Fifth July Selection 2012

Image of Mercy

Image of mercy

her two hands hold a grace

full space

the wind blows her gown around

her stillness

replaced

haltingly

on a shelf in this half-bombed-out apartment

the old woman's

lower lip

trembles

these wars are mine

yet not

the white-haired woman in black

is alone in the ruined building 

and there is no signal

to reach her I must drive

from dark path to dark path

pocky ruts, bomb craters, soldiers, debris,

and history block the way

my language is foreign

our enemies' faces are unclear

what I can do 

and what she needs

disparate

hurriedly I swallow the rest of my tea

my hands on the steering wheel are still the same hands

holding this wheel      

history trembling

praying

to hold enough history to be able to lay it down

the hands beside me in the car,

gray, taut, with nails full of grit,

the hands loading the truck with food,

deft, large-knuckled, raw,

the hands that flash the signal in the darkness

mercy

the hands that axe open the door

grace

the hands that pick through the rubble

may find a broken porcelain image

hands graceful

which might be mended

the wind blows her gown around

her stillness

--Deanna Hopper

1st, 2nd, & 3rd June Poems, 2012

Task Completed

Skipping out the front door
With a wastebasket held high
Zigzagging a bit to the left
Then to the right
Sort of a pirouette
Before slam-dunking it
Into the street-side can
A quick about-face
Returning to the porch
This time wearing the inverted wastebasket
As a hat
Task completed
Performed little boy way

--Bill Krumbein

Walking home by night

just me and my white-bone friend

for everyone else is asleep,

or home with blinds drawn

leaving me to walk the street

while my friend walks that blue-black sky.

--Birrell Walsh

Out here
the tracks of something bright

they move with the wind and sun
I move with the wind and sun

the birds are telling me
the grasses are telling me

here is the voice of spirit
here is the song of spirit

my own medicine I am tracking
the weaving world rolls up

beneath my feet
the dreaming and the dancing

Out here
I am tracking something bright

--Amos Clifford

            

Fourth June Poem 2012

The Old Woman and the Desert #8

I’m on the bowl and

Miss Vicki and Shirley are at my door

Elizabeth died Friday

and we want you to sign her card

You didn’t know?

No

Friday night they found her body

But we don’t know when she died

You didn’t know

No

Her son had been missing her

so he came by to check in on her

and found her body

You mean Bette?

Yes You didn’t know

No

Miss Vicki’s voice quavers

(she was close to Bette

but even in sorrow she and Shirley

let themselves in to snoop

much to my embarrassment

because my home is a mess)

And Gail next door is moving out

You didn’t know

No

And Dorothy

I say better moving out than passing on

And pick up my broom

“A body in motion stays in motion”

--Richard Velez

Fifth June Poem 2012

                                                 Pablo Neruda (calls again)

I hate interruptions.

Ignore the knock at the door.

When a poem lacks a certain word,
the right word takes it’s time.

Go away

Oh, the comma!
The little tip of the fingernail fish,
when placed, just, so,
acts as a chicane¹
to
slow
the
reader’s
run.
    Concentration shimmers at the first ring.
    The display on the phone reads
        Pablo Neruda
        Don’t answer that!

Pablo Neruda has called again.

Deep breaths… concentrate…

Admit it,

part of me wants to

ask him, “About Picasso²?”

Breathe… deep breaths…

look at the page…

pick up the pencil…

I hate interruptions.

Ignore the knock at the door.

When a poem lacks a certain word,
the right word takes it’s time.



¹ chicane
    n: a movable barrier used in motor racing; sometimes placed
        before a dangerous corner to reduce speed as cars pass in
        single file http://dictionary.die.net/chicane

² He shared the World Peace Prize with Pablo Picasso and Paul Robeson in 1950. In 1971, he won the Nobel Prize in Literature.

--Jim Aaron