My Poem Rocks

2011-10-30T21:58:00.000-07:00

Lalo Kikiriki

That ribbon of highway

One more time we're
weaving through Morongo,
Lay Down Sally
playing on the Eagle,
down the Pass with
the bassline bumping
and the windmills slapping time.

No matter what
is on the radio,
the long blades always
seem to keep the beat
and we sing,
"Doncha ever leave" like
the colored girls doot 'n' dooed
for Lou Reed...

but we're leaving the wild side,
the desert is behind,
and the next song stutters
at White water,
"she had to -hic- me right
across"... the river...
as if, like vampires,
rock-n-roll balks
at running water
and the desert radio
loses its wild power
in the white noise of
the city's frequency

2011-06-07T09:38:00.000-07:00

Radek Ozog

STOP THE POP

I wonder if Lennon survived the
5 shots would it be gangster
rock.

I know the media would eat
it all up.

Would Paul McCartney take
blame?

Aye, and that flashily-dressed rocket man.

Elton John, symbol of
a bullet.

2011-02-21T09:04:00.000-08:00

David M. Harris

EX-PATRIOT

Half a century ago, I carried a flag and grinned,
with the Young Republicans,
in my town's parade, the one that ended
in the square.
Later, in the band, no uniform,
and just good enough at it
for a junior-high band.
Proud to be in that parade,
marching for a future
we could smell just past the horizon.

In 1970, we paused from marching and plotting
the perfect world to follow
Apollo's fires. Even later, at Canaveral,
standing by the great supine rocket,
I was moved from faction to remember
an explosion in space, a moment
of common fears and dreams.

Today, I watch the marchers,
fighting two more Asian wars,
try to puzzle out their chants and signs,
wave to them, and return to my magazine,
exhausted by hope.

2010-12-26T13:26:00.000-08:00

Eleanor Higgins

THE BIG SHOW

(Mommy, what did you do in the war?)

warm-up bands
warm us up
through pot clouds
we wait
now calmly

without knowing why,
we all stand up
there is banging
and feedback,
other false alarms
I can’t remember

and from the black,
glints flicker off metal
we stand, and…blink
then

they are already there
glittering
floodlights flash
there is yelling
and the spilling of drinks

a base drum thuds
screeches into lead guitar’s solo
spiderweb intricate

lead singer tosses
a sequined shirt
we roar too loud to hear the music
hissing metal feedback
drowns the melody

but we sing in unison anyway

the lead guitar plinks a jellyroll finale
on heart strings
throws a kiss just to you and

Flood lights
find your ”Heavy Metal” jacket
midget steps along
a fat column of fans

fanning out
coming down

THE BIG SHOW 2

(Daddy, what did you do in the war?)

radio music
warms us up
through pot clouds
we wait
now calmly

without knowing why,
we all stand up
there is banging
and feedback,
other false alarms
I can’t remember

and from the black,
glints flicker off metal
we stand, and…blink
then

they are already there
glittering
floodlights flash
there is yelling
and the spilling of whiskey

a mortar thuds
screeches into our foxhole trenches
spiderweb intricate

lead sergeant tosses
a bloody grenade belt
explodes too loud to hear their bombs
hissing metal feedback
drowns our shooting

but we fire in unison anyway

the lead corporal dodges a tracer
with a jellyroll roll
onto the dirt road
throws a come-on wave to us and

flash lights
find your heavy metal jacket
midget steps along
a fat column of noncoms

fanning out
coming down

2010-10-28T14:50:00.003-07:00

Scott C. Kaestner

MILES

it whispers as it screams
improvisation is the moment’s
eternal presence

toes tapping, brass blaring
percussion, keys, and cocktails
clouds of smoke

transmit sublime soundscapes
“go, hepcat, go!”

now the beat is bop
souls shall be lifted
time doesn’t exist

in the vacuum of your creation
“blow, miles, blow!”

2010-09-01T09:31:00.001-07:00

Helen Graziano

WHITE HEAT

After reading Billy Collins fantasy on Emily Dickinson

I tread
on newspapers unread
Spread across the floor
Like checkers or Spanish dominoes
White pearl buttons on my chemise
are open at the neck
It’s my cleanest dirty shirt
Am I all white?
I do not love
riding in the back seat with boys
Totally obscene
Where there’s no light there’s fear
God I love cashmere (and a string of pearls)

I fear an all white calendar page
No appointments or flowers to arrange
Hope must wait for moonbeams when
My whiter thighs loosen
Like Leda
Diamonds crystals calcite white
All translucent
Float in the firmament
Whiteness is all
Sybaritic pure like swans on ponds
Or white winds with sails luffing
Forget all punctuation
just pronounce
You come too
Where there’s white there’s hope!

2010-07-16T20:09:00.001-07:00

Eric Lawson

MINSTREL’S M.O.

Between smaller towns I amble
Never near the urban areas
and always with a new tale
I am the wandering minstrel
The melodies are all the same
but by the time I make it back
to your forgotten town again
you have forgotten my scam
Only the words have changed
Call it verbal sleight of hand
Call it a trick of the trade
Call it whatever you will
Just as long as you call me
back here for more next year
I come with news of the day
I come with the latest fashions
I come here to entertain you
Just as long as it's entertaining
and different from last year
Stop me if you've heard this
Stop me if you are now bored
Stop me if I do not impress
Just as long as the impression
has eventually won you over
I shan't play my enchanted flute
I am afraid you would follow me,
breaking the simple musical spell
and be bad for minstrel business

2010-07-03T11:30:00.000-07:00

Maja Trochimczyk

FEARFUL SYMMETRY IN BLUE

- inspired by The Yellow Submarine and a drawing of Interior Courtyard, Rajput, Bundi

Did the Beatles see this Interior Courtyard
of Rajput, Bundi, in opaque pigment and gold
before filling it with strange creatures
running around during one stop
of the Yellow Submarine?

Indian women listen to the sitar’s drone,
waiting for countless doors to open and close,
for a Blue Meanie to chase George and Ringo,
and for Terrible Flying Glove to ominously giggle,
before a convertible arrives like deus ex machina
saving the boys from vile monsters
under tangerine trees and marmalade skies.

It is all clear now, all tranquil.
The swans doze in the pool,
flowers spread their fragrance,
the sails flutter in the breeze
of a pleasure ride on calm seas.

The attendants
rest in the wings.
The British play,
the invasion,
will soon begin.

2010-05-30T07:53:00.000-07:00

CaLokie

COOL CAT

beret

beret
capped cat

beret
capped cat
in goatee

beret
capped cat
in goatee
behind jazzy shades

beret
capped cat
in goatee
behind jazzy shades
bebop

beret
capped cat
in goatee
behind jazzy shades
bebop
sax

beret
capped cat
in goatee
behind jazzy shades
bebop
sax
blow job

2010-05-03T21:54:00.000-07:00

Scott Kaestner

TUFF GONG

“emancipate yourselves from mental slavery;

none but ourselves can free our mind.”

as the lion who roared

melodic whispers –

redemption

is but a spliff

and a song

away

sweet

soulful

symphony

silky

smoke

slithers

a heavenly ascent

descending

vibrations

music soothes

spirits dance

bob marley

eternal

reggaes

rastafarian

angel

2010-04-04T12:33:00.000-07:00

Jim Moreno

WOODCUTTER'S SONG: SHAPING THE DOGHOUSE

He's x-marine, one hundred per cent disabled,
Got full vet's benefits from the V.A.,
He's x-marine working in this hardware store
Cutting dog house wood, helping me beat the pet store price
130 bucks - a custom doghouse for my husky pups,

He's x-marine, and I, x-sailor; you can tell
He's a hero because he tells no stories
about being disabled― there's no swagger―
The real heroes, the real ones, never say they are,

He's x-marine, x-cellent artist, shaping the cuts
As the wood falls, the smell of sawdust
Steady hand, thick muscled, skill quick,,
Makes the saw fall, cutting one piece in two,
Like choices a man makes in life
What he doesn't choose must be split in two,
To be kind or cruel, to forgive or abuse,
To live or die, to walk or stay,
Or simply run away― leaving
The piece that won't fit behind,

We talk about our children and
He cuts another piece, 4 foot long, please,
One more choice, in one more lean, lonely life,
Live in the Sunshine State or the Left Coast,
Marry the slender dancer, or answer the call of the road,
Drink yourself to death, or get a leg up on the wagon―
He tells me he's not smart in math
Couldn't hack it in school; but his son's
So savvy with sums, he admires; a father amazed.

He's x-marine and cuts more wood,
Shaping the sides of my doggies' home,
Shapes another secret side of me,
Asks me what I do and I take off my mask,
I tell him I'm a poet and he takes off his mask,
He tells me he loves poetry, loves Robert Frost,
So I recite Stopping by Woodside on A Snowy Evening,
The magic, like a fresh cut golden sunflower
Turning on tabletop to face the sleepy, morning sun,
The magic, like the silent moon rise
In the hot, summer desert,
The magic, like a magician pulling
A dancing dragon out of his hat,
The muse magic happens again,

He's x-marine, blue collar, salt of the earth,
Frozen by Frost's rhythmic flow,
Or is it the love in my voice for magic memorized
40 years now, 50 years after my youth,
He's x-marine, frozen, transformed,
Holding dog house wood suspended in time,
Transfixed by shared reverence for the sacred,

No longer x-marine, no longer disabled―simply human,
No longer the grunt cowed by math―simply human being,
In love with the sound of spoken word,
In love with the sounds of here-and-now,
He moves back to the wood and, in silence, moves the saw,
He helps me cut the wood; shaping a house for my pups,

Woodcutter of the semper fi,
Woodcutter of the hardware store,
Woodcutter of this house for Huskies,
Brother woodcutter of the artful cuts,
Humble hero: changed, transformed,
Reborn in my house of sacred words;
Shaping a reverence for words, nor world,
Never wooden.

2010-02-18T06:16:00.000-08:00

Michael C. Foran

DEAD REPUTATIONS

He had been in a hell of a fight
like being kicked twenty times in the head,
of course, he would know,
like that time coming out of Driscolls
and fighting those three guys the flats,
the tall one saying,
This stupid shit won’t stay down.
But they just didn’t get it,
no one ever put him down.

In our garage the heavy bag swung for years
like the weight of some dead reputation.
In our world, there was no such thing
as a sucker punch.

It happens sometimes to boys,
the ones brought up on myths,
on the souls of men who always
took the first shot.

Home now, after five days in the hospital,
after ten hours of surgery,
my brother, sober for years,
his neck carved out like a tree though wires,
turns to me, dips low, feints to the right,
--and hisses—
“Tumors are some nasty shit man”

Then comes up fast with a hook to my body,

“Gotcha!!!”

2010-01-31T14:04:00.000-08:00

David M. Harris

KNOCKED INCAUTIOUS

Cozy little hillside house, big enough for books
and dog and me, safely wedged
into the earth. An hour from the hospital
of my birth. Terra cognita. Happy,
I guess.

The earth opened with an email,
blew me up with words and dreams.
A thousand miles later, I landed,
beyond the map's edge,
struck by you.

2009-12-30T08:08:00.000-08:00

Lori-Lyn Hurley

ALL THAT YOU TOUCH AND ALL THAT YOU SEE

In the blacklit attic of his friend’s house,
chicken in the curve of the country road,
Jethro Tull and vodka OJ,
he teaches me sweet smoke shotgun
tongue kiss without the tongues,
tight corduroy, zippers and velvet.
Somebody’s mama yelling downstairs,
he lowers the weight of sixteen years
down across my fourteen while
Pink Floyd thrums my veins,
all bump and grind,
all sound and fury,
cheating dance and soft-turned sorry.
His sad eyes, her cute coat;
I was just a passing thing,
but real as the back door he broke open
to raid the minister’s liquor.
One night, one night, then two,
we slipped away like lovers.
And even though time has left us there
in that tight upstairs room,
it will always be the expressway somewhere
and roach clips on the rearview,
his hand on my thigh.

2009-12-14T20:47:00.000-08:00

Peg Duthie

PERSEPHONE IN TEL AVIV

Rothschild Boulevard, 1 a.m.:
I am red light on the hem of your shirt,
pomegranate juice stinging your lips.

Oh, it isn’t true that everything is new
each time we start over. The skin I regrew
after each of our trysts is now my armor.

Well met is hell met with you, my man:
gelato will melt in neither your mouth nor mine
in spite of the lace that skims my thighs
drenched with a different perfume
than the one evaporating from my wrist.

Even as you lap up your honey-and-milk,
your phone continues its clamor at your knee,
buzzing as if it might barely contain the ire
of an eavesdropping god in disguise.

A cab inches by, its speakers groaning,
_Lay all your love on me._
The seeds on my tongue
each spell the death of a harvest.
_Don’t go wasting your devotion._ Ahhh.
It’s far too late to save myself
and yet too early to sleep.

2009-11-29T14:04:00.000-08:00

Brenda Petrakos

I LOVE ROCK AND ROLL...

I love rock and roll !
It liberates the kid at the New Jersey turn pike
The southern comfort daughter
The high roller’s son in his hotel on the strip
a shelter
a voice to remind
I love rock and roll
Every singer in 1972 was my friend
And they repeat their chants like
Mystic monks to tribal beats
And everyone knows the songs
And everyone sings with Mick
Or John and holds an invisible instrument
To their chest
And fingers
So savage
The air
Because we love it
We love it
We love rock and roll

2009-11-13T20:26:00.000-08:00

Don Kingfisher Campbell

YES

I no longer listen to licorice pizza
spin in my 9x12 cobalt blue bedroom
while sitting on a triple-sheeted bed
staring at band posters on three walls

I don't even pop a plastic pop tart
into a bulky black metallic cuboid
caged within a wood-laminated rack
in a corner of our shag carpeted apartment

I also stopped sliding aluminum bagels
onto outstretched "clay" computer trays
seconds later hearing tinny rockers emerge
from likewise-colored package speakers

Now just like the new young people I
download electronically ephemeral codes
which produce sounds sourced a hemisphere
away by a law-breaking Australian I pay

But I'm still enjoying the same music
so my daughter and her friends disappear
when they hear a cosmic pixie sing
without an urban beat or hormonal longing

2009-09-23T23:21:00.001-07:00

Heather Haley

2009-08-19T10:53:00.000-07:00

Peg Duthie

I HEAR YOU WITH HALF OF MY HEART

(after Kyo's "Le Chemin," covered by Les Enfoirés)

The wind shreds apart the spine of your song
even before you let go of its words.
You might as well be shouting to yourself,
pounding thorns into your own palms.

O lover, I'd give neither a fig nor a damn
for your punctured walls, your ruptured veins
but how (god damn) you are under my skin.

You hiss, "Je te hais de tout mon corps."
I hear, "Je te vais de tuer mon coeur" --
or is it "je te vais de tuer, mon coeur"?
If hate could kill, the grit of your ashes

would have scratched up my eyes
long before these latest vowels
began as a burn in your throat. O love,

only the whole wide world is between
your lips and mine, all of it crumbling
into commas, fishhooks, and quarter-rests:
I taste your fire in the ghost of your breath.

2009-07-06T21:26:00.001-07:00

Joanne Merriam

SELF-SUFFICIENCY

breaking your own heart

2009-06-17T09:51:00.000-07:00

Ellaraine Lockie

ROCK BAND TOUR

The contract requires
fur-lined handcuffs
and flavored condoms
for the lead singer in London

The four female string players
in anti-sexist mode
order vibrators for Milan

On arrival at their hotel room
one purple penis shape
protrudes from a basket holding fruit
bottled water and biscotti

Consequent arbitrations
place the piece of plastic onstage
in the percussion section

Where its middle C purrs
can be proportioned
in equal measures

2009-06-02T10:03:00.000-07:00

Don Kingfisher Campbell
NOTES

I Wanna Go To The Sun
where I don't have to worry
about paying the rent

Shine on me with the music
of the spheres far away
from orthodontic bills

I'm Feeling Alive Again
forgetting what obligates me
to buy gallons of gas

I've got a Reason To Believe
I'll live long enough in this
universe to unneed a single body

Through instrumental Aperture
I rediscover my spirit
in tones without tangibility

2009-04-15T21:55:00.001-07:00

Jeffry Jensen

THE AGING ROCKER

The years strike an amusing blow as
blotches of talent only mimic a mastery
that once tore at the roots of an impulse.
This vintage impulse now has turned vulgar on fertile youth.
The aging rocker takes refuge in a continuous
night that swirls with a captive beat.
He must play off of charity and indifference as
he longs for a forgotten lover to fill a feather bed.
With a brandy for courage, he thrives in
the sanctuary of a wobbly whitewashed stage.

2009-04-15T21:51:00.000-07:00

Ed Houston

PUFF-PUFF

Puff-Puff here
Puff-Puff there
Puffin’ in the daytime, Puffin’ through the night
Puffin’ becomes a career, no other goal in sight

Peeking out the windows, everyone’s a cop
Everybody’s watching you, they know you hit the Rock
Puffin’ with Barcardi, 151’s the lick
Winding up with car antennas and a flick of the Bic

Puffin’ in the doorways with your back against the wind
Puffin’ in the alleyways behind those green trash bins
Ducking in that empty house to join the puffers there
Hoping someone will want to piece up, spend their last bus fare

Playing the pick up game, Oh yeah! You know the one where you crawl around on the rug
Scoring points for picking lint, white pebbles and dead bugs.
Most ladies just start out being puffers, but eventually they’ll fall
To sucking pricks and turning tricks in somebody’s car or behind some wall

But let’s not leave out the men who started puffing to be slick
Puffing to get the girls and rock their world, then leave ‘em and call ‘em sick
Men who started out being hunters, hunting “strawberries” by the score
Ending up giving blowjobs or with their butt up, head to the floor

Alcohol has a Spirit, cocaine and heroin too
Eventually the Spirit of your drug of choice will totally possess you
And the times you choose to use will no longer be up to you
Your obsession will say All the time, and there’s nothing you can do

Puff-Puff here
Puff-Puff there
If you’re a Puffer you know what I say is true
And if you’ve tried ALL ELSE, I know what will work for you

They’re the Steps 1 through 12, and they’ll work just fine
Because they’re based on the changing of your mind
But you’ll need Spiritual help to bring about this change
Allah, Buddha, Krishna just to name a few, but for me, the Lord Jesus is His name

2009-03-28T19:23:00.000-07:00

Radomir Luza

DAMAGED GOODS

the drums sounded like an angry ostrich
like the difference between plastic and stone
like heather graham in another movie where she does not take her clothes off

like mick jagger saying we don't analyze them we just play them
and the lead singers have become the businessmen they always hated

the sun hit me like molton lava like a new band caressing their first hit

like rod stewart without the attitude

the crack cocaine ecstacy pcp and heroine
the closed doors and naked needles

the angry stares and unmolested glares
the bloody knees behind bath room stalls

the margarita filled night the alley cat pisses
and east river brawls

the life without clocks and teeth that have not ever rocked
the darkness on stage that keeps people away
the stillness on mars
the spoken for stars

on an island near the moon
hey you guys and girls talk too soon

too many behind bars

2009-03-22T08:43:00.001-07:00

Joanne Merriam

THE HITCH IN YR GETALONG

Saturday casts you like a lure into my bed;
our mouths open and close.

The parts of your body I deserve least
are your hands, which move like chenille feels.

At some point we stop touching.
Some point later than we should.

After, you say I'm worried about the wrong things,
a gift I can't stop myself opening.

The night still on your lips goodbye,
I half expect to find money at my bedside.

2009-03-22T08:42:00.001-07:00

Jeffry Jensen

BAR BAND BLUES

It was the skinny guitarist with an
eye-patch who got all the unattached
girls on Saturday night after the hour
set of sweaty songs and bent chords.
The drummer went home with his
horny wife who was ready and willing
to rub down his heavy shoulders.
The singer couldn’t get off the stage
fast enough to hit the town with a
belligerent entourage of aging bikers.
As the last minute fill-in bass player,
I was left behind to drink up my share
of the take until I was fortified enough
to sing backup with the crying moon.

2009-02-22T10:23:00.000-08:00

Scott Kaestner

SMELLS LIKE SUBURBAN ANGST

omnipresent suburban slush piles
made kurt cobain scream for mercy
at the top of his mighty lungs;
i used to scream along
for that’s where i’m from
which is why i ran away
into the arms of a fertile metropolis
labyrinth with no limitations, no out of bounds
freak show filled with children of the damned
the doomed
merrily at play while the others just fade away
into the anonymity of one in the same
fast asleep in their picket-fenced
four bedroom
vacuum
of space.

2009-02-22T10:22:00.001-08:00

Sharmagne Leland-St.John

PEARL'S SONG

They came to mourn
They came to cry
They came to wonder
How someone so young
Could ever die

She had fame and fortune in her youth
The songs she sang were songs of truth

The moon it waned, the moon it waxed
Her train was slippin' down the tracks
The sky was dark the clouds were pale
When she rode out on a midnight rail

I remember her in the studio that night
Restless, and her voice was tight
All in a knot
Yet when she said goodbye who would have thought
She'd never see the morning light
But the sky was dark and the clouds were pale
And she rode out on the midnight rail

They came to mourn
They came to cry
They came to wonder
How someone like her
Could ever die

Although it's been over 30 years
Since we shed our loving tears
Since that night
When we kissed and said goodbye
Your star has never dimmed
Your ashes were scattered in a gentle wind.
The sky was dark and the clouds were pale
When you rode out on the midnight rail

For Janis
1943-1970

2009-02-22T10:21:00.001-08:00

Joanne Merriam

HICCUPS

I tell her about an article I read about hiccups,
how they may be an evolutionary remnant --
the same muscular contraction some frogs have
when they switch from gills to lungs --
and she rolls her eyes, very Southern, unconvinced
and says, "Oh, so now we're descended from fish?"

Below our skin, rivers, yes, fluid existence.
My mother's voice embedded in mine.
(When Mom calls that night, long distance,
we talk about that trick that makes me feel sick
every time I eat jello lime like the hospital's,
that makes her smell rain when
thinking of prom: this insistence on memory.
Who can guess what will save us?)

I turn from her cubicle to the window.
Behind my ghost in the glass it's starting to rain.
If you go back long enough,
I want to say,
we're all related, and isn't it wonderful,
what it can teach us about persistence.

2009-02-03T08:59:00.000-08:00

Michelle Angelini

I STILL HAVEN'T FOUND WHAT I'M LOOKING FOR

immovable mountains
stack themselves against
my passions
i'm not discouraged
i push back
sooner or later
beneath this pile
of dirt and foliage
i will discover
what i set out to find

2009-02-03T08:58:00.000-08:00

Ann J. Brady

HOT FLASH

I woke up drenched
bothered by my faulty hormonal thermostat.
“This is worse than living in a swamp.”
The heat lasted longer than a flash.
“Must have been a man who named them.”
What do men know?
I told my doctor about them
he didn’t look up as he scribbled,
my hot flashes permanently recorded.
I picture
some unhappy male insurance clerk
with a vendetta
denying me coverage
because I bitched about hot flashes.
“Screw him.”
I flipped my pillow
let the underside cool my cheek.
My husband sighed in his sleep.
He didn’t hear me either.

2009-01-26T18:49:00.001-08:00

Kelly Polark

ROCK N ROLL

Music.
I sing along
so loudly in the car
that all my frustrations leave me.
Rock on.

2009-01-26T18:45:00.000-08:00

David M. Harris

THE REVIEW MIRROR

Rarely, soapy-handed, I stop
and look. Who is that?
I’ve seen that face
in pictures, younger,
smiling, hair dark and glossy.
Wrinkles covered by
beard and bifocals, I might pass
for fifty.
In pictures from my first wedding,
just a decade and a half ago, just yesterday.
Slimmer, touched with gray,
without glasses.
At my sister’s seder
the day before yesterday
trim, with moustache waxed and a head
full of grand, grandiose dreams.
The wax sits on a shelf in the closet.
Where are the dreams?
Smaller visions seep into their emptied space.
Play center field for the Yankees? Cancel that.
Make a family? Enter a check mark.
Tear up the Pulitzer acceptance speech.
Write a poem?
Add up the score.
Subtract the losses.
Rinse off the past.
Start the next day.

2009-01-19T14:17:00.001-08:00

Joanne Merriam

CRACK THE WHIP PROHIBITED

We'd make a line and build momentum,
until the last one let go--
all the girls who love to watch
the world go by sideways.

2009-01-19T14:02:00.000-08:00

Gwynne Garfinkle

THE THRILL OF IT ALL

1
back when you had to work for it
when there was one or maybe
two rock shows on TV per week
none of my friends even had a VCR yet
my dad got our first in 1976
a Betamax that only recorded
one-hour tapes

2
One night my best friend Becky stayed up late to catch the Eagles on the Midnight Special. I was at home doing the same, for her sake, really, because I didn't much like the Eagles. It was a clip of "One of These Nights" with frame after frame of seventies-groupie-looking women, with long hair and soulful eyes and maxi skirts, just photos of women synchronized to the song, and I imagined Becky, her eyes glued to the screen: she waited patiently, hope against hope for a glimpse of actual band members performing the song, the hope dying as the song passed the halfway mark. The next day she told me she'd cried.

3
Kate Bush swirling around to
"Wuthering Heights"
& "Wow"
her mouth an O
didn't know if I liked her at first
she was weird
an acquired taste
likewise dissolute little Ian Dury
singing "Wot a Waste"
and the Clash drooling and swaggering
to "I'm So Bored With the U.S.A."
but I played the videotape
over and over
till I loved them
new and strange

2009-01-12T20:04:00.001-08:00

Jeffry Jensen

STAYING NEIL YOUNG

He came down from Canada in a dented hearse with
a guitar stretched out in the back and a buffalo in his eyes.
He broke many sacred arrows over his knee with the help of
Mr. Soul who hung out at runways expecting to fly.
I recognized the loner in him as I waited for an old
lady to laugh in between my trips to nowhere.
A cinnamon sky reminded me of a cowgirl who
counted all the grains of sand in order to go somewhere.
Carrying a cracked heart in his suitcase, he
dug out of a gold rush and waited for morning to
dance across the horizon as he listened for a new
song to crash into a creek with a different point of view.

2009-01-12T20:02:00.001-08:00

Deborah P Kolodji

ON MARS

photos
of a place we may never
touch
we name the rock “Yogi”
as though it is ours

2009-01-08T12:44:00.000-08:00

Helen Graziano

ROLLING STONE

A boy skips stones in the lake
Creating everwidening circles, ripples
Like a dream-catcher capturing hope

In action I am the rock held by David
To slay the tyrant, slingshot ready
I orate as pebbles in Demosthene's mouth

I am a rolling stone, I swing and sway, become scree
I'm a word hound, tumbling my gems
Till they emerge smooth and polished

A little rough around the edges, however

Who will cast the first stone
At the cowering adulterer?
Or am I the rock on which St. Peter built

While waiting for Godot, I suck stones
Transferring them from pocket to mouth
And back to pocket, sometimes Life sucks

2009-01-08T12:43:00.000-08:00

Katherine Norland

A STRAND OF HAIR

A majestic boulder perched so high atop a cliff;
Yet it is said it will not fall, itʼs solid, and itʼs stiff.
It appears to be on edge, could roll with a gust of air;
But a hermit used a piece of the Buddhaʼs hair.
It said it would keep it in place, now covered with gold;
This has been passed down for generations and told.

It is a spectacle, a jaw dropping sight to see;
So easy to roll, yet so unmovable it seems to be.
The monks gather around the base of the boulder;
Bent down, arms folded in prayer shoulder to shoulder.
The nine hundred foot cliff holds the Pagodaʼs Shrine;
In Kyaik-tyo, Burma, a place now divine.

It testifies to the faith needed, a mustard seed or grain of sand;
If your dream weighs many tons with one strand of hair it can stand.