poetry

he-man, all-too he-man, by Geraint Jonathan

(We are blessed with another new item for this month–three actually by Geraint Jonathan. The first appears today, the second tomorrow and the third next week–Leila)

i said to her i said

unhesitating obedience is all i ask

taking what i say as gospel

hanging on to my every syllable

is all that’s required

apart from that

you’re free to do as i tell you i said

my good books are easy to be in

it’s wordy there for sure

but listen is an anagram of silent

& your silence is the best i’ve heard yet

& if you think that’s a riddle think again

that’s what i said i couldn’t’ve been clearer

but did she listen not a bit of it

so off i went

you’ve a vengeful nature she said

out of nowhere just like that

vengeful nature now is it i said

we’ll fucking see about that

Staying Fit by Christopher J Ananias

(CJA has previously published prose and photography in the Springs, now he successfully adds poetry to his site canon–LA)

only the vain

and who isn’t in this country?

can feel the strain

of trying to stay the same

sweat rolling down my brain

all the while lines appear

caked up thick!

in a funeral parlor’s pit

staying fit, I should trade it for a crucifix

exercise schedules

and dietary rituals

spread on low-carb bread

the gym and the road, to cheat

the old varicose veined hag of death

who appears by our bedside

the heartbeat’s timekeeper,

with a coroner’s stopwatch

destroying our sunshine

the temporal concubine

run five miles today

the flesh says, “Get slim, Sunny Jim”

still marked and measured for death

—I will fulfill your destiny yet!

with or without the benefit

of running shoes and exercise equipment

a Nike SWOOSH on your coffin lid?

Saragun Verse: Ode to the Bought and Sold

Such a pettifog, he

Scheming and placating,

Somehow forgetting the gods

Who foreclose on borrowed truth

Such an obsequity, she

Parroting upstairs melodies

Forgetting there are no loopholes

For heads tucked in the noose

It begins as sweet stuff

Everyone on the line

Everyone plenty good enough

Graham crackers and story time

Dreams on wind dried sheets

Stories with morals to be learned

Yet the cash machine must collect

Between the crib and the urn

Such a cynic, me

Listing and berating

Laughter without smiles

And when my phone rings

It kills without style

Destination by Dale Barrigar Williams

Beatrice had passed.

But now she was back.

She was naked

then not, and wearing

a long, strange, multi-colored

wig

that mostly covered some of her.

She was still beautiful, but

she looked so different!

In the dream, she died at 39;

so why is she still alive!?

And now we turned, and went

on a long, strange trip, traveling

on many bizarre, futuristic contraptions;

some like giant roller coasters that were,

and were not, at the same time.

(Just about to fall from your seat,

dangling in mid-air,

you realize you won’t,

over and over again.)

Fearless, fantastic, floating, futuristic

contraptions, stretching across a nameless

ocean which makes the Pacific look like

a puddle on another planet with

no final destination in sight.

And singingly, swimmingly, hey, ho, ah, oh,

whoa, my favorite girlfriend is back, still

beautiful but so, so different, somehow.

Friendly, whale-sized dolphins laughing

below us, fabulously glowing, radiant,

giant white seagulls soaring above us

as we two flew.

I could feel

the wind

from their wings

brushing our hair.

She had taken my hand

almost like in life

when mother was gone

and I was a child.

I didn’t know; we didn’t talk; we didn’t need to;

launched into a time where

no more talking is needed.

And it was OK, and she knew

where we were going.

The Night David Bowie Died; or, All the Time By Dale Barrigar Williams

Nightstands, lamps and books,

and we two stretched out on the bed,

we were both staring at separate

corners of the ceiling thinking

about something else, I suddenly noticed,

radiator of January clanking.

Then suddenly

we started talking

about David Bowie.

I don’t remember who

started it, but we were soon

wondering out loud about

health problems, genius and conflict,

how you need love and hate for creation –

like the man in the lobby

of the transient hotel

on Grand Street, LOVE and HATE tattooed

across the knuckles

of both hands, just like the guy

in the movie.

The very next day, we heard through

the systems that Bowie, the person,

was now gone

from this world.

Except for everything he left

back here.

We, Sophia and I, ah, we

were still together

then. And sometimes I called her

Mary

Magdalene.

It was before

our relationship

got too sick

of its own intensity,

and died.

Suddenly, like him.

No goodbye.

People always say

they don’t see ghosts

but I see ghosts

all the time.

Seven (or Fourteen) Reasons Why Bob Dylan is a Writer for Our Time by Dr. Dale Williams, aka The Drifter

When the dust settles, one man, at least, will still be standing.

He might only stand five feet seven inches in his socks (Eminem is, and Kerouac was, five-eight, a precursor and an heir), but Alexander Pope, one of the dozen or so greatest English poets of all time, was four feet six inches tall. (Pope died in 1744 at the age of 56.)

And Bob Dylan has more than a little of Pope’s verbal resources, great heart, wild intelligence, deep soul, artistic energy. If “Eloisa to Abelard,” by Pope, doesn’t break your heart and make you want to go on living, nothing will.

The Drifter has compiled seven reasons why, with their flipsides, Bob Dylan deserves his Nobel Prize. The reasons are brief and they are meant for quick reading in a busy world; but they are also meant to be pondered upon and thought about more later for any and all who are interested. (And meant to be USED.)

ONE: He both does, and does not, care what he looks like, and he looks like it.

TWO: He has done a lot of drugs but hasn’t done so many drugs that he isn’t still going strong at 84. The life of the artist, any artist, is a balancing act.

THREE: He puts out material at a relentless pace as if this were the most important thing in the world, and then does little to promote it.

FOUR: His “style” of life and work are ancient and modern.

FIVE: His work can exist “on the page” or in the air.

SIX: He does, and does not, care/s about “quality.”

SEVEN: He goes out into the world – while wearing disguises.

(Afterthought: Those last two should be hung out with like zen koans…)