Poetry

by Carol Schoen

Crushed between copy center
and a hardware store, the violin maker’s shop,
a dusty counter, signed photos of famous artists,
hides a short passage to a tiny room:
glamorous with crystal chandelier, bubbles
of light bursting against the gold rimmed
mirror, forty-five lyre
backed chairs, the stage
a white gem, glitter trimmed,
piano, empty chair, music
stand.

the cellist thrusts the bow
into the dark chords, angry
notes clamor against the piano’s
stern restraint; a plaintive theme
hovers under the storm,
rises, blossoms, sighs, whispers.

the audience: the hardware
store owner, three workmen
from the construction
site next door, friends, me;
28th street transformed.

Carol Schoen wrote her first poems for Sarah White’s study group and has been chugging along happily ever since.

by Carol Schoen

The brush against the snare
drum whispered
mysteries,
we swayed
against each other.
You looked away.

I missed a beat.

Inside the growl
of a swinging, half-muted
trumpet, blaring
and seductive.
We chatter,
I forgot to listen.
You left.

I missed a beat.

During the splatter
of a mid-summer storm
he left without me.
I glared,
grimaced, teeth clenched.
To hell with this.

just
find another
beat.

Carol Schoen wrote her first poems for Sarah White’s study group and has been chugging along happily ever since.

by Carol Schoen

Won’t go to Harlem in ermine and pearls…

Hope promises chocolate chip
mint, when there’s only mango
sorbet.  Date and nut memories
chock full of lunch
counters.   New York in my head 
like magnolia blossoms, tiaras
decorating my bouffant,
but tough broad  chews me up
like peanuts, spits
me out like shells.  Bitch city.

Carol Schoen wrote her first poems for Sarah White’s study group and has been chugging along happily ever since.

by Carmen Mason

“Speaking Personally. . .”

as a person
personally speaking
it’s nothing personal but
from one person to another
don’t take this personally but
I’d like to say person to person
as a person
personally I
feel
wish
think
believe
want to
remember
couldn’t care less
hope he drops dead
can’t think of a nicer time
long for a whole new beginning, at least another lifetime, to get things ……………..right but
that’s just me, personally

Carmen Mason: I have been writing poetry and prose much of my life. I’ve been published, won prizes but realize I write most for myself — to express, explore, expunge and exhort.

by Carmen Mason

“The Elephant in the Room”

The elephant in my room
has become a monolith
an all spreading monster
so humongous that the walls are caving out
and the windows bulging to their breaking points
the door bursting at its hinges
the ceiling swelling to the second floor
and soon we’ll be sitting up in the about to burst
attic wondering how and why we let it come to this
our fingers unable to be twiddled
our eyes unable to meet
our hearts so long past breaking
there will not be a sound

Carmen Mason: I have been writing poetry and prose much of my life. I’ve been published, won prizes but realize I write most for myself — to express, explore, expunge and exhort.

by Carmen Mason

“It Is What It Is”

a mistake we sometimes utter by settling
for a nice sound bite for were it really what it is
then we’d have no annoying tale or anecdote in the first place
no bringing up the stupid thing in the second place
because what it is ~ merely being what it is
would kind of cancel itself out to nothingness or
we’d just flick it away with the toe of our shoe or
propel it off the tip of our nail or slap it away hard
with our fast hand ‘til it was good and dead and gone
and pay it not a smidgen of our mind
not a squirrel load and be done with it
whoopity scoop

Carmen Mason: I have been writing poetry and prose much of my life. I’ve been published, won prizes but realize I write most for myself — to express, explore, expunge and exhort.

(for Jenny)

by Marian Lamin

such giant waves
such undulating lines of all too fragile wood
floating away
black tiled roof, unmoored, caves and
tumbles headlong
into the basement’s filthy wake of forgotten toys,
chipped china teacups, diceless board games.

the house is drowning; the house from
Kennebunk, Maine
bought one summer when the car broke down
on the way to Manset.
the blue house with a black door: painted, furnished,
wallpapered, electrified.

what then of the family? the dolls from Germany:
Peter the husband, his wife, (named for me)
three tow-haired children
the collie with his paw up

night bugs survey the ruins;
no survivors of this flood.

Marian Lamin: After years as a writer of fiction and nonfiction, I began writing poems and find that poetry is the most difficult and satisfying of art forms.

by Phyllis Kriegel

A troika of Roths—Joseph, Henry and Philip
Had roots in Galicia (Austro-Hungary’s
Scorned and backward province).
Breeding place of shtetl sons
With scores to settle
Who used words as weapons
To fabulate and manipulate:
Dissemblers, tricksters, wordsmiths, scribblers
In different generations,
Now archived side by side.

Moses Josef Roth of Brody
Shed the Moses, assumed a monocle–
Wrote flawless German, became dandified Austrian,
Called himself an accidental Jew,
Cranked out short works
That said true things in half a page.
Lived on the run out of two suitcases
in six countries.
The Nazis banned and burned his books.

Henry, born Herschel in Tymenitz
Transplanted to America, took root
In East Side slums
At 27 writes Call it Sleep — a classic.
Piled realism, surrealism, parody and parable.
Sixty years of writers’ block
Critics dubbed him one-book wonder.
Then crafts a late life opus
Mercy in a Rude Stream
Turns pain-ridden life into literary.

Philip, son of Bess and Herman with Galician roots,
Home- grown bard of Newark,
Celebrated by the critics
Bad-mouthed in Jewish press
Scourge of rabbis, bane of ardent feminists–
Has chutzpah enough to ignite an audience
Folded his own life (post assimilation, angst-ridden Jew)
Into Portnoy, Zuckerman and “Philip Roth.”
After some thirty books and prizes enough to fill a dumpster
Calls it quits and quietly awaits the big Nobel.

Phyllis Kriegel: Editor, teacher, radio host, feminist activist, painter and constant student. To her surprise and delight, she finds the maxim “only connect” dramatically realized in late life.

by James Gould

White-maned men in masses descend the carpet stairs,
Some cling to long-term mates, or failing that, a railing.
Sections found, rows deciphered, untrustworthy bodies glacial slide
Past ushers young and old, sideways shuffle to their seats, till settled.

Programs spread, the forgetting of body begins.
Bows point up, sharp breath intake, as fugue’s celestial sounds
Make spirit halves of self soar far above the fleshly part.
With note and measure and bar and movements until the final crescendo.

Before applause a silence
As spirits fold their wings
And settle again to aging nests
And slowly up the stairs,
Merely mortal once again.

James Gould, since retiring after 34 years of patent litigation, has pursued non-legal writing in many genres, including travel, self help, short story and children’s stories. Present projects include a memoir and a screenplay. He also loves travel and City culture.

(A Sonnet about a Jig Saw Puzzle)

by Mark Fischweicher

Autumn Leaves Along Philosopher’s Walk – Kyoto:
2016 very small pieces, all red and orange, all gold and yellow;
Some ginger, some saffron… persimmon, sangria, mahogany… Pumpkin! … …..maroon.
Lava and lust,    scarlet and rust,    raspberry, mustard… and prune.
and the last one, all amber, and hidden, under the couch’s ‘khaki’ pillow.
“Let’s go… It’s done,” says June.

Relax, I frown, was the struggle to finish this just a mandate to move on?
Has part two then, always been the best part of part one?
And is the practice of the form then, never really done?
“Everything fits!” I moan, “don’t throw it out so soon.”

Remember: Siddartha, at 30, renounced his throne. He starved.
So weak, so frail, while bathing, he almost drowned.
Eat! said the village girl, it will place you on firm ground.
Savor my sweet milk rice-pudding till the last leaf comes down.

Mark Fischweicher has been scratching out poems since junior high school and still hopes it may become a regular thing.