General Poetry Page with Suzanne Robinson
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THE WAY WE SEE THINGS
whose story is the true one
if not both or neither
the tale told over pancakes
or the one drunk with decaf
who knows the facts
when the campfire shines
and ghosts crowd
yet the story is mine
and you were there
with me most of the way
but the way we tell
of our parting
is two voices that echo
between distant hills
JOANNA M. WESTON tells us she is a spider rancher. Actually, her bio includes the following:
Married; has one cat, multiple
spiders, a herd of deer, and two derelict hen-houses.
‘Frame and The McGuire', Tradewind Books 2015;
‘A Bedroom of Searchlights’, Inanna Publications, 2016.
Other books listed at her blog:
You have killed our children
your bullets have pierced their heart of love
now only hatred remains.
You can plant you flags
talk falsely of peace you never wished for.
Our young will not forgive you
you killed their caring hearts.
To return as a visitor
It greets you where it once hurt you.
In its parade of low tide and uncharacteristic sunshine,
it reveals a kind of dysmorphia.
It has been peeling itself apart in the mirror,
it has stopped raining.
On Banks Road, there are couples.
At the Marina, the water is dressed in silk.
In the cafe, the coffee is sublime.
At the place where you were young,
the bench has been removed.
Richard M. Thompson
Milton Babbitt in Piney Run Park
kids are digging up sand,
laughing in incidental stretto,
running in lean circles,
choosing teams for a game
of tag, getting married
on the ternary swings
under the warm
canonic clouds of April—
and maybe there’s only
the sweet vocalise,
or the plush little Adagio
for moments like these
Colin Webb is a native of Baltimore, Maryland, and writes poetry as well as fiction. His novella, Coping with Coincidence, was shortlisted for the 2015 Arch Street Prize.
A SPELL FOR CHAMELEONS
it is noon of a lightless day,
waking to the sound of falling rain
dancing against the eaves of houses
and the stones of the street,
long ages since the slidewalk
functioned on this street of tears
with the drinking and the women
and the noise and the knives,
voices stir up eddies of dust
in the darkened hallway,
listen to the night sounds
and the soft drowsy hisses
of those who also sleep
beneath these ancient ferns,
its fronds beaded with rooks,
makes you think of big things,
time and living and dying
the bodies of forgotten poets
the siftings of alien mildew
and the last lost scavengers who
pick over the remnants of bones
of other days, other junk dreams.