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Rizwan Akhtar

My Languages

I
dream about my ancestors in Arabic,

who
planted  stories in sands and pearls,

wrote
love tales on the fronds of fig's trees

danced
in Oasis and left me wondering.

I
talk in my father's language

chewed
with betel leafs

and
sung with tapering candles

before
and after the Mutiny—

people
were hanged in words

expressions
were concealed in letters

streets
were lonely and long like the Urdu dirge.

Now
I struggle with another one

one
with which I swam all the oceans,

has
double-edge teeth

it
bites out of  loyalty and betrayal—

and
makes me claim

the
bastardised foreword of a vanity book—

so,
sometimes I mesh it

with
my personal pronouns

sprinkle
some home-grind spices

then
words bob out of my grip

like
a little child

on
the platform

and
haggard goes the mother,

so
I am often

prisoner
and custodian

straddles
with its fortunes

falling
and running

across
the English Channel.

The Melt

The
snow spread like a blank white page

and
sun like a reluctant reader

flipped
it-

the
light illumined the thumbed earth

and
became a mirror

undressed
from night's frozen stare

the
hidden creatures raised their heads

from
this egg-white plate

the
smothered grass divided in little spongy hordes

challenged
the white colour everywhere

the
melt down began

and
the early morning pedestrians

started
cursing the pitfalls on the pavements.

Eric Burke

Two Poems From the
Store

The Scholar

(A
Misprision)

He wants to sound like
Achilles

weeping
by the sea.

He
wants his desire

to
sound as natural, as innocent,

as
inevitable.  He wants his wife

to
understand the urgency of desire,

the
shortness of life.

He
wants her to give to him

as
Thetis gave to Achilles

(for
no woman ever has). So

He continues down the aisle

with
the intensity of a thousand

Nereid
aunts accompanying him.

Observing Her

She
wants a man who is soft

like
a woman's belly,

soft
to his children,

soft
to himself.

A
man who dances,

sometimes
by himself,

round
and round

in
constant circles,

round
and round

when
his wife does not desire.

She
imagines this man

is
Jewish,

or
Catholic -- maybe Italian,

or
East European -- maybe a professor,

or
scholar, or grocer -- in any case,

a
kind of communal    hermit:

sufficient
unto himself,

and
gracious, oh so gracious,

to
all who enter his life.

Christie Casher

BARRIER BEACH

In
my town, where every other house stands on stilts,

wooden
risers break into pieces during summers

when
riptides submerge jetties under the ocean

and
the boardwalk— a memory, a pile of planks

The
ocean overflows into the street, the bay

meets
it halfway. Beech Street submerged—

the
Gino’s Pizza sign still lit, but the neon icon

of
the Lido Kosher Deli burned, the metal wreath

on
the roof of Laurel Luncheonette missing leaves.

We
learned about destruction early, our dock

detaching
and floating towards New York, fish

swam
in the garden, seaweed wrapped our tomatoes,

Sometimes
we tasted low tide instead of air.

What
seeped through the walls never went upstairs.

HALF
A LETTER

I
erased you completely

eradicated the leavings

but still you hung in the air,

hard smoke in my mouth.

Now the midnight
calls return,

I’m running, late to work,

still wanting every second

of your body and my body

splayed across each other

in this consonantal
divide.

Jane Choi

The fate of
time

Round
and round.

I
determine your fate one hour at a time. I am two hundred machines.

I
have been glared at in awe.

I
come in many shapes and sizes.

People
find me amusing and sometimes people find me to be boring.

Why
am I turned on all day long if I bore you?

You
turn me on and then leave me on.

You
make me burn on the inside.

I
just don't understand.

Why
do you continue to torture me with your watching?

You
watch me, but then continue to pay attention to the finer things in life.

Tell
me what am I doing wrong?

I
am sometimes off tune, and yet you continue to play me.

Sometimes
you sit in front of me and make me wonder.

Are
you ready to play me?

I
yearn for you to play me.

Just
press me and go with it.

Howard Good

ALMOST NIGHT

I
step down off the bus and back into the world. The

landscape
smells as if it has just been painted. Red

fields
stretch away on either side. I can’t imagine what’s

growing.
By the time I hurry into the village, I’m

frightened.
Everyone I’d passed on the road, man or woman,

had
the thick, unfinished features of a convict. I find a

door
in the wall, a place for a drink. There’s only one

other
patron. He might be a slaughtering angel. He looks

at
me over the rim of his glass as if he were, and I know

then
that, despite the time, it’s almost night.

Christine Hamm

The Dad Parade

how
they disappeared each morning

in
silver or blue cars smelling

of
old newspapers

before
we had even fought

our
way out from under

the
heavy dreams of sinking boats

and
black lakes, of the family

cat
stuck in the oak at the edge

of
the park and us wearing

mittens
and no pants,

with
no way to climb

without
falling down and down

Colin James

SAINT JOHN THE
COMPROMISED

Approaching
your home

from the seaward side

always required

expert knowledge of the terrain,

or luck.

The pungent smell of hibiscus

and burnt oak,

the cave's mouth kissed

lips and moss.

This contentment of grief

belies a certain obligation.

Jason Jones

The
Spider's Craft

A
spider composed an epic poem outside my bedroom window,

beginning
with a single yellow rose and ending with another,

and
it was a critical failure. The plot, consisting of

eight
hundred and fifty-six woven strands, was far too intricate

for
any single mind to comprehend. But regardless of its

reputation
a few daring scholars took the challenge and unknowingly

found
themselves trapped. Their legs

at
once grew heavy; their eyes bulged from sockets;

and
veined wings sprung from their shoulder blades.

The
more they struggled, the less progress they made

until
they found themselves paralyzed.

"This
is harder than Finnegan's Wake!" one professor

chirped
with a high-pitched inhuman buzz;

and
without their support the public didn't pay attention.

I
once tried to read the work myself, but with a deep-seated

belief
in simplicity (and a touch of laziness), I skipped

from
one flower to the next, skimming its center

with
the agile tip of my index finger and without seeking sense.

"How
natural," I buzzed. "Far too fine a piece for

the
dust motes of institutions and dim light of hallowed halls."

Ross Hamilton Hill

Early
Shift

Half-light
of dawn, the sea impenetrable.

A
sullen sky reduces everything to semi-tones.

The
reds recede, the few lights, the neon:

white
and yellow walls relieve the scene.

A
woman throws a stick for her dog.

Reading
over a shoulder,

a
moon rocket takes off on page one.

The
bus winds slowly up to the junction.

Workers
enter like penitents.

The
young aware of their outfits.

The
old, almost in uniform, discuss the 'League'.

The
windows rattle as we stop at the station.

Karen Kelsay

Confessions to an
Aspen

Tonight,
you came in the form

of
a shadowy bough, sweeping across

my
bedroom wall.

Long
ago, I ripped you like a sapling

from
my tornado-life, never

hurling
an afterthought

over
the silent destruction.

Your
siblings have matured into sturdy

trees,
strong enough to hold

all
summer in their boughs.

One
is a sycamore, the other an oak,

the
third, a silver birch. Their roots

sink
into the earth and interlace

around
me. I think you were an aspen,

my
nameless one--fine and delicate.

A
daughter who may have carved

her
dreams into this rough-bark world,

the
way you scratched your initials

inside
of me.

Alan King

What's Going On

It's
been years since I've heard

that
voice, since we last saw

each
other on a night like this:

stars
hemmed to the sky

like
the glittery sequins of a dark

form-fitting
dress. Even then, I wanted

to
be so many things -- the cursive

script
of light in your long wavy hair,

the
iridescent glow glazing your

olive
skin. And weren't we so determined

to
keep our friendship we disregarded

any
possibility of something deeper?

Driving
through your old area,

each
street takes me back to

that
night outside the record shop --

you
in the Soul Train line, and me

wanting
to be the imaginary hool-a-

hoop
your hips were working. All I have

now
is a missed call, and your message.

I
don't know what to call this current

tugging
us both after so long,

when
I'm minutes from calling you

before
a friend breaks the news

of
your engagement.

Message
In The Moon

for
HT

Streetlamps
flickered while

you
tried to make it home before

your
folks worried and went out

to
find you. In 3rd grade

we
were oblivious to neighborhood

pedophiles
lurking after dark;

or
the candy-apple Maxima, a .45

aimed
out the rear passenger side

window
at anybody walking,

then
the car peeling away after

realizing
it was the wrong person.

That
evening -- daylight fading into

a
peach sorbet-colored sky -- I pumped

my
legs to get you home before curfew,

wondering
then what the moon

tried
to tell me -- sliding its light

over
your bare limbs -- and the hunger

to
know if the sugar-cookie brown

of
your skin was sweet as the Cotton Candy

Bubbalicious
you were always chewing.

And
what did it all mean, this drumming

in
my blood; something inside me opening

like
the tapered head of a tulip?

That
evening, when you climbed

on
the back of my mountain bike, I might

have
been rickshawing a dignitary the way

the
humming bird in my chest fluttered

with
your arms around my waist; my body

trying
to decipher this language of touch

when
the closest we'd come to first base

was
sipping off the same straw.

Out
of Season

Mosquitoes
stick my skin

with
a thirst larger than

their
slim straws, leaving

tiny
pyramids swelling along

the
Giza Plateau of my arm.

And
something in my blood

keeps
them lingering the way

obsession
drives a stalker's pulse.

Nature's
freeloaders feeding

even
after the flowers have shown

their
bright blouses, then disrobed

like
exotic dancers; and even after

the
trees shed their green weight

with
Winter coming on the back

of
a chill that swoops

and
spins like birds of prey.

Oddity

As
if each set of arms

were
grown for a talent

I
neglected, or for each time

I've
turned down gigs

at
churches. And don't God

always
take a humbling

hand
to those who shun

him
publicly? The morning

I
woke like this, I wondered

if
I'd gotten myself into a whale

of
a situation, like Jonah.

Now
my change cup sits out

like
a spare palm, like that

of
the blind man outside

the
gates of a temple

called
"Beautiful" -- only

instead
of ignoring me,

people
gather to watch

what
must be a circus act --

no
bearded ladies or fire eaters,

though;
just me outside

a
metro station, playing

for
mere coins -- one set

of
hands holding an acoustic

guitar,
another angling a flute

to
pursed lips, and the other

rapidly
smacking congas.

Spirit
of Washington

My
brother Drew said the boy

must
have smoked it before screaming

and
punching a wall at the back

of
the movie theater, when gloved

hands
rushed him with tazers. Two pulls

left
Jay naked in the woods behind

our
high school, howling at a milky-

white
eye set in the dark sky;

was
that what made Terrance lay

across
the double solid lines,

then
laugh as a neighbor swerved

to
keep from crushing him?

This
boat made of rolling paper

and
herbs dipped in fluid used

to
preserve dead bodies,

far
from a cruise liner

sailing
the Potomac.

Jennifer LeBlanc

December

There
is a certain year when you have watched

the
progression of time and nature of existence,

when
you suddenly comprehend some of truth,

when
you begin to make connections and sense.

What
this life is made of, what structures breath,

it
is skeletons of everything we know so well—

it
is the single branch stemming from the tree

deep
in the winter months, shelled in ice, and

it
is the body of a young child, found dead—

then,
when this comes, something we do not know

well,
we are shocked into attention, we understand.

We
understand that we take our monotonous steps,

that
we huddle ourselves inside harmful protection,

the
comfortable oblivion of house with picket fence,

the
more gentle caress of family, good town, money.

You
have to listen to the song twenty-one times over

before
you can repeat the lyrics and notes perfectly,

before
you know the bones of what you are singing,

and
you then comprehend the meaning, the essence.

David McLean

it
was mistakes

it
was mistakes like stones in a forest;

and
the tragic hero who never sinned,

whom
we could not even call stupid,

just
wrong once like all of us,

inventing
love and planting trees,

not
stupid, not sinful, not arrogant or mad,

just
dreaming that the erratic blood

was
the seed that might believe in us

might
say we were enough,

that
was tragedy once

Steve Meador

Garcia
y Vega

There
was an incredible simplicity to his business

accounting.
A pair of Garcia y Vega cigar boxes,

one
marked In, the other Out. The colorful lids belied

the
raw, red hands, purple thumbs, toothpick-sized

splinters
and fierce labor of pole barn construction.

Bad
weather provided no excuse to stay home. Holes

were
augured in frozen ground or dug by hand when

the
tractor broke down. We slogged through Super Glue

mud
that gripped boots, ran for the truck when lightning

sizzled
the air and skated on clay slick as glycerin on glass.

Friday
afternoon grungy guys gathered round the kitchen

table
as pay was doled out, slowly revealing a white bottom

in
the box. Someone rolled his bills and clenched them

between
his teeth, "Ain't nothing like a fat green stogie!"

We
roared, ignoring the dissipating aroma of success.

It
was the dwindling In and the profusely bleeding Out

that
allowed me to obtain the grants to go to college.

Years
later, when antique cigar boxes became the rage

of
collectors, the boxes seemed to hold more value than

my
grandfather's pole barn business ever did achieve.

James Meetze

PET
SOUNDS, OR A BETTER CHANCE TO STUDY PRACTICAL CETOLOGY

It
is the whiteness of the whale, the blackness

of
the whale that below fireworks

each
evening, must become a colored

and
toothsome smile. The whale

in
captivity on the bay sings

to
his audience like his mother sang

to
me as a child.

It
is a manifestation of culture,

this
connection between singer and who sung to.

My
wettest neighbor, I know thy dialect

whose
clicks and whistles rile children to their feet.

The
open blue sky today, like the small blue pool

without
enclosure. Do you perform to be free?

Do
you believe?

It
is not an idle whim that you salute

with
a spyhop or a splash, it is your mechanism

that
makes you. By definition a nationless patriot

but
here we are to be toneblind, the theory

of
color a tercet: red, white, blue.

How
you are painted so, no Tyndall effect

be
done, but with inverse agitprop and corporation.

Our
soapbox theatre, O do you hear?

The
ear of the whale, what does

it
translate from the cheers and spectacle.

Every
day the jets ascend, their rhythm

like
waves booming upon the valley, the noise

a
constant and birdsong from a cage next door.

To
be captive, to make song of captivity,

to
smile or appear to smile

because
that is your face. The whiteness

and
the blackness of your face you smile.

A
stable of whales—Orcinus Orca—

we
know your stage name: not blackfish

nor
seawolf, gentle hunter of the seas.

The
head not a Roman chariot lashed aside

the
Pequod, but torpedo targeting the sky.

Do
you speak to one another of openness

of
instinct, or is it so removed, so

please
and so thank you.

Wouldn’t
it be nice if glassine replica

were
universal as I settle down and into

my
work with words to equate ideas

of
freedom and captivity. Am I where

I
should be? Is the ocean in your bones?

The
souvenir form a trapped echo, or

resonant
slogan so purely American

as
a foamy head. To be drunk on patriotism

in
a tank. In the bleachers around the tank.

I
salute you.

HOME
ADDRESS

A
good way home, a page to carry

letters
home in

or
a sound like heat builds

for
want of happiness.

A
home a good ways still down

the
coast/this page toward home.

A
fountain without water waits

to
be filled with splashes.

Left
coast where home is long and good

as
a page still warm

with
words trying to approximate it.

+

Why
not notes divided into houses

sixteen
& four together, building

together,
accumulating sound

or
heat, how through the window

heat
approximates gold not words for

home
on a coastal veil.

The
fountain isn’t even a fountain

but
to be spoken of as skyspray.

A
good home, a membrane to live through

to
put words on anywhere

maybe
here, maybe sunshine, maybe then.

+

To
write to make a place good

to
hear sun coming through the neighborhood

or
assign a letter to a shadow—

purple
mountain’s majesty for Now

—then
a desire’s consolation.

A
coastline flecked with starlite.

Like
a fountain of light, stars dropping

down
from space into all of us.

To
be home and be good, to turn the lights

on
enough to feel that relief

of
having a bed to read, then sleep upon.

Edwina
Petterson

Dress
Up to Keep Up

I
have dresses of black & of blue

I
have dresses that shouldn't fit you

I
got all dressed up

but
no one was there

my
tresses were curled

but
no one did care

I
dressed all in lace

&
painted my face

&
even my fingers & toes

But
when I got there

no
body had dared

even
to powder their nose

next
time I wore sneakers

&
jeans with frayed cuffs

but
everyone else wore mink stoles & fur ruffs

I
tried once again

to
fit in at the beach

I
covered my biscuit

and
wrapped up each small peach

but
the others had their druthers and came naked

the
sun had a feast

burned
melons and cheeks

and
all of their biscuits got baked!

I
WAS RAISED AS A POOR WHITE CHILD

BY
A DIVORCED WORKING MOTHER

MY
CHILDHOOD WASN’T MILD

I
GREW UP IN A CITY OF VIOLENCE & HATE

THE
1ST TIME THEY RAPED ME, I WAS BARELY EIGHT

THE
KIDS ON THE REZ THOUGHT I HAD IT GOOD

I’D
GLADLY TRADE PLACES WITH THEM, IF I COULD

OUR
LIVES GREW MORE VIOLENT

AS
WE PROGRESSED TO HIGH SCHOOL

WE
CARRIED KNIVES 2, THOUGH IT WASN’T TO BE COOL

SOME
OF OUR FRIENDS DIDN’T MAKE IT-THEY DIED

WE
BURIED THEM THEN FELL TO THE GROUND AND WE CRIED

WHY
DON’T WE LEARN TO HELP ONE ANOTHER?

OUR
NEIGHBORS AND FRIENDS WERE OUR SISTERS AND BROTHERS

AS
WE SURVIVED, WE FORGOT HOW TO CARE

WE
ALL MOVED AWAY AND LEFT NOBODY THERE

TO
SHOW THE NEXT ONES ABOUT KINDNESS AND LOVE

ABOUT
PEACE AND FORGIVENESS AND GOD UP ABOVE

WE
HAD FAMILIES AND CHILDREN AND BURIED OUR PASTS

TILL
THE MONSTERS WE MARRIED TOOK OFF THEIR NICE MASKS

AND
HURT OUR SWEET CHILDREN WITH VIOLENCE AND SEX

AND
THEN LOOKED AROUND THEM AND ASKED “WHO’LL BE NEXT?”

I’VE
RESCUED MY CHILDREN, BUT HAVE YOU SAVED YOURS?

WE
ALL KNOW WHAT HAPPENS BEHIND THOSE CLOSED DOORS.

THE
HATE AND THE HITTING, THE BLOOD AND THE RAGE

PLEASE,
CAN WE STOP?  CAN WE START A NEW PAGE?

THE
KIDS IN MY NEIGHBORHOOD, THEY ALL LOOK SO THIN.

THE
TEENS, WHEN WE AREN’T HOME, THEY BREAK IN

I
LEFT 2 EX-HUSBANDS AND 2 PRETTY HOMES

THEY
WEREN’T WORTH THE SCARS AND THE BREAKING OF BONES

I
DON’T HAVE MUCH NOW, BUT I HAVE SELF ESTEEM

I
AM STILL BREATHING, AND I STILL HAVE MY DREAMS

MY
DREAMS INCLUDE YOU

AND
I PRAY FOR YOU OFTEN.

DEAR
GOD,

PLEASE,

NOT
ONE MORE FRIEND IN A COFFIN.

Rod
Peckman

Jazz
Night at the Veteran's Hall

Who
was I to say?

But
I said it just the same:

it
was mathematics

let
loose

just
enough

to
retain

the
architecture

of
7 walls

a
roof

guttering
hearth

a
door open

a
blast

ing
of holy scriptures

off
a polished table.

The
scribes scatter

wisemen
chatter

stricken

like
madmen

hiding
devils

and
hoarding whores.

A
wall where? A floor overhead

a
ceiling cut with footprints

shoeprints
of such

exquisite
taste, a dance

jimmied
with grace

and
surely a dance

of
incurable incorrigibility.

The
real beauty

of
these mathematics.

The
real beauty of the draughtsman

coloring
outside the lines.

(Staring
into her beer,

nothing.)

Theorems
and proofs

summarily
disproved

only

to
crash bang and smash

dressed
to the nines

and
no worse for wear.

Contingencies

not
planned or written,

never
even accounted

for
but lost

in
red vibrations

retained

in
blue striated strings

of
inarticulate heart:

a
hopeless chord

never
found

as
fingernails

skirt
the edges

brave
the ledges

of
atonality

but
bringing us back.

Always
bringing us back

from
a precise and urbane

feral
drop

into
a little death

of
imagination:

and
then

the
ahhhh

of

resolution

For
My Brother

My
brother and Brenda drive a long haul semi

back
and forth and across again this country.

He
may call me on Thursday from North Carolina

and
Friday from North Dakota.

It
is an upside down life but it suits him.

He
must remain in the sleeper

for
a prescribed number of hours

even
if he can't sleep, as there are tight controls

over
this interstate freight.

Maybe
that's when he calls to share

something
funny he heard on Satellite Radio.

Sometimes
he plays his favorite bits

over
my answering machine.

I
imagine him, with that great laugh,

enjoying
the respite from the mile markers

as
they pile up, one green matchstick after another,

like
portentous sentinels and not merely another .62 cents.

He
is more than this idea we all have of a trucker,

though
her looks and plays the part to perfection.

He
is my brother, so different from myself

that
everyone who hears we are related

shakes
their head in disbelief.

But
he is mine and I am his. We are joined

by
the terrible beautiful history of our past.

The
real difference is, he could never cry.

I
feared him once, as my mother did,

his
rage built upon the cruelty he withstood daily.

Swallowed
now, this rage has found someplace,

perhaps
the faintly lit ribbon of Interstate 25

outside
of Casper, Wyoming, as white freeway reflectors

contort
themselves in the wake,

a
backward bend, their heads to the dry dirt

as
the semi rolls by,

and
a contorted big man

with
a belly-laugh, eats his own demons

like
the bacon and scrambled eggs he orders

at
so many roadside truck stops.

Moving
freight, my brother is a saint.

Grass
Carp

The
Asian Grass Carp, a herbivorous fish cultivated in China, eats up to five pounds
of aquatic plants per day. They can reach lengths of four feet within a year,
putting on an enormous amount of weight, primarily in the summer months.
Imported and sterile, they were brought here to clear the water of underwater
grasses that

frankly
gives swimmers the willies.

I
watch them often through my upstairs window

in
the blue water which I know is really the sky.

Dorsal
fins cutting their languorous arcs

between
feeding, the gentle movement calming

despite
their resemblance to sharks.

I
sometimes wade to my thighs. I will them

to
make slow figure eights between my legs. I will

them
to gently clean the dead skin I forgot

to
shed at night with their orange toothless mouths.

If
my Yellow Lab on the shore had somehow

learned
the face of puzzlement, she'd wear it now.

Into
the water up to my neck, swaying for balance, I will

the
two biggest carp to rise to the surface so I might hold

their
fins as they slowly tow me to the middle of this small lake,

to
the colder water where the bottom seems farther away

than
its mere 18 feet. World of blue and of bright and of cool.

They
will me to forget for just this one moment and simply feel.

They
leave in gentle wakes so I can make my way back to shore

with
terrestrial ineptitude and wasted energy. Breathing hard,

greeted
with a look of relief (one she has learned),

my
yellow lab licks water off my calves wagging her tail,

as
my feet sink in mud until I reach high ground.

I
look and see large swirls turn small and fade.

And
the water is glass.

In
Labile Condition

Let's
consider the word forgotten.

Let's
pull up the thick cattail rushes in June and eat them like leeks.

Let's
roll through the tan hollow blackberry reeds in February.

Let's
not allow each and every puncture to be staunched.

Let's
feel each thorn as thorns should be.

Let's
make mountains out of molehills.

Let's
stomp mountains down with the bitter souls of black boots.

Let's
titrate this volatile chemistry to endpoint.

Let's
both realize nobody rewinds anymore and songs are now a la carte.

Let's
once again consider the word forgetting.

Let's
come to the conclusion that homeopathy is a ruse.

Let's
blow out the candles of our own birthday wake.

Let's
play the tables and shiver at hazard's touch.

Let's
remember what it is to forget.

Let's
rejoice at the resurgence of Canis Lupus in the lower 48.

Let's
feel sweat and wet sheets and pretend one more time.

Let's
lose a precious thing and find peace in the pieces of lost baggage.

Let's
sleep naked on the balcony but for socks for feet and socks as gloves.

Let's
pass a digital thermometer between us on the coldest night of this cold
year.

Let's
put an ear to chest and really feel one another laugh.

Let's
fade a brand into a faint recollection.

Let's
give ourselves a solid 7 out of 10 on the scale of elegant parasuicides.

*

Let's
watch the ducks in queue outside

the
small disk of open water.

Let's
watch as the birds will surely

surface
again onto the ice.

Let's
not allow even one duck

be
forgotten diving the last

green
weeds in this cold. Let's let

forgetting
be more than frozen darkness.

Let's
not forget to cherish

this
mourning. Let's not

forget
to rejoice as one more

breaks
the clean surface.

Fariel
Shafee

From
the Sky

>
-------------

>

>
effervescing clouds

>
grey and mutating

>
stacked carelessly upto that dark belt of a

>
polar night

>
with studded stars

>
sparkling

>

>

>

>
a landscape beneath me

>
transforming from a mythic horn

>
into a fatiged eye

>
about to touch my uncovered toes

>
to pull me back to the

>
scratches and scars

>
now hidden in the heart of a

>
fractional dimension

>

>

>
a shiny ribbon slithers

>
in the midst of lifeless serenity

>
curled up below in another world

>
disappearing fast

>
as I speed across those melting drops

>
of densely packaged emotions

>

>

>
now making space for that dazzling dot

>
bright on a clean, dark sheet

>
so perfect and so

>
reachable;

>

>
infinity, neat and small, comes closer to me

>
and the two point third dimension

>
with its rifts and jiggered shoreline

>
squeezes to store itself

>
back into a matchbox

>
except for a residue

>
in smashed up hazy colors

>
smoking through a tiny hole

>
to caress my newfound world

>

>

The
Meaning of Happiness

--------------------------------------

An
iota of insatiable need

was
frustration,

and
the background of acclimated pleasure

>
marked the drop in

>
minuscule

>
emptiness

>
as an issue

>
of drastic

>
change,

>
in percentage.

>

>
And as he slashed the world around

>
and pillged the

>
battered souls

>
to find the piece that would complete

>
him,

>
the gain in pleasure

>
came slow,

>
and the dot of unhappiness

>
remained firmly,

>
promising to approach zero, asymptotically

>
but

>
never quite gone.

>

>
He stood solitary

>
in the end,

>

>
and the joy that came for granted, fell

>
sharply, as all shattered, and a threshold reached,

>
so the avalanche of fallen cards, at last, pulled

>
the stable pieces

>
in his own entity,

>
connected to

>
a component, far, somehow,

>
now

>
in ruins.

>

>
And the speck of being

>
in that empty world,

>
appeared quite

>
meaningless.

>

Tanuj Solankki

The Neem Tree

Beyond
my cramped balcony

that
almost punishes my room,

a
tree-like neem filter keeps

light
from the sun,

and
sound from the men,

away.
I thank him,

this
scaffold of wood and leaves,

for
he is always

a
lively friend in the night.

Guess
we become one

when
we both emit

carbon
dioxide.

In
the day

All
he gives is life.

Bobby Tenorio

class dis missed

Is
the glass half full

Or
this class half empty

Who
is really thirsty for knowledge

Who
is really worthy

Betty,
Susie,

jenny,
dick, john, James

Bobby,
Trish,

dean,
mommy, daddy, Jane

Miss.
Fortunes the unfortunate tortured

Myself
left uncultured like a ruptured mortar during an Iraq invasion

Running
from the bad guys stuck in the middle of a 60’s recreation

In
the land of seasoned persuasion

By
killing sons defending invisible boarders

Still
holding the same skin, blood, abrasions

By
Shoplifting dreams, lands and boarders globally

Immigrating
the past into supremacy

erratically
the fifties a silent insanity

Leaving
our future to a false legitimacy of mass casualties

Creating
ultimate security

through
worldly fears and

the
honest abolished

Documitizing
the soul

you
shut down your ears and close your mouth

Local
city state all copies of this same trait and doubt

Without
a doubt vice versa

Back
door meetings, to cutting corners

Board
members of a trusted trustee

Classifying
unions losing seniority

Over
jaded honesty on job priority

Taking
away the right to work in harmony

Causing
war against the employee

Unionizing
are big 3

Not
the auto industry

But
the mind spiritually

Love
hope and prosperity

Life
liberty and the guarantee

Of
a future we leave to a world a crying baby

reprogramming
them into mindless sincerity

Broken
down into chained links

eventfully

Separated
but free

Equally
in disbelief

yet
the unspoken became the bastard seed

We
fought 30 years ago at occ

I
wasn’t even born as you can see

Yaw
created a delirious decade and the fight once believed

Making
changes and hopes and dreams

While
sliding into wars, racism

And
all that Detroit rioting

Cars
burning, class rooms turning,

there
back on the norm

Destroyed,
bombed and loud speakers, more

Student
governments leading marches deployed

Black
white tan yellow in a bowl of oblivious void

The
military had to step in and stop our choice

Stop
our voice

stop
the fighting

and
stop our freedom of ...

I
guess that was left up to ya,

shut
down student life for all, call in the state boys

go
back to being conservative by separating and judging all

recreating
new secured laws

Now
30 years later the world still the same

Still
faking, silence

still
stubborn, still fighting, still violent

War,
recessions, Detroit riots

what
was the lesson, why no defiance

Delirious
decades lost to a book hiding in the library

With
no fish, no hook, no teachers to help me to learn

To
help me earn the right to know, yet buildings still burn

No
reason to stand here and eat up your time

Because
the past wrote the remedies of this obese rhyme

Its
about time you started looking back

For
the reason you joined a union

For
the reason you went to that church

For
the reason you smiled at work

Reason
why you loved your fam, your city,

Like
the Motown glam, that once was pretty

Now
we lost our head and lost our money

Were
still bitching and were still running

Away
from the past

that
cause us to hide, smirk and laugh

No
strength

because
your car

it
has no gas

5$
a gallon freedom

Cant
believe my generation

watched
the last

and
did nothing

Just
ask

We
watched as they beat them, exploit our country men

getting
failing on nbc or cnn

laughing
at who could it be

no
compassion for another fellow humen

But
hey I pass the class

No
child left behind

next
step is to stand in line

the
job line

But
what good is it

if
it’s not applied

no
job insight

Why
are you here anyways, fear, delight, that right

Lets
get edgy and controversial right quick

And
apply it directly to the fore head

Apply
it directly to the forehead

The
forehead

Like
diversity meetings denying the right of the student to view true history

They
gave it to the children yet adults cant handle it

A
101 museum

ya
know who handles that

Sandals
on local levels

catty
little workers won’t push the shovel

Mocking
co workers who worked on diverse levels

About
an Indians exhibit

some
saw as rubble

Hanging
it by herself and getting the ok

Backing
talking came that day stealth

No
I in team diversity

it
could be bad for your health

Take
it like it is

Hypocrites
is your best friend

You
teach to your children

And
tell them to hope for a better future

when
they die, and move on, you blend

Blending
into the normal reality that has always been

Its
time to end my friend

stop
telling me that I can’t change the future because I’m just one person

Stop
telling me that,

That’s
how the world works

Stop
using them damn excuses

that
keep abusing profusely on our children

Let
them in

Feed
your friend

Better
yet pay it forward

To
the rich and the older

Well
off in the burbs got health insurance are you sure

I
ride bus every day

I
pay fare just to breathe and eat

All
that money yet no one thinks

I
hope there still a glass left to drink

Class
dismissed

Just
stop and think, wink

Christian Ward

Advice
for Would-Be Lovers

Let
sticks and stones

break
your bones. Don't

duck
or run for cover.

They
will be the vinegar

for
words that will cut,

sink
deep into skin.

The
pain felt won't

ever
compare

to
a well-aimed It's over

or
I don't think it's working

You
will wake many times

in
the night, running fingers

over
the wound,

wonder
where the rest

of
the shrapnel ended up.

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