Her face rested
and she didn’t smile.
Her lips lingered together
stretching in a never-ending line.
Her hair was a bird.
Flying across the skies.
Shiny ornaments flashed light
On her kohl painted eyes.
Her earrings whistled
As the wind passed by
She just sat there
as cold winds sucked the air dry.
Neither did she utter
Nor mumble a word.
What more could you do ?
When fate betrays you ?
Gives you all the happiness in a day
and then takes it all away.
Shabab Nahian Kabir
“Lord Krishna’s Counsel”
I Walk Away
Not In Anger Or Spite
Yet I have felt all these things intensely
And I let them come,
And I ponder what am I feeling?
How to act? For Myself Is Not Touched
The feelings are transient
I wait with patience
Then The emotions change
From anger to fear,
Fear to sadness.
The emotions speak true.
Sometimes I feel angry
But as I feel it,
I realize it is not anger but frustration.
Does anybody care?
And If so whom? Time will tell.
Words are spoken
But words serve the speakers’ purpose.
They can be false, untrue.
Time Will be the true test of words.
Actions are what matters, Time will show
In time, we shall see
Raymond D. Johnson
Johnson is a writer of great patience!
Angleworms in a Bottle
When the birch is ablaze with leaves of fire
Or bowed with a drape of ice
Have we absolute faith that spring will come
As we ring around the sun?
The bee will gather pollen dust
Near the fork of a budding birch
Yes, spring will come, as we know it must
The phoenix return to its perch
Not angleworms in a bottle
Although our part is small
We persevere, in spite of fear
The gravest matter of all
I drive on this cool morning,
perfect sunshine, vacation looms, family in car.
Events so fast,
Jesus Take the Wheel, the song in my head, along with Dad's voice
crash after crash, time stands still, car spins in front of us
brake, brake, brake—not enough brake
I bullet off the road to avoid collision
heart gallops, but calm, so calm
not realizing memory of this never leaves
Young driver fell asleep at the wheel, lost control,
probably on the phone, but afraid to admit it
at roadside now cars whizz by, no one stops to help
Mom clutches head, slammed into window by first impact
eggshell skull of the elderly
drag home, car parts pound pavement, sparks fly
800 miles of white knuckles
Untaken trips pile up after that
reason to avoid highways, fear won't evacuate
no protection from random intersections of time, matter, space
mind forever marked
fear of impact
Joyce’s Wonder Shirt
never like her
in a wonder shirt
so much like
only not at all
and he knew
or even if
it is true
hope to never
in a wonder shirt?
What am I waiting for?
What am I writing for?
keen on fighting,
blood and hunting
for a monster.
I am listening to
the Keiros4tet. I know
I knew the time was useless,
It’s gone. A long,
long time ago
It chose others and abandoned me.
I’m just familiar with a room
Where the furthest star
Vade claims to be a desperate loser, a lone wolf, a passionate reader, an art amateur seeking an inspiration, still dreaming of travels and miracles, tasting this life. Loves autumn, rain, pies, black and white films, fine wines, and a good conversation. Sensitive for excellent performances. and yet, is anything but!
"Will the cattle soon recover?"
asked the Ancient to the Seer.
"Ahhhh, dost thou see
the falcons traverse the western stars,
the owls that mute their hooted
songs, the moon - with sun polished
blaze - trapping our breaths in icy
haze. Thus, the signs of gods are clear",
divined the crystal eyed seer.
"Will the markets see a correction?"
asked the Anchor to the Analyst.
The rising swoon of index CNY
reflects capital deepening,
catching capital share,
tracing true the axiom:
bursts of booms shall always persist."
the crystal glassed Analyst.
An angel, newly formed
crouches on the first band
Balances there with tears
at the ready, but still unwept,
and no wings as yet to spread.
In the thrum and daze
of daylight, a signature
of swallows slips silently
close to her; close as breath,
Shuddering, the scissor-sharp
birds liberate plumage,
Finally, in concert, the birds
—a flurried involution—
arch their gift, lay it tender
on the newborn's angel shoulders
Haste away before she can think
to raise her eyes.
the land was thirsty and impatient,
it lay belly-up and waiting.
the pond is brim-full,
fish gulp at the fresh sweetness,
birds sing of the rain
and of bird-news
which I do not understand,
but I believe it must be better
than other news
oozing from our ailing land.
My doors are thrown wide open,
I sit, flooded by the sun --
humming my own strange song,
which I understand no better
than those sung by feathered ones.
For in times of hatred
fluttering on flagpoles,
I cannot imagine why --
but it really does not matter,
today the birds and I,
today we sing.
Annette Snyckers joins ModPo from South Africa
side-stepping my brain,
slipping away singly
or in defiant collectives
leaving my doors ajar
to casual plunders,
I have your rooms prepared
with fresh sheets and flowers.
Map of Time
Stars, wheeling across the ancient map—
Points of reference
When fixed by legend—
Transliteration is the key that turns the lock
And spills them out into uncharted waters.
Here be dragons,
Guarding the passage between the known and unknown,
Preventing you from sailing off the edge
Of the page
Alliteration like stones stepping you back,
Iteration, in the vocabulary of the stars, confirming
The spot you marked with your “X”—
You were here. You were.
(Though just between you and me we know how slippery here and now can be,
And how deceptively small the space circumscribed by dragons.)
(Map not drawn to scale--
Your mileage may vary.)
Get Your 1st Annual ModPo Anthology Print Edition
These 42 poems by this year's Modpo students collected in "chapbook" form. Price $5.00 S&H $2.00 shipping charge, no matter how many books you order!
(outside USA may add additional shipping costs)
Profits to go to Kelly Writers House
ZEBRA FINCHES CALL AND RESPONSE
doeS work beneath the
a song an alternative to build on rePeat un-repenting
upending any specific classificatiOn. anything you
hear an influence of weather what'S
lyric master: Our
sOng reversing tactics
sustain the oblique
music catalogued in our grateFul restraints
powerful be-deep beep meep oi ha!
eggs synchroniZe with
calls soothing thE outside and
inner warned the heat of life Before hatching
not a lineaR
dramatic with Finality
aN alternative to build
on repeat un-repenting upending any speCific family
think you'vE heard
of weather what'S more speculative
than birth lyric master
In part inspired by: Science Mag: “Zebra Finches Call Prepares Their Eggs For Climate Change”
Mary-Marcia Casoly, a native San Franciscan, CA, author of Run to Tenderness(Pantograph Press & Goldfish Press, 2002) Her chapbook, Lost Pages of Bird Lore is part of the Small Change Series (Word Temple Press, 20121) Believes in life long learning, Loves Modpo, incredibly inspiring.
The Lady who loved…
She walked everyday, smiling saying ‘hi’
Always asking – How are you.
A heart wide and loving,
People of all kind
Inside was hurt,
Covered with liquid
That ate away goodness
Caring, her garden thrived
She did not.
The room was empty and full of sun. Is this a paradox?
The womb was empty and full of son. This is a mutation.
The difference between paradox and mutation is a line
defined by the lines that follow. This is context—not to be
confused with contexture, which is closer to conjecture.
Therein lies the difference.
Information is a by-product of difference. A son
is not a sun . . . and yet he warms me. Two sons are brothers,
a mother a daughter, a father a son. We grow in this light.
Relationships define but transcend time. Which role rises
in the hierarchy? Is order temporal? Circular?
Questions drift, are drawn to shore.
A small change, only a few letters, a few cells.
A small mutational change. Evolution? Cancer.
Words are illusory. What has this to do with the moon?
What has this to do with a crab? How does a word begin to die?
Cut out the letter C.
What remains? Not an answer.
Tautology is a form of rhetoric and subject to abduction.
(I run off with rhetoric often.) It is a question of balance,
walking the line between reductionism and holism, learning
to walk barefoot. Information resides in the distinction between
foot and wire. To be misled is to hang in space.
I prefer a word—to hold on to.
Pamela Joyce Shapiro
For Bright Hunter's Moon
for bright hunter's moon, stars shining
slipping through my fingers
verdant garden moist with rain
for yellow, orange and blue-green squash
brown butter aromas
a golden turkey roasting in an oven
stuffed with spicy seasoned day-old bread
plated with creamed smashed potatoes
& homemade pumpkin pie
time's clock stands still
I am mortal, prone to faint
when troubles come
it's these things I remember
to Providence I confess
and raise a glass in thankfulness
for nothing else compares