GOOD SHABBAT

by Paul Leon Samuels
 

Bricks and mortar, beams and trusses, nails and screws, wood and sheetrock, paint and plaster, chandeliers and painted glass

A building, but not an ordinary one. A single large room, glowing white, long sleek seats, and a balcony above

A gathering place for people with a purpose, not a grand theatre with actors on the screen, but rather a stage, with sacred performers for an audience of One

G-d looks down, a smile of pleasure on His face. “It's Shabbat,” He says to an audience of Angels. “See, My people remember. They gather before Me again. It's not quite time but now they gather and settle in. Look, the children laugh and play in the pews, the mothers greet and smile, all understanding each other's process to settle the children down.”

“They are here, from newborn to almost with Me, a simple chant, a call to the Shema, I love their song. I love their prayers, the prayers of my people. Yes My chosen ones remembering Me!”

“See the scrolls how carefully they handle them, as if they were carrying Me in their arms, I feel their love, their commitment –it's so good. And each week on Shabbat it does not get old.”

“The prayers, the silent sitting in My presence, the cares of the week slipping away as they enter My rest. They need this- I love giving it to them-My rest. My people-My chosen people. The scrolls come down the aisle back to shelter. My people reach out and kiss and carefully, softly touch. They don't know I feel the kisses and relish their touch. Final smiles-prayers and praises.”

“Hugs and chatter, now 'good Shabbats' all around. Yes, it is good and now food will follow. Their spirits are calm, their appetites awake. My people are in My rest…Good Shabbat”

[point of view]

by Changming Yuan

no, no, no
no more do i want to be
a chinaman, brown-visioned
with all my yellowish
outlooks, yellowish sentiments

nor do I intend to be
a red-skinned big-foot
with my ancestors' vast land
all occupied by foreign devils

nor a rising black star
with evil pale-faced memories
nor a big white boss
with all the world's politically correct dollars

rather, I prefer to be a tiny rock
sitting still at a hilltop, or on the roadside
watching, observing, even whistling
when there is a wind blowing hard

What There Is: What There Isn't

by Amy  Soricelli

There is no canvas with that old man on the bench.
No spotty spots of blue and gold no drippy shades of yellow
there is no lemon sunny-bright sun in his tired hat; No lilacs pumped up
grapes there are no wrinkled plums in his shadowy brown bag.

There is no shadowy brown yellow sun with the old man on the bench.
No drippy blue and gold suns no lemony wrinkled plums no bags
of spotty spots;There is no canvas of lilacs - no pumped-up grapes
in his tired hat- no bright shades.

There is no tired hat with that old man on the bench. No canvas of lemon-
sunny bright grapes - no lilacs in the brown bag - no shadows of spotty spots
in wrinkled plum shades of blue.  No drippy suns/ gold/pumped up
lemons.

There is no old man on the bench. No hat.
Just a canvas of spotty spots of lemony bright suns/yellow grapes
drippy shades of pumped up gold and blue - lilacs wrinkled and tired
in a shadowy brown bag.

burning

by Linda M. Crate

slipping through the cracks
i fell through the keyhole
gracelessly without effort,
quicksilver blossoms of rain
were my only company
for your love left me long ago
in an exile longer than the
arms of the ocean whose hold
on me was great until she
eroded away all sense of ego;
declared war with the stars
and every child of summer's tongue
i made a promise to become
the key to her undoing so here i am
blossoming with flames of rage
that only summer's children are equipped
with; i beat her back into her cage
snarled at every tooth of the moon until
he turned yellow with cowardice,
and ran back into the folds of where night
is hidden from day —
you sent me a letter the other day
telling me how happy you are with her,
i burned it like i did the ocean
maybe you tasted the flames in my countenance
when you looked at the crimson sunset.

A quiet place

by Michael Holme

I lift my inch-too-long trousers as I squelch
over the lawn past trees and a rose bed.
A grandma is pictured at the edge
of the spiky flowers on an imitation
granite memorial. Simple plaques abound.

Gaudy plastic flowers form the bulk
of the rainbow in this garden.
I assume “life is for the living.”

Then I reach it: a maple tree, the canopy of leaves
I’ve never seen. I look down at the cross of calcite
and other noncombustibles on the ground.

The grass is dry here and I sit cross legged.
I say a default hi Love, then reminisce or tell you what’s new.

Blades have started piecing your symbol that dwarfs my seat.
They’re waiting for a lawnmower; then what?
But you’re being consumed by this mighty tree’s roots.

I recite our psalm, 121, from memory, and read
two prayers. Then I think, can I come tomorrow?
The ground is blurring and I add a few salty drops
to the efforts of the elements.
Lighting a cigarette I tell you one way or the other,
never breaking my promise.

Then I walk to our car, carefully throwing
my extinguished stub in a rubbish bin
next-door to a green one full of wilted flowers.
I wipe my eyes, feeling I’ve been with you.

Till we meet again, wish me Godspeed in this life.

On Remembering Crack in the Boxcar Door

by David S. Pointer

That day my grandma
loaded me into her 62
Ford, we went to see
a Hank Snow concert
usually I loved her many
country records-Johnny
Horton, Marty Robbins,
the man who became
The Man in Black, but
I didn’t like Hank Snow’s
record, then standing on
that wooden theater chair
so I wouldn’t drown in hall
flooding fan exuberance, I
had to admit Hank was
really great singing Ghost
Trains, 90 Miles an Hour,
and The Golden Rocket
and after that it was as if
Edison, Tesla, Westinghouse
had all been fired and life
was lit up by thunder and
lightning powered with
some Hobo’s last cigarette

YOU KILLED MY BLUE SKIPPER

by John McKernan

The one you said you would watch
While I visited my uncle at the hospital

The thin fish whose neon yellow side stripe
Curved to the initial  J     For me
Around its left eye

I trusted you
Because you used distilled water
Because you placed a statue
Of the Buddha in your aquarium

I should have remembered
The curlicues of marijuana in your hair
Your daughter’s story about the matches
Your mother’s silence at the grocery store
Your laughter when I used the word heroin

You killed my blue skipper and laughed

I have finished crying

by Poulome Mitra Shaw

I have finished crying.
I cry no more.
I wept months for you
Stained shadows left on the bed sheet
Need to be washed, dried and ironed.
Everything's on as before
The tea tasting the same,
The crows knocking on the pane,
Morning sunlight framing the shadows.
You and me stand buried deep in a frame
... Amidst monsoon symphony
A decade since followed. You fled when all lies caught up with us.
Every morning the smoke mounts to burning eyes
I sit forever with the tea
holding a habit as ancient as hope.
Waiting for you to return from all those roads that lead you astray
Waiting for you to keep those promises
Waiting for you to look at our baby
Postponing living each day....
Swaying days and flipping pages over
As if today doesn't matter
I have finished crying
I cry no more.

Waiting For a Beautiful Woman

by James Babbs

she shows up
ten minutes before three
because
she works second shift
except on Wednesdays
that’s her day off
and every other Sunday
but I never come on Sundays
I stay home
because
I like to watch football
she’s wearing red today
she always looks good
but I really like it
when she wears red
sometimes
after I’ve watched her
get out of the car
and disappear inside
I drive a couple blocks
down the street
and hang out at the bar
because
I have nowhere else to go
I sit around drinking a few beers
flirting with the waitress
the heavy-set one
with the weird looking eyes
I know I could get her
if I wanted to
but I just like to keep
stringing her along
when the clock reads eleven
I give the waitress a nod
leaving her a big tip
before I drive back
and sit in the parking lot
I really like it
when she comes out
her hair all a mess
dragging herself to the car
some nights
she just sits there
both of us in the dark
waiting
before I hear the engine
of her car starting up
sometimes
I wonder what she’s doing
what she might be thinking about
and I ache inside
wishing I could hold her
and I can’t stand it
longing to feel her
moving against me
and I just want to
whisper in her ear
pushing the strands of her hair
away from her face
telling her not to be afraid
pulling her closer to me
saying
everything’s going to be okay

growing

by Linda M. Crate

white and green leaves
flowers of lavender peeping through the seams of
disillusioned stars calling themselves
mankind grow regardless of their apathy
and indifference, their echoes remaining longer
than those of star children
believing their possessions can make them happy;
i used to be among them until i discovered
that one day this world will sink forever
beneath the fires of the sun,
and so instead i stare at horizons of trees
wandering lonely country roads
singing with birds,
watching flowers grow the simple things are the ones
that often matter in love and life and nature;
so i hold unto their echoes
even when the rest of mankind forgets —
technology has made us all lazy and unheeding of time who
sucks one second of immortality away always even
when we wink our eyes closed for sleep;
i wish i could dream with my eyes
open because there's so much i have yet that i wish
to be seen, so many things i have to do
laying undone —
fractured stones know my pain
but i won't be broken forever like these vines
i will find a way to grow
unnoticed until my vines can no longer be cut down by
icicles of apathy and indifference coated on the
words many strangers and friends alike utter.

Head Full Of Verses (Heart Full Of Blues!)

by Paul Tristram

Some days solitude
is your favourite friend.
A strange pub
in a strange town
by the seaside.
A good packet of cigars,
4 or 5 pints of real ale
and a spot of people watching
from behind your
extremely hip sunglasses.
Get a local newspaper
and read the usual crimes
committed in unusual
sounding places.
Buy a warm steak pasty to walk,
It’s a temporary day
in temporary surroundings.
It’s nice not even having to check
where the dog is for a change.
Remember that this is why
you are a Rover,
The Gypsy in your blood
needs to shake it all loose
every now and again.
This is the cleansing,
the re-charging, the way.
You do not always need
a head full of verses
or a heart full of blues
to spend the day upon your own.
Sometimes it’s the only way
but sometimes it’s the sensible way,
the right way, the perfect way.
You’ve learnt that much, at least
Thank God!

His Big Day

by Michelle D’costa

I wore his tuxedo
The one that smelled of aftershave
And he wore my gown
The one I had been knitting
in my mother’s womb
With strands
of my yet unborn hair

He wanted to be my bride
On the Big Day
I was more than pleased
A cake walk it would be
In my stilettos
I assured him

As he clumsily walked
down the aisle
With his father,
His waxed hand
glistened
And so did his
veiled head
with drops of claustrophobia
drippingfrom his tiara
like Christ’s crown of thorns,
weighing down on his ego

He noticed that my tuxedo
Looked ill- fitting
Hiding my curves
But no one cared
All eyes were on him
And he took pride in his gown

He realised he had to look his best
As he was the bride
His eyes asked me if his make-up was fine?

My lack of response
made him nervous
And he smoothened out
A crease on his gown
That he thought existed

I noticed his father
Was embarrassed at his son’s decision
To succumb to me (his would-be wife)

He thought the role reversal
Was my idea
His son couldn’t be that stupid!

I waited anxiously
For his father to escort his son’s heart
And mind and body and soul
To my will

Before the vows
Could be exchanged
My groom or rather bride
missed his father already
unable to progress without directions
And wondered of his belly
Too heavy
Possibly nine months later
Having no choice but to
Take pride
in its size
But also hide
the stretch marks
For my sake

I couldn’t hide my excitement
Of him changing his identity
With my name

He tripped over his gown
And I read his mind
“I’m sorry, I thought it would be fun,
I need my tux back,Your gown ruined everything,
Your gown ruined myBig Day,
Waxing is torture! Stilettos stab!
Did you sow this idea of role reversal in me?
You must have!
I would have never come up with
Such a ridiculous idea!
Let’s pretend this never happened
You can make it up to me
For the rest of your life
By being my bride”

with carol at the switchhouse

by walter conley

a decadent and secret ball
takes place here once a year
at four o'clock--just off the witching hour
we don't need electric power
candlelight does fine
a waltz with candles
down the line
i, on your track
you, on mine
as with each other
we turn out and back

Kestrel

by Michelle Reale

They are kestrels, though I know them by other names.   Honey buzzard has a nice sound to it, but I would never say it out loud.  A raptor has a wingspan that frightens me, but only in my dreams, during a full moon.  I once met a woman who made a strong impression on me for all that she lacked.  I invented interesting details about her to entertain myself, but nothing too extravagant that even I wouldn’t believe them.   Here was a woman who would not dream of buying herself something special.  There is a man, somewhere, in a country whose name we cannot pronounce that might do it for her, though.  As for me, I had so many illusions, but that was  long ago and they  have gone through the progression from  hope to hysteria.  Occasionally, I nurture them; encourage their growth.   A woman might decorate herself with the feathers of a bird of prey, but she will still be a woman:  all angry teeth, majestic, with  multiple layers of mystery.   There are complexities to forgiveness, but we seek it anyway.  These are rules that most of us will never master, but not for lack of trying.   Still, we look to migration.  We test air currents.   We lean into the wind with more than just our bodies.

House

by Tom Hatch

Dammed up lodged in my throat
he is coming home
There is the steam from
the compost heap that beckons glow worms
And for his return
seen at night behind the lawn mower shed
next to the stream flowing from
my neighbor’s property on to mine
My son flows
are you out of troubles harm’s way
speak to me of your commissions
and details of your days and hold your
head high no snow or hard rain
on your sobriety I feel guilty
because I…have my scotch every night
to sooth my soul I will tell you this
makes the soul comfortable not an injured horse
waiting to be put down
our shadows are the same my son
cast on the wall under the sheltering eaves of our house

who i was when i was something to you

by Amy  Soricelli

i am the string once i was the balloon.
once i was the free floater sunlit waves across your hair/the ocean
the blue blue ink on the page.
i am the switch once i was the light.
once i was the only beat of every drum every heart/the rustle of
the leaves across the open space of your life.
i am the hush once i was the sound.
once i was the simple bumps across the arm the silent thoughts/the anticipation of
the very moments when you'd see me.
i am the blink once i was the eye.
once i was the solid gleam the sparkling shadow/the inbetween
the words and spaces in your sight.
i am the very thing you miss.

On the death of Jesús María Valle JaramilloAssassinated, Medellin, Colombia, February 1998

by Séamas Carraher

Jesus, Signor María,
i'm sitting and the moon bursts
like an unhinged angel
through these cold holes
in the sunlight of your head.
Then they are shaped
into streets
and i'm walking on wings
between the dead and the undead
with little difference
seldom in-between.

How fragile this place called life!

With the moon in its mysterious flowers
washing your almost-human blood
from the debris of furniture
they've thrown into the street.

We are listening
to these
somehow-never-to-be-spoken words
whisper:
"it's not so bad to be this forever dead...
It seems somehow
we are all falling endlessly
across the galaxy
on the monsoon of a dream."

Jesus, Signor María,
I could almost believe you.

But all that's left
is the bursting of the moon
this beautiful moon,
and your hands, your lovely hands
hold its shining pieces
like a sad sad angel...

And then it is raining.
And we are dreaming.

We dream endlessly,
of life and death
and all our falling
in-between.

NEEDLES OF FREEZING AIR

by John McKernan

Slither
Right in

Covering the floor
With its metaphor of broken glass
Over oak across a black rug

Imitating the sounds
Of certain months and years
Of German and Russian history
Adding a strange new conclusion

To the Cinderella epic
I've just read to my daughter
Who asks    What did that?   
And I answer honestly   I don't know 
Just a fierce wind   Probably nothing   Nothing at all

Columbus Day

by James Babbs

in 1492
Columbus sailed the ocean blue
with the Nina
the Pinta
and the Santa Maria
but now all I care about
is not having to go to work
but I still get out of bed
at my regular time
get dressed
and eat some breakfast
before driving to the cemetery
why the cemetery?
why today?
no reason
I just wanted to go somewhere
and I hadn’t been there for awhile
so I walk through the gate
and stand over my parents’ graves
looking at the headstone
both of their names carved on it
and the dates that never change
I feel the wind blow
it makes me shiver
because
it’s much too cold
like November decided
to come early this year
and the sound of chimes
ringing in the air
someone left them here
because
people leave all kinds of things
but I don’t even bring flowers
just my pocket notebook
in case I have the urge
to write something down
I guess
each of us honor the dead
in our own particular way
and next to the graveyard
the pasture’s empty
no cattle today
usually
when I visit the cemetery
the cows gather over there
staring back at me
from the other side of the fence

THE HAZARDS OF POLITICS

by Alan Britt

How’d you come to this conclusion?

Leaning against lampposts,
following the opium trail
from Shanghai to London?

I hardly know you,
much less trust you.

How’d you suddenly
become my confidant?

Oh, now, I know you.

You promised Eastern Shore farmers
abundant corn
in the middle of a drought.

You promised everyone else Louisiana crabs
the size of badminton rackets
and rejoiced like the rest of us
at the sight of skinny blackbirds
warbling the graves
of West Virginia ancestors.

You warned us
if we fancied our cousin,
first or second-time removed,
we’d be quarantined for life
to a traveling circus
prowling Southeastern Florida
during the late 1950’s.

So, we remained hairdressers
and postal employees.

We waited for the big breaks
that never came our way.

In fact, we’re still waiting,
still waiting
for hollow politics
to restore our faith in humanity.

And regret, as we all know,
is a meal
best served raw.

ancient irish traveling secret

by Leeroy Berlin

my neighbor eyes me warily on the plane
either because i haven’t shaved in a week
and i still have blood-shot eyes from the night before
or because i’m pouring grain alcohol out of one of those
clear plastic toiletry bottles
the tsa lets us carry-on
into my free coke without explanation.
sláinte, i say and smile as
i down what for all he knows is a
cocktail
of coca-cola and shampoo.

one night of mistakes

by J.J. Campbell

and there she was

hair pulled back
glasses on, a laugh
as infectious as her
smile

and i was thinking
of something useful
to say

dreaming i was the
suave motherfucker
for once in my life
instead of the fat
hairy mess i am

and it suddenly hits me

my dreams have
seen way too much
late night cinemax
for this to turn out
well

and before long
she was gone

although she did
catch me staring
a few times

and i never looked away

i thought i was giving
off the vibe of go ahead
what's one night of mistakes
that your husband never
needs to know about

watching her drive away

apparently that can be
creepy to some people

everything you’re not

by Linda M. Crate

I am a spider, my legs will inhabit your walls when the yellow bones break. I am an alarm clock, I will drive you insane with fury before I have any intention of waking you up. I am that voice in your ears telling you to ‘push on’ when you know you should have turned back. I am nothing and everything all at once. I am nowhere and everywhere at the same time. Come take my hand, I will take you down places people have only imagined. I will take you down dry oceans and wet earth. I am that last sweet reminder of sanity before it is eclipsed by the realm of nonsense. I am the lucidness in a world of insanity.

ARMS CONNECTED TO MOLECULES

by Alan Britt

It’s like cobalt crabs
waving in all directions,
hailing cabs
or attending
Texas barbeques.

Political coals easily stirred
turn deep red.

But these molecule claws
stretch right through the smoke
of ancestors.

Their thin saxophone arms
in satin tuxedos
waltz beneath rivers
on religious holidays.

So, eventually, these saxophones
might again wander nude
through the forests of the night?

Ah, tonight, these arms are naïve,
much like the arms of Neruda’s mermaid
entering a coral tavern,
engaging the company of terrified men,
innocence wide open,
eyes like opals
swinging from Mary Magdalene’s cinnamon lobes.

You can’t imagine the social turmoil
caused by the mermaid’s arms opened so wide!

Reckless arms like these
create wars,
world wars,
wars worthy of trading cards,
wars important enough to be showcased
on Ripley’s Believe It or Not,
desperate wars like locusts
during the Dust Bowl years,
wars like aphids stalking the underbelly
of our DNA.

These innocent arms sometimes cause massive back-ups
on the Tappan Zee Bridge;
they turn Mazdas into snails
I-95 South into Baltimore
and cripple I-70 into Dayton.

Yet, somehow, these arms inconsolable, today,
wandering the fog
of my precious sleep at 3:30 in the afternoon.

Since, by 6 PM, after sedatives and coffee,
I’ll already have squandered the perfect world
I’d hoped to find balanced on a single strand of faith
stretched high above my Barnum and Bailey life.

Hollow Pockets

by Jonathan Butcher

Another vintage jacket is peeled from
your closet, that defines your excuse
for occupying a room, whatever its size.

Only worn when holding court, explaining
the equations of all creativity, like an over
paid critic, slightly drunk on their own
bitter tastes.

The picture frames that hang like your
original 60's cravat, may as well
remain empty, as reflections from
your shoes denote the need for
carpet bombing your words.

And your vodka is laid by the wayside, no
fear of polluting the verbal targets that the
tinder sticks of your eyes went to so much
pain to ignite. 

The trails of your shirt follow your actions,
and get under our feet like false shadows;
ill fitting, as ever, but only in the wrong light.

DOWNSIZING

by Robert Demaree

Favorite authors dropped off
For the church book sale,
The passing of a friend.
Easier to part with:
Those memos to the file,
Notes on events
Of interest to lawyers.
We did not succeed:
A storage shed, tight
With boxes, whose labels
Have lost meaning;
Somewhere in there
Green Depression Glass
That did not sell on eBay,
The Chelsea we bought for Caroline.

A Question of Policy, Verse II

by Douglas Polk

Syrians must be the scum of the earth,
sit by,
and watch them die,
year after year,
chemical weapons now engaged,
yet hard to verify,
dead men tell no lies.

sleepover

by Eric Eich

It was the sleepover that would
never end, like when the two
edges of a map curl in on each other,
into a faded, infinite spiral. The sighs

of interstates and rivers from different states \
or continents, mating. The next morning,

I skipped church to watch you spin your
mother’s station wagon around the cul-de-sac.
I waited for the car to squeal and sputter,
for the uptaking of an invitation I accepted

long ago. I thought you’d never stop.

Hallways

by J. K. Durick         

Hospital hallways are filled with
Strange shapes and odd odors
And a beeping that repeats like
A pulse or counting down, or up
To some elusive number of beeps
Rhythmic, hypnotic, the measure
Of this place and its time.

Hospital hallways are filled with
Motion and the sound of people
Caught up in the business of being.
I passed young women who were
Smiling and carrying balloons, and
A groups of medical people chatting
With the importance of themselves.
I passed a whole family who walked
In a daze of what had just happened
Or what was going to happen soon.
A young woman ran by crying and
Weaving through the crowd that gave
Way and seemed disinterested in tears –
Hospital hallways make people act
Like that – self absorbed, insular.

Hospital hallways are filled with
Helpful directions. It’s the blue line
To Baird four today, to my uncle who
At ninety-two is afraid of everything
He says, but not of dying. Yesterday
He said that if he was to stay overnight
He’d need to call home for permission.
Poor John, always the dutiful son,
Always the dutiful brother and uncle,
Poor John, the last of a generation
Waiting at the end of this hallway, at
the end of this blue line, waiting for
me to sit with him and hold his hand.
Perhaps, that’s what all these hallways
are really for.

Lillian

by Amy  Soricelli

She walks down the street/ from the down side of the street I would see
her - fresh from the subways stale fuzzy air sweeping around her collar like a scarf.
Slow climb up the stairs her walk-up/pre-war apartment
shrugging off her over-coat with her two kids rubbing against her ankles like cats.
It was the soft steady sway/the tinkly sounds from the record player
she would play around and around -
the songs in their scratchy old time 'lost in love/in life' way.
Hold the needle down strong with a penny; keep the worn lusty sound from her broken heart-
broken like the chippy sets of dishes they gave out at the movies
and the characters on jelly jars for morning milk and orange juice.
Smarter than all her old boyfriends she married bad and broke it up. Smashed her own soul into
tiny sparkly pieces; she would lay them out - my Mom - like a puzzle and say...
I will move this here and here and become what I want.
And I would ask on bouncy feet....
am I what you want... am I what you want.