December 2012 Selected Poem #3

                                    Sleeping Under a Desk with Dog

In my mind’s eye, this night is the brightest
of the month; the full moon reflects the sun
and silvery shadow would normally calm the
quiet wood, allowing me to voyeur the nocturnal
happenings of animals normally only heard,
unseen; bear, coyote, owl.

In my mind’s eye, I hear the calm moon
light the sky in the night’s quiet.

Tonight, the moon is a tertiary
influence to the tumult around. We can see
nothing - nothing but the protected candlelight -
candlelight that penetrates the forest about
as well as the full moon.

Mother Nature trumps herself; we hear the
tumult of wind, the cracking of trees, windows
battered by lateral rain. Sandy blots out stars,
moon, creates her own night, her own nightmare
-- suggesting destruction with loud crashes barely
penetrating past the wind’s voice.

Sandy, Sandy, insists on upstaging coyotes and
owls. In the dark of her night, she rearranges
trees, stripping the fall of color, felling transformers
relegating us to days of darkness,
of imagination. It would be easy to give in to small
girl’s fears - dead branches against dark window.

The moon beyond watches in passive silence. It
is only by faith that I know it’s there.

In the clearing day, when gray gives way to color,
and wind has claimed its victim trees, we walk
inspecting her work. She has kindly felled a 2’
diameter tree, laying it precisely parallel to the
drive; a fresh cache of firewood for the coming
winter. A car hood from an unknown car
stands as tombstone.

--Stacey Knapp

December 2012 Selected Poems #'s 4 & 5

Imprint of leaf on concrete

Sun struggling

to break thru cumulus cover

Corner

Bus stop

Clown on wheelchair

in bright orange kung fu gloves

talks to someone funny

on his Bluetooth ear phone:

actually talking to self;

all in his head

ALL is in his head

Two deaf Asian girls;

beautiful;

of ill repute?

Clown and I give them bad directions

Clearly in hope they find themselves

lost in our arms

On the bus

I take my hat off hoping

to impress them with my full mane

but all they see is my bad haircut

The radiator burns a hole in my calf

--Richard Velez

    4:30 AM

4:30 AM
Rumbles through my head again
Tick-tock
It seems it goes on forever
There I go again exaggerating
Forever is a very long time
And eventually the end comes
I know what was on that train
Dreams and whispers and bullets and trash
Each morning at the same time
The whistle blows
4:30 AM
Here comes that train again

         

        --Larissa

First November Selection, 2012

All my life I've walked
as if hiding in the wood
      I do it well

This morning I realized all
the creatures who've come
                 to me

Know this hidden walk
just because it is so
            human

They wait to watch and see
if this human is also a
              being

--Joyce Pointe

Lost
for Ali

"You need something to love," I say.
Her wide, wary eyes, that I love, her heart full
Of tears. A kitten, a child, a community. Something.
Not to love you, but to love. We sit together
In the old Bullring, now a shopping Mall,
Sipping cortados where blood dripped
Or ran in rivulets of cruel pleasure
In the days of the Dictator.

In the old city, a Korean tourist smells like sweet alcohol.
The medieval maze of old Barcelona confounds.
The map she proffers speaks a language
Of figures and forms, delicate, but indecipherable to me.
Her English is a tiny bird chirps,
Selected, necessary words, "Help?"
"Lost." We say yes because we can–
And, because she is so young, so lost and a little drunk,
Possessing simple, syllables of European language,
Her optimism and innocence the only treasure she offers.


So, so vulnerable, like my daughter who feels so alone.
But the tourist knows "Thank you",  says it over and over
As we pass the ancient cellars
Of the ugly Inquisition and the shadowed alleys
Populated by ghosts. No need for Thank you.
The gift is the giving. Finally delivered,
Her key fits an unfamiliar lock,
She hugs, I bow. Thanks enough given the chance
To care. This kitten of a child, lost, like my own
Who needs only to love to be found.

--Rebecca del Rio