For S

My friend, she wants to live
on an International Space Station
so that she can write poetry
without that feeling of gravity

she would sit facing the stars
as far from earth as possible
the set of her shoulders determined
to never again look back.

For One Whose Love Has Gone

          There was a crack
    in ecstasy; it split the oak
with flameless fire.
A raptor left good bones
in the divided tree (the spine?
  of a mouse?) & then flew off
     for a muffled sanctuary . . .

Some say get
     over it, but there you are,
surrounding it. Slant sun
     shines in. Bring it along,
bone-reader, bring the banquet.

               F O R   C N

Brenda Hillman

The Laughing Heart

your life is your life
don’t let it be clubbed into dank submission.
be on the watch.
there are ways out.
there is a light somewhere.
it may not be much light but
it beats the darkness.
be on the watch.
the gods will offer you chances.
know them.
take them.
you can’t beat death but
you can beat death in life, sometimes.
and the more often you learn to do it,
the more light there will be.
your life is your life.
know it while you have it.
you are marvelous
the gods wait to delight
in you.

Charles Bukowski

Star Bright Star Light

The vast majority of humanity

will not drive a Mercedes

try a flying car

vacation on a private beach

see the sun rise without heartache

see the sun set without a sense

of hollowness

They won’t own a second home

on the coast in Spain

or even fly there to shop

at the Supermercato.

They won’t be lucky enough to find

a broken umbrella in the rain

or swim in an ocean naked.

They won't fly to the moon to tee off

or visit Mars to discover water.

I don’t think many will see a lion

running free or witness a full blown

eclipse on some dark continent.

Will we all write a poem

to hide in some quiet place?

When will we stop to look up 

freely wish upon a star

that appears and disappears

fleeing quickly between the clouds?

Debbie Calverley

Beach

End of day

a fleet of sandpipers

rush the waves

advance retreat

so many footprints

remind us we were

all once there

for just a little while

the empty shore

breathes out

Debbie Calverley

The Poets at the Ball Game

                                             Fanaticism? No. Writing is exciting
                                             and baseball is like writing.
                                                   You can never tell with either
                                                         how it will go
                                                         or what you will do . . .
                       —Marianne Moore, "Baseball and Writing" (1961)

are not used to such good seats:
behind third base, a perfect view,
outfield grass as green as Lorca's Verde
que te quiero verde. They feel a bit like
Miss Moore, honored by the Yankees in '68
to toss out the first pitch,

dream of "Poetry Day at the Park":
a personalized sonnet for the first
one hundred fans and free haiku for kids.
The crowd raps out rhythms with minibats,
signed by the poet laureate, count iambs
during the caesura of the seventh inning stretch,
recite heroic couplets for the hitter who launches

a long fly beyond the upper deck, filled
with visiting midshipmen, white uniforms a blur.
They cheer with the sound of frothing waves,
a thousand cranes in flight.
A forest of blank pages tossed aloft.

                                   Baltimore Orioles vs. Tampa Bay Devil Rays
                                                Camden Yards, Baltimore, Maryland
                                                                                       August 9, 2005

REGINALD HARRIS

REGINALD HARRIS

Left to Itself the Heart Could Almost Melt, Mend

When the Amish girl gets off the bus
she walks over and stomps
her small black boot into a drift
in front of McDonald's.
She is maybe new to winter
this far north and wants to know
its depth. Its give. Oh,
be careful. It already has you
by the night of your dress,
violet-black with white-dotted print.

Jill Osier

One Step Further

Work with me here

And let's be real

Did any of that shit

Ever really happen?

Work with me here

There's a pile of people

Wanting to know

Doorbell constantly ringing.

Work with me here

I've forgotten your face

Even though you're still around

I just can't make it out.

Work with me here

Everything is jumbled together

Into one hot mess

A virtual plate of scrambled eggs

Hearts still beating

We are all left falling

Nothing left to catch

Here, work with me.

Debbie Calverley

Paris 4 Reunite

RIP Seamus Heaney

Song

A rowan like a lipsticked girl.
Between the by-road and the main road
Alder trees at a wet and dripping distance
Stand off among the rushes.

There are the mud-flowers of dialect
And the immortelles of perfect pitch
And that moment when the bird sings very close
To the music of what happens 

Seamus Heaney

Without Proof

Suppose my grandmother 
whose book I write in
still alive
wrapped in the red shawl
of her ninety-five years
fake flowers on her grave.

Suppose she had never been born-
who would have taken her place?
Six children; three his, three hers
seventeen year old young hands full
with mud of the land.

Now consider something or someone
you love is gone forever
or that they simply had not happened-
would you stop to listen
to the sound of a train telling stories
in the rain and in that instant
remember?

- Debbie Calverley

Count

How many days
has your sun set
your sun risen
over fields full
of surprises

a wildflower here
a polished rock there

bend of a horses neck
a paw at the ground
and yet everything appears
crickets never ending

I'm Not Here

and you were never
anything
not a great wind
a blazing sun
trees waving goodbye
a dying summer

Outstretch
thin air
shifts eludes
even fingertips
Now try and forget
Pretend

I was never there.

The biggest coward is a man who awakens a woman’s love with no intention of loving her.

- Bob Marley

Richard Hawley - The Only Road

My Latest Project

CN North American Training Facility in Winnipeg - opening soon.....

Yellow Goblins

Yellow goblins
and a god I can swallow:

Eyes in the evergreens
under ice.

Interior monologue
and some voice.

Weary fears, the
usual trials and

a place to surmise
blessedness.

Fanny Howe

Gnome

You'd never know 
his legs were missing.
She had him tucked 
coyly beneath the nested pine, 
chin propped on a tiny hand.
He sported a painted yellow shirt
a blue hat, both worn from years 
spent in so many gardens.

She never did find his legs
yet there he was content
to lie about in the summer heat
never having to run again.

- Debbie Calverley

Passenger - Let Her Go