Living with the Elephant. A Poem by Cynthia Bernard

Living with the Elephant


I guess the fog has little cat feet 
sometimes, but around here 
it dances with the wind,
wild and fierce,
especially at dawn.
Howling across the ocean, up the hill,
gusting my robe against me,
sloshing coffee into my face as I try for a sip.

I guess aging is gradual 
sometimes, but around here
it’s a tempest, arising suddenly,
wild and fierce 
and relentless.
Wrenching my days apart
into a before that can never be found 
again -- and a very different now.

I guess one could fight it
sometimes, hair color, face cream, 
supplements and potions,
exercises, affirmations,
denial.

I guess one could simply accept it
sometimes, but around here
arthritis has swept in on elephant feet,
fierce and relentless,
and no pill, no potion,
no affirmation, no meditation,
can sweep it out again.

I guess one could handle things gracefully 
and sometimes I do,
but around here there are other times, too,
when everything seems to hurt
and I want to stay under a quilt
for whatever part of forever
I get to see.


And then again, there are
yet other times, sometimes,
the majesty of the ocean at first light,
the sweetness of love found late,
my hand sliding into his.
New buds on the camellia,
rain on the roof, deer in the yard,
granddaughter’s smile,
or a nothing-special-time
in the exquisiteness of the now.

And I find that 
sometimes, increasingly often,
I welcome it all:
the cat’s feet and the elephant,
things wild and fierce,
quiet moments and raging ones,
lines on my softening face, 
creaky joints and aching bones,
wind in my hair,
full heart,
fog over the ocean at dawn.



(This poem was originally published in Multiplicity Magazine) 

Bio: Cynthia Bernard is a woman in her late 60’s who is finding her voice as a poet after many decades of silence. A long-time classroom teacher and a spiritual mentor, she lives and writes on a hill overlooking the ocean, about 20 miles south of San Francisco.
Publication history: Her poetry has been published in Multiplicity Magazine, The MockingOwl Roost, The Vita Brevis Press Poetry Anthology, Last Leaves Literary Magazine, Flora Fiction, fws: a journal of literature and art, and Open Door Magazine, and will appear in upcoming issues of Passager Journal and The Fresh Words Magazine Anthology: Contemporary Poems 2022.

:x, webster’s, fischschuessel. 3 Poems by Jessica Skyfield

:x.


but it's not just that.

permanence and impermanence.

lasting legacy of what and for how long?

stability defined as: x

the leaning tower of pisa rights.

perception is reality. 

and people leap to their deaths in the virtual world.

but where is the line? and more importantly, who drew it?

i kant do that.

and our collective reality mimics meatloaf,

minimizing magnified metamega for milieu,

because what is it all worth/about/settled for/done for/answered by anyways? 


*




webster's


goblin mode, 2022.

ok then...

fragments of my metaverse. 

blaming my ennui on my gravity disorder.

starseedblahblahblah.

i'm genetically predisposed to lighter climes. 

it's my woo-niverse.

and the typing cat fervently, feverishly paws out:

the weight of it all, unbearable.


*


fischschuessel


enjoy the fragmented figments.

flashes of light. 

flashbulbs of fame.

reasoning, that recognition fails, fleets, flounders, flops, flippantly flying

from rear-end fenders.

and when does the wordplay stop?

einhalten an alles. 

und alle einsteigen. 

zack. sagt die stutzstaffel.

protection from what?! 


*

Jessica Skyfield is currently a teacher. She has been a scientist, a mother, will always be a student, and worn other hats, too. Her poems seek to bring light to our struggle with our awareness of our humanity: the juxtaposition of the smallness of ourselves when viewed universally and yet the large impact each of our individual actions can have.  

Rilke, Brecht & Goethe, Translations from German poets by Michael R Burch

Komm, Du (“Come, You”)

by Rainer Maria Rilke
loose translation by Michael R. Burch

This was Rilke’s last poem, written ten days before his death. He died open-eyed 
in the arms of his doctor on December 29, 1926, in the Valmont Sanatorium, 
of leukemia and its complications. I had a friend who died of leukemia and he was 
burning up with fever in the end. I believe that is what Rilke was describing here: 
he was literally burning alive.

 
Come, you—the last one I acknowledge; return—
incurable pain searing this physical mesh.
As I burned in the spirit once, so now I burn
with you; meanwhile, you consume my flesh.

This wood that long resisted your embrace
now nourishes you; I surrender to your fury
as my gentleness mutates to hellish rage—
uncaged, wild, primal, mindless, outré.

Completely free, no longer future’s pawn,
I clambered up this crazy pyre of pain,
certain I’d never return—my heart’s reserves gone—
to become death’s nameless victim, purged by flame.

Now all I ever was must be denied.
I left my memories of my past elsewhere.
That life—my former life—remains outside.
Inside, I’m lost. Nobody knows me here.

Komm du

Komm du, du letzter, den ich anerkenne,
heilloser Schmerz im leiblichen Geweb:
wie ich im Geiste brannte, sieh, ich brenne
in dir; das Holz hat lange widerstrebt,
der Flamme, die du loderst, zuzustimmen,
nun aber nähr’ ich dich und brenn in dir.
Mein hiesig Mildsein wird in deinem Grimmen
ein Grimm der Hölle nicht von hier.
Ganz rein, ganz planlos frei von Zukunft stieg
ich auf des Leidens wirren Scheiterhaufen,
so sicher nirgend Künftiges zu kaufen
um dieses Herz, darin der Vorrat schwieg.
Bin ich es noch, der da unkenntlich brennt?
Erinnerungen reiß ich nicht herein.
O Leben, Leben: Draußensein.
Und ich in Lohe. Niemand der mich kennt.


Liebes-Lied (“Love Song”)

by Rainer Maria Rilke
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

How can I withhold my soul so that it doesn’t touch yours?
How can I lift mine gently to higher things, alone?
Oh, I would gladly find something lost in the dark
in that inert space that fails to resonate until you vibrate.
There everything that moves us, draws us together like a bow
enticing two taut strings to sing together with a simultaneous voice.
Whose instrument are we becoming together?
Whose, the hands that excite us?
Ah, sweet song!

Liebes-Lied

Wie soll ich meine Seele halten, daß
sie nicht an deine rührt? Wie soll ich sie
hinheben über dich zu andern Dingen?
Ach gerne möcht ich sie bei irgendwas
Verlorenem im Dunkel unterbringen
an einer fremden stillen Stelle, die
nicht weiterschwingt, wenn deine Tiefen schwingen.
Doch alles, was uns anrührt, dich und mich,
nimmt uns zusammen wie ein Bogenstrich,
der aus zwei Saiten eine Stimme zieht.
Auf welches Instrument sind wir gespannt?
Und welcher Geiger hat uns in der Hand?
O süßes Lied. 


Das Lied des Bettlers (“The Beggar’s Song”)

by Rainer Maria Rilke
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

 
I live outside your gates,
exposed to the rain, exposed to the sun;
sometimes I’ll cradle my right ear
in my right palm;
then when I speak my voice sounds strange,
alien ...

I'm unsure whose voice I’m hearing:
mine or yours.
I implore a trifle;
the poets cry for more.

Sometimes I cover both eyes
and my face disappears;
there it lies heavy in my hands
looking peaceful, unafraid,
so that no one would ever think
I have no place to lay my head.

Das Lied des Bettlers

 
Ich gehe immer von Tor zu Tor,
verregnet und verbrannt;
auf einmal leg ich mein rechtes Ohr
in meine rechte Hand.
Dann kommt mir meine Stimme vor,
als hätt ich sie nie gekannt.

 
Dann weiß ich nicht sicher, wer da schreit,
ich oder irgendwer.
Ich schreie um eine Kleinigkeit.
Die Dichter schrein um mehr.
Und endlich mach ich noch mein Gesicht
mit beiden Augen zu;
wie's dann in der Hand liegt mit seinem Gewicht
sieht es fast aus wie Ruh.
Damit sie nicht meinen ich hätte nicht,
wohin ich mein Haupt tu. 


BERTOLT BRECHT

Die Bücherverbrennung (“The Burning of the Books”)

by Bertolt Brecht
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

When the Regime
commanded the unlawful books to be burned,
teams of dull oxen hauled huge cartloads to the bonfires.

Then a banished writer, one of the best,
scanning the list of excommunicated texts,
became enraged: he’d been excluded!

He rushed to his desk, full of contemptuous wrath,
to write fiery letters to the incompetents in power —
Burn me! he wrote with his blazing pen —
Haven’t I always reported the truth?
Now here you are, treating me like a liar!
Burn me!

Die Bücherverbrennung

Als das Regime befahl, Bücher mit schädlichem Wissen
Öffentlich zu verbrennen, und allenthalben
Ochsen gezwungen wurden, Karren mit Büchern
Zu den Scheiterhaufen zu ziehen, entdeckte
Ein verjagter Dichter, einer der besten, die Liste der
Verbrannten studierend, entsetzt, daß seine
Bücher vergessen waren. Er eilte zum Schreibtisch
Zornbeflügelt, und schrieb einen Brief an die Machthaber.
Verbrennt mich! schrieb er mit fliegender Feder, verbrennt mich!
Tut mir das nicht an! Laßt mich nicht übrig! Habe ich nicht
Immer die Wahrheit berichtet in meinen Büchern? Und jetzt
Werd ich von euch wie ein Lügner behandelt! Ich befehle euch:
Verbrennt mich!


Der Abschied (“The Parting”)

by Bertolt Brecht
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

We embrace;
my fingers trace
rich cloth
while yours encounter only moth-
eaten fabric.
A quick hug:
you were invited to the gay soiree
while the minions of the "law"
relentlessly pursue me.
We talk about the weather
and our eternal friendship's magic.
Anything else would be too bitter,
too tragic.

Der Abschied

 Wir umarmen uns.
Ich fasse reichen Stoff
Du fassest armen.
Die Umarmung ist schnell
Du gehst zu einem Mahl
Hinter mir sind die Schergen.
Wir sprechen vom Wetter und von unserer
Dauernden Freundschaft. Alles andere
Wäre zu bitter


Die Maske des Bösen (“The Mask of Evil”)

by Bertolt Brecht
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

A Japanese woodcarving hangs on my wall—
the mask of an ancient demon, limned with golden lacquer.
Not unsympathetically, I observe
the forehead’s bulging veins,
the tremendous strain
such malevolence requires.

 Die Maske des Bösen

 An meiner Wand hängt ein japanisches Holzwerk 
Maske eines bösen Dämons, bemalt mit Goldlack.
Mitfühlend sehe ich / 
Die geschwollenen Stirnadern, andeutend 
Wie anstrengend es ist, böse zu sein. 
  
ON LOOKING AT SCHILLER’S SKULL

by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

 
Here in this charnel-house full of bleaching bones,
like yesteryear’s
fading souvenirs,
I see the skulls arranged in strange ordered rows.

Who knows whose owners might have beheaded peers,
packed tightly here
despite once repellent hate?
Here weaponless, they stand, in this gentled state.

These arms and hands, they once were so delicate!
How articulately
they moved! Ah me!
What athletes once paced about on these padded feet?

Still there’s no hope of rest for you, lost souls!
Deprived of graves,
forced here like slaves
to occupy this overworld, unlamented ghouls!

Now who’s to know who loved one orb here detained?
Except for me;
reader, hear my plea:
I know the grandeur of the mind it contained!

Yes, and I know the impulse true love would stir
here, where I stand
in this alien land
surrounded by these husks, like a treasurer!

Even in this cold,
in this dust and mould
I am startled by a strange, ancient reverie, ...
as if this shrine to death could quicken me!

One shape out of the past keeps calling me
with its mystery!
Still retaining its former angelic grace!
And at that ecstatic sight, I am back at sea ...

Swept by that current to where immortals race.
O secret vessel, you
gave Life its truth.
It falls on me now to recall your expressive face.

I turn away, abashed here by what I see:
this mould was worth
more than all the earth.
Let me breathe fresh air and let my wild thoughts run free!

What is there better in this dark Life than he
who gives us a sense of man’s divinity,
of his place in the universe?
A man who’s both flesh and spirit—living verse! 



Michael R. Burch
is an American poet who lives in Nashville, Tennessee with his wife Beth and two incredibly spoiled puppies. He has over 6,000 publications, including poems that have gone viral. His poems, translations, essays, articles, letters, epigrams, jokes and puns have been published by TIME, USA Today, BBC Radio 3, Writer’s Digest–The Year’s Best Writing and hundreds of literary journals. His poetry has been translated into 14 languages, taught in high schools and colleges, and set to music by 23 composers, including two potential operas if the money ever materializes. He also edits www.thehypertexts.com, has served as editor of international poetry and translations for Better Than Starbucks, is on the board of Borderless Journal, an international literary journal, and has judged a number of poetry contests over the years.
 
 

the fish,Mother Ganga & festering. 3 Poems by Stephen House

the fish

i’m in horror 
watching him 
pull up the hooked fish
on the end of the jetty 
where i am taking in the sunset  

and while i know i can’t do anything 
to save the fish 
from this accepted by most slaughter  

i look into the fisherman’s eyes 
and quietly say
‘that poor dying fish’ 

to which he shrugs 

but i get a sense 
by the look he gives the fish 
and me

that just for moment
hearing my words 
he completely falls into 
what i said

and i suppose
that counts for something

re: the fish
and the life 
it has lived

on planet earth

our shared home
 

Mother Ganga

i stand 

hold the rusty chain 
that stops bathing people 
being swept away  

and lower my body 
into the healing stream
of Mother Ganga 

flowing fast into the plains of India 
from the Himalayas north 

and unexpectedly 
(for i am a sceptic 
until something
is scientifically proven)
 
i instantly feel my inner dirt 
being washed away

and a renewal take place

and i do know 
what i feel

whether i believe it
or not 


festering

i have often wondered 
why we won’t return to those years
through a conversation 
and put it to rest for good 

but we don’t bring it up

and so 
it continues to sit 

festering 

like an unopened box of distress 
lurking by us 

each time 
we are together

and it probably always will
unless something changes

between us

again 

Stephen House has won many awards and nominations as a poet, playwright, and actor. He’s had 20 plays produced with many published by Australian Plays Transform. He’s received several international literature residencies from The Australia Council for the Arts, and an Asialink India literature residency. He’s had two chapbooks published by ICOE Press Australia: ‘real and unreal’ poetry and ‘The Ajoona Guest House’ monologue. His next book drops soon. He performs his acclaimed monologues widely.

IN TIMES OF CHANGE,Memories (that beat like a second heart), Life’s Dance of Moments, 3 Poems by Richard Lloyd Cederberg

Grief has a way of inducing tunnel-vision. When heartache hampers progress, 
find discipline in breathing, openness in loving, and simple honesty in writing; 
human life is precious.

IN TIMES OF CHANGE (Tankas)

Serendipity
was involved in what happened
When I feted you
but it gave me no pleasure
losing contact with your soul
.
So I tried shaping
the shifting times to suit us,
to build a safeguard
around the soft parts of you,
those parts prone to impairment
.
But all I did failed,
the colors began fading,
the blossoms fell, and
the fictions I’d once embraced 
became a strangling hindrance
.
How does one cope with
an overwhelming sorrow,
a consuming storm,
when all you feel depletes you 
and writing is not enough
.
But there was hope, still,
(I thought) in all these struggles,
life’s trying seasons 
challenging ev’ry human
willing to search the unknown
.
Now,
.
each day I press on,
eager to write something new, 
even as heartache
impedes my reaction to 
livings wild rage of echoes
.
There’s a place for friends,
when forgetfulness deepens,
a place in the heart
where memories of closeness
remain strong in times of change
.
You will always be with me… 

I began understanding myself (and my place in life) far better after almost destroying 
myself. And in the process  of fixing myself and healing, I began recognizing who I really 
was. Love and wisdom  are the keys.
Memories (that beat like a second heart)
.
Come twilight, come mist, 
These ever-changing heavens
inspire me to purge
what suppresses loves heartlight 
and stays a healthy minds thoughts…
. 
Knowing life’s mistakes      
were only a life lesson,
not a life sentence,
.
We’ve espoused a way,
you and I, where hope remains,
notwithstanding these
fraught thoughts churning within us,
come they shall, in time they must
yet love will still deliver us
from all that grips us deep within
and stays the hand of reason
.
Come twilight, come mist, 
this dark cerulean sky
seeks to arouse us
as the night draws us closer
in a flame of enchantment
.
To again regain  
simple sensibilities,  
notwithstanding these  
broken days that plague us yet,
come they shall, and so they must
still wisdom will deliver us
from all that plagues us deep within
and causes us to suffer
.
Some days, I relive
my hearts deafening silence,
where hard memories
dwell within what they quicken,
and beat like a second heart… 

“Why…. you do not even know what will happen tomorrow. What is your life? 
You are a mist that appears a little while, and then vanishes.”
 James 4:14 NIV.
Life’s Dance of Moments

‘Water-man’ image was taken at Lake Ellery in the Sierra Nevada 
outside the Tuolumne Meadows. Ekphrastic. 
.
Michele and I
watch, as snow pure 
streams worm down over   
the grays and reddish umbers   
of mountain granite, 
both of us 
charmed with the  
fleetingness of shapes, 
and how it streams freely
around and throughout all it
touches, and how the musicalness  
of flowing water (to our ears) embodies   
the wayward lightness of moments…. And
.
as we test various   
angles and shutter speeds 
(hoping to capture  
the magic 
of moments)  
the flow suddenly 
strengthens, and an 
odd water figure appears, 
sitting stoically staring at us shifting 
in the briefness of streaming seconds…. Then it
.
becomes clear how 
life moves in moments,
and how with each breath  
there is constant action     
in all things (visible      
and invisible) as 
nothing in creation  
ever remains motionless….
a dance of moments  
in the Creator’s  
breath, in which life’s
greater lessons and mysteries  
can be understood at times simply 
as the moon’s reflection floating in
an old water barrel, or in the 
heavy drops that form on
leaf tips, (as fleetingly 
beautiful as a
mother's tears)  
or how in each droplet  
exist a myriad of microbes   
and soulish reflections that all
surrender to the swish and swirl 
of living’s ephemerality’s….
.
Life’s dance of moments fades so fast
the scent of time in mem’ry’s cast
reminding us of all things past,
the days pass quickly,
the night turns dark and vast,
but nothing remains… nothing lasts….

AUTHOR BIOGRAPHY – 2022
RICHARD LLOYD CEDERBERG
was born in Chicago Illinois. He is the progeny of Swedish and Norwegian immigrants. Richard began his journey into the arts at the age of six. For twelve years he played classical trumpet. But when the wonderful incursion of British music invaded America, he set aside the trumpet and took up acoustic and electric guitar. Richard began writing songs and lyrics and poetry. He performed in 17 professional bands. He played clubs, halls, cabarets, and concerts in Europe, Canada, across the USA, Alaska, and even Whitehorse in the Yukon Territories. Richard’s band SECRETS was one of the top four Pop-Jazz bands in San Diego for 5 years. In 1995 Richard was privileged to design and build his own Midi-centered digital Recording Studio ~ TAYLOR & GRACE ~ where he worked feverishly until 2002. During that time, he composed, and multi-track recorded, over 500 compositions. Only two CD’s were compiled: WHAT LOVE HAS DONE and THE PATH. Richard retired from music in 2003….
.
Richard traveled extensively throughout the USA, British Columbia, Manitoba, Alberta, and Saskatchewan, in Canada, the Yukon Territories, Kodiak Island, Ketchikan, Juneau, Skagway, Sitka, Petersburg, and Glacier Bay, in Alaska, the Azorean Archipelagoes, and throughout Germany, Switzerland, Spain, and Holland. Richard and his wife, Michele, have been avid adventurers. They’ve hiked the Laguna Mountains, the Cuyamaca Mountains, the High Deserts in Southern California, the Eastern Sierra’s, the Dixie National Forest, the Northern California and Southern Oregon coastlines, and the “Four Corners” region of the United States.
.
RICHARD’S POETRY contains history, mythology, personal relationships (past and present), parlance, alliteration, metaphor, characterization, spiritual faith, eschatology, and art. He relishes the challenge of poetic stylization: Rhythmical, Poetiprose, Triolets, Syllable formats, Story-Poems, Freeform, Haiku, Tanka, Haibun, and Acrostic. Richard has been nominated twice for the Pushcart Prize.
.
PUBLISHED BOOKS by Richard L. Cederberg.
The MONUMENTAL JOURNEY SERIES is a confluence of adventure, mystery, and historical fiction. Journey on the schooner Heimdall with Dr. Gabriel Proudmore, John, Helga, Betsy, Garrett, Captain Olaf Amundsen, Rorek Amundsen, Anders (Norse) Vildarsen, and Rolf the Wolfhound…
1. A MONUMENTAL JOURNEY…
2. JOURNEY 2 – IN SEARCH OF THE FIRST TRIBE…
3. JOURNEY 3 – THE UNDERGROUND RIVER…
4. JOURNEY 4 – BEYOND UNDERSTANDING…
5. BETWEEN THE CRACKS… a spinoff from the MJ Series…
6. A NEW RACE OF HuMANS – Published 10/25/2022. A NEW RACE OF HuMANS
is an eschatological drama-venture that follows the lives of Grant Callarman (the Christian), Peter Pegarian (the plagiarist conman), Haddon Hathaway (the Humanist), and Professor Wilmington Jonah (the doubting intellect) as they experience the shocking global translation of the Saints, Daniels 70th Week, and the Kingdom Age, in which all four men are predestined to meet once again.

THROUGH A FOG, AFTER THE FALL & WISDOM. 3 Poems by George Freek


THROUGH A FOG (After Su Tung Po) 

Wind rustles the leaves
with rough fingers,
then blows away.
Silence is a muted scream.
Clouds look at nothing
when they pass by
like men who
no longer ask why.
The moon, once so bright,
is a dim light
in that immense sea,
while I search for
things that are not to be.

AFTER THE FALL (After Mei Yao Chen)

Dying flowers lie like corpses
with discolored heads.
If my wife were here,
She’d try to revive them,
but she’s also dead.
Night holds me in its arms,
as if I were a child,
abandoned in a desolate spot.
Stars crawl across the sky
like bugs wandering
lost and blind,
over an infinite rug,
Life is unkind.
Life will never be how it was,
but I think the way it was
was only in my mind

WISDOM (After Tu Fu)

I stare at my unmade bed.
Outside, a chilling breeze
rustles the dead leaves,
as if they were feathers.
The moon is a ball of lead.
I gaze at distant stars,
lost in the infinite sky,
as if they had
nowhere to abide.
A torn shirt, hanging from
a tree, waves in the breeze,
like an abandoned flag,
now a tattered rag.
I feel the approaching cold.
I watch traffic pass me by,
as if I were a stone.
I’ve learned 
what it means to become old.

George Freek’s poem “Written At Blue Lake” was nominated for a Pushcart Prize. His poem “Enigmatic Variations” was also recently nominated for Best of the Net. His collection “Melancholia” is published by Red Wolf Editions.

Temporal, Forest Paths & The Fringe. 3 Poems by JD DeHart

Temporal

 
Everyone I talk to lately
seems to be mediating on the passage of time.

 It goes so fast, they say. Almost in chorus.

 It’s the greying in all of our hair, or
the effect of being holed up for two years,
twenty-four months that have felt like
a decade of worry and anticipatory grief.

 Of course, we are creatures
that have an inevitable terminus. There
are a variety of words for this truth.

 Crapshoot and shitshow both come to mind.
Funny how scatological such terms are,
indicating how we truly feel about the ultimate

 away and, in some cases, our lodging here.

 I munch another bite of the remnants
of a creature that met its demise to
sustain me for a few more hours.

 I contemplate how the past is not real
anymore, and neither are my speculations
of the future. The body bears the mark of all

 but everything eventually becomes
memory or a vague sense that someone,
even someone much like us,

 used to be here.


Forest Paths

 
I can still trace
the way our feet fell
where few other feet stood,

 I would walk further
ahead, always drafting in my mind.

 The comic books and adventure
stories I built with each step,
while you, my father, walked

 just behind me, the sound
of our family hunting dog
lapping and sniffing.

 That time when I was younger,
when you threatened to cut
our walk short. I must have
deserved it, but said:

“If I come back without you,
no big deal, but if you come back
without me, you’re in trouble,
mister.”

 What was I thinking to speak
to you in such a way, but you
and Mom laughed about that
for years, probably still telling
that story whenever you can.

 Did you know I still go back
when life is full to those quiet places,
where I can hear wind
moving through the trees of memory?

It’s true.

 My brain still finds that place
where the forest grows denser,
past the well-trod path,

 rounding curves and bends,
being careful of stray dogs
and spiderwebs, to go to places

 few others go.

 I will always be
a creature of the woods.


The Fringe

 
So, here I am.
Always on the edges.

 Wondering what word
captures me. Belonging and never
belonging.

 Maybe I’ve always fit in somewhere
and just haven’t seen it yet.

 A figure from the fringes, do I
love? Of course I do, trying my best to

 hold the affection for neighbors
that I ought to hold for myself (that I work
on holding for myself).

 Yet, always at the edge, somehow,
at the corner of the room, looking in.

 A describer’s heart, an ethnographer’s
mind. 

 

 
JD DeHart is a writer and teacher. His latest poetry collection, A Five-Year Journey, is available from Dreaming Big Publications.

Marie. A Poem by Jack D. Harvey

         Marie

Oh Marie, you are
an aging wreck;
your dangling dugs,
your languid wrinkled Miss Muffet
won't bring the milkman early;
dirty and smelly
slattern of the month, 
the epitome of
everybody's discarded laundry.

Lapses in motor function
mental focus 
get you to the streetcar  
late every day
and late to work;
booted out
sooner or later
when you get home
what will he say?

What a burden
for our pity and revulsion;
you're frightening
in your squalor.

Night and day
a dead soul
an endless round 
of apathy and despair,
what kind of life is that?

That's what we think.

But some rare times,
God knows why
somehow roused,
triumphant 
between the bed posts
like a shaky marionette 
you rise and fall
to the challenge
of bleary marital bliss;
for those few moments 
assertive queen, 
sweating with your
hirsute timorous king
dismantling him,
cannibalizing him,
you burst forth new-made,
king and queen together,
amorous two-backed beast 
before your reign fades away
in the glimmer of tomorrow 
and you come apart,
Priapic darling,
again become 
what you were.

Alas, Marie, time's more
than a placeholder;
eater, destroyer
changing Nineveh 
and all of us to dust;
false fellow traveler
rubbing us out
of our space and place
before we know it. 

Jack D. Harvey’s poetry has appeared in Scrivener, The Comstock Review, Valparaiso Poetry Review, Poetry Life & Times, Typishly Literary Magazine, The Antioch Review, The Piedmont Poetry Journal and elsewhere. The author has been a Pushcart nominee and over the years has been published in a few anthologies.

The author has been writing poetry since he was sixteen and lives in a small town near Albany, New York. He is retired from doing whatever he was doing before he retired.

His book, Mark the Dwarf is available on Kindle. https://www.amazon.com/Mark the Dwarf Jack D.Harvey Ebook

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