Poetry

Beware The Poem

By Jim Smith

Beware the poem.

If you are seeking comfort

in clever words

you’ve come to the wrong place.

Beware the poem.

It is a stabbing light

that cuts through the thickest fog

And shows what we don’t want to see.

Beware the poem.

It tears down the walls

that hide us from the truth

of the onrushing abyss.

Beware the poem.

It will find us

no matter how far

or how fast we run.

Beware the poem.

Its edges are knife sharp

and its essence

is the future.

—————————————-

Study of Marigolds

by Aryn Youngless

It’s all a bit of mayhem

Craziness wrapped in cellophane,

Crispy and see through

And we run around in circles, lost

Confused by what has happened

And what hasn’t happened at all

Then we wait for someone to guide us

What else it there to do?

The absurdity is just

We are just, aren’t we?

I am just, when I can be

And the world spins on

Befuddled, bemused, demoralized

Music swells

Everyone dances,

But the jagged coughs make my chest burn

How did we get here

Dizzied and confused

Fingers digging into the dirt

Grasping for the earth

As it spins us, like a rotor

Pasted to the wall,

The floor falls out from under our feet

We hang, groundless

Helplessly waiting for the something

The one thing, that should rescue us

From calamity and woes

Never realizing we have our own capes

We are our own heroes

Rise above the fraudulent imagery

Move past the intricately placed words

And we find, life

Spun into the duality of a cocoon

Warm and comforting

Hot and suffocating

Choices woven into the silken threads

We over look for we think should be

The something that never was

Rest, or panic

Meditate, or run

Stand alone, but stand strong

As you look to them, they look to you

The earth will spin, and they will dance

And the burning will fade with time

Is it real, or is it a dream?

It’s before you, for you to decide

What will become of what was

And what will never be at all?

Inside the mayhem are the marigolds

Puffs of beauty and color

And in their simplicity, the answers lie

But you must sit and listen to the nothing

For as long as it my take

Minutes, hours, years

And then the answers will appear

Put on your blinders, then you will see

———————————————–

Oakwood Mothers

this is dedicated to all those single Moms

trying so hard to raise their kids up

hold down a job or two

who sacrificed things they wanted for their kids

bought the kids new clothes before they bought

for themselves

the ones who believed the hype:

if you just get your kid through school

their future would be so bright

some of those kids never made it -

shot and killed by their neighborhood,

by the colors they wore and didn’t wear

by being in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Is this Venice? you ask

Hell, yeah -

it sure ain’t the bedazzled coating they put on everything

behind all the glamor and the glitz

kids grew up in Oakwood, with not much money,

not nearly enough

the real stories are there to be found

single Moms, just barely out of their teens,

trying to raise their babies to be successful

when they didn’t know what success looked like.

leaving their kids home alone so they could work

and make the rent

grandmothers and aunties filling in the gap

so proud of their kids -

and some of those kids are not here now,

since the gang war, kids were killed and taken away.

now people are being evicted, businesses are closing,

because of the greed taking over Venice.

this is our community, what’s left of it.

the closing of businesses,

the evictions of people

people gone away, forced out of here by greed

the greed of the developers and politicians

now we’re asked to vote for new politicians,

to replace the old ones

carpet-baggers, can’t wait to get in on the money

taking away the flavor of our community

making everything cost so much

people can’t afford to live here,

in their homes, in their spiritual homes.

single moms and their kids,

don’t they deserve to live here?

their mamas lived here and their grandparents,

but not them

people becoming “displaced people” in their homeland

treated like the Palestinians in Israel

everyone forgets their history

but they were here first

and now Oakwood is filling up with white,

upwardly mobile screenwriters and actors,

leaving “ordinary people” with no place to stay.

apartheid of money, not skin color,

but the result is the same:

separation of people by income levels,

not skin color

so where is the “diversity” that Venice is so proud of?

it’s priced out of the market, ok?

it can’t be “diverse” when it looks all the same.

the yuppies with their expensive strollers

hey great, they are colonizing Venice

just as the Romans did to most of the planet

it’s all gonna look the same -

it already does.

- Mary Getlein

——————————————

Untitled

She looks down and wonders

if she feels at peace.

She looks down and wonders

if she’s what she needs.

She looks down and wonders

if she’ll ever know.

She looks down and wonders

how fast she’ll grow.

She looks down and wonders

if she’ll sleep tonight.

She looks down and wonders

if she’s doing it right.

She looks down and wonders

if she’s in any pain.

She looks up and wonders

exactly the same.

For my mom, coincidentally on Mother’s Day.

I love you.

By Emily Wood

————————————

order of merit

the scum rises also in the swine pool

that is the venerated joke

a pig in a proverbial poke

bought for some by yet some other fool

Christopher Mulrooney

———————————–

12:51 Monday, April 15th, 2013, Adullam ….. The fence beyond my window is

alive With vernal growth, and barely time to save, Before the surface breaks

over the bow, Beginning the descent, to rest below. Or seated in a box at Ford’s

Theater; A demon comes to visit from the rear. Supposing T.S. Eliot was right,

This Ides of April won without a fight. Capitulated, I, gave in to fear Of

tragedies to come. They’ll find me here. Of blessings and of curses, I don’t

know The one from other, opening my door. The lilacs in my churchyard shade my

grave, Like herald angels, singing me alive ….. Roger Houston

————————————-

Like an Animal Without Faith

Believe and you shall, inevitably, become the object of fury and suffering when the entity whom you allowed to seduce you and to whom you surrendered your will fails—despite the power that you attributed to it—and does not satisfy your expectations of pleasure.

Believe in god and accept your suffering as the natural consequence of your sin and you will satisfy his condition for being worthy of his love. This is the terrible condition that incites theist belief.

Believe and suffer. Suffer and believe that your suffering has a value that you can exchange for redemption. Your pain is your merit. This is the perverse tramp—created by the church and adopted by the state—in which cardinals and senators exploit the ignorance (fear and impotence) and bury humanity’s suffering.

The logical understanding that life is unsatisfactory leads to the conclusion that its impermanence is a condition that can not be altered by belief. Consequently, the human being who possesses this knowledge is free to reconcile with the nakedness of its nature and endure the suffering required to stay alive and die serenely, like an animal without faith.

—Humberto Gómez Sequeira-HuGóS, the Antigen

To Be A Poet

 

to be a poet is to be a waiter

you wait for inspiration

you wait for that ray of sun

that illuminates,

explains some piece of life

that eluded you before:

a casual kiss of a child to its mother

a smile, a laugh -

you looking on: grateful for a happy glimpse of humanity

glad to leave the dark side

hungry for the light

a chance blessing that you grab up and put in a poem

a recipe for life:

some hope mixed in with the despair

the light on the horizon

the hope sensed only sometimes

that everything is going to be alright

that you came through the horror and the pain

and found joy

and can hear the angels calling your name

to tell you, you are blessed, you are safe

and everything is going to be alright

that you are protected and glorious

and every day your light can shine

if you let it

and someone can see your light

and be changed by it and let their light shine too

to be a poet is to wait.

- Mary Getlein

Dedicated to my daughter, Susan Getlein, who is stronger than she knows.

Poetry

Abbot Kinney’s Confession – by Jim Smith

Pink Cloud Poem – by Philomene Long

A Night in the Ruins – by John Thomas

Packaged by Me – by Ronald McKinley

Of Philomene Long – Kristine Mary Gloviak Ferry

Tuesday, March 26 – by Roger Houston

Water Fasting – by Majid Naficy

What I See – by Emily Wood

The Light – by Lynette

—————————————————–

Abbot Kinney’s Confession

By Jim Smith

I never wanted to build a city

My partners cheated and left me a swamp

I would have given up

except for my little dove

She was walking on the beach

with a parasol in hand

I couldn’t pass her by

If I had I would begin to die

She greeted me and smiled

The sea gulls watched

from dunes piled high

as we sat upon the sand

She took my hand

and told me how she loved

the canals of old Venezia

and cried to be there now

As with Helen of Troy

A thousand dreams

Were launched that day

by Paloma of Venice

Sweeter than my Caporals,

more delicate than a dove

my Paloma gave her spirit and heart

to me and my new Venice.

———————————–

PINK CLOUD POEM

I walk out on the beach —-

only one pink cloud

and it above my head –

low in the sky.

Such silence!

I raise my writing book

as if it is a chalice

and pen

for the cloud to give me

a poem

A soft rain fell.

The poem fell

onto the page –

Such silence!

— Philomene Long August 31, 2000

—————————————–

A NIGHT IN THE RUINS

By John Thomas

Pen frozen in a fist

cold and slick as a stone.

Dark purple shapes

that boil and bloom

beneath closed eyelids.

Silver dreams, too sad

even for poetry.

Wretched, hungry poems.

Poems written for nothing

in small dark rooms.

———————————————

Packaged By Me

By Ronald K. Mc Kinley

Do I exist because I say so

One moment flowing into another

Aware that I am aware

I can give my power to another

Give up my right to be me

To be lost is to let others define you

The image in others’ eyes is just an image

To be called a thing does not make you that thing

Unless you convert

Existence is more than what you think you perceive

Most connected to your senses

You can be fooled

Beware of people who think they know you

They will construct a model that is for their use

Stealing your power and ancestry

Live with others but think your thoughts

Feel what you feel

It is your music

You will discover You

—————————————

OF PHILOMENE LONG

By Kristine Mary Gloviak Ferry

Full moon over the

Water

caught my Soul

Oh! My Soul!

A famous Venice Poet

Died this week

Steps below my feet

We both suffered

in heartache

She up there now

Me below

I caught her ageless

Youthful Glow

This I know. This I know!

————————————

22:50 Tuesday, March 26th, 2013, Adullam ….. Observatory Griffith; there, today. I gazed in the direction of the bay. My bold imagination had to stretch. A glimpse of the Pacific, tried to catch. I followed the contour of roads, gone west, Imagining a Venice in the mist. I stood beneath the Windward lettering. The breeze, come off the waves, made reckoning. The crowds upon the boardwalk, shadows cast, As countless, long-necked palms conveyed their trust. Then, realizing suddenly, that such were merely my mind’s tent stakes that I pitch. Content, was I, to know that, while away, The Venice that I love is here to stay ….. Roger Houston, homesick

————————————-

Water Fasting

By Majid Naficy

“I am a mute dreamer and the world is deaf” Rumi

We are approaching midnight

Without a conversation or a shining eye

The dusty day has settled

The noise of the city has died down

And you are left alone in your bed

Your son is dreaming in the next room

And uttering words like a mute

Tomorrow he is going to a summer camp

And during his absence

You want to pick Rumi from the shelf

Hang down the pot and potlet

Blow out the flame on the stove

And waterfast for five days

Perhaps what you haven’t found in feeding

You will discover in emptiness

He has packed his knapsack

And placed it near the front door

His sneakers are shining in the dark

And you are asking yourself:

“What he is dreaming now?”

———————————————

What I See

By Emily Wood

I once met a man in a white coat

and asked him

“Why do you believe what you believe?”

He paused for a moment

Looked around and replied

“If you must call it belief, I believe what I see.”

I once met a man in red robes

and asked him

“Why do you believe what you believe?”

He paused for a moment

Closed his eyes and replied

“If you must call it belief, I believe what I see.”

Now I stand here with you

and you ask me

“Why do you believe what you believe?”

I pause for a moment

Look in your eyes and reply

“If you must call it belief, I believe what I see.”

——————————————

The Light

Fateful grey evening sky,

Trees, black silhouettes

rising from the parched soil like motionless messengers of doom,

A cloud of ominous silence sailing over the valley,

We wait.

It arrives,

Expanding,

Illuminating the vast darkness,

A thundering ball of billowing smoke and yellow flame

Consuming Time,

A spectacle of Science.

It spreads,

A bright veil singing the dry earth in its wake,

A violet wind of dust and wood splinters,

Threatening,

Rolling hungrily toward us.

Devoured by the strange golden blast,

Our faces charred black by the ashes,

Frantically

we whisper loving words,

Intense heat melts our bodies together,

Gently

our spirits feed the conflagration.

Treeless,

Barren and poisoned countryside,

A city of rubber and choking ashes

decaying like a corpse in the Aftermath,

Our voices silenced forever by this day.

– Lynette

Poetry

Trees – by Mary Getlein

Elegy for an Immortal – by Kike Wind

She – by Ronald K. Mc Kinley

World of Gray – by Jim Smith

Emptied Cup – by Arist Niciforos

Simply Passing – by Humberto Gómez Sequeira-HuGóS

Sunday, February 3 – by Roger Houston

HEY! Where’s The Sidewalk Cafe??? – by Tina Catalina Corcoran

Hurricane Carla As A Bedtime Story – by Paul Beethoven

———————————————————————————–

Trees

the kids are running around in the dark

it’s cold and I sit huddled on the bench

people are playing baseball at the far end of the park

the trees without leaves are silhouetted in the light

their beautiful branches are outlined in the dusk

the light shines on them and reveals their fluid shapes

the shape of a tree branch resembles water

moving up the tree, coming out in the branches to the leaves

so much beauty all around us

we take for granted, thinking it will always be here

i hope so

i hope our children and future children

have trees to climb, to embrace,

to rest under and look up at

trees that grow so tall and look down at us

and we, with our machines, can cut them down forever

what are we teaching our children

that a tree can teach us, more powerfully,

without words

trees are free, they grow and grow and crack

cement that was put on their roots

the roots rise up and crack them

trees were here first and hopefully forever

they will stand, watching and loving forgetful humans

- Mary Getlein

———————————————

Elegy for an Immortal

More constant than a lover

More thoughtful than a second thought

Much smarter than a whip

Dear gentle sparkle of kindness

My Brother of Nature

You Nurture all that is good

O Vessel of Light

You go to the Root

(You Natty Root)

You Soul for Miles

And bop with the best of ‘em

Never ceasing to amaze

A living demonstration of

Love and Grace

I am brought to my knees

Where I remain

Head bowed, my life a secular prayer

You color my world with Love

And show me the way to go home

I’ll see you there

And in my Dreams

Forever Love

By Nike Wind

———————————————

She

by Ronald K. Mc Kinley

She matter biased toward energy

A gesture of aroma

A cogent tune of femininity evolving to nurture

Ability more than force

Vitality of earth bound universe

Closed and complete

Sated by the Sun but potent

Artful in deed but only sometimes saying

Half of me but far from less

Passion and purpose

Harmonious movement

Luminous pulled by instinct

Grandmother, Mother, Aunt, Sister, Girlfriend, Wife, Daughter

She.

——————————————–

World of Gray

(Dedicated to the women artists of Venice)

Trapped in a world of gray

she took out her brush

and painted her way

to freedom.

– Jim Smith

——————————————-

Emptied Cup

I’ve fallen into slavery

back into the madness

I got the feeling of maybe

Eyes pooling drips of sadness

Lost in emotion

elixer of life

I drank the potion

Now I must fight

The bitter taste

fist clench for a hand

Look around…

You’re in love’s wasteland

blind,

feeling the wall for a descending rope

looking up for a glimpse of hope

not to hang

to end the pain

one to grip

to be pulled from the trench

I kiss your lips

endure the heart’s wrench

Eyes I cannot read

for I am just a pendant or a bead

floating on a chain above your chest,

along with all the rest

around your neck

standing on edge of a wooden ship’s deck

through the waters

I see the wreck

of a thousand men who sailed a love’s notion

to find what’s true in your heart’s ocean

a fool I’d be

to swim in your sea

below teeth await

in a school for me

delirious from the motion

on the deck the cup lies empty

I gladly drank the potion

and fell to love’s slavery

Inspired by Love’s Eternal Angel

Arist Niciforos

———————————————–

Simply Passing

My roots are

my feet

and my country is

my brain.

In the world

of my nucleic acids,

there are

no borders

that need an army;

no wars

that need a flag;

no dead

that need an anthem;

no gods

that need a tithe.

I’m simply passing

through,

like a shooting star,

free,

destined to disintegrate

into galactic dust

to revive again,

endlessly,

like a New Moon.

—Humberto Gómez Sequeira-HuGóS

Los Angeles, 14 October 1990

———————————————-

22:52 Sunday, February 3rd, 2013, Adullam ….. Embraced by a galactic spiral arm, Among the local group, as they perform An endless diaspora, outward bound. Uncharted regions, emptiness to blend  With nebulous infinities, en masse. On starry, starry nights we watch them pass. They fill our telescopes with fading light. They bathe our retinae, our dimming sight. Aim our array ambitiously, we guess At radio and infra red. We press the boundaries of time, as we pretend To comprehend and measure, to the end. Expanding ever distantly, to form A universe, receding in alarm ….. A valentine for Greta Cobar, from Roger Houston, metaphysical cavalier.

———————————————-

HEY! Where’s The Sidewalk Cafe???

It was – A Day – Like Today,

In Thee, Early Morn’

Walking Down

The Main Street

In Town…

(Chorus) “Hey! Where’s The Sidewalk Cafe!”
(I’m On My Way ! )

“I’ll Take You There …”

Well, I – Took His Tremblin’ Hand –

As I – Stepped Into – His Van…

He was – Looking for –

A Friendly,

Open, Door…

“Hey! …

He said: “Dennis, Is my name –

A BEACHBOY – Is my Fame!” …

(He was cryin’,

He was tryin’,

To Keep from – Dyin’ …)

“Hey! …

OH! I still can, – Hear his Voice:

“Tequila Sunrise!” – Was his Choice –

After, ALL the Songs –

He’d Written –

He felt like – Quittin’ …

“Hey! …

If, I knew then – That “way back when” …

I’d NEVER see – His Face, again …

I could – Have cared More…

MAYBE – Shared More … Even – (Dared More) …

“Hey! …

I NEVER Dreamed – I’d Sing This Song…

I SWEAR It Seems – He Sings Along…

He’s right here, Drinkin’ …

He’s right here, Thinkin’ …

I see Him WINKIN” …

“Hey! Where’s The Sidewalk Cafe?”
(I’m On My Way!)
“I’ll Take You There …”

Love,

Tina Catalina Corcoran

———————————————–

Hurricane Carla As A Bedtime Story

The sky, at one point, looked like pink champagne!

Wind? It was about one forty but constant.

Tell us more, Grandpa!

The storm had 113 deathbrides, that were

Small tornadoes spinning in the opposite direction.

Tell us more about Hurricane Carla!!

Wake up and tell us more!

By Paul Beethoven

Poetry

Poetry

I Sing To My Wild Biology – by Krista Schwimmer

Sleep – by Humberto Gomez Sequeira-HuGos

False Hope- by Mary Getlein

My Great Religion – by Daniel J. Kaufman

Rattle Moon – by Aryn Youngless

Moonlight Porch – by Majid Naficy

Old in Venice –  by Lynette

Monday, January 28 – by Roger Houston

—————————————————-

I Sing To My Wild Biology

(For Walt Whitman)

by krista schwimmer

i sing to my wild biology –

to the beautiful DNA strands

turning & twirling in

their perfect double helixes –

to the wild mitochondria

powerhouses of my cells –

to the robust ribosomes

with their messengers

binding, binding.

i sing to them all

in their hidden stations

as they work their ways

& give me life.

i sing to my wild biology –

to my unique DNA

with its perfect symmetry & templates

that allow copies of my ancestors

to pass into & through me.

i sing to these ancestors, too –

whose genes whisper their unsung desires

through me, while still my own DNA

turns in its perfect double helix.

i sing to these few emissaries

of the total sum of my wild biology –

and to their smaller parts, too –

the neutrons & protons & electrons

created by the dance of the 6 quarks –

those charmed & strange gods

who remind me that even scientists

when naming their discoveries

bow down to the imaginative soul.

i sing to them all –

my tiny, sufi masters

swirling & burning inside me

so that i can make my way out

into the Kingdom of Animalia

where – startled – i find

i do belong.

———————————————-

Sleep

For the Beachhead Collective Staff

Disentangle the obstinate mind

from the grindstone of time

and place it on the portal

where the winds of awareness

disperse the remains of memory.

Empty your eyes of fear

and burn the sense of self

like a ship of red cellophane

on the waves of white light

filtering through your body.

Sleep without your head

in the emptiness of dreaming.

Awake when you understand

that your being is a soluble idea

in the chemistry of galaxies.

—Humberto Gómez Sequeira-HuGóS

Los Angeles, 18 January 2013

———————————————–

False Hopes

She: talks too much, endlessly,

a verbal salad – lots of stuff thrown in

none of it really meaning anything

just keeps going, on and on and on

He:  sits quietly, calmly, waiting it out

She: got her car towed away

the car they were living in

now they are literally on the streets

they are desperate, they look hunted

He:  tells you of articles he’s read in the library

is calm, beautiful, with huge brown eyes

is polite, waits, endlessly waits

She: talks more and more

trying to talk her way out of it

tries to talk her way into your life

hoping you will rescue her, and him

He:  is waiting, to one day fly away

will give up the role of caretaker

give up the role of parent

role reversal: he’s had to parent her

instead of the other way around

She: wears you out, wears you down

leaves you empty, drained of all compassion

He:  is quiet, polite, grateful

accepts the gifts you give with dignity and thanks

You: wish you could do more

get them off the streets, give them a home

feel guilty, but know you have to take

care of yourself

It’s a train wreck waiting to happen,

and it’s getting closer all the time.

- Mary Getlein

*There are 51,000 men, women and children living on the streets of L.A.

—————————————————————————————-

My Great Religion

by Daniel J. Kaufman

I have a great religion

Based on beauty.

Somnambulant colors

Of the aurora borealis,

Curvaceous youth, dappled

Sunlight on a summer lawn,

The flower’s abstract bliss.

Beauty of line and curve

Beauty of shape and form

Beauty of bird songs

Laughter of babies

Celestial music of the spheres.

My mystical religion

Unveils itself in shooting stars

Sprayed against the black sky,

In luminescent surf,

In fractal patterns

Through crystal prism

Raindrops and oil slicks

On wet asphalt roads.

I have a great religion

Based on beauty,

Indigo buds, lilies of the alley

The horizon’s hardly perceptible

curve at the oceans edge,

the seagulls plaintive caw,

the post-storm morning air

awash with angels.

The evanescent morning star

Submerged in powder blue,

Slipping glimpses

Of the eternal.

I have a great religion

Based on beauty.

—Daniel J Kaufman

———————————

Rattle Moan

By Aryn Youngless

I need to stop

To stop the noises in my head

The thoughts that rattle

Shake & moan, pulling me

From the tasks at hand

From the writing & the chores

& the hugs & the kisses

& the words & the music

& the laughs & the love

& the life

I need to stop

Stop the over analyzing

How I look & what I say

& the people near me

& those in my life

& the subtext, underlining

& the subtitles never pop up

until it’s too late

Stop ignoring the feelings in my gut

& my heart

how I hate them, just to spite me

I need to stop

Stop absorbing others thoughts

Out of fear & isolation

As if they create some impervious curtain

& behind, I am naked, naked, naked

I need, I need, I need

I need to stop – being so needy

Yes, I need to stop

Stop myself – & let go

Of the past, of the future

In this moment, in my words

In everything, everything, everything

In my wants, & my needs, & duties

I need to stop – I need to enjoy

For the whole world has gone crazy

& instead of embracing the madness

I sit here, yelling at myself

And I don’t f—–g care

But I do, so much

And it’s sinking me

& I can’t stop, I can’t, I can’t, I can’t

& the thoughts rattle, & shake,

& moan, & consume me so much

that I forget what I was doing

in the first place

———————————————–

Moonlight Porch

By Majid Naficy

For Kelly Edwards

Should I call it “veranda” or “spring terrace”?

But “moonlight porch” is more beautiful:

This newly-budding breast

Which has leaned back charmingly

To the stone chest of each house,

This open, inviting  hand

Which has stretched out near each window

Longing for something lost.

In the evening in Kelar Abad

I sit in the veranda

And share my tea

With tea bushes,

And at night, in Isfahanak

I go to the spring terrace

To find my intimate cricket.

But now in Venice Beach

Let me sit in this moonlight porch

And smoke a cigarette with you.

——————————————-

Old in Venice

Grey hair,

Wrinkled skin,

Knobby joints,

Wobbling gait,

You’ve passed your prime,

A testament of advancing age,

You’ve exchanged your tiny grocery – your brainchild

for the government hand-out,

For the social security check that was stolen

as you boarded a noonday bus,

You’ve chosen Fear,

Golden padlocks glisten on your front door,

Sunlight streams diffused through grated windows,

Your cane became the beating stick

for muggers possessing twice your sinews

for burglars with pistols,

You’ve become the prisoner,

Forsaking your youth,

Growing old in Venice.

– Lynette

————————————–

02:22 Monday, January 28th, 2013, Adullam ….. A silent moon wept beams up in the sky, Imprisoned in her exile, flying by. Held in a gravitational malaise, With endless stays, occasional delays Afforded her,could not acquittal bring. On chill nights such as this, I hear her sing A song of longing, never to know love. She has no children, giving all they have To her design. Her barren craters ring. A severe case of acne, forbearing, To make her hide one side,

avoid always, So Earth cannot stare at her sad, dark rays. No veil of nitrogen to shield her eye. She hasn’t breath to even heave a sigh ….. Yours in lunacy,

- Roger Houston

Poetry

Limerick regarding the current American Debt Crisis and Impending Global Crisis, by TravelinMaam

The Empty Place of Eddie, by Majid Naficy

Here we stand, by Aryn Youngless

Where Silence Becomes Light, by Humberto Gómez Sequeira-HuGóS

Xavier, by Mary Getlein

Saturday, November 17, by Roger Houston

———————————————-

Limerick regarding the current American Debt Crisis and Impending Global Crisis: 

Once there was a dog named Maxwell

Who lived in a country that didn’t tax well

So Max wondered if

There was a fiscal cliff

And how he missed his president who played sax well

—-

Je vous prie de croire,

TravelinMaam

We are the words

—————————————————–

The Empty Place of Eddie

by Majid Naficy

Today the rain washes your blood

And wipes it from the pavement

There remains only your sunny smile,

Your tall baseball bat

Leaning against the wall,

And your backpack full of books

Waiting for your shoulders.

Curse the hand that made the gun

Curse the hand that put it in the shop

And curse the hand that pulled the trigger!

I am cold and empty

Like the shell of a bullet

Because I know that your mother

Will not pass another school again

And will not sit on bleachers

In another baseball game

And will not open her empty oven

To heat fragrant tortillas

For your dinner.

March 3, 2006

Eddie Lopez a Santa Monica High School student was gunned down on Tuesday February

28, 2006 at the 26th St. and Pico Blvd.

—————————————————————–

Here we stand

By Aryn Youngless

& she said

She didn’t like

The words

The sounds

& the

Textures

They seem a waste

She said

They seem contrived

She said

Yet here we stand

I probably agreed

Out loud, that is

To avoid

The words

I didn’t want

To hear

I don’t get it

I nodded

I don’t like it

I nodded

Yet here we stand

They shroud me

Like a

Fog, the words, I mean

They warm me

They’re just scribbles

They are my soul

I say

My blood

I say

My cliché

My rhythm

My me

Yet here we stand

——————————————————-

Where Silence Becomes Light

For Carmen Gómez, my niece.

Carmen, you are a woman according to nature. It gave you the power of the tree of life. Your equality is not an extrinsic condition controlled by the self-designated men of god—preachers, politicians, pimps, bankers, and soldiers—that you must suffer to attain. It is the intrinsic property of your being that makes you an agency of the vibratory fertility of the universal mind.

I am here,

where silence

becomes light.

Seeing

how the images that populate perception

fade away

after the conductors of their meaning

burn out

in the open air.

Forcefully

breathing the dream

that keeps my mind impressed

to the life stimulated

by fantastic sensations

profoundly.

—Humberto Gómez Sequeira-HuGóS

————————————————–

Xavier

that little boy looked up at me

and crawled into my heart

he said: i like your brown hair

it’s so brown

it was awfully good of him not to mention

all the wrinkles on my face

this was after he announced

in a matter of fact way

that his mother was dead

i knew this but hearing him say it was so hard

he’s only five

and technically he’s not supposed to understand

but i think he’s figured it out:

she’s not coming back

but he’s alive in that jumping way

young boys have:

bouncing around the room and on other objects

including his sister.

he’s a cuddler and pushes me over on the couch

so there is room for him

to squeeze in together.

“we have the best family,” he announced

i couldn’t help but agree

“yes, you have the best family,” i said.

- Mary Getlein

———————————————————–

01:36 Saturday, November 17th, 2012, Adullam ….. Templar of regions subterranean. Stick to the script. Likewise, stick to the plan. The sky is legend. Haven’t really seen. I’ve heard it’s up there. We are in between.

Imagine, I, what wonders may exist, To grasp within my fist. Likewise insist:There must be something just beyond the dome, The round enclosure that we all call home. I quietly await what may persist, In subtle hesitation. I resist The urge to open up the threshold’s keen, Impenetrable door. Yet to be seen. The subterranean claims me, its man. One day, I’ll not be subterranean …..Roger Houston

Poetry

Poetry:

come see me, please – by Aryn Youngless

To Forget for the Moment – by Gabriel Johnson

A Good Mother (for my friend, Kitty) – by Mary Getlein

Grunt – by Suzanne Vidal

Oily Verbiage, a found poem from the PXP Hydraulic Fracturing Study – by Lynn Bronstein

A Haiku Concerning the Concerning Silence of an American Huriane – by TravelinMaam

Hope – by Majid Naficy

Exposed Root – by Tyler Uhlenhake

Roger Houston

Operation OXX Brigade – by Mark Breza

———————————————

come see me, please

 

come find me, please

I will be

in the grass

in the trees

in the sky

I’ll be waiting

 

waiting for the world

for a breath

for a moment

I will be

you will see

right there

 

don’t take too long, please

I’m not impatience

nor a thought of indolence

but I am here

in this spot

still

 

I fear the ivy will grow

the moss will collect

I will be covered

you won’t see me

you’ll walk past

I’ll be encased in vivacity

 

you’ll walk right by

 

come find me, please

I will be

in my car

on the street

driving by

don’t blink

 

If you blink

I may pass by

you won’t see me

smiling

laughing

contagiously

 

I will try to honk

and catch your eye

with the sun just right

and a full smile

hair blowing gently

in the breeze of the window

 

You’ll see

I’ll be living

zealously

 

but still…

come see me, please

 

Aryn Youngless

——————————————

To Forget For The Moment 

(A Little Way Further)

 

All around me

Ants and men

lay struggling

with their crushed abdomens and dreams

stuck to the concrete

though their strong lets

work frantically at first

and then less so

as futility settles in

they cannot go on

their plans are cancelled

their lives are cancelled

collateral damage

taken from the foot

of a careless giant passing by

their legs can no longer lift them

at least not on their own

should God look down

should I kneel down

to blow the ants along

a little way further

with breath like a southern wind

to give them wings before they die

like a runaway bee

free of direction

to forget for the moment

all they’ve left behind

 

- Gabriel Johnson

Herlong Federal Prison

—————————————

A Good Mother (for my friend, Kitty)

 

it makes me want to cry

when she tells me the story of visiting

her son in prison

how he has to stand in line with other

mothers and fathers

and wait

how when she finally sees him

she feels so much better

to see that he’s alright,

he’s not beaten down by the system

to see his face and hug him

once a month

and her voice softens and is warm,

talking about “her boy”

and she isn’t bitter or angry

she has this amazing acceptance of the deal

it’s been two years now

and they are appealing it

but thy have to drive 250 miles, each way

so they can stand in line and wait

for that one moment of grace

when she can see him again

hold him again

and reassure both of them that the bond

is still there

and the one person who loves him the most

is there, one more time

 

- Mary Getlein

——————————————–

Grunt

 

We’ve become the Grunts

Grateful for crumbs

From the tables

Of bought and sold

Bureaucrats

And so called

Humans.

I’m not enjoying

the movie.

What happened to

the sense of snowflakes?

It’s just in knowing

Our cherished dreams

Ever more reduced

Are straining through

Bleak forecasts.

Even sunny days

At the beachside

Don’t seem the same.

As grinning veneers

Pay senseless homage

To irreverent rascals.

It’s the numbing

Effect processing

As we lie

Asleep

And doves are crying

On this beloved planet.

 

- Suzanne Verdal

————————————–

Hi Beachhead Collective,

 

I created a poem out of tidbits from the report on effects of fracking that was solicited by PXP in order to “excuse” their fracking the earth. I did reporting on this for the Culver City Observer and  had to be objective. But for a poem I don’t have to be objective. The poem is a found poem, made from words from the

actual report. It was the report, not me, that included the words “completely wrong results,” LOL.

Lynne Bronstein

 

Oily Verbiage

a found poem from the PXP 

Hydraulic Fracturing Study

 

Sentous Surface

Moynier Surface

Rubel Surface

Rindge Surface

Sentous Surface with Faults

Moynier Surface with Faults

Rubel Surface with Faults

Rindge Surface with Faults

Vickers Surface with Faults

PICO Surface with Faults

Newport Inglewood Fault

Looking North

Discontinuous Water Bodies

Bodies and Faults

Nodular Shale

Perforating the Case

Less Viscous Flows More Readily

Commonly Known as Slurry

Conventional

High Rate

Wellbore

Cross Linking

Ceramic Beads

Pumped into the well as slurry

Flowback

Most conventional hydraulic fracturing jobs

Were completed in the Sentous

Conventional

Deepest

Study Well in the Sentous

Zone Together

When the rock develops cracks.

Gross Alpha Activity

Arsenic

Hardness

Mistaken assumptions

Complex Underground System

Completely wrong results

 

Lynn Bronstein

————————————-

A Haiku Concerning the Concerning Silence of an American Hurricane

by TravelinMaam

 

The waves were high and

The wind blew fire across Queens

What Death in Haiti?

————————————-

Hope

by Majid Naficy

 

Emily Dickinson calls “hope” a bird

Who has perched in her soul

And without asking for seeds

Sings incessantly.

 

I saw it as a cricket

Who appeared in my childhood dreams,

Grew in my adolescent poems

And disappeared in the hubbub of a revolution.

 

Today I am left alone in exile

And yet, when I go to the balcony

To water the only flower in my house,

I hear the sound of a cricket

Who is calling me

From behind my neighbor’s bamboos.

————————————-

Exposed Root 

by Tyler Uhlenhake

 

exposed root

flower or weed

decision to pull

decision to water

choose

flower wills to bloom

weed wills to stifle

flower lends you breath

weed gives yet takes

which are you

which do you think to be

which do you strive to be

I choose flower

your choice is to pull

your choice is to water

your choice

then mine

————————————

00:01 Saturday, November 3rd, 2012, Adullam ….. About November third, not much

I’ve heard. Eleventh is for veterans. A word For the third Thursday; an ill-fated bird Gets sacrificed, for giving thanks. Absurd, our rituals. Ridiculous. I’m cured Of holidays, forever. Don’t be scared. A massive table, sure to be prepared. Mountains of mashed potatoes to be fared, With vast oceans of gravy. I’m assured An invitation. Cranberries are scored, With landings of great pumpkin pies, reward For all those who show up. Not very hard, accepting such a feast, Not yet endured. Prefer my quiet roommates, crust be shared …..

Roger Houston, to Henrietta Ford and CJWhitefang, Esquire

—————————————

Operation OXX Brigade

By Mark Breza

 

Petraeus Betray US

on Veterans Day

EXPLAIN the Begazi DELAY

under the table with a dark sable

droning away in sexual play

or was it in an Afghan Stable

shown all over the internet cable

her West Point Dossier

Kyber Pass <All In> Declassifiable

DISABLE

an elephant stone not a military sycophant

encrypted in an NSA jealousy rant

DECODED

EXPLODED

In a Tabloid Display

Informed citizens want to know           Was Ambassador Stevens

Lawrence of Arabia Fey

Poetry

So Here’s My Work Day – krista schwimmer

Parturition – Ronald McKinley

Bamboo – Mary Getlein

The Old Vine – Majid Naficy

A sample from 2008 – Roger Houston

Beauty is the Outcome – Tyler Uhlenhake

Chemical World -

Humberto Gómez Sequeira-HuGóS

—————————————–

So Here’s My Work Day

by krista schwimmer

There’s a British man

who walks in first

wearing a puka shell necklace.

He says he can only afford

the $20 to $30 range & sits down.

I plunge into

the card reading & sure enough

he is satisfied, nodding me on.

The day fills up

& soon the usual crowd is waiting

as I read one person after another.

Two young women come in.

I start on the woman

in the white pants outfit

(who picks the High Priestess

as herself).

She claims I’ve read her before.

I don’t remember. The other woman

with long, brown hair rushes away

to put quarters in her meter.

She returns holding her left arm.

A car hit her while

she was crossing the street.

Now why didn’t I read her cards first?

She’s alright, just shook up

& soon we are looking for

marriage in her cards. They leave laughing.

I stop for lunch, go upstairs

& get into a conversation

about swingers & such.

Shawn from the mailroom sits in the background

grinning. Men love hearing women

talk about sex.

Now it’s back to

the cards & a lovely lady in her 60’s

who relishes her reading. As she leaves

she sees my last name, “schwimmer”, posted on the door

& exclaims its rightness, how I am like a trout

coming up & up & up.

I almost start to cry

when Sami appears.

He is the last client

but just as we are delving

into his father’s death & small acts of revenge,

I hear a scream behind me.

I pull back the rain-ruined curtain

to see a toppled wheelchair

with arms waving side to side.

For some reason this woman decided

to take the two stairs

in her wheelchair. Wrong door.

It takes three of us to turn her upright

while she cracks jokes & waves

her right arm spastic-ally at us.

Jo stands before her

like a heron fishing, helps her with water

& takes her to the bookstore itself

where wheelchair girl is given a free book.

Finally the day is almost over

with Sami slouching towards

the gated front door. He decides

to tell me how the orgasm of a pig

lasts 30 minutes. Did I know that? & please

don’t tell your husband, he concludes.

I count $210, pack up my dolphin

table cloth & call home.

Yes, indeed, the life around a card reader

is something to remark about.

——————————————-

Parturition

By Ronald McKinley

The unhampered motion of being and thought

Infused with pleasure and passion

Cycled like a quantum wave

Smell and palate change form

Sight, hearing, taction evolve

The space-time continuum breaks and mends your bones

The caress of measured events

Particle by particle emerge

Secure the loop of existence

Vision and sight don’t always synchronize

Lost to some ego by-pass

When all is one

The singular focus of a love driven existence

Religion will become obsolete

——————————————–

Bamboo

There is a grove of bamboo trees

outside my window

When the wind blows,

They move with the wind

a hummingbird shows up every now and then

he hovers around my home made mobile

When I see him, my soul lights up

Oh yeah – there’s that cute little hummingbird

reminds me of youth and fairy tales

when animals could talk

and people could understand

The sun shines strongly through the window

I look for the bird

but he’s not here yet

The bamboo remain to wave with the wind

All is well again, all is well

- Mary Getlein

—————————————

The Old Vine

by Majid Naficy

There is a green fence

Between death and me

Covered by an old vine.

When passing by

I part the dense leaves

To see the other side

But the sun blinds me.

I pluck a single leaf

And like an old palmist

Stare at its cryptic lines

Asking myself in silence,

“Who has planted this vine?”

And before people point at me

I brush the dust from my clothes

And go on my way.

—————————————–

Beauty is the Outcome

by Tyler Uhlenhake

Her soul dims and brightens as her heart peaks and shallows

Wondrous the sight, battling the sallow

The universe calls on her, she replies with all she is

The total evokes a voice singing louder than a thousand

violins heavenly sent

Searching, but not forever wandering, the truth vies

Not known to her, Known to those who surround

That her triumph moves in a way

That present, past, and future hope is never spent

Beauty is the outcome, and such beauty is bliss

——————————————–

(A sample from 2008, hecho en Venice) 23:43 Friday, April 11, 2008, 5th and

Vernon, Venice Beach ….. A quiet spot, parked here, behind Suzanne, With iron

fence perimeter; I plan On a long contemplation, to compose Some fitting

testament. Well, I suppose I understand how Leonard Cohen felt With her, on the

Saint Lawrence, having dealt With fields of trash and flowers long ago. Inside

my feverish brain, perhaps I know The answer to the riddle. Tasted salt, And

sailor I became, as all the fault Was held aloft for judgment, ’til up rose That

resurrection son. Therefore, I chose A vision all my own, and so began My

careful study, parked behind Suzanne ….. Roger Houston, (Venezian-in-exile,

just checking in. See you on Abbot Kinney Sunday. Ciao)

——————————————-

Chemical World

We are the solitary inhabitants of the subconscious world generated by neurotransmitters. Our sensation of living is the intermittent reaction we exhibit through opposite emotional expressions when extraneous agents stimulate our mind with simulations of desirable pleasures.

In the world excited by the selfishness of the prime rate, we are the serves of an estate demarcated with warning signs of private property and punishment. The regime that protects the estate is trademarked by bankers who use it to compete in the market for profits and instigate the fabrication of war as a good investment product.

The life we live is the effect of the balance of power, poverty and friction. The tax and prefixed value of our labor in the market controlled by speculators are the conduits and end of our freedom. We are separated by the equality of ambition and competition under a law enforced through the exercise of the fear of the Landlord performed by his army.

We live in a state of illusionary motion watching the spectacle of delightful living—animated by clowns, magicians, contortionists, and entities of bizarre appearance—projected through our naked retina by the architects of deception on TV. Our mind is the precious prey of the men of god—politicians, priests and generals—who strive to capture it enticing us to surrender our will to them with promises of world supremacy, peace, and eternal salvation.

In that place—where life is a probability valuated by insurance experts—planted with ICBMs and nuclear waste sites; celebrated in war movies and victory parades; remotely separated from the root of our nature, we are the suspicious semblances of an individual existence turned on and off with the remote control operated by the lords of social drugs and illusion.

Our experience of feelings, in economic “reality,” is an extension of the brain’s virtual arrangement of the self in the flitting moments of excitement precipitated by the chemistry of desire and illusion; of life and death.

—Humberto Gómez Sequeira-HuGóS

Poetry

Poem for Autumn – John Thomas

Nervous Skin - Humberto Gómez Sequeira-HuGóS

Fire in the Lake – Hillary Kaye

you’ve forgotten how to scream – Rex Butters

Too Weird to be a submission – Roger Houston

“Democratic Womanism” – Alice Walker

____________________________

POEM FOR AUTUMN

By John Thomas

So many fine words falling

out of the language one by one

like leaves, or teeth from

an old man’s jaw. Who,

for example, says Autumn,

any longer? It’s always

merely fall, now. Fall, Fall, Fall.

Never beautiful Autumn.

If I want to hear Autumn,

I must say it to myself.

Hence these sentimental lines. Hail

and farewell, bright sad Autumn

—————————————–

Nervous Skin

I put on my black gloves of natural rubber

to insulate the red current of sensation

that runs through my open palms

and leads me to the habitual incitation

to overcome the emotional uncertainty

of orgasm and fear

in the nervous skin of deception

before I begin to auscultate my self.

—Humberto Gómez Sequeira-HuGóS

———————————————–

Fire in the Lake

By Hillary Kaye

When I expose myself to the

elements

when I ask again and again

for love and am denied

when I couldn’t break out of myself

and blood poured out of

every orifice

when I demand the truth

and am scorned

when I am homeless

and helpless

and bereft

when wrong is made right

when evil is made

palatable

when vision is blinded

when hope is an escape

when things pile up

and can’t be dealt with

when love is lost

when friendship spills to

the street like sewage

when angels walk among

us in agony

when light is spellbinding

when when when

things are wholly

different

when things are

wholly changed

& the roof & the

floor & the walls

are split apart

and then becomes a beginning.

————————————————–

you’ve forgotten how to scream

did you think one day

you’d wake up to find

everything was fair?

do you get up in the morning

and pump up your head with air?

do you think your leaders work for you

and all right thinking folk?

don’t you see them with their child sex slaves

doing endless lines of coke?

to them you’re another worker ox

tethered to their yoke

taxed to pay for their misdeeds

the butt of all their jokes

the alarm’s gone off

you’re still asleep

you prefer your waking dream

with t.v.’s lulling reassurances

you’ve forgotten how to scream

your doctor sells you poison and death

that comes on long and slow

you’re addicted to their lies like meth

you just don’t want to know

that you’re a guinea pig

a consumer report

sucked down by the under tow

your chronic ill health

provides their wealth

your misery makes them glow

the alarm’s gone off

you’re still asleep

you prefer your waking dream

with t.v.’s lulling reassurances

you’ve forgotten how to scream

it’s election time and the ruling class

has coughed up two more of its sons

they both think the same

in this transparent game

that guarantees nothing gets done

it should be clear to any fool

it’s always been one party rule

the only thing rising is scum

no one thinks it’s strange

only the spokespeople change

their agendas enforced with a gun

the alarm’s gone off

you’re still asleep

you prefer your waking dream

with t.v.’s lulling reassurances

you’ve forgotten how to scream

- By Rex Butters

——————————————–

Too weird to be a submission: 15:56 Monday, September 10, 2012, Chateau Lockwood

….. I’m here, but then; I’m not quite really here. I must be somewhere, right?

I might be there, Light years from now or eons in the past. I might be hiding in

the manifest. I’m here, apparently, writing these lines, But, at the same time,

somewhere else; combines The retrospect, the introspect, inject The sense of

being somewhere, to detect The sense of non-existence; something drains Into

event horizons; timeless grains Slip through the hour glass, from east to west.

Is that me, in the crow’s nest, the main mast? I think I’m here, just now, but I

prepare For that awakening, to find I’m there….. Roger Houston of

digital-linear space-time continuum, with my heart in Venice, eternally.

————————————–

“Democratic Womanism”

By Alice Walker

You ask me why I smile
when you tell me you intend
in the coming national elections
to hold your nose
and vote for the lesser of two evils.
There are more than two evils out there,
is one reason I smile.
Another is that our old buddy Nostradamus
comes to mind, with his fearful
400 year old prophecy: that our world
and theirs too
(our “enemies” – lots of kids included there)
will end (by nuclear nakba or holocaust)
in our lifetime. Which makes the idea of elections
and the billions of dollars wasted on them
somewhat fatuous.
A Southerner of Color,
my people held the vote
very dear
while others, for centuries,
merely appeared to play
with it.
One thing I can assure
you of is this:
I will never betray such pure hearts
by voting for evil
even if it were microscopic
which, as you can see in any newscast
no matter the slant,
it is not.
I want something else;
a different system
entirely.
One not seen
on this earth
for thousands of years. If ever.
Democratic Womanism.
Notice how this word has “man” right in the middle of it?
That’s one reason I like it. He is right there, front and center. But he is surrounded.
I want to vote and work for a way of life
that honors the feminine;
a way that acknowledges
the theft of the wisdom
female and dark Mother leadership
might have provided our spaceship
all along.
I am not thinking
of a talking head
kind of gal:
happy to be mixing
it up
with the baddest
bad boys
on the planet
her eyes a slit
her mouth a zipper.
No, I am speaking of true
regime change.
Where women rise
to take their place
en masse
at the helm
of earth’s frail and failing ship;
where each thousand years
of our silence
is examined
with regret,
and the cruel manner in which our values
of compassion and kindness
have been ridiculed
and suppressed
brought to bear on the disaster
of the present time.
The past must be examined closely, I believe, before we can leave
it there.
I am thinking of Democratic, and, perhaps
Socialist, Womanism.
For who else knows so deeply
how to share but Mothers
and Grandmothers? Big sisters
and Aunts?
To love
and adore
both female and male?
Not to mention those in between.
To work at keeping
the entire community
fed, educated
and safe?
Democratic womanism,
Democratic Socialist
Womanism,
would have as its icons
such fierce warriors
for good as
Vandana Shiva
Aung San Suu Kyi,
Wangari Maathai
Harriet Tubman
Yoko Ono
Frida Kahlo
Angela Davis
& Barbara Lee:
With new ones always rising, 

wherever you look

There is no system
There is no system
now in place
that can change
the disastrous course
the Earth is on.
Who can doubt this?
The male leaders
of Earth
appear to have abandoned
their very senses
though most appear
to live now
entirely
in their heads.
They murder humans and other
animals
forests and rivers and mountains
every day
they are in office
and never seem
to notice it.
They eat and drink devastation.
Women of the world,
Women of the world,
Is this devastation Us?
Would we kill whole continents for oil
(or anything else)
rather than limit
the number of consumer offspring we produce
and learn how to make our own fire?
Democratic Womanism.
Democratic Socialist Womanism.
A system of governance
we can dream and imagine and build together. One that recognizes
at least six thousand years
of brutally enforced complicity
in the assassination
of Mother Earth, but foresees six thousand years
ahead of us when we will not submit.
What will we need? A hundred years
at least to plan: (five hundred will be handed us
gladly
when the planet is scared enough)
in which circles of women meet,
organize ourselves, and,
allied with men
brave enough to stand with women,
men brave enough to stand with women,
nurture our planet to a degree of health.
And without apology —-
(impossible to make
a bigger mess than has been made already) -—
devote ourselves, heedless of opposition,
to tirelessly serving and resuscitating Our Mother ship
and with gratitude
for Her care of us
worshipfully commit
to
rehabilitating it.

Poetry

Ancient Mothers – Mary Getlein

In Search of Love – Jacob Pryor

Woodstock Revisited – L.E. Mintz

Mosaddegh at the Hague – Majid Naficy

Friday, January 16, 2009 – Roger Houston

Ancient Mothers

Long long ago, brothers and sisters, women were

in control. Religions were feminine. People

worshiped the magical powers of the

Earth -

It was Mother Earth, Father Sun

The Moon was at night

The Sun god Ra took a journey every day

but Hecate ruled at night

Women were associated with darkness

Along with the gift of birth

They also had the gift of death

They helped babies be born

They helped people die

They helped people get well with herbs

and knowledge

They were dark -

Men hated them and feared them

Warrior men came and killed most of the women

And it’s been like that ever since

The Mother is Divine

The Mother brings LIFE into the world

The Mother helps DEATH take your loved ones

The Spirit Guides are ready

Women are Divine -

Mother Earth and Father Sky

Six directions twirling always,

Concentrate on the center of your life

Pick up the fruit and sink your teeth into it

Drink the stream of JUICE and LIFE

Sink your teeth into Life and live

The Mother is Divine

- Mary Getlein

                                                 

In Search of Love

By Jacob Pryor

He spent a quarter of a century scheduled on shame,

And condescended to find himself at blame.

As a child, he crawled about the chilled floor

In search of love, sought in shadows, in sounds

Of autumn winds, and in golden lights x-raying air

As it shined through cracks of the oaken door.

But soon his search was in marked bounds

And was not free to devote time to things he found fair

Fawning grins and shocked frowns influenced his choices.

He found love by memorizing rules of heart,

Smile at that, bow to that and hate cripples.

Soon his morning fresh little rose dimples

Were replaced by a war-like frown.

Community required it to wear its laureled crown

And drink its intoxicating mead that wrapped

Prostitutes in patriotism and furs of queens.

And obvious fools became the great

Split between what he could think and know

And what he was forced to feel at the risk

Of a frown or something far worse.

                                                                   

Woodstock Revisited 

By L.E. Mintz

I hung as many coats as I could. I got paid per coat. A radio announcer’s voice echoed in the factory. The New York State Thruway closed… too much flower power clogging the arteries. I wasn’t worried. I didn’t need no stinkin’ New York State Thruway. We were using the Connecticut Turnpike. I left work, ran home packed a bag went outside. The van pulled up. I got in. We hit the road. We hit the drugs. Everyone simultaneously lit joints popped pills snorted coke. We giggled we sang we cried I peed out a window. We zigged ,we zagged across the state. Woodstock here we come. Traffic was light. We crossed a bridge to New York. Traffic was no longer light. We pulled on Route 17, the world’s biggest parking lot. A thirty five mile long line of cars standing still purring pungent reefer smoke pouring out in every direction half naked hippies girls with painted faces flowers long hair dancing across narrow streams of consciousness chased by half naked boys painted faces flowers even longer hair begging for their love. Acid heads floating across the backdrop, a magical mystery tour. The sky ominous dark storm clouds gathered lightening flashing primordial and apocalyptic, the dawn of time, the age of Aquarius. Oh yeah baby right up my alley.

Some hour floated by we exited Seventeen, snaked a winding country road looking for a place to hide in plain sight. We found an abandoned and broke house just down the road from a tiny grocery store, Kaplan’s, in the middle of nowhere three miles from the center of the universe. The store became my salvation, saved me from starvation. Exhausted I grabbed a box spring in an open air bedroom of the closed down house rolled out my bag laid down looked up dozed off awoke in someone else’s dream where it reeked of déjà vu went back to sleep slid into my own dream water skiing under a frozen lake.

                                           

Mosaddegh at the Hague

by Majid Naficy

If you go to the Netherlands

Visit The Hague court of Justice.

On a rainy night

Linger at its closed gate

And look through the iron rods:

There, in that lighted building

Across the rain-laden trees,

An old man stood

More than half a century ago.

He came from our homeland

To speak out against the oil cartels

Before the whole world.

He did not hold anyone hostage

And took only a few steps

To reach the podium.

Listen, listen

Even years after that bloody August (1)

One can still hear his voice.

He speaks in beautiful French:

“Mesdames et Messieurs!

Ladies and Gentlemen!”

September 24, 2005

1. On August 19, 1953 Mohammad Mosaddegh (1882-1967), the democratically-elected Iranian Prime Minister, was overthrown in a coup d’etat orchestrated by the American and British intelligence services, in collaboration with Kashani, a fundamentalist clergy and Zahedi, a Nazi-sympathizer general. They gave absolute power to the Shah who had fled the country a few days earlier. In 1951, Mosaddegh led the movement for nationalization of the Iranian oil industry, which was under the control of the British. In June 1952, he traveled to the Hague to defend Iran’s case in the International Court of Justice.

                                                         

00:33 Friday, January 16, 2009, parked in front of Beyond Baroque ….. The “open” sign burns orange in the night Down at Beyond Baroque. The neon light was left on just for us, CJ and me, Encouraging availability. But even more than this, Saint Philomene Perchance took pity, beacon light to shine It’s hearty welcome to our orphanage On wheels, in hopes to end the awful siege, If only for

one night. This heart of mine Concocts scenario, when in between The harsh realities; for now, this lee, Along our starboard side, is plain to see. A siren whispers, two sailors delight In warmth and invitation this cold night …..

Roger Houston (and CJWhitefang, Esquire)