Wednesday, September 16, 2020

Don Kingfisher Campbell

Not the Fall


My cellphone says

It’s 106 degrees today

Feels like 108

So 60 year old me

Took the portable air conditioner

Out of my daughter’s bedroom

She’s living with her mother now anyway

And I am luxuriating in a 75 degree blast

As I sit at my particle board desk

With the usual circulating fan to my left

And Zoom poetry into poets

That they may be inspired

To forget about the weather

For a few wavering lines

And breathe out their souls


Kathryn Kuklinski

dopamine


frivolous falling in love

the thought of you numbs 

every follicle;

earth

stops rotating.


axis 

accreted 

end

obliterated.


paradoxical pages 

chime their praise 

forcing

smiles on our faces. 


we close doors 

follow wonder where

paired hearts fall

victim


to brain 

chemistry. 


the mastermind.


puppeteer in pursuit of 

chaos.


entropy 

in 

our 

favor

all fated feelings

give their blessing.


the glue will hold

holy wine

to heart

and you

to me.

Joshua Corwin

At Dark Water Dawn


I.

The Real loathes golden creed

            logic of a roaring lion;

laborers never hold a candle

            other than Diligence,

which orbits danger’s past

            as though Choice

wasn’t just a name, called Fate,

but littered litanies of splatter paint;

sincere storms with divine derision,

seldom shot a lucky arrow

with absurd brilliance

quivering into the stratosphere!

O how you drown when

            day devours freedom—

deranged, unaware

that loving you close

isn’t nefarious air to flocks of fettered geese

or sea to school of piranha. 


O, how the harbor shines

down the page of Isa deluded.

I ask my lawyer why

these questions denuded clothed stars,

caked by a thousand ills,

with shepherd naysayer soothing

            contemptuous man

wither recollection we row pollution.

I am closer to you than you could ever be.


Although inside the sea,

you don’t need imagination

to leap from your honored cliffs of contentment

            callous countries and continents of hope-

conjured growth past the precipice of change you farm 

down the slaveway.


II.

I am peace,

picturesque asylum deep in atomic melancholy Fade.

Fade grassy-white plane of existence.

Fade Kierkegaard goldsmiths, 

            handsome familiar soldiers

            who kill their injury with proverbs.

Fade with the fairest flower whose melody is monster,

            bleeding eternity unscathed with viceroy visage.

Fade as you mirror Solar Sinai.


Gems stir homeliness with loneliness, 

            pure alcohol, alchemy.

I hunger for silence and war in the air.

My heart’s contentment is Earth,

            a blind jewel misfortune,

summer spirit songs of grief.

Grieving far beyond nebulas most common

with all the citric-acid nimbus clouds.

Grieving tera-birth glow over rich, bankrupt dreams

without question.


Solemn, I return to solstice solipsism.

But I can neither sweep nor shrug under the rug

wildfire pain looming luminous dust piles distant.

I peer through my own windowpane and witness

a sandstorm of vultures, consumers, self-proclaimed gods,

who count shadows with gangrene ideas

and soldier your throat of beautiful devas,

primordial heavengravel, unheroic servitude.

I can neither stray nor stay inside leprous reason,

and let million-fueled minds of grey-chimneyed 

            churlsgrace charge

on tilled soil fresh

until each soul remains forever indoors.


III.

After the fall,

I lay naked

in cosmic quicksand ocean of star—

after star after star-

light precludes light.

Darkness forever eludes me.


Heaven’s most desired cloud

is an evergreen innocent bliss,

an entire universe of

greedy coma-seekers,

moist, beloved without question.


Your sigh is my long psalm

call Aum, emit ray of light – 

fall o low I buy me away Waive rights 

Wipe sweet sweat from brow, I bow my body home

to sticky chains, rusty memory

Commit lightning grief, strike match against gravity

saintly grime, stone vultures again and

gain freedom as you leap

            from precipice

into heavy sepulcher

            Aum


I sacrifice my silence. 

Nervous penicillin breeze 

leaves me restless, paralyzed 

by counterfeit ambrosial alacrity.


O Poverty! skip outlandish pebbles 

            across jacaranda sky of your pernicious 

                                                                        desire

O Poverty! return warmth to earthworms embered asleep 

            in cozy cottage, seek rosy dreamland noise 

            gasping for your name— 

O Poverty! grasp God-gilded driftwood 

            at the apex of compassion

O Poverty! God mourns the echoes of ethereal angels

            avalanched across delirious sky wailing 

            your name.


IV.

Naïveté, a beatific smile, calcium caelum mortis engrave 

image grace, synchronicity fatwa, the paradisiacal isle

of pearly people’s Jannah, will-o’-wisp hosannavino!

O Poverty! how your celestial oak saps tomorrow

            with your chalice malice

            brimming over with your disheveled strands

carpeting the Earth,

the people most contemptible and contented

the ones I love, the ones I hate,

the souls I must make equal

as the Great Equalizer lets go

            of the cryptic crown,

this refuse and rabble,

moonlight fastened to my chest,

the saddest street

            rumbles deep within

            my own windowpane of existence.


O celestial oak, how exhausted 

                                    this wandering wave

up the turn pike moans with crash and thrash,

descent after descent,

tirelessly trying to save the sea

in a chalice made of hands,

trying not to lose sleep

over seeds growing in this prairie swamp

at dark-water dawn.


Shih-Fang Wang

When Ash Falls


In the quiet prayer room

She lights up a long incense stick

Piously places it to the ceramic burner

On the altar table 

Then starts to pray

Her daily ritual in memory of him


The incense smoke slowly ascends

Swings and sways

Higher and thinner

Seemly his shadow in mist

Mysterious and wandering


The nostalgic fragrance of 

The sandalwood stick is

Permeating and calming

Under the spell

She dozes off with a hand

Still holding the chanting book


Time is transiently tugged away

The world is gently budged aside

In the dream

She rejoices over the reunion with him 


Only the glowing ember is 

Still in line with time

Slowly it descends down the stick 

Atop ash grows taller

Resisted to leave, it remains erect


Suddenly, its fluffiness yields to gravity

When ash falls

It makes no sound

As he turns to dust



Deceiving Fall

 

If fall is your favorite season 

And the last one was

Unfortunately, your last

It is not so bad

You won’t miss this fall

Since it is a deceiving one


Autumn is here to show off its colors

But the golden red 

Turns into sanguineous scarlet

The bright yellow now

Looks more like ailing jaundice

And the withering brown heralds

Falling of leaves along with 

Many lives in tow


The fall wind thwarts summer heat

But it also provokes a fearful chill 

For the bleak winter foreseeable

When autumn gust swirls up leaves to the air

They will be mixed with viruses,

Political lies, chicanery and 

Hundreds of thousands of 

Unduly defunct spirits

Rest in peace, you won’t miss this fall



Fall in Love


Love the myriad versatility of poems

Innumerous as the sands of the Ganges

Long or short, they all have their branded poises

Adventurous demure flamboyant unassuming

Hilarious serene mysterious enigmatic

They are all precious


Admire the authors of poems

They joggle words like magicians tossing stars

They sing intuitively of feelings

Dance impromptu of emotions 

Spirits free as birds

With genie’s power they layout rainbows

Bridging heart and heaven


Awed by the undertones between lines

Amazed at the silent songs embedded in ballads

Elated by déjà vu and serendipity encountered in verses

They are panacea

They are immortal

Fall in love with those poems

Praise the poets



Bio

Shih-Fang Wang:  After retirement from medical profession in 2016 I shifted gears and entered into the fascinating art world.  I enjoy writing and watercolor painting.  In Dr. Mira N. Mataric’s creative writing class I started to write poems.  Through expressing emotions, depicting humanity, exploring life and nature with poems I am able to gain more insight into my inner world.

Lori Wall-Holloway

It is Autumn


when I notice the blustery 

wind of the fall season

stir orange and brown

maple leaves to leap, whirl 

and dance down the street

while choreographing

trees to sway back and forth

in rhythm to a rushing sound



Times Worth Remembering


Baby toddles and falls

in rich, soft grass

of backyard behind 

two story home

full of celebrations

and laughter 

Robust smell of tri-tip 

cooks on grill as food 

overflows from kitchen


White tailed deer

observes from afar

and waits for vegetable 

leftovers to be brought 

to homemade trough 

built with purpose 

to feed wildlife

Periodically, they leap

down hill to make 

an appearance

much to the excitement

of the people


Over time buck 

leads his family 

away to search

for other provision

once owner passes


Baby, now a young man 

brings own growing

children to yard 

and shares stories 

of his past


As he looks towards 

hillside with love

he remembers 

climbing to top 

with his grandfather 

who was full of life 

and who continues to live 

in grandson’s heart



New Planting


Questions

Discussions Reasoning


Explanations

Frustrations Exerting


Suggestions

Directions Releasing …


an adult child to life resolving to make her choices

and mistakes no matter how they are viewed


Like a branch 

that falls from a tree

buried beneath the soil

watered by tears of grief 

warmed by love 

a transformative season

can sprout in her world 


Characteristic of a cutting

She will grow into a new plant

still connected to the main source


The family from which she came



Kenneth Scott

To Run Senselessly


I run.

I run.

And I run.

I have been running for decades now, just running,

running to and from work, running to and from church,

running to and from the stores, just simply running,

not even paying any serious attention to the world around me,

to the people who act like they’ve lost their natural minds,

to the current events that are draining hope and courage out of

just about everyone, to life in general, life in general,

life in general. I just run, running out of breath, joints aching,

barely keeping up. I just run, sometimes wondering why I run,

why I allow myself to be reduced to nothing more than

a hamster on a treadmill, running for his natural life and

going nowhere, running for food, running for clothing,

running for shelter, running for some kind of paycheck,

so that I can keep on affording to live, just running,

just running, just running, running, running. And it would

make sense if I had a destination I was running towards,

some great prosperity, some opulent wealth, some colossal career,

some famous name, some golden palace, some promised land

somewhere. But I don’t. I just keep running, running, running

this mindless marathon of mediocre maintenance, just running,

with sorrowful loneliness as my running companion, just running and

wondering how I wound up here, wherever here may be.

Maybe I’m running now, running, running, running, to forget,

running to forget, running to forget that a good part of my family died

when my Mom died, and no one left behind has even thought of

coming forward to try and fill in that horrendous gap,

to even try to be as loving and nurturing and joyful and gentle

and healing as she was. And sometimes, I find myself wondering,

for a brief instant, if they ever could. And then I keep running,

running, running, running to forget it all, just running, just running,

just running. Maybe I’m just running, running, running,

because I know, deep down inside, that if I really stop running

and rest,

for one

brief

instant,

I will fall down and burst into a billion endless tears, tears, tears,

tears for all the times I could have lived and didn’t,

tears for all the times I should have loved and didn’t,

tears for so much loss, so much loss, so much loss

over so many years, so many years, so many years, tears

for all the dreams I’ve had to lay to rest in the earth

like a mother losing all of her precious children,

like a father losing the will to live when his last child falls like

an Autumn leaf. And I am so weary of running, running,

running, running, running. But it seems as though running

has become the only thing I know how to do well,

really, really well. And so, like a creature of sorrowful habit,

I run, and I run, and I run, and I run, and I run,

run, run, run, run, run, run, run, run, as if to

escape some lifelong pain and yet utterly forgetting

that the pain is already deep down inside of me,

causing me to run, run, run, run, run, run, run, run, run.

---

Lord,

I just want to stop running.

Lord,

I just want to rest without weeping.

Lord,

I just want to sleep without

wasting away,

Lord.

---

I run,

and I run,

and I run,

run,

run,.

run.



What is the Sound


If a tree falls

in the midst of an abandoned forest,

does it make a sound?

If a lonely man falls

in the midst of an abandoned home,

does he make a sound? Will anyone hear

his tears?

Will anyone understand?

Will anyone care?

What is the sound of one hand clapping?

What is the sound of one tear falling?

What is the sound of one heart breaking?

What is the sound of one soul weeping?

What is the sound of one lonely man lost

in an endless abandoned wilderness?

Do love, mercy, and forgiveness have a sound?

What is the sound of healing?

When hope is restored to the heart,

is there a sound?

Can one hear the Sound

of Eternal Love?



A Friend to Remind Me


I travel a path,

a long, distant, desolate path soaked with tears,

all the days I have wept over the meaningful moments

lost to forgetfulness. I just need someone to remind me.

I have grown weary on this endless path,

so weak that the number of times I slip and fall

only seems to be increasing; and I have to move with a quickness

to get back to my feet before someone else sees me,

thinks I’m an easy mark, and attacks without mercy.

I need someone to remind me, anyone who cares. I

once had a clear sense of purpose, or did I,

before it was lost to the shadows of obscurity with each passing

decade, my footsteps automated like a creature of habit

locked in a futile pattern, my eyes repeatedly blinded by the Sun

as I keep looking up to heaven for some sort of answer to

who and what and why I am. Can someone please,

PLEASE remind me of the things that make our souls real.

I just need to remember why we have to love one another.

I just need to recall the greater value of a bitter truth

compared to a sweet lie. I just need to be reminded of why

we must always use things for the love of people

instead of using people for the love of things. I just need to remember

what it means to have dignity, to have self-worth,

to have a meaningful sense of understanding, to have love,

so that in remembering, I can recognize my destination,

once and for all, put an end to traveling this weary path,

and truly rest. All I need is a friend to remind me,

from time to time.

Jackie Chou

Falling in Love


All they hear are my words,

reverberating in the therapy room,

an overplayed lullaby.


A friend once caught us

strolling down the street.

He's no toad, you know, she said,

an epiphany flickering in her eyes.


That's the point-

they wouldn't understand,

unless they laid eyes on him-


Adonis in real life, whose face 

is like the jagged mountains,

on which I walk.




Catcher in the Rye


I want to catch you

when you fall

feel proud

as the crowd watches

and applauds

live in the fantasy

of my glory

not the reality of my failures

be I a hero or coward

to think this way


Like Holden Caulfield

I roam across town

on a dining spree

finding solace

in the stale taste

of deli coffee and pastry

the indifference of strangers


Marilyn Stalder-Burke

October Fall Fest


The Call of the Weird

Orange and black stores stuffed with

Gummy eyeballs, blood-dripping fangs

Bones, attached and un-

Skulls, wax fingernails

Masks, so many masks!

Domino, half-face plastic

Full head hiding hair and ears

One can transform into a pretty

Witch or ugly princess

Beautiful or repulsive

Sexy or grotesque

As a child, simplicity ruled. 

A bum, a gypsy, a ghost

Utilizing available home items

Occasionally a boxed store-bought

Cheese cloth costume, once worn

Losing its magic.

Adults invest more to reveal

An alter ego

Complete transformation relying

On surprise disclosure as the trick

Or treat of the evening.

In the redolence of scorched Jack-o-lanterns,

Children hustle from house to house

With plastic pumpkins or paper

Sacks screeching “Trick ‘r Treat”. 

While teens lumber up in

Undisguised thuggishness thrusting

Pillowcases, demanding candy.

With shouts, screams and howls

People move through the darkness.

The goblins will get you

If you don’t look out.

Now on the weekly walk on the weird

Side with vampires, zombies and 

Assorted story-book villains, the 

Fear of what’s out there, is broken

By commercials for cars, cat food

And pharmaceuticals to return

Us to normalcy.  

The senses miss

The Candy Corn, Wax lips,

Apples, cider and cinnamon.

But even “smell-o-vision” would not

Be able to recapture the mystique of

All Hallow’s Eve. It’s weird.

Don Kingfisher Campbell

Not the Fall My cellphone says It’s 106 degrees today Feels like 108 So 60 year old me Took the portable air conditioner Out of my daughter’...