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Poets C

Carbonado - Carruth (3) - Chalmer - Conley - Conner
Eve, After They Had Gone
by Judith Chalmer

In my dream my sister
was a fish. Silver and lustrous
she rose in my hand, flesh
and bone of her torso arching,
her strong sides pulling upward
like a man's sinewy back.
So beautiful women will slip, I have
seen it, on and off their hooks.
In my dream my sister was
speaking. I don't remember
what she said. I remember
her blood, water-thin, down
the scaly sides of my dress.
But inside Mother's mouth,
I would swear, we were
perfect. We stood before
the glistening gate.
Our tongues were not cold.
They would never be
lifted or gored.

From Out of Historyís Junk Jar: Poems of a Mixed Inheritance by Judith Chalmer. Copyright © 1995 by Time Being Books. Reprinted courtesy of Time Being Press.

The Half-Acre of Millet
by Hayden Carruth

So green the leaves in late September sun
So glossy those dark spikes of seed
Lying between the potatoes and the orchard
A hunting ground for the good king snake
that searched for shrews
"A tonic for the cows before they go into the barn
          for the long winter,"
Marshall said, and he would turn them into it
How they romped and sang
How they gorged on the sweetness
At last it was trampled and rubbled, the leaves, panicles,
          and stalks were all eaten
And then a day or two later the cows went reluctantly
          to their stanchions
Into the dark muttering and complaining

Now I'm sickly and old and altogether somewhere else
Marshall is a voice from the dusty closet of history
I keep looking for my own half-acre of millet
          in the autumn sun
          but I don't find it
Now I'm told they don't plant millet around here.

From Doctor Jazz by Hayden Carruth, Copyright © 2001 Hayden Carruth, Reprinted courtesy of Copper Canyon Press -

Agenda at 74
by Hayden Carruth

Tap barometer, burn trash,
put out seed for birds, tap
barometer, go to market
for doughnuts and Dutch
Masters, feed cat, write
President, tap barometer,
take baby aspirin, write
congressmen, nap, watch
Bills vs. Patriots, tap
barometer, go to post
office and ask Diane if
it's cold enough for her,
go to diner and say "hi,
babe" to Mazie, go to
barber shop and read
Sports Illustrated, go
home, take a load off,
tap barometer, go to
liquor store for jug
(Gallo plonk), go
home, pee, etc., sweep
cellar stairs (be careful!),
write letter to editor,
count dimes, count quarters,
tap the fucking barometerÖ

From Doctor Jazz by Hayden Carruth, Copyright © 2001 Hayden Carruth, Reprinted courtesy of Copper Canyon Press -

At Seventy-five: Rereading an Old Book
by Hayden Carruth

My prayers have been answered, if they were prayers. I live.
I'm alive, and even in rather good health, I believe.
If I'd quit smoking I might live to be a hundred.
Truly this is astonishing, after the poverty and pain,
The suffering. Who would have thought that petty
Endurance could achieve so much?
And prayersó
Were they prayers? Always I was adamant
In my irreligion, and had good reason to be.
Yet prayer is not, I see in old age now,

A matter of doctrine or discipline, but rather
A movement of the natural human mind
Bereft of its place among the animals, the other
Animals. I prayed. Then on paper I wrote
Some of the words I said, which are these poems.

From Doctor Jazz by Hayden Carruth, Copyright © 2001 Hayden Carruth, Reprinted courtesy of Copper Canyon Press -

Handicap Disconnect
by Pierce Carbonado

Our local post office has a ramp along side the building
but no automatic doors for a button to open for wheelchairs
and those not walking on all twos---they say the building is
too old and not required by ADA standards. But why the ramp
and then no way to get in? It seems like a promise shortly
followed by a slap in the face. You climb the hill only to be
turned back because the doors donít open and no one cares
enough to open them, not even the employees inside biding
their time waiting for retirement.

She fell trying to get back on her three-wheeler just missing
the pot but hitting the edge of one of the batteries. Tailbones
are more fragile than wishbones and not nearly as promising.
Now she has trouble getting on or off her jalopy and needs my
help anytime she needs to transfer. Her luxury of movement
further restricted by pain and feet firmly planted and unable
to move. A disconnect she has had for 35 years but worsening
as I increase my ability to lift her as we age together gracefully,
me her legs, she my spirit.

I guess raising three kids without a husband wasnít enough
of a struggle for her, now she is raising me in ways my
freedom would not allow. Selfish ways turn hard when you
love and worry about someone special. Someone special
who loves and needs your strength when theirs is fleeing.
I understand but resist anyway, her strength is my strength.
We are in this together no matter who or what the rest of
the silly world cares.

Copyright © 2008 Pierce Carbonado

My Death
by Heath Z. Conley

My life is trivial at best
I am better laid to rest
Some would say death is not the end
Some would say it is the end
But I do not care
Please do not stare
Anything would be better than my life
It has been nothing but strife
Sometimes I wonder what heaven is like
Maybe in heaven I could ride a bike
Maybe Iíll see my grandma
Maybe Iíll see my adoptive mama
Sometimes I wish my own life I could take
Please donít think of me as a snake
This life I just canít take
I always thought of it something good I could make
Well I have reached the end of the line
I no longer feel fine
I've reached a point where itís live or die
How I wish you could hear my sigh
I draw the knife across my wrist
And it appears crimson kissed
As my blood falls onto the paper
I think ďoh shit" this has to be a caper
I never meant to cut this deep
Everything begins to look steep
My clothes fall into a heap
If you were to look at me
Then perhaps youíd see
That I merely sleep
I will awake with the rapture
Perhaps my soul you could capture
I awake to realize it was a ďdream"
This life is as fleeting as a stream
I began to realize Iím surrounded by steam
I hear a voice
I am to be given a choice
I can be given a new life
For a test was the strife
Or I can die
And my should will not fly
It seems my soul a demon has caught
And an angel has bought
It was his voice
And he gave me a choice
I chose not to die
So that my soul could fly

Copyright © 2008 Heath Z. Conley

Dreams Redux
by Richard Conner

We walk along the floral path
Hand in tiny hand, tiny hand in hand
A perfect day with cirrus tendrils intertwined Blanket, Riesling, cheese, crackers and subs The afternoon melts into an absolute dream.

Nibbling, talking, giggles and smiles abound A tiny reflection of Aphrodite dances in the grass As I gaze into eyes of the richest mahogany A noise cackles and doves cry and take wing I shift about uneasy, pensive and searching

The noise returns and louder now
It splits the night and breaks the dawn
It was a dream.
I curse the light, reject the day
Let me dream.
Let me dream.

Copyright © 2010 Richard Conner


© copyright 2008 - Last Updated: 02/25/2018