Poetry

Invocation

by

by Charles Troob

come closer, muse
perch on my shoulder
sit a bit and whisper
whisper little hints
at pitches just low enough for my ear
my good ear the left one
the one I depend on
in crowded restaurants
to keep up my end of the chat

speak a little clearer, muse
I don’t want those long Latinate periods
you donated to Milton
even a complete thought
is supererogatory
in these days of prompts
and free association
a little strum or throb will do

or flick a notion
into my cerebrum
then down my fingers
to this page
about a handsome youth
like the ones you handed off to Cavafy
to mix with three parts myth and one part vinegar
or an asphodel or plum or blackbird
anything but the sound of my blood
rushing hopelessly around my cranium

I don’t need you muse for that

are you there
are you there

I’ll call back

 

Charles Troob wrote these for Sarah White’s poetry group. Occasionally he gets lucky and something good comes out.  Enjoy!   

The Vowels, Summer 1914

by

by Charles Troob

 

Awkward and sad, A snarls at
cheerless E.  E seethes, then belches, feels better, decks
I, big in shipping, rich, swinish.  I grips birch twigs, whips
posh droll bottom boy O.  Loss of control spooks O, who sobs, “won’t go on,”
jumps up, slugs butch hunk U.   Unhurt but dumbstruck, U turns, grunts, struts,
grabs and stabs A, and a war starts.

 

Charles Troob wrote these for Sarah White’s poetry group. Occasionally he gets lucky and something good comes out.  Enjoy!   

Hood Rubber Company

by

by Carol Schoen

The day begins with the Sicilian
tarantella. The metal
fingers of the machine
reach down
through the fabric, then up,
Clutch, loop and knot,
then toss it off,
another tennis-shoe is formed,
pick another.
Metal fingers clutch,
loop, knot. Thirty seconds,
Every thirty seconds.
How many in an hour,
in a eight hour shift,
in a forty hour week?
Clutch, loop knot.

The stool is indented
to hold the body still.
Sousa’s marches now.
on the loudspeaker.
Metal fingers puncture
the cloth; rip through warp and woof..
The walls are grey,
the ceiling high, two
maybe three stories.
At the top a row of long
narrow windows rusted closed.
Metal fingers clutch
loop, knot.

A door opens, notebook,
pencil, watch in hand
before we have a chance to slow,
he times us — only twenty
eight seconds!
Will they change the rate,
save two seconds per unit?
how much will the company
make with two extra seconds
every minute, sixty minutes
an hour?
clutch, loop, knot.

The shop steward sweeps
in on his scooter, pinches
Mary; she smiles.
rubs the spot when he leaves.
A fuss, the new girl is working.
too fast. I imagine purple and orange
flowers on the wall
then change them
to yellow and blue
four more hours;
clutch, loop,
knot.

 

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

Strip Mall

by

by Carol Schoen

It looks so sleazy
dirty white concrete
one story
at an angle off the street,

where once was the elm
the cherry , the wide arc
of  sidewalk across
the wide expanse of lawn
the stucco walls, the terra cotta
tiles and my room
my room, my bed
with its harsh tufted spread.

 

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

Cherry Blossoms

by

by James Gould

Bud shows to me
a sliver of cherry pink.
……….A glimpse of longing heart
……….I show to you.

 

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.

Kenrokuen Garden

by

by James Gould

 
Stream stones whisper
As soft rain patters
And path gravel crunches.

New flowers bow
To ancient twisted trees.
Calming my thoughts.

 

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.

When Gabriel came to call

by

by  Mireya Perez Bustillo
…………………………………To Max Roach

…………Max the last bebopper

Dizzy, Charlie, Bud all those cats gone on

Dizzy had warned you to stay put
if that heavenly trumpeter Gabriel
wanted you for his band
digging the ringing tone of a “ride” cymbal
to keep the basic beat
using the bass drum for accents

In spite of eulogies, musical tributes,
videos, photographs of you in that
church where Martin had spoken for peace
all said you were gone
I even saw your body carried out
the tape playing you for the recessional

I did not believe it
until
I walked up front to the altar rail
and to the left faced your black stool
the drumsticks on top, the stilled cymbals
on a black-draped pedestal
and heard your hands a prayer echoing
Gabriel’s beckoning
trumpet

 

Mireya Perez Bustillo: Mireya’s poems invoke a powerful array of spirits. Her poetry appears in Caribbean Review, IRP Voices, Anthology of Colombian Women Poets, among others.

When the meteorite fell

by

by Mireya Perez Bustillo

The lonely mountain birthed the clear laguna
whose icy depths housed the dragon god
who let the Muiscas know his warm desire
moving them to dazzle the Andean peaks
firing tunjos de oro
the glittering dust of El Dorado

 

Mireya Perez Bustillo: Mireya’s poems invoke a powerful array of spirits. Her poetry appears in Caribbean Review, IRP Voices, Anthology of Colombian Women Poets, among others.

 

We and the Ants

by

by Carmen Mason

We ….scuttling about
the multitudinous places
coldstoned…metallic
measured…calibrated
spreading…..winding
fans and mazes
rays and spokes ~
agricultural beds
waters.…cities.…mountains

and they..in
minute replicas..winding
thru a plop of pink ice cream
a fallen cookie smashed to crumbs
or pushing up from under
hills of breasted sand ~

all on the straight and narrow
or crooked….fretting….foraging
some fortunate..~..forgetting
Then…  from a shoe….a wheel
a bullet….an invasive cancer
a deluge….landslide.…natural or corrupt
a bomb or a betraying heart:……………………. poof.

 

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.

Harley

by

by Carmen Mason

        

is a body a man mounts
if his woman
has turned sour

it reminds him of old familiar groans
some distant shrills of joy
moves fast and hard when charged

but doesn’t make its rider guilty
or weary of the futile give and take
or wish he’d not been born

it takes him to a place
the one he’s welcomed to
like on his  first day at the circus

the carousel, the zoo
that far and simple place
he’s racing to

 

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.