Poetry - page 9
• Elkgrove - Doug Eisenstark
• Save The Trees - Hillary Kaye
• Mr. Price has come to town - Jim Smith
• Will’s Crusade - Lily Tanner
• reflection- Rebecca M. Frey
• Mendocino Haiku - erica snowlake
• There is no sure protection from Poetry - John Thomas
I know it’s not about the money
with justice I see
busy streets again
moving vans double parked
with trucks from furniture stores
crowding newly acquired hybrids
Those who cleaned and lifted for others,
Save The Trees
By Hillary Kaye
The flesh of the tree is its bark....like the flesh of any human
like the gray beautiful flesh of the elephant...ancient and old
telling us of life
this flesh is meaningless to commerce
meaningless to progress which
marches on but tells us nothing
the flesh of the tree is it now aware of its fate
is it not worth saving like a child
like the mother like the father like the son
like the holy moment and being that it is.
Mr. Price has come to town
with a smile on his face
and a wad of bills in his hand.
With just a hint of pity, he says:
I have big plans for you!
A new suit of clothes
just like they wear uptown.
And the finest shopping
you can ever imagine.
If you still think the old days were grand
Perhaps this check for your favorite cause
will make you forget that nonsense.
And a little more under the table
will make you betray those bums
who have overstayed their welcome.
You can’t beat our PR machine
but if you do, we’ve got the police.
It was Will’s Crusade
the first in hundreds of years
he felt obliged to knock on every door
walk every street
converge on the Holy Land
not so close as Palestine, not so far
as the center of the earth
where the sun boiled black.
As Will knocked on doors
doctors and orderlies appeared in white
ready to follow
the sun all night and summer all winter
according to the tenets of Will
all children be free of the cold, hunger, and war
all men love their mothers
wives and children.
Where they walked gardens loomed
when they entered a town
songs of cheer touched their fingers.
For a hundred years this march continued
until waters were clear
air so clean a breath felt like silk.
And when the century of foot goodness
came to an end
forgot the evildoers.
I looked for you, you were not there.
All the birds flew away at sunset. Were you awake then?
Seemed everything got really quiet. I was well aware of the approaching
I’ve seen tomorrow, so how to live today?
Pull me down and I will bless you as the saint.
Big men, with big talk have less to say. In fact they said "it’s over."
But if you scream at the sun, we can hold our position in time. Rip its
hands off, laugh at the day.
We will eat tomorrow and sing the songs
to commemorate what she said.
-Rebecca M. Frey
rolling clean sticky fingers
wicked zombie stone.
THERE IS NO SURE
PROTECTION FROM POETRY
(submitted by Philomene Long)
Wet sand, small
A hundred yards out,
the shark breaks water
briefly, his flank a perfect
curve of living white,
gone and deep before
doubt can erase him.
This was his moment
to be a metaphor,
but he had been there,
cold, tireless and unseen,
Posted: Sat - December 1, 2007 at 07:12 PM