Table of Contents
Queues
Anitha Menon
it's the water hour
pots, buckets pans
all lined up.
curled up sleep
calls from the corner,
temptress.
neon penances
to be performed
the serpent,
the water goddess' faithful servant
to be borne
'til silver
flows down
in a trickle
hardly quenching
the burning reptilian throat.
(this poem is about the difficulties of people in parts of Kerala, south India
where water is available to them only for a short while,
usually in the dead of the night, when they have to wait in a long line.)
Thoughts
by Anitha Menon
the mid air
dragonflies confer
in buzzing
silent circles
ever widening,
with the evening.
stone ripples
in the pond
unfurling beyond
this little
world.
outstripping
the very elements.
casting a
sweeping eye
as they fly
into eternity.
In the Arena
by David Soriano
On the Ides of March, I drew the cream of hearts
And promptly found myself in a strange situation
With an aggressive sprinkling of celery, pray tell
Thumbs up or down, crouton cretin?
We proceed to a large bowl, almost… an arena
Things are now stirring up, at this spectacle –a strange social mixer
Do you see the plot thickening as you sit?
Chill out, I say, and learn, always, to keep the crowd happy.
Introduce the hot pepper combatants tentatively
They're always liable to simmer unpredictably
If they reach a scalding point, in this hot Latin weather
Then we go quickly to a low boil.
Now you're cookin' with real class- a major gastric exhibition
Bring in the romaine, garlic, anchovies and pepper dancers
And with tribute paid to the noble Parmesan visitor…
Hail, Caesar!
I Hate Poetry, So I Wrote A Poem About It
by Michael J Perry
concentrating on rhyme scheme and meters
no more art than use of a cookie cutter
or reinacting civil wars in theaters
only for sarcastic cheers and mutters
"hes the next wallace stevens"
i overheard them say of a special new poet
he was published, thats relieving
radio plays music with ne'er a note
allowing myself time to consider his success
the merits measuring success are many
along the way you strive for each
reaching for dollar bills strewn out
on a fishing line from a publisher's van
Lynching
by Tadesse Zerihun
Oh my fellow African-American brethren
That faced lynching somewhere in a Southern town
Having suffered from lynching, the cruelest pain
Your spirit ascended as smoke to high heaven.
The awful sin of the earlier decades still remain
At the hearts, minds, and souls of us un-forgiven
Unable to ease our minds of long, long years of pain.
Of lynching that had become a ritual of racial
recreation
For those were the days when crowds gathered to
condemn
Saying: "At sun-down, all niggers out of town!"
Crowding around ghastly black bodies rapped in filthy
gown
Swaying a daylong in the warm sun-shine
Some thronged to look at, but never gazed once
Being caught in sorrow and with tearful glance
Of the brutality and the untold arrogance
While the majority enjoyed the ritual processions
Of young lads dancing around the horrifying events
Of Blacks being pulled in chains to the guillotines
And Attending the rituals of lynching as righteousness
Under the threat of indecent dictate of Southerners'.
Letter to the Editor: Cherie Staples (skyearth1@aol.com).