Spoonful: A Gathering of Stone Soup Poets

2009-12-31T21:49:00.000-08:00

Photo by Cindy Williams

Issue #2

Introduction by Chad Parenteau

A Tribute to Patricia Fillingham

A Visual Poem by Sarah N. Dipity

Poems by

About The Journal

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Photo by Bill Perrault

Stone Soup Poetry was founded by Boston poet and activist Jack Powers in 1971, with weekly readings held in over thirteen different locations. In the course of its history, an estimated 100 titles were published under the Stone Soup name, from journals to poetry books by various authors. With the rising costs for Stone Soup to maintain a regular venue (currently at the Out of The Blue Art Gallery in Cambridge), Spoonful is taking advantage of the Internet and the generosity of Blogger to release a regular Internet tribute to the myriad of voices that contributed to Stone Soup throughout it's existence, with an eye towards possible print specials in the future.

Spoonful is always looking for volunteers to help with the journal (editing, reading, etc). Send all inquiries to stonesouppoetry_at_yahoo.com.

Contributor Links (In Progress)

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This page will serve as a way for Spoonful readers to access and/or contact poets from the journal. We will continue to add to this list with each subsequent issue. It is suggested that when contacting any of the contributors that you write "Spoonful" in the subject header.

Spoonful appreciates the contributions of longer standing members of the Stone Soup Poetry reading series who are not as connected with the internet yet still contribute to the online journal. Therefore, we have linked their names to the Stone Soup email address. All messages will be forwarded to the respective contributor.

A

B

Anne Brudevold (1)

C

Sam Cha (2)

Vincent Ciaccio (2)

James Conant (0, 1, 2)

D

Sarah N. Dipity (2)

E

F

G

Lo Gallucio (0)

Edward S. Gault (1, 2)

Steve Glines (1)

Marc Goldfinger (0, 1)

H

Walter Howard (1)

Doug Holder (0, 2)

Coleen T. Houlihan (0, 1, 2)

I

J

K

L

M

Gordon Marshall (0, 1, 2)

N

O

P

Chad Parenteau (0, 1)

Jack Powers (0, 1, 2)

Bill Perrault (0, 1, 2)

Deborah M. Priestly (0, 1, 2)

Q

R

Lisa Reade (1)

Sue Red (0)

S

Jade Sylvan (1, 2)

T

Ian Thal (0)

Adam Thielker (0)

U

V

W

Carol Weston (0, 1)

Cindy Williams (0, 1, 2)

X

Y

Z

Submissions Welcome

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Photo by Bill Perrault

Contribute

Spoonful focuses on work primarily from"Stone Soup Poets"--poets that have contributed to our venue at any point in time--but we will be open to outside contributors as well.

Furthermore, Spoonful will maintain loose definition of what constitutes a Stone Soup Poet. It could be a regular open mike contributor at our weekly readings, a former regular or feature who has moved away from the Boston area, someone who is interested in featuring at Stone Soup, or just a regular reader of this journal. Please send with your submissions, a short cover letter detailing your credentials (or lack thereof).

Spoonful is unable to pay for accepted work at this time.

Current Deadline

Having struggled through various setbacks in our schedule, Issue #2 will be finished and out very shortly. On March 4th, we will begin the reading period for Issue #3, which is scheduled to be out by April. The reading period ends on March 15th. It's a small window, but we want to a) get back to our publishing schedule and b) have new work out in time for National Poetry Month. So submit now.

The reading period for the Summer issue (#4) will start on April 5th and end on May 20th.

Submission Guidelines

Spoonful currently accepts by email submission only. Please send 3-5 poems of various forms and length as Word attachments with the word "Submission: Poetry" in the subject heading to stonesouppoetry_at_yahoo.com.

Short works of fiction and non-fiction will also be considered. We are particularly looking for essays that touch on Stone Soup's history. Please send an inquiry email describing your prose piece and its length before sending it with the word "Proposed Longer Piece" in the subject heading.

Artwork is also being accepted. Illustrators, photographers, and artists of any kind are encouraged to send up to 10 JPEG submissions to the same address with the words "Submission: Artwork" in the subject heading to stonesouppoetry_at_yahoo.com. All titles (if any) should be part of the piece's JPEG file name.

Important

With your submissions, please also include as an attachment document a 2-5 sentence bio (longer bios will be edited at the editors' discretion and without notice). Also, please include any past publication credits for any and all of the poems submitted.

Website Links/Email

If you have a website that you would like us include in the "Contributor Links" page, please include it separately of your bio note (any references to website links in the bio notes will be removed from them). If you do not have a website to link and would instead like us to link your email address, please specify this in your initial submission.

A Note On Prior Publication

Our editorial eye will be toward unpublished work but we will considered previously published poems on the basis of merit and/or the previous source (a defunct web journal, a prelude to a larger, new project, etc). Due to our fast turnaround time, we do not recommend simultaneous submissions.

We encourage that you be forthright with a poem's publication history, if any. Spoonful retains the right to reject and remove from our site, without notice, works with previous publication credits intentionally omitted by the author.

Holding Work

Due to our small staff and resources, Spoonful generally does not carry over unaccepted work from one reading period to another. In other words, if the work is rejected for the Winter issue, it will normally not be carried over to be considered for the Spring issue. On the rare occasion that a poem is carried over to be considered for the next reading period, the poet will always be notified. Otherwise, unaccepted submissions will be deleted before the next reading period begins. A poet is always welcome to resubmit any previously rejected work to be considered for a new reading period.

Biographies and Acknowledgements

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Stone Soup Issue #2

Editors
Chad Parenteau
Lynne Sticklor

Consulting Editors
Margaret Nairn
Jack Powers

Contributing Artists
Debra Cash

Vincent Ciaccio

James Conant

Edward S. Gault
Bill Perrault

Andy Schattner
Cindy Williams

Mike Amado is a performance poet, a percussionist and drummer who does lyrical, rhythm-based tomes attuned to the social and semi-political. His first volume of verse is Poems: Unearthed from Ashes (2006). He is the host at three poetry venues in Massachusetts. He has been performing for ten years and has featured numerous times in Massachusetts and Rhode Island. He has been published in the Wilderness House Literary Review, the Bagelbards Anthology 1&2, Apt magazine #12, and Down in the Dirt. To quote the author: "I don't Slam, I rock!"

William J. Barnum is a mime, actor and performance poet who has been part of the Boston poetry scene for decades. His publication credits include Out of The Blue Writers Unite and his collection of poetry, Of Rare Design.

Yonit Bousany is a junior at Brandeis University, majoring in Linguistics and Anthropology. Her poetry can also be found in the Brandeis literary journal, where the children play (Fall 2006).

Debra Cash, a well-known arts writer in the Boston area, is Patricia Fillingham's daughter-in-law. Patricia lived with Debra and her son David for the last three and a half years of her life.

Vincent Ciaccio is a research assistant at the Schepens Eye Research Institute in Boston. He is also a spokesperson for No Kidding!, an international social club.

James Conant has been living in Cambridge since 1991. He was given a slice of clay to keep himself busy when his work slowed down due to the unfortunate events of 9/11. Today, his sculptures are currently available at the Out of the Blue Art Gallery.

Thade Correa was born January 17, 1983 and grew up in Hammond, Indiana. He attended Indiana University Bloomington where he studied literature, piano, and music composition. His work has appeared in Modern Haiku, the Somerville News column "Lyrical Somerville," and Ibbetson Street. His prominent influences include Whitman, Rilke, Neruda, Ginsberg, Stevens, and Ashbery.

Sarah N. Dipity is a personification of the concept Serendipity. You can find this moniker of “you know who” on MySpace spreading the love on the Blogs. This poem is from her Visual Journal. When thoughts & expressions of her mind need to use more than language to express what happens in her life: Stickers, Art & Markers are the tools. This poem is about a boy who Sarah thought she lost to another woman. The typical “what does she have that I don’t have” lament. Read it down to up & as a whole.

Patricia Fillingham (May 4, 1924 to December 3, 2007) ran two poetry series in West Orange, New Jersey and New York City for 35 years. She also published poetry for 28 years with her Wart Hog Press imprint, first publishing the work of Cornelius Eady. Recieving degrees in electrical engineering and sociology, she and her husband were active members of the ACLU and early members of Amnesty International. "Drink Up" is from her most recent collection, Existential Blues. A posthumous collection of her poetry is currently in the works.

Edward S. Gault has been active in Stone Soup Poetry, Open Bark, and Tapestry of Voices poetry events.

Nathan Graziano lives in Manchester, New Hampshire with his wife and two children. He is the author of Teaching Metaphors (sunnyoutside, 2007), Not So Profound (Green Bean Press, 2004), Frostbite (GBP, 2002) and seven chapbooks of poetry and fiction.

Doug Holder is the founder of the Ibbetson St. Press. He recently was the guest of the Voices Israel organization, and he gave readings and ran workshops in Tel Aviv, Haifa, Jerusalem, and Netanya. His work has appeared in the new renaissance, the Voices Israel anthology, The League of Laboring Poets, Caesura, Home Planet News, Autumn Sky, Cherry Blossom Review, and others.

Coleen T. Houlihan is a novelist and poet who studied writing at Wellesley College . She has featured at Stone Soup, Best Sellers, Borders, the Sherman Cafe and Walden Poetry Series and published poetry in The Alewife, Wilderness House Literary Review, Ibbetson Street Press, Spare Change and abroad. Her poetry is diverse. She has written in the perspective of a child, a killer, a mother, animals and men. Her most recent chapbook This Human Heart is a collection of eight poems spanning several years and is full of the light and dark of life.

Laurel Lambert is an Out of The Blue artist and participant in the gallery's open mikes. Her work is available for sale at the gallery.

John Landry is poet laureate of New Bedford. He first read at Stone Soup's Sunday night series with John Wieners, Charley Shively, and Arlene Stone in the mid-1970's at the Cambridge site in Boston. His poems have appeared in Beatitude, Sliding Uteri, Xcp, North Coast Review, New College Review, onedit, Lights&Mirrors, Citizen 32, and others. In 1986, he read at the Library of Congress at the invitation of then Poetry Consultant/Laureate Gwendolyn Brooks.

Gordon Marshall is a 43-year-old poet who combines the romantic with the surreal. He draws his rhythms from jazz and from the psychedelic rock of the sixties, purifying his voice through these sounds. He finds their embryonic spirit in the poetry of the great romantic revolutionary Percy Bysshe Shelley, on whom he did his Master’s thesis in 2005. He is a jazz poet.

Margaret Nairn was born in Pennsylvania and raised on the Island of Guernsey in the British Channel Islands. Having lived in the Boston area for 21 years, she is now involved in furthering the cause of general health. She is part of the Collaborative Artworks group in Lynn, proud to be both a member and the president, amongst artists who struggle to overcome "difficulties" by making and selling art together. She lives in Watertown and has two cats.

Chad Parenteau was recently published in the anthology French Connections: A Gathering of Franco-American Poets. His Chapbook, Discarded: Poems for My Apartment, will be published by Cervena Barva Press later this year.

Bill Perrault went to the Universities of New England and Maine and wrote a graduate thesis on the French poet Guillaume Apollinaire. He has published poems in Mothwing, Boston Poet, Stone Soup Anthology 2003, and Out Of The Blue Writers Unite. He reads his poetry throughout New England and has featured at the Lizard Lounge, Gypsypashn's venue, and Stone Soup. He was recently named Producer of the Year for LTC Channel 8 in Lowell for his weekly production of the Stone Soup Poetry TV series as well as other programs.

In September 2007, to mark his 70th birthday, Stone Soup founder Jack Powers received a proclamation from the City of Boston for his contribution to the arts. His poem in this issue is reprinted from issue #20 of Stone Soup Poetry, a journal he put out through his Stone Soup Press.

Deborah M. Priestly runs the Out of the Blue Art Gallery located in Cambridge, Mass at 106 Prospect Street with Tom Tipton, (founder, owner). She runs the Open Bark Poetry reading every Saturday night at the gallery. Her publication credits include Ibbetson Street, Spare Change, Poesy, Fresh!, Boston Poet, The Boston Herald, The Boston Girl Guide and Out of the Blue Writers Unite (which she also co-edited). She is the author of The Woman Has A Voice from Ibbetson Street Press, an eclectic combination of healing poetry and images of women in transition.

Christopher Robbins describes his poem for this issue as "a dada-revival poem that demonstrates how confusing the human world can be to autistic people."

Andy Schattner is Simon Schattner's brother. His photo depicts 125th street, the subject of Simon's poem in this issue.

Simon Schattner (June 14, 1957 to July, 2006) was born in New York City, in Manhattan. After moving to Montclair, N.J. and graduating from high school, he moved to Boston. He received a Bachelors Degree in English at the age of 29 and later earned a Masters Degree in Rehabilitation. In the years before his death, the most important goal of his life was the affirmation of his Jewish identity and the continuation of his musical and poetic creativity. He used his creative energy by performing music and poetry, while finding supportive artists with whom he connected. Much of his poetry reflects tension between city/suburban life--the rhythms, and aspirations.

Lynne Sticklor, The Prize Lady, is a Performance & Visual Artist, Editor and Text & Graphics Designer Artist. She is the sole creator of The Prize Lady Experience: a one-on-one performance art piece and a grand poetic theatrical show with chances to earn “Fabulous Prizes." She is on-staff as an Editor and Designer in the book division of Ibbetson Street Press, with oodles of book credits under her belt.

James Van Looy became involved with Stone Soup in the mid-70's when he lived on Beacon Hill, seeing performers such as Bill Barnum and Brother Blue. He studied mime for eight years with the Mirage Movement Theatre, eventually becoming a member of the troupe. He is currently the co-Artistic Director of Cosmic Spelunker Theatre.

Cindy Williams is a 1985 graduate of the Art Institute of Houston. She has had her photography published in Pettycoat Relaxer and High Horse.

For Patricia Fillingham

2008-01-30T16:23:00.000-08:00

Photo by Debra Cash

Patricia

Woman
Made by the war
Spitfires that shot down

Nazis
You caught words like mice
A calico cat, in a chimney.

--Gordon Marshall

She was a friend

We sat next to each other every week
We talked and shared. It was neat.
I remember when she came to Stone Soup
She had found a place to be in a group
She told me she was lonely with her husband gone
It's nice to have a friend, you feel you belong
She was telling me how she would publish my poetry
She didn't like the way I put poems in the center
Put them to the side, she'd say
And I'd say I like them that way
She always made sure she didn't bother me
Too close or blocking the way in front of me
She read that poem about her husband many times
Going to heaven finding someone else to love
Telling us that sometimes we don't know the here after
It's a mystery, life is a mystery, it was humorous
Her whole demeanor was somewhat curious
I always understood her poetry, it was clear
Simple and easy to understand all the time
A lot of poets don't make any sense
I cannot make out what they are saying
Or what the message is
But Patricia was always on the money
She will be missed by us at Stone Soup
We always remember our poets, always
In a way, she is here to stay with us

--Bill Perrault

Chosen Spirit of the Stars

To be one with sky
like you are now
speaking poetry to us still
through rain, sun and wind,
and what words were once lost
between us -- are now flowing freely
like a river,
through the grass and weeds,
and light and dark
your intimate stories
being told to the clouds,

my lively cats still jump
every time the front door opens,
for they believe it is you
you were a chosen spirit
to paint the sky with your poetry
so we cannot cry
old life pours away as new life
fills the soul
so your name Patricia is everywhere
and your blue eyes still shine like stars
dreaming up a whole new world.

--Deborah M. Priestly

For Patrica Fillingham

That Lovely Kind Face
The Voice.
The Words.
The Humor.
The Love.

I appreciated her so fully.
She had my attention locked.
So Present in the Poem.

And she could surprise!
Sexy thoughts.
To remind us that this is a Woman who had Lived.
Lived, Lived, Lived.
Fully. Honestly.

That Bent Body was ready to fly.

--Lynne Sticklor

Patricia Says
A found poem

This is your aged parent, or what’s left of her.
How are you, my pet?
There’s almost always a Walnut Street.
There’s almost always a School Street.
In New York City it’s so easy to find your way around!
That looks like an old mill.
I had a yellow lab and she and my grandmother were the two nicest people I ever met.
They took me into his room and showed me his bed and said “Daddy’s gone.”
I was young and stupid. I wouldn’t have divorced Bluebeard.
Isn’t that a beautiful tree?
Isn’t that a beautiful cloud?
I didn’t know there was a restaurant on this street. Did I like it? Good!
You don’t know how grateful I am to you.
I do love you.
Never underestimate the power of poetry.
It wasn’t the worst thing that could have happened.
Amusez-vous bien.

--Debra Cash

Smileys

It’s always when I get on the computer,
That you jump up into my lap.
Before I can even get the screen up,
Papa, I want smileys
So I tell you
As I have often told you
That the smileys are on their way-
They’re in their cars now,
And driving to our house.
Maybe they’re just stuck in traffic.
At long last (finally!) the screen does come up,
And I move the arrow over to
The yellow smile on the toolbar and click the mouse
And the box comes up with all your smileys.
I want the Kitty smileys, Papa.
I go to the animal section of the box and click it with the mouse
And all the cat smileys come up
And we scroll down to the bottom
To see every last one
(For the umpteenth ging quin killionth time);
Then there are the puppy smileys,
The bird smileys,
The fish smileys.
We go through them all
(Yes, umpteen ging quin killion times)
Like touring a virtual cartoon zoo.
I want the monkey smileys, Papa
But I thought you didn’t like the monkey smileys!?
Yet we see them anyway
I want the elephant smileys, Papa
I bring them up
I want the big elephants, Papa
How are we going to get a big elephant out of the computer?
Through the door, Papa
And you pointed to the smiley box on the screen
You remembered the story that I read to you on Christmas
About the girl who brought home the elephant
To grow up in her house*
We watch together as the little yellow smiley climbs up onto the elephant
And slides down its trunk, over and over again
Ging quin killion times.

* Anna’s Elephant by Patricia Fillingham

--Edward S. Gault

Introduction by Chad Parenteau

2008-01-30T15:54:00.000-08:00

Photo by Edward S. Gault

This issue is not an example of timeliness. That's all I'm certain of.

Tributes have been the core of the first two issues of Spoonful: Issues #0 and #1 (don't ask, just nod and go with it). For this issue, I had set out to have a more energetic and eclectic collection of work for Issue #2.

By the end of last year, I had lost my father to cancer and Stone Soup had lost another friend, Patricia Fillingham.

I could have skipped the tribute entirely and saved Patricia for another issue, but she deserves all the respect we can give her. So there is tribute in this issue as well. This issue also features work from the departed Simon Schattner, another friend of Stone Soup. A poem for my father is absent, to be saved for another time.

This issue is widely-ranged, though not the way I intended. A celebration to creativity: including poems I've heard on the Stone Soup open mike. Poems written by and dedicated to dearly departed souls. Which works define this issue more? In some ways, I'm so determined to get the issue out, I'm too frazzled to know.

I'm so grateful for the patience of the contributors, particularly those who knew about my personal struggles, while this issue was being created. I know you guys must be curious about this issue. So am I

And now, the unveiling.

An Illustrated Poem by Sarah N. Dipity

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Squeeze Tight

Visual Poem by Sarah N. Dipity

2008-01-29T18:55:00.000-08:00

Squeeze Tight

Poem by Jack Powers

2008-01-19T15:47:00.000-08:00

Illustration by James Conant

He wasn't sure how he happened to look up
and see her
but his insides just sort of
blew apart
because she wasn't alone, no
she was with someone else
again
and he saw that instant familiarity of hers
working it out of with another dude,
she, always, opening all the stops, all ways
thinking past him when they are together,
thrilled by what she makes people feel,
thrilled at movies of herself
they compose with their eyes,
all thrust and pull with her so
thoroughly corruptible looks
innocent sin sex loveliness
at the shack in the railroad yard,
the workers trooping through,
spending just a few minutes
not even taking off clothing,
all of them, passing her, stopping briefly
to use the exposed body,
that thing of shapes of crevices
that makes the veins stand out in men's foreheads,
that enlarges appetite so instantly,
she, enjoying so much that physical chemistry,
using herself,
in the back rows of 75 cent movies,
sliding soft thigh openings toward bewildered masturbators,
fleshing out a thousand fantasies,
bending, stretching, arching, swallowing,
accomodating what happens to men
when they look at her,
and he settles again
into that comfortable stroke
of self-pity
in front of the super reality
of an all-knowing,
ever-accusing mirror
that keeps saying
you are there, too.

Poem by Patricia Fillingham

2008-01-18T15:47:00.000-08:00

Photo by Vincent Ciaccio

Drink Up

The Romantic used to
Join the church,
Get on a horse
And slope off to kill a dragon,
And ten years later
Emerge from that forest to tell
Of his adventures, and he believed.
Where are our dragons?
What knight can count on getting lost
And found again with tales of wonder
That are not refuted?
The forests paths are concrete now,
Lighted by electricty,
And the dragon has become a trick
That is found, like the four-masted schooner,
At the bottom of a bottle.

Poem by Simon Schattner

2008-01-17T15:04:00.000-08:00

Photo by Andy Schattner

125th St. (Sometimes I remember)

Lying in my bed...Awake at night
sometimes I can remember
the light filtering up from the street
how many stories below?
Headlights swirling through the gnawing teeth of the Venetian blinds
rotating speckles of light, dancing with the shadows on the wall
clandestine radios playing hit tunes from 1957--?
police sirens mingling with angry voices from 125th St., early one Spring-
I arose and wandered out into the world
when innocence was just a passing name
for life before the change of climate
and I wondered
where my childhood had gone
when the lights passed by in the night
and the blind echoes of laughter on the pavement
raced enchanted against the paradox of Time
when Summer had left my veins-
I turned my back on the vainglorious asphalt of my spawning
longing to rush back and embrace it sanctimoniously
after Winter's languid dreams of suburban angst had consumed
my final bouncing streetwise mannerisms
and the last cry of the urban theatre
was left to wallow in its own restless ears-
Years later...
in the twilight of my youth
I wonder if my sacred rhapsodies are an illusion
or if memories can serve only one master

Poem by Sam Cha

2008-01-16T11:45:00.000-08:00

"Lost Day" by James Conant and Cindy Williams

Apophenia

I chose a day you'd be coming home late.
I stole down the dusty stairs from our
attic with the slanted ceiling spotted
with fruitfly corpses and out the heavy
door hidden in the back. Our names were
never written there, next to the doorbell
that would sometimes ring itself on rainy
days—I'd like to think that it was ringing
then, while I was walking down those stairs;
that thin ribbon of sound the bridge between
the absence below, the absence above.
What I know is that it was November,
that it was raining. My umbrella flapped
like a trapped blackbird until it gave up
and folded the wrong way, unnamed itself
into wet rag and steel that no longer knew
what to do with the rain. Neither did I,
so I just stood at the bus stop, let it
soak through. I thought that the cold I felt was
just water. I thought that I was standing
waiting for the bus. I was only
partially right. I don't know how to tell
this story. It'd be so easy to say
that what I really wanted was to buy
us a future at the mall, diamond hard
and as unassailable as platinum.
I am tempted to harp on the absence
of our names, to try to read some meaning
into the ghost ringing of our doorbell;
I feel the urge to talk about how you
and I folded out of recognition
like my cheap umbrella. But these are three
stone half-carat metaphors. They're pretty
but they don't fetch much when you try to sell
them back. The jewelers peer at them through their
lenses, add up the facets, look up, shrug.
No good. But I was twenty-five. I liked
grand gestures. That night I hid the ring in
the pocket of my least favorite pants,
hid the pants at the bottom of a pile
of dirty laundry. They stayed there for two
months. Every time we argued, I'd picture
the ring and smile. I can see myself now.
The world to come, I was thinking.
It would be worth everything.

Poem by Laurel Lambert

2008-01-15T10:36:00.000-08:00

"Ruined Bridge" by Edward S. Gault

Comes The Dawn

After a while you
learn the subtle difference
between holding a hand and
chaining a soul, and you
learn that life doesn't mean
security and you begin to
accept your defeats with your
head up and your eyes open, with
the grace of a woman, not
the grief of a child. And
learn to build all
your roads on today because
tomorrow's ground is too uncertain
for plans, and futures have a way
of falling down in mid-flight.
After a while you learn that
that even sunshine burns
if you get too much. So
you plant your own garden
and decorate your own soul,
instead of waiting for someone
to bring you flowers. And you
learn that you really can endure.
That you really do have worth.
And you learn. With every
goodbye you learn.

Poem by Margaret Nairn

2008-01-14T10:33:00.000-08:00

Photo by Bill Perrault

Fresh Grass

The look, the feel,
Of harmony
Is of an evanescence that
Prolongs the gift -- far past the
Tasting, to a savoring of light,
Of life, of longing.
When in the cherry orchard,
The nuns drift through blue evening,
With stools,
The cows know—soon
Their load lifts, and milked,
They are moved to fresh grass.
It is a grey call,
When along the cliffs,
Gulls wheel
And the pink granite crumbles
To a fall of scrabbled
Gravel
Amongst tufted yellow gorse
Where the wind grazes.
No blazing
Sunset moves you,
But fog drifting gently over
A damp face
With the horns lowing
At some distant rock and lighthouse.
It is a place you visit, where
Before,
Your soul drank, now
Recalled, it rests.
I see the dank shed as a key
That
Frees these moments,
For un-locked, the travesty
Bleeds
Into knowing,
‘Till the
Bloom purifies the wound,
Washing into water, all good, as food.
Let us bless this Eternity.

Poem by James Van Looy

2008-01-13T10:17:00.000-08:00

Photo by Bill Perrault

Cave Crazy

Perhaps, today’s crazy
was once exactly what was needed
to conjure the herd over the edge
or run reindeer into the ground
or just to intuit the next colossal storm
before it caught you ice-footed in the open.

Perhaps, today’s attention deficit disorder
was once exactly the leafy brained
attention to everything that allowed
one to pierce the jumble jungle forest
and keep a surplus in the larder.

Perhaps, today’s dyslexia
was once the ability to read
the sign of the spore backwards
as well as forwards, upside down
and write side up.

Perhaps, the deep hole of our minds
was once the cathedral caverns of earth
where space twirled and swirled round and round
like grand galaxies and gaseous nebulae
gravity found more in our dark matter
than the speed of light which might
penetrate the depths but never recover
obscured needs and births and rebirths
which glimmer in torch flame
in those deep, deep sanctuaries.

Poem by Doug Holder

2008-01-12T14:49:00.000-08:00

Illustration by James Conant

My Lines on Lines

I don't cross the line
I never get close
to the bottom line.

I tow the party line.
I never liked:
"What's my line?"

I stay within
an ordered line
chaos lurks outside
my thin blue line.

I am now
ready to cross
the borderline

in time
to cross
the finish line.

Poem by Bill Perrault

2008-01-11T13:54:00.000-08:00

"Those Little Devils" by James Conant

My drug for my soul

I need it to relax, to be me
Distorted and crazy
I will steal, kill, and die for it
I will humiliate, regurgitate, and retaliate for it
I will destroy my children for it
I will destroy everything that is dear and near to me for it
My drug is my God and my evil and devilish life
I think about getting high all the time
Staying high is my goal in life
I think, sleep, eat, drink, imagine, fantasize, and connive for it
Every second of my miserable life
I am the evil of myself made whole with my drug
Nothing is more important forever
Nothing, nothing, not even eternity
I need to condemn myself for what I am
I am the monster that evil is made of
Long live the evil that makes me whole
May you hate me for what I am
The devil made whole in a human addict
Can you hear me now?
I am in despair

Poem by Mike Amado

2008-01-10T13:17:00.000-08:00

Photo by Bill Perrault

OCD Buddhist Doing Dishes

Dishes undone by dinner,
Dinner done. Got to do the
Dishes by hand.
Hands in warm water,
Warm water plunk
Into stainless steel.
Sink slowly fills as
Suds soap up.
Suds and steam,
Soap and water, hand.
Aluminum scrubber
Clockwise to plate,
No rubber glove,
I need to feel.
This process,
A domestic ceremony.
Dishes air-dry, spots
Stamp china surface.
Spots: flaw for humility.
Monk and Shaman
Both know:
The last detail done
To a sand circle is
Always an omission
Or a mistake.

Poem by Thade Correa

2008-01-09T13:10:00.000-08:00

Photo by Vincent Ciaccio

Tonight

In the space beyond thought,
beyond these words,
our truest life exists.

Tonight we are standing
on a precipice, ashes in our mouths.
We wanted summer and the summer is gone.

One or two stars in the empty night.
All around us, questions spring up
like rootless trees, sting like autumn rain.

You and I believe in the possible,
that this journey has no beginning or end
and once more, tonight, this seems
to be all that matters.

Poem by Gordon Marshall

2008-01-08T16:22:00.000-08:00

Photo by Vincent Ciaccio

Maryrose

ocean herb in hair
her beach rose eyes are smiling
almonds on the sand

Poem by William J. Barnum

2008-01-07T08:45:00.000-08:00

Photo of Ian Thal by Bill Perrault

Marceau
make air to grow
and swallow years

then drench our
thin laughter with
your tears

your grimace of
a grin
lies frozen
on a groan

your gestures
cry
through Heaven
in our eyes
we see your
wings
till angels in
us sing

above a groveling
beast
there soars what’s
blest

from rainbows
and of light
in us

to challenge
night

your hand implies
our world
and folds the void
curled in
your palm

surrounding
all that’s
heard

Poem by Yonit Bousany

2008-01-06T00:33:00.000-08:00

Illustration by James Conant

A God poem

               Watching me spit out the chewed-up cap,
flip the pen over, and continue gnawing on the tail end,
he says,
               I like God poems.
I smile and glance down at my notebook
blotted with crimson lipstick,
echoing with Sanskrit chants,
the Capital Letters of buttons
pinned to Woodstock jean jackets.
               Hell, I steal in that notebook,
I dishonor my parents,
I sleep with my neighbors and then their wives.
I say “hell” and don’t think I’m going there.
                              He is still gazing at me.
                              I look up and
                                             feel something.
Then my mouth fills with blue ink
               and I spit up over the table.

Poem by Jade Sylvan

2008-01-05T00:24:00.000-08:00

Photo by Vincent Ciaccio

The Wise Man

The wise man waits on top of the mountain.

I climb and see him, gaunt and tight,
pale with white hair blazing, cracked hoary mouth,
dry tongue and eyes yellowed like ricepaper, parched.

His hand shaking, reaches to mine,
hot tears quiver, my lips cannot still themselves
but they open and my question spills
liquid fast from my chest.

I hold my breath as his mouth presses thin,
his eyes looking into mine like shining fire.

“Beautiful girl,” he says,

“The first century I sat up here, solitary,
I knew the wind’s voice better than my mother’s,
and the slow growing of the trees was my family,
and the churning of the clouds and the birds
in the sky was my story.

“The second, when I could not remember
the shock of the touch of a lover, I sat and was satisfied,
and I remembered the voice of my brother
the morning I climbed the mountain alone,
and felt no remorse at knowing it would never
vibrate through me again.

“The third, the moss began to grow on me
and the little creatures of the mountain
nested in my hair and in my lap,
and they were my friends until they fell to bones,
and never did I weep for their inevitable returns,
but sat, a rock, a stone, a statue, and alone.

“The fourth, and my mind became the sky,
and I spoke only by the whistling of the grasses,
and was nothing and everything and one,
and saw the rolling of the ages in the river’s watershapes.”

He coughs, ancient wheezing through black teeth.
Tears slide in thin lines down creased, caverned cheeks.
His hands squeeze my hands, his eyes hold my eyes.

“Those first five hundred years,
I would have told you your answer lay within.

“That the greatest wisdom lived
in the whisper of the breeze and the flow of the river.
That to know, you must withdraw, meditate, escape.

“But now I am an old man – older than the trees –
and all I want in my last moments is to get laid
and fall asleep wrapped in those powder arms of yours.

“Hear me out, now. I’m wise, you see, and look at you
in your glorious glowing arrogance with those ice eyes
and curved calves and hell, that ass! Christ.

“Come on now, doll. I haven’t had a bed
in half an eon, but the rocks here aren’t bad
if you spread the leaves the right way,
and the sky is empty and you are so young
and I am so old and I don’t have the answers
and I don’t have the answers and neither of us ever will.

“So why don’t you just pick up
that ragged skirt of yours
and let me at those infant thighs.
You are so young and beautiful
and I have been lonely for so long,
oh lonely for so long and now
this desire is all I know
so please, sweetheart,
please give daddy
some of that sugar
here in the void.
I am so lonely,
so lonely,
so lonely.”

Poem by Nathan Graziano

2008-01-04T00:03:00.000-08:00

Photo by Cindy Williams

One Day at a Time

What’s not to love about a cliché?

The Drunk will say in his lounge singer’s voice
as the guests at the Mexican restaurant
gather in a scrum around a plate of chicken nachos.
He slams his fourth frozen margarita
through a muscular straw, avoiding the salt.
French-kissing the glass’ rim until he’s huffing
tequila fumes. Meanwhile the handsome waiters
with bronzed-skin and chiseled chins,
shadowy beards and memories of bolo ties
run to him with a new drink before he can slur,

One day was yesterday.

In the evening the Shetland pony piñatas were hung
on meat hooks from The Drunk’s bedroom ceiling
where his looks of longing broke their backs,
spilling sangria like a god’s blood on his only white shirt.

Today starts tomorrow,

The Drunk will say and hoist his glass to the sun,
after torching five weeks of sobriety, with the ease
of Cortez kicking up his feet on an ottoman, raising a brow
and saying, “I might be immortal.” The Drunk’s laugh
lifts on the backs of the desert spirits and his former-self emerges
from the ashes of a burned wagon on the beaten path.

Time is the trap of consciousness,

The Drunk crunches on a corn chip to punctuate
as a pretty girl smiles in Spanish from a table
ablaze by the kitchen entrance. She has Aztec eyes
that call his bluff as the heat reaches his face
and the piñatas’ blood, the sweet sangria, rains
on the one-way street that will lead him back to tomorrow.

Mike Amado	William J. Barnum	Yonit Bousany	Sam Cha
Thade Correa	Patricia Fillingham	Nathan Graziano	Doug Holder
Coleen T. Houlihan	Laurel Lambert	John Landry	Gordon Marshall
Margaret Nairn	Bill Perrault	Jack Powers	Christopher Robbins
Simon Schattner	Jade Sylvan	James Van Looy	Bios & Acks