The Palace of Tears
In memoriam – Henri Cartier-Bressonby Paul Murphy
Here is the Palace of Tears
A stolid, square building.
Bustling crowds cross and re-cross
Enter the U-Bahn, depart.
For homes, workplaces, infernal
Dwellings infested with machines.
Communication is no problem
For a street has a name.
People meet, populate cafes, bars
They have many trivial cares
And many trivial loves and likes
Such talk the future soon forgets.
Beneath the Palace of Tears
Are the trash cans, broken bottles,
Rubble, remains, a yesterday
Broken into, disinterred.
So the crowd disperses
It needs to be told what to do
So intimately, so easily
And a crowd can be led.
Raise a hand, wave a handkerchief
Read out the latest news:
Laugh, cry – the gamut of human emotions.
The eternal photographer grimaces, unkempt
His vignettes and silhouettes and Leica
Camera are everywhere, he is the neatly dressed man
On the train, merely immortal,
Well dressed but cold.
He fiddles with his Leica
He says nothing, he retorts (when questioned)
'I am a photographer and untrained.'
Not so much a doppelganger
Your brother, he departs.
At the Palace of Tears.
The carriage is chill, not so
Chill as death but almost so.
Copyright 2004 Paul Murphy ( clitophon@yahoo.com).
Reproduction is prohibited without express permission of the author.
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The Gray Seed Crowns Of Dandelions
by Linda Benninghoff
I remember one August
blowing away the gray seed-crowns
of dandelions Some landed at my feet.
others the wind carried as far as the next yard,
where a bed of poppies grew; still others got blown away again,
I made wishes,
not really knowing what I wanted
wishing for a long summer or
for an end to school.
I knew nothing of death
as I know it now--
it is the empty room I always fall into,
the angular face I see in all
the small shadows in corners.
But then I was fine.
My parents laughed and joked.
Death was not near.
I did not sense it
in the dark
with the night sky waiting for its cover of stars..
Copyright 2004 by Linda Benninghoff (Benningln@aol.com).
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Pictures Of A Young Man
by Nancy Schoenstein
I did not know my father
He was, to me, an enigma wrapped in a riddle
Sometimes he would visit
But mostly, I saw pictures of a young man
With three little girls
My sisters said, "This is Daddy and you;
You were the baby of the family.
You were an, "accident".
My sisters are older than me
And know so much more about such things
There are some old photographs in a shoebox
One of the little girls posed in them
Wore a flouncy dress
She held the skirt out from her legs
Like an open paper fan
It was the young man's idea
This made the young man smile
The little girl liked it when he smiled
My sisters say, "Boy, he loved that little girl
I believe them
My sisters are older than me
And know so much more about such things
There are some dreamlike images in my mind
Of the young man in the pictures
He pushed a little girl in a grocery cart
She was only three
She had curly red hair, like me
She had dark brown eyes, like me
The little girl was naughty
She called the young man,
"Little Wise Guy"
He scolded the little girl
But, she saw his secret smile
My sisters say, "He thought she was adorable"
I believe them
My sisters are older than me
And know so much more about such things
My sister and I go and visit
An old man now
My sisters call the old man Daddy
Not me, I call him Pop
We visit and talk to the old man
Sometimes the old man and I sit together
We like to watch old westerns on the television
We talk about the old man's Pop
He was a cowboy and a Texas Ranger
My sisters say, "We're glad you got to know Daddy"
I believe them
My sisters are older than me
And know so much more about such things
"It is a wise father that
knows his own children"
William Shakespeare
Copyright 2004 by Nancy Schoenstein (quantum.61@netzero.com).
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Simmering
by Raud A. Kennedy
Frustration simmers like
The chili on the stove.
Another birthday days away
And still living in an apartment
Where the floor slants
like the deck of a ship in a storm.
Self made barriers lay in my way.
Laziness, depression, addiction.
With luck, I'll boil over.
Copyright 2004 by Raud A. Kennedy (raudkennedy@new-england-dog.com).
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Baby Breath
by Dan Burnstein
At the hospital for delivering live babies
Rebecca came to us finally
they told us to hold her
much like trying to hold a former meteorite
a baby cap on straight
unwrapped in her receiving
soft as the measure of days without end
eyes avoiding breath held
perfect pink passing
light as we sat together
10 fingers and 10 toes
the happy say they counted them
we did it anyway
just next door was
1000 miles away I measured it to be sure
we mostly didn't talk
to her or each other
black hair glued to her
head by the pressure of birth
anointed by our tender silence she seemed so calm
how small the wrinkles
how much growth could have been
when the nurse left
with Rebecca where was she going with our precious
slice of red-orange leaf on the cumulous mist
Copyright 2004 by Dan Burnstein (dan.burnstein@comcast.net)
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Farmers and Packagers
by Daniel Gallik
All the idol-images take
them where their worths
are cents. Like they did
their work during days,
days that cloudy light
dulls visions of truths.
The farmer has not been
there. His fields, all
dirty, give food, and not
bucks. His family's been
living dull lives, years
of past and future. He
has deific sketches in
his old head. Dulled
windows only shine in
the summer when growth
is left up to God. All
money left to the boxers.
Curls of smoke rise in
fall. They look like sin.
Copyright 2004 by Daniel Gallik (sixgalliks@alltel.net).
Reproduction is prohibited without express permission of the author.
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Letter to the Editor: Cherie Staples (skyearth1@aol.com).