june 2010 poems
TALL AND SLENDER by sandra woodiwiss
Tall and slender, well formed.
Bright blue eyes, soft wavy blond hair.
Smooth skin, clean fingers, trembling;
Scoop the ice cream.
Pound out the price.
No one forms a line.
First day on the job,
And no one really wants to teach.
Tall and slender,
Raised near the beach.
Would he have made a good cooper,
Silversmith, cobbler?
Would he have been a dauntless clerk
Near the shipyards of unsalted seas?
Could he have ploughed the land, raised bees,
Cut sail, grown thick downing trees?
Could he have hunted the white tail,
Fished, salted and smoked the salmon?
But not now, raised by the beach,
He scoops ice cream to the old retired
Automakers who demanded and
Got their retirement and their ice cream
And this child they forgot.
Tall and slender, well formed.
Bright blue eyes, soft wavy blond hair.
Smooth skin, clean fingers, trembling;
Scoop the ice cream.
Pound out the price.
No one forms a line.
First day on the job,
And no one really wants to teach.
Tall and slender,
Raised near the beach.
Would he have made a good cooper,
Silversmith, cobbler?
Would he have been a dauntless clerk
Near the shipyards of unsalted seas?
Could he have ploughed the land, raised bees,
Cut sail, grown thick downing trees?
Could he have hunted the white tail,
Fished, salted and smoked the salmon?
But not now, raised by the beach,
He scoops ice cream to the old retired
Automakers who demanded and
Got their retirement and their ice cream
And this child they forgot.
EIDOS by c. brannon watts
Dandelion seed head dream caught in denim cuffs and dirty feet folded soft as ice cream bubbling sunlight runnel from the futon to the door in two shakes her shoulders with promise cast salt sound of the sea landlocked caught beneath a broken flip flop adjacent to oak twirlers and ripped up stain jacket carcasses drowned and flowing East in opposition idle is the martyr idyll is the Art. |
SNOW by mitchell waldman
Every day there were more and more reports that the snow was coming. And he would wait dull-eyed, tired propped by his window searching for the first crystal flakes of winter. Locked in his room he was impatient in his waiting-- with walnut cane he would hobble through the streets on rickety legs, bones cracking, down to the diner for his daily soup. And then he'd walk back as if his life were a clock ticking down the streets a still life of man with cane in a world no longer his. His eyes would meet no one's only sweep past the rushing flash of a coat or dress or boot. Creeping back through the silence back through the musty hallway back to his room feebly rubbing his hands by the stove huddling in a blanket by the window he would sit, waiting for the snow. |
NO DOMINION by m.j. iuppa
Living close to Lake Ontario, snow begets more snow. Daylight burns white glare. The air’s
silver foil hurts teeth. No one smiles much. Everyone leans a shoulder forward– heads bent down, pulling weight–like pack horses– steam slipping from frozen nostrils. Darkness comes early. Sea blue shadows whisper across fields and country roads, carrying cold to doorsteps. Cold wants in– latches onto wool coats and heavy boots. Cold wants us– even by the wood stove, it waits– waits until we crawl into bed, shivering.
*
This morning in the crab apple tree, a band of robins. Thirty peckish brothers call back & forth–not a summons of sweet-sweet-low, but acerbic shouts to be quick. What brandy ferments in fruits’ caramel skins? Is it enough to save them? Spoilers– they scissor cut, branch to branch, knocking back a few in large gulps– stirring the tree until it’s picked clean.
*
Everywhere– tracks in new snow– the calligraphy of hoof, paw, claw– all converge to stand still. Is this the treaty they’ve agreed upon? And when snow melts, what then?
*
Pinpoints of light on snow gleam briefly. The distance of stars and death has taught us to see what isn’t there. Sleep, wake, sleep, wake. We wait our turn.
Living close to Lake Ontario, snow begets more snow. Daylight burns white glare. The air’s
silver foil hurts teeth. No one smiles much. Everyone leans a shoulder forward– heads bent down, pulling weight–like pack horses– steam slipping from frozen nostrils. Darkness comes early. Sea blue shadows whisper across fields and country roads, carrying cold to doorsteps. Cold wants in– latches onto wool coats and heavy boots. Cold wants us– even by the wood stove, it waits– waits until we crawl into bed, shivering.
*
This morning in the crab apple tree, a band of robins. Thirty peckish brothers call back & forth–not a summons of sweet-sweet-low, but acerbic shouts to be quick. What brandy ferments in fruits’ caramel skins? Is it enough to save them? Spoilers– they scissor cut, branch to branch, knocking back a few in large gulps– stirring the tree until it’s picked clean.
*
Everywhere– tracks in new snow– the calligraphy of hoof, paw, claw– all converge to stand still. Is this the treaty they’ve agreed upon? And when snow melts, what then?
*
Pinpoints of light on snow gleam briefly. The distance of stars and death has taught us to see what isn’t there. Sleep, wake, sleep, wake. We wait our turn.