Poems

At the House in the Rue de la Cerisaye
By Maggie Secara

What is she going to wear to meet him?
Garnet taffeta
Cloth of gold
Emerald satin cut over carnation—
too frivolous, no.
Velvet: black with garnets and pearls,
farthingaled and ruffed,
collared in fine lace. Yes.

He is wearing her ring on a ribbon
pinned over his heart. He stands.
His hair is greyer than she remembers,
he is too thin. But his eyes
are diamonds, and brighten
when she enters.

The sun is dying behind the darkened window.

He says her name, and bows.
She remembers her brother is standing
just behind her in the doorway.
Moves forward, lifting a hand to his kiss.
They are acquainted, after all,
some years, but no one knows
no one knows
no one knows.

Her brother is right there, and a small army of friends
and strangers
and she is the most beautiful thing he has ever seen.
(pulse racing)
No one knows.

The touch of his hand is cool,
as always.
Nothing warms his blood but she.
There will be time for that after
introductions all around.
(barely breathing)
No one knows.

The Beauty Of A Poisoned Sky
By Darius McCaskey

The sun rakes
across the wrist of the sky,
spilling bloody reds
and oranges into the eye:
a self-assisted suicide.

Puffy clouds,
of black and grey,
rain hydrochloric drops
of acidic spray:
both cause and effect.

Trees send branches
to purify
the poisoned air
in the poisoned sky:
doomed to failure.

A peal of thunder,
like a tolling bell,
sounds the start
of descent to Hell:
a one-way ticket.

Turbines spin
across the sky,
lighted like a
Cyclopean eye:
too little, too late.

Diverse particulates
diffuse light,
forming a prismascope
just after night:
polluted sunrise.

Thom Olausson 2008 ©

Back From the DeadBack From the Dead

From within his cold and dead heart only sinister beats pounded
A ghost lived in his corpse and time had taken his mortal soul

In the empty hallways of his rotting brain only dead thoughts remained
In his glassy and dead eyes only the Reaper was reflected

As an evil incantation from Necronomicon was read out loud
The ghost in the corpse stirred and sensed the world of the living once more

With revenge as fuel the dead body came back to life
With its dead eyes it could finally see its resting place

It rose from its coffin and then stood silent in the dark and cold crypt
The door was ajar and graves could be seen by the pale light of the moon

A piercing voice whispered in the dark: Go, seek and destroy…
With a jerk it obeyed and walked into the night to seek its prey

It felt only rage as it stumbled towards the open cemetery gates
Guided by that sinister voice it now sought the blood it craved

So if you see its emaciated corpse wander across the fields, then beware!
For it is a child of Darkness and its conjured ghost will never rest…

Steel and Flesh

A head explodes like an overripe melon
Steel and flesh still do not mix
Distorted faces in a deathly circle
The undead just won’t go away!

Deadly spikes enter every single orifice
Sadistic hate + sweet love= Satanic Passion
Disfigured lovers mating in Hell’s Asylum
A dead eye still stares back at us

Fragments of glass pierce the tender skin
A dead brain upon the Reaper’s scales
Body harvesters licking the blood-soaked floor
Insane choirs of the dead singing hymns

Electricity enters the shaved spot; Death’s Door
Satanic butchers dismembering corpses
Justice and Fair will never belong together
I kill! You kill! We All kill what can be killed!

Eyes popping out of the sockets with a fleshy sound
Thanatos smiles in the pale light of the moon
And maggots devour our empty shells; decay!
Sick and demented babies within Death’s cradle

Eyes stitched together by needles from Lethal Injection
Gigantic wheel of steel crushing our bones
Grinding us down into dust in the icy wind
History bound to repeat itself in the end…

By Lindsey Hall

Creaking sounds on the floor,
So I pull up the covers more
Stranger lurking in the dark,
Even in the peaceful park.

In every corner there are ghosts,
Waiting to be tonight’s frightful host.
The lighting flashes and the thunder booms,
I hear and see it in all the rooms.

When monsters come out from under the bed
I put my pillow over my head
I walk over to my door and shut it tight
And hope it will not be a fright night.

By Darius McCaskey

I touched you then,
knowing it was foolish:
knowing you'd likely fly away.
My hand extended casually toward your perch.

You surprised me then,
climbing onto my finger:
climbing into my heart.
Your long, cobalt body felt weightless on my hand.

The wind gusted then,
pulling at your wings:
pulling you away from me.
You clung to me with all your tiny might.

Your wings shimmered then,
glistening in the summer sun:
glistening as you fought the wind.
My ears caught the sound of the pond's gentle ebb.

I shielded you then,
blocking the desperate breeze:
blocking the radiant light.
You never had to stay, but you did anyway.

Your strength failed then,
carrying you away from me,
carrying you far away.
You showed me the futility of holding on.

Nameless by the Hour (2nd Draft)
By Maggie Secara

My Muse (and this is true)
is a bleached blond tramp
reclining on a white sand beach
reluctant to give up a pretty boy
whose fingers lips mouth
forgive her lack of care,
delight her
asking nothing of the sky
but rhinestones.

The bitch nods off while I
fiddle with inconsequential phrases—
C-major chords and self-indulgent rhymes.
Icebergs
in their last melt linger
in her eyes.

I'd kiss her, occluded
in occulted light,
but she (the slut) holds back
her motivation, lacking payment
for refracted service.

In a wreath of bitter almonds she
knows everything I know,
and snores, sometimes, in Greek.

Dressed in Mourning
By Gereg Jones Muller

We leave nothing behind us.
We’re going out to bury Mom today.
Inside my heart is a little boy crying,
3, 2, 1 years old, crying
for the loss of the smile he’ll
never see again, the arms that will not
ever hold him anymore, and the
only grown-up part of his 10, 9, 8 pain
is the adult understanding
of mortality and he will not
he will not be consoled. Not with
his mother’s God and not
with his mother’s faith
and not with all the tears his eyes could shed.

We’re going out to bury Mom today.
Oriental pottery and Impressionist prints.
The eclectic collection of coffee mugs
cluttering your kitchen cabinets. The candles,
hundreds of them, half burned
or too beautiful for the burning.
We leave nothing behind us.

You told me you felt closer to God
on a mountaintop or in the forest
than in any church on earth. You told me that making love
is the most beautiful act a man and a woman
can share. You asked me
if I wanted to see a miracle: and when I said yes
told me, Move your thumb.
We leave nothing behind us.
Move your thumb. Show me a miracle.
We’re going out to bury Mom today.
And we can lose nothing. Not
one hour, not one lesson, not one loss
can ever be erased
or forgotten in the heart of God:

it is only we
who can forget that, living or dead,
it is yet in the heart of God that we abide.
We leave nothing behind us.

We grow. We go on, and we carry with us
every day, every scar, every hoarded hour of pain or joy
and if we are fortunate we harvest
from the sum of it some wisdom, or some peace.
We leave nothing behind us.
And we can lose nothing. “What thou lov’st well,”
(as Pound reminded us), “shall not
be reft from thee. What thou lov’st well
is thy true heritage.”
We’re going out to bury Mom today.

We’re going out to bury Mom today.
And the tears that tear-- entirely distinct from those that heal--
are those that spring forth
from the friction of past with present
from the place where child and man
are jostled against each other in the press
of ten thousand yesterdays which all demand their chance
to step forward and do honour to she who brought
each one of us forth-- salute her life, salute her death,
and the final gift of her given back to earth.
We’re going out to bury Mom today.
And leaving, we leave nothing behind us.
We carry on.
Her love and her lessons
live on, light on the road.

This I wish you, dear heart: Clear sight,
a clear road, and a clear conscience;
a high heart and a high purpose;
the breath of God at your back
and your true lover’s arms
before you.
I bless you and I bid you
safe home.

The Glutton’s
By Rolli

got obese with poetry; won’t
stop eating, read the telegram

Caught the A-train to the estate; they waiting
waved me in

the rug slush underfoot, such
a texture, lending sparks
which I picked up, stuffed in my snuff
box

talking loudly, ascending, breathing feeling
more manful classic than me

It was wonderful

We went left, then left
down a hall like a long-
necked Madonna, dark
left, left again

It was truly wonderful
let me repeat

We reached, soon (too) the room
of the glutton, the door, touched the
brass inscription:

He waits here brained on the floor

Which he did

My thinking: kiddies
hop on headless things
tentative, left by pets, step
and jelly pops – awful

We tried, on my suggestion

But from the clefts bled
books, editions mint, signature
quartos, folios
Tamerlane, “damn difficult
to find,” said the professor, with a diamond
look

We eyed one another like dry men in a desert sea

The wrestling was gentlemanly – then less
so

Lost my walled, the prof his wig; Higgins’
ear bitten clean off

In the scuttle, some books shoved
in my knapsack, back to it

soon matching the green teacup beetles
which visit killed field mice’s insides in
such numbers
they twitch, as if living

Hopeless, so I opened
the snuff box. Sparks rose up

rose up like colours of war
and falling caught volumes, carpet
the great estate, trains A through N

Which wasn’t my intention

I took the O-train home

From From Plum Stuff (Montreal: 8th House Publishing). Reprinted with permission.

Used-Up Mistresses Unite!
By Rolli

Tie ribbon on
your vrais age

fluff your heads

be someone’s second-
best beds

From Plum Stuff (Montreal: 8th House Publishing). Reprinted with permission.

Sonnet no. 5

Why

New morning sun brings forth her warming rays
while dying leaves drift gently to the ground.
Approaching winter soon will dampen days,
when ice will hang from barren trees abound.
Korea’s changing beauty I have seen,
penned every scene for all the world to read.
I miss so much your sparkling eyes of green,
while for your love, my heart again will bleed.
The freezing snow will cover all that lives
I hope I will survive this daily fight.
A priest once said that Jesus Christ forgives,
though what I do, he could not see as right.
My helmet sits upon my weary head ─
My rifle, now replaces pencil lead.

David J Delaney
27/12/2009 ©

For my Uncle, Lawrence George Delaney, 1st Battalion RAR, who served in Korea.

In the Shadow of Ghosts

To all and sundry I hereby attest
when writing stories, I will pen my best
to literary heights I will aspire
and write like poets, those that I admire.

To stroll with Lawson under silver moon
and sit with Dennis in the early noon
ride with Morant along the Condamine
inspired by Parkes, my rhyme I will refine.

Then walk with Kendall, hear the bell birds song
stand with Ogilvie, view the rushing throng
watch Evans write his women of the west
read Boake, great poet and one of our best.

There’s Esson’s tribute to the shearer’s wife.
the convicts who sang their rum song of life
then Song of Australia was Carleton’s view
I hear Paterson, and that Geebung crew.

Verse caught the time, the man rode Snowys side
viewed Sydney town when ships moved with the tide
rode Cobb and Co. along a dusty track
traveled the bush, where some never came back.

All master poets, experts in this craft
read so many, I smiled, I cried, I laughed
published in many a books well read pages
their words are still resounding through the ages.

I’ll keep on writing well into the night
knowing one day, I’ll pen the metre right
the flow of my rhythm will be like a song
the beat will sound its perfect soft and strong.

With help from writers, present or the past
my writings' true perfection, I will grasp
when all’s left are my poems and my rhyme
I would love them remembered for all time.

By Wendy Strain

The sun spreads rosy light throughout the land
Creeping over dull gray concrete roads
Reaching out with bright determined hand
To wake the sleepers from cold abodes

The light grows stronger each passing hour
Insists sleeping eyes open to day
To see the beauty of field and flower
Before progress takes it all away

The cars are started in the early light
The workers progress to buildings dim
They lock themselves away from daytime’s sight
And feel they’re safe from warnings of the sin

Of warming gases and resources lost
They never see the fallout

By Maggie Secara

Not everything is a lie.
Tempers flare, birds fly south
(not always for the sunshine)
even love, while it lasts,
is true as the blood
on the canvas walls, the relic
of someone’s Guernica afternoon;
but the truth is only important
when it’s useful, or harmful
in the end—
every word a felony.

The lies sift somewhere
between friends and murdering angels,
dropping from
the oak trees
like fireflies and morning dew
contaminating the crossroads,
virtue tied up in a kitchen rag
disguised as cloth of gold
tarnished on the battlefield
of casual death and idle weddings
without charity
or kindness
or grace.
The sword is quicker
but this will do.

voices, not voices
the shades of voices
bitter and muttering something
that sounds
like my name in a shadow

I should, if asked,
weigh my heart against a feather
defend with honour, apologize
with grace, bear a sentence
if earned. Instead,
I shout from the wall,
fling up my hands, and die
anyway.

I glide thru papyrus on a flat
reed boat
hunting water fowl startled
to stillness, flat
on the flat sky.
My brothers and my sisters, tiny
figures at the lotus prow
pull down the stars
and eat them.

By Anne Millbrooke

(In demonstration of the superiority of Wallace Stevens' poem "Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbird")

I
Animalia
Chordata
Aves, Passeriformes
Corvidae
Pica hudsonia

II
Common and conspicuous
In fact, ubiquitous

III
Black-billed like the relations
Crows, jays, and ravens
Yes, a big family.

IV
Wock wock-a-wock weer weer.
My ear not tuned for the noisemaker,
I cannot translate.

                                                                                ➞

V
Tail raised for walking
Straight for flying,
And dropped, descending.
Am I as obvious?

VI
Black hat, coat, and tie, white vest
Iridescent and flashy and formal

VII
The magpie is a scavenger
by occupation, but why, what
do we scavenge each day?

VIII
Following people through centuries
along paths, dirt roads, and pavement
Finding carrion for carrying on

IX
Dine on ticks and mice,
fruit or seeds, or roadkill,
Just as omnivorous as
the literary magpie.

                                                                                ➞

X
Flight.  Flying.
Take me.

XI
As spring snow covers blooming flowers,
go easy, go to the feeder, take the handout.

XII
Build a nest for speckled eggs
But winter roost among the trees

XIII
Birds, branches, snow:
piebald bird in piebald scene.
Where’s Waldo?