bows.
The lesson here must be
the terrible hymn of a pearl
become dust, too long bereft
of human touch, disintegrated
into its own dry weight
like the rising number of tent dwellers
sorting through
thin
garments
down
to the bottom
of the last supper city
mission bin: finding nothing to fit, just
the lost pearl, broken loose
from its button place.
We hold only this truth
self-evident, a bauble
crushed in the palm of our hand, stand
together, alone, wonder
who will lift us up?
We are suddenly wise
who find nothing left to pawn.
Portrait artist and writer, Eliza Kelley, teaches Native American and Minority Literatures, Human Rights Discourse and Creative Writing at Buffalo State College in New York. Recent poetry and fiction appears in CONTE, RKVRY, Origami Condom, and Trillium.
__________________________________________________
Tuesday, March 24, 2009
STIMULUS PACKAGE
by Alan Catlin
Smith & Wesson
reports
expected increased sales
revenue
in handgun
sales
to law enforcements
agencies countrywide
due to stimulus package
funds
& an anticipated spike
in crime rates
caused by hard economic
times after bad
quarterly earnings
following drop in
in discretionary
spending on shot guns
and hunting rifles
no impact statement
issued on expected rise
in private sales
to individuals
& criminals
was made
available
at this time
Alan Catlin's latest chapbook is a long poem, Thou Shalt Not Kill, an updating of Rexroth's seminal poem of the same name. Whereas Rexroth riffs on the abuses of the Eisenhower adminstration, the update observes abuses of power in the previous administration with particular attention to the cynical, criminal behavior towards the Katrina hurricane victims.
____________________________________________
Smith & Wesson
reports
expected increased sales
revenue
in handgun
sales
to law enforcements
agencies countrywide
due to stimulus package
funds
& an anticipated spike
in crime rates
caused by hard economic
times after bad
quarterly earnings
following drop in
in discretionary
spending on shot guns
and hunting rifles
no impact statement
issued on expected rise
in private sales
to individuals
& criminals
was made
available
at this time
Alan Catlin's latest chapbook is a long poem, Thou Shalt Not Kill, an updating of Rexroth's seminal poem of the same name. Whereas Rexroth riffs on the abuses of the Eisenhower adminstration, the update observes abuses of power in the previous administration with particular attention to the cynical, criminal behavior towards the Katrina hurricane victims.
____________________________________________
Monday, March 23, 2009
COMMISSIONER OF THE LATEST BLUNDER
by William Aarnes
Chagrined is how the news clip catches Kathleen
right behind me at my hearing--loyal disappointment.
They've had the sense to air my reading
of the passage I'd revised the most: " . . . miscalculated . . .
ignored the misgivings of my staff . . . misinterpreted . . .
unknowingly misinformed and thus misadvised . . .
then mishandled . . . ." They show the Senator
defending my honesty, only to have me respond,
"I'm sorry, sir, but you'll agree integrity
can't excuse or correct my bungling." They switch
to a story on the hurricane off the East Coast--
same name as mine, though not my worry,
nobody's error. Then a commercial for pain relief.
"Good job," my daughter assures me. My son nods.
They slouch on either side of me, both as far away
as knowing better takes them. What is good
is my parents are dead--they'd crowd me,
aware how commiseration castigates.
Kathleen keeps trying--tonight chicken piquant,
though I can't eat. I couldn't make love
if she wanted.
Another man might shoot himself--
but tomorrow I'll be on the front page,
maybe the headline. I've scheduled interviews
where I'll elaborate on how I'm to blame.
Then other things will come--turning down the reporter
who'll offer to help with a book ("a cautionary tale,"
she'll call it), agreeing to the divorce, selling
this house, looking for less mistaken work.
William Aarnes’s first book, Learning to Dance, was published in 1991 by Ninety-Six Press, which also published his second collection, Predicaments, in 2001. His first published poem appeared in FIELD in 1969. Over the years he has had poems in such magazines as The American Scholar, The Southern Review, Shenandoah, Measure, Bateau, The Potomac Review and Poetry.
_______________________________
Chagrined is how the news clip catches Kathleen
right behind me at my hearing--loyal disappointment.
They've had the sense to air my reading
of the passage I'd revised the most: " . . . miscalculated . . .
ignored the misgivings of my staff . . . misinterpreted . . .
unknowingly misinformed and thus misadvised . . .
then mishandled . . . ." They show the Senator
defending my honesty, only to have me respond,
"I'm sorry, sir, but you'll agree integrity
can't excuse or correct my bungling." They switch
to a story on the hurricane off the East Coast--
same name as mine, though not my worry,
nobody's error. Then a commercial for pain relief.
"Good job," my daughter assures me. My son nods.
They slouch on either side of me, both as far away
as knowing better takes them. What is good
is my parents are dead--they'd crowd me,
aware how commiseration castigates.
Kathleen keeps trying--tonight chicken piquant,
though I can't eat. I couldn't make love
if she wanted.
Another man might shoot himself--
but tomorrow I'll be on the front page,
maybe the headline. I've scheduled interviews
where I'll elaborate on how I'm to blame.
Then other things will come--turning down the reporter
who'll offer to help with a book ("a cautionary tale,"
she'll call it), agreeing to the divorce, selling
this house, looking for less mistaken work.
William Aarnes’s first book, Learning to Dance, was published in 1991 by Ninety-Six Press, which also published his second collection, Predicaments, in 2001. His first published poem appeared in FIELD in 1969. Over the years he has had poems in such magazines as The American Scholar, The Southern Review, Shenandoah, Measure, Bateau, The Potomac Review and Poetry.
_______________________________
Sunday, March 22, 2009
ON THE FLOOR OF THE EXCHANGE
by Scot Siegel
The room is full
of the smartest people
in the room
Doing their best
to invest the stimulus
that we keep counting on
Good thing
the room is full
of the smartest people
in the room
Scot Siegel is a poet and land use planner from Oregon, where he serves on the board of trustees for the Friends of William Stafford. He is the author of Some Weather (Plain View Press, 2008), and Untitled Country, a chapbook due out from Pudding House Publications in 2009.
_______________________________
The room is full
of the smartest people
in the room
Doing their best
to invest the stimulus
that we keep counting on
Good thing
the room is full
of the smartest people
in the room
Scot Siegel is a poet and land use planner from Oregon, where he serves on the board of trustees for the Friends of William Stafford. He is the author of Some Weather (Plain View Press, 2008), and Untitled Country, a chapbook due out from Pudding House Publications in 2009.
_______________________________
Saturday, March 21, 2009
LA ENTRADA PROJECT
by Andrew Hilbert
La Entrada Project - Wall1 from geraluzlove on Vimeo.
Despite the Wind,
the Interpreters worked
atop the scaffolding
which clung to the rooftops
and plucked Images
out of the Sky
and stuck them
on the blank Canvas
Building.
Interpreting
the message that the Earth
sings to Civilization
every day.
Andrew Hilbert has a degree in History at Cal State Long Beach and lives in Orange County, California.
__________________________________________________
La Entrada Project - Wall1 from geraluzlove on Vimeo.
Despite the Wind,
the Interpreters worked
atop the scaffolding
which clung to the rooftops
and plucked Images
out of the Sky
and stuck them
on the blank Canvas
Building.
Interpreting
the message that the Earth
sings to Civilization
every day.
Andrew Hilbert has a degree in History at Cal State Long Beach and lives in Orange County, California.
__________________________________________________
Friday, March 20, 2009
CONSIDERING
by Charlie Mehrhoff
Considering the length of time
that it takes light
to travel across intergalactic space –
Looking, often times, at stars
that have long since burned out –
Waving
goodbye to America.
Charlie Mehrhoff has sent out little work in the past decade. Survival issues. However, he was recently featured in ORIGIN 2, Sixth Series. Crafting the Word is a Web site window into his work.
________________________________________
Considering the length of time
that it takes light
to travel across intergalactic space –
Looking, often times, at stars
that have long since burned out –
Waving
goodbye to America.
Charlie Mehrhoff has sent out little work in the past decade. Survival issues. However, he was recently featured in ORIGIN 2, Sixth Series. Crafting the Word is a Web site window into his work.
________________________________________
Thursday, March 19, 2009
DESPITE EVERYTHING
by Megan Webster
Though polar ice sheets shatter, slip
onto the ocean’s tongue
vanish as if they had never been
There will be music
though tyrants squander peace
claim what isn’t theirs — gods, temples
coins, the breath of innocents
There will be music
while smoke of one hundred souls
smothers the sky of Dora
& a belted youth turns to martyr
There will be music
while the ailing child moans
in tremors of malaria
& the exhausted mother expires
There will be music
for the bent rice planters of Somona
the grape pickers of Sonoma
for the deaf Nigerian gravedigger
There will be music
for the blushing desert sundown
the Afghan marriage feast
soon to follow
There will be music
for lovers roaming the fields of Provence
daisies swinging in swell
of summer — their buttons ablaze
There will be music
Megan Webster was an active member of SD Writer's Ink for many years as board member and poetry instructor. Her third chapbook, Bipolar Express, won a San Diego Book Award in 2004. Published by Finishing Line Press in 2006, it also was a finalist for the New Women's Voices Competition. Her work has appeared in numerous publications including, The Connecticut Review, Red River Review, ONTHEBUS, ROADS.poetry.com, Poiesis and Sunshine/Noir.
_______________________________
After Jack Gilbert
Though polar ice sheets shatter, slip
onto the ocean’s tongue
vanish as if they had never been
There will be music
though tyrants squander peace
claim what isn’t theirs — gods, temples
coins, the breath of innocents
There will be music
while smoke of one hundred souls
smothers the sky of Dora
& a belted youth turns to martyr
There will be music
while the ailing child moans
in tremors of malaria
& the exhausted mother expires
There will be music
for the bent rice planters of Somona
the grape pickers of Sonoma
for the deaf Nigerian gravedigger
There will be music
for the blushing desert sundown
the Afghan marriage feast
soon to follow
There will be music
for lovers roaming the fields of Provence
daisies swinging in swell
of summer — their buttons ablaze
There will be music
Megan Webster was an active member of SD Writer's Ink for many years as board member and poetry instructor. Her third chapbook, Bipolar Express, won a San Diego Book Award in 2004. Published by Finishing Line Press in 2006, it also was a finalist for the New Women's Voices Competition. Her work has appeared in numerous publications including, The Connecticut Review, Red River Review, ONTHEBUS, ROADS.poetry.com, Poiesis and Sunshine/Noir.
_______________________________
Wednesday, March 18, 2009
ENTREPRENEUR'S HANDBOOK
by Peter Branson
How does it work?
We flout the rules:
afraid our privilege
will be found out,
distort the truth
where there is scope for doubt.
Secret cabals,
meetings behind closed doors,
witch hunt our enemies,
settle new scores,
corrupt the law-
maker, march with the lout.
What do we do when things
flip inside out?
Mouth what’s appropriate,
sympathise, frown;
hope it won’t last,
a temporary blip,
then, when the coast is clear,
quietly jump town.
What happens when the rich
cats leave the ship?
Slowly we tire,
go under, some folk drown.
Peter Branson is a creative writing tutor. Until recently he was Writer-in-Residence for "All Write" run by Stoke-on-Trent Library Services. He began writing poetry seriously about five years ago and has had work published by many mainstream poetry journals, including Acumen, Ambit, Envoi, Iota, 14, Fire, The Interpreter's House, Poetry Nottingham, Red Ink and Other Poetry. In the last two years he has had success in several competitions including a first prize in The Envoi International, a second place in The Writing Magazine Open and a highly-commended in The Petra Kenney. His first collection, The Accidental Tourist, was published in May 2008.
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How does it work?
We flout the rules:
afraid our privilege
will be found out,
distort the truth
where there is scope for doubt.
Secret cabals,
meetings behind closed doors,
witch hunt our enemies,
settle new scores,
corrupt the law-
maker, march with the lout.
What do we do when things
flip inside out?
Mouth what’s appropriate,
sympathise, frown;
hope it won’t last,
a temporary blip,
then, when the coast is clear,
quietly jump town.
What happens when the rich
cats leave the ship?
Slowly we tire,
go under, some folk drown.
Peter Branson is a creative writing tutor. Until recently he was Writer-in-Residence for "All Write" run by Stoke-on-Trent Library Services. He began writing poetry seriously about five years ago and has had work published by many mainstream poetry journals, including Acumen, Ambit, Envoi, Iota, 14, Fire, The Interpreter's House, Poetry Nottingham, Red Ink and Other Poetry. In the last two years he has had success in several competitions including a first prize in The Envoi International, a second place in The Writing Magazine Open and a highly-commended in The Petra Kenney. His first collection, The Accidental Tourist, was published in May 2008.
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