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Madeleine O'Callaghan — Alone on Highway One
Fall sun warmth flooded the day with brightness,
Licking up storm puddles from the rain-washed coast.
The highway rolls away under the carm a black ribbon hugging
coastal hills, soaring into an azure sky.
I hold the wheel in loose control,
Dancing around curves left, curves right, over rumble bridges.
There are split moments when the world disappears, and
I am one with the road, the ocean, and the air.
I breathe.
There are split moments when the world disappears
and YOU are with me.
If you were with me, I would touch your arm, feel your warmth,
And the catch the knowingness of love in your smile.
If you were with me, I would climb down to the beach,
Bare my skin to the sun, my body to you.
At a roadside cafe I would drink wine and gaze into your dancing
eyes, while we think our own thoughts.
The radio would blast Jimmy's Margaritaville and
I would laugh enjoying your playfulness.
If you were with me, I would listen to Joan Baez, feel a righteous
surge and know We could save the world.
I'd listen to Andre Bocelli, turn left for the hills of Tuscany
with its golden red stone buildings, deep rich red wine and
dream of caressing you in a feather bed of crisp, air-dried
sheets
mounded with pillows of comfort, and slip your body into mine.
I'd ponder what made the hillsides of lasagna stone,
pressed into layers of waves,
and marvel at the pampas grass working to stand at attention,
valiantly holding back the ocean as it tries to pound its way
to the
shores of Lake Itchy Gummy in Minnesota
and you would laugh at my silly vision.
I would let you drive so I could soar with the hawks and say
"stop" the view so breath catching, I'd try to capture
it with
the Olympus and turn my camera on you,
who captures my view with a different thrill.
I you were with me, I would stop at Big Sur and stay a lifetime.
I breathe
You are not with me.
I am alone.
I smile at your memory rich on my brain, overflowing from my
heart.
I hold the wheel in loose control
dancing around curves left, curves right, over rumble bridges.
There are split moments when the world disappears and
I am one with the road, the ocean, the air,
and you.
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| Alan Caillou
— What is poetry?
Poetry can never be about some idle matter—indifferent
stuff that’s quite senseless chatter.
You’re writing, you think, a poem, or call it a verse,
with your mind on trivial matters?
There’s nothing worse.
Your words themselves must be most carefully selected,
Your deepest thoughts on your subject clearly reflected.
And that subject itself must be, I’d say, fundamental
For deeply worried about wording, be assured, is essential.
And you might like to think about the use of meter,
which usually makes the work really look, well, neater.
As the very famous Alexander Pope once said,
And in case you don’t know it, he is dead,
“When Ajax strives some rock’s vast weight to throw
The line too labors and the words move slow.
Not so when soft Camilla scours across the plain,
Flies o’er the unbending corn and skims along the main.”
One can see how the meters he uses are skillfully signified.
I’d say it makes the whole work somehow more dignified.
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• • •
John Reid –
Game Show
Couple No. 1
She had lived on organic produce and
now lives on food stamps.
He had lived on Bud and chips and
now lives on food stamps.
They met over Donny Osmond
in a Safeway 15-item line.
Neither could believe he had
mated with an alien.
Neither could believe the
news out of Washington.
They said better days were
just around the corner.
Neither could believe the
corner led to a dead end.
Neither could believe the sale on tuna
had ended yesterday.
Couple No. 2
He had painted the rich and famous and
now hopes the lights stay on.
She had served clients by the score and
now hopes the lights stay on.
They met in front of The Scream
in a polished hall.
Neither could believe the
scream was once a laugh.
Neither could believe it
had come to this.
They looked for the exit sign and
found the door locked.
Neither could believe how
awful the smoke smelled.
Neither could believe the sale of America
had begun yesterday. |
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• • •
| John Reid –
Broncos - Raiders
Bud Light, Snickers, Buick.
Acura MDX, John Ritter's last show, cadillac, McDonald's, Ford
F-150.
"This is the Lexus halftime show brought to you by Lexus."
"The Raider's kicker spent Saturday night in jail."
"Denver takes another time out."
"This broadcast is copyrighted."
"The Raiders mount a drive for the first time in the game."
Auto Trader.com — "Your car is waiting."
Cheerleaders flash perfect teeth — "Come on Denver."
"Everyone comes to play on Monday night."
Somewhere Dante weeps.
He had hell all wrong.
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Madeleine O'Callaghan – MY N I G H T I
N H A R L E M
You invited me to enter your world,
to be sucked into the cocoon of brown
where I was the center of the oreo cookie
getting down
me
taken into your hotbed of Harlem.
You invited me into the towers
standing on the edge of the ghetto
on the 15th floor overlooking the river below
a joint passed around, taken in, a test. I Win!
To gather into the white limo so long
the adonis covered in a white suit driving,
entering into the heart of Harlem.
You took me into your warehouse so fine
it’s walls burnished with time.
Eyes adjusting to the dim
the scents of shallimar and musk rising
from your dark shining sweating bodies
fashion styling
covered with clothes seeking sin.
Chains of gold, rings of glass
prancing beauties with rounded ass cut the smoke filled room
smoke not just from lucky strikes and camels.
push the edge
white powder dancing on the ends of fingers
lined on shining mirrored tables
reflecting, reflecting.
You invited me into your world so brown
to listen to the heart of music coming down
out of a horn came a sound so wailing
yellow and red
music reaching to the rafters retching spilling from
saxophone spine
purple black drummer beating into my heart
Privileged to be here.
Whisk me again into the limo so long
drive further into harlem’s root
where buildings dark with blind eyed windows
line the streets empty of life.
You took me to your cellar of a burned out shell
your all night shop,
down the case of stair, printed graffiti warnings
no guns allowed.
A single bulb lighting the knob on the door
and music cases set along the wall
bearing gifts of white powder, green weed, a rainbow of pills
to be washed and sloshed with booze tan and clear
scratchy jazz on the radio playing
into the night, into the night,
further into the night,
far into the night, far into the night.
Everyone in awe of the white, the white visiting
the white invited invited.
Glad handing. pressing the weed, the powder, the pill
the drink, the night.
Was I invited in as a test
to show the white the brown the brown the white
a test to show to a night on the town
to show the white and the brown and coexist
can coexist
can understand
the tunes of a band.
You invited me to enter your world
sucked into a brown cocoon
where I was the center of the oreo cookie
taken into your hotbed of Harlem.
You touched my heart and my crown down low and
tight
and we worked for the glow, for the glow, for the glow
that comes from the passion of bodies living life, living life
be they brown
be they white.
Anyone who knows me knows I spend
a good deal of time on the road
traveling in my trusty white honda.
The miles covered offer time
to observe, remember, and create.
In 1980 I went to New York City
I had an amazing experience
after meeting an incredible woman
at a business lunch. – Madeleine O'Callaghan
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John
Reid – In the delta
Gods and tyrants seek fresh blood
matted blood, congealed blood, guilty blood,
innocent blood, marble blood, yellow blood, black blood,
red blood, blessed blood, cursed blood, saints blood, Satan's
blood,
blood that spills from silent stars, exploding stars, dwarf
stars, giant stars,
blood squeezed from black holes.
Memory slips catastrophe under a comforter
so we can wake up fresh for the next one and the next one and
the next one
that promise and promise and promise to make nightmares die.
So hush little baby, don't you cry, one of these
mornings you're gonna rise up singin'.
Persh and Biff come to visit on sweet summer
days and in winter's gloom,
dance on the pages of old alumni magazines, glide on midnight
ice,
sit at a favorite table down at Mory's, sing "damned from
here to eternity" without irony.
They excuse themselves to wash the mud out of
their mouths in the men's room.
Black Jack's grandson topped the most eligible
bachelor lists; he was kind.
Biff knocked the law boards and the women for a loop; he had
a hearty laugh.
There is bright sun on the trail, and they hang
from a tree
strung up by slight, green women bathed in blood and fire,
women whose brothers hang from a second tree bathed in the Kodachome
of napalm,
women who wash tunic blood in the gentle stream.
The beauty of small and special roses brings
the smell of truth so
we can remember the lies, so we can remember death in the name
of McNamara's band
in the name of Kissinger's Germanic feints in the name of Nixon's
sad jowls so we can
remember the disgraced disjunction of blood and prayer.
Not even the atonal trumpet could answer Ives'
unanswered question,
not even old Black Panthers could coax the names off the wall,
not even stone sparrows flapping stone wings in 4/4 time
could mount a dirge chorus of bright college days
through broken teeth and cracked lips.
— John Reid |
• • • • • • • • • • • • •
Devin
A. Mikles, M.D. – A Poet Against War
Message to the President
Before the Peace of Understanding comes,
Lightly on the coattails of grief;
After the raging of inordinate greed for power leaves,
Smashed upon the children of this world
Many bodies will be piled up in your name.
This will be your legacy.
Here in the House of Pain we pace and
we scream,
"Is there no relief from this madness?"
"Can we not come to a pass of forbearance
Before the Logos tolerates us no longer?"
What is the meaning of love if not to sacrifice
Ones own heart to the pyre of forgiveness?
This is your opportunity to touch your soul and remember
I bleed, I sweat blood, I come with
my entrails unfolded
On the lawn of your consciousness,
Begging for a morsel of tolerance.
I am not proud, I can not stand tall in the face of the world
As you hurry the silent ranks into the position of attack.
There is no honor in the manufacture of historical context.
Allow the people you are about to kill to enter the core of your being
Feel their humanity, their hopes, fears, and love.
Then think again.
Never again will you pass this way
and neither will we.
Let us leave a gift of wisdom so profound,
That it will rock the universe into a new order.
— Devin A. Mikles, M.D. |
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