Poetry #119

Poetry by Alex Chornyj, Lisa Cole, Walter Conley, Michael McAloran, Helen Peterson, Valerie Poulin, Brandon S. Roy, satnrose, Medeia Starfire, and Stephen Williams

Medeia Starfire
Dear Friend, Dear Heart

A doll made with a single needle
to graze my face, that pushes into
the pincushion of my heart. Bundled
in the warmest blankets, in the barest arms,
filled with nest eggs. Hair as thick as cello strings
and color of rosewood. An endless stitch
in my chest, thread pulled slow and taut
through the starched canvas of her belly.
How the ghosts in her fingers
weave into the stark cavern left
uncovered, pours her children in
as though from a cup
as deep as the gut
of a volcano.

Helen Peterson
Mr. Stephens Buys a Vineyard

Walking the rows
he tickles the grapes
with hands as gnarled
as the vines, twisted
and strong, imagining
the juice that will be squeezed
out—later, when the sun
doesn’t thread so hot,
like needles, through the canvas
hat, drooping, bent, mirroring
the profile of the man
below it, starting over
hopefully for the very last time.

Brandon S. Roy
Field Song

There are no fields but your own
The best is out of reach to those
That choose to trespass

The night’s veins are thin
The rain falls leveling the
Land and its products

But morning passes, and the
Day realizes the night’s

Walter Conley
our little easy

off minor
way up
like it should be
come unglued
this wicked waterfront
in second gear
both windows
no breeze no
one headlight
that sounds right
i see it
your feet
on the dash
hand in mine
the cheap-ass

Lisa Cole
The Truth Pulled From Her Mouth

She remembers when she was a woman—little vixen, little star.
The world was cruel. She suffered and was transformed.

It was in a dream that he came, and in dreams
she knows, metal lines mean nothing. Oaths mean nothing.

It was only in dreams that she flourished
so she tilled the ocean floor for power with her pressed body.

She birthed beauty, a new body: a thin shell,
a breakable shelter, yes. But it was clean. It was a legend.

The truth was pulled from her mouth
not with a hand, or tongue, but with a sharpened talon:

To become that which hurts us
is to thrive, to conquer.

Alex Chornyj
Convalescent Streams

Lying there on the ground
Looking up at the array of stars
In you began to circulate
Convalescent streams,
From a liaison with esoteric entities
Through your shimmering third eye
So came a moonlight glow
Along a purple pathway.
Passing in cylindrical circles
With tingly, tantric tantalizations
As essences from diverse origins
Were centered within your sphere.
In an harmonious rotation
A deep, ethereal cleansing
Removed all toxins, infections and blockages
With a crisp, citrine current.
Balancing your yin and yang
Sedating the overactive energy centres
Stimulating the underactive chakras
With strings of sentient sensations.
You are like a conduit
Being the conveyor
Of messages from outside  your realm
Which you synthesize,
Into a language
All can comprehend
You are like a medium
Who receives messages from transitional tunnels.
As you transmute these transmissions
Your vibrational frequency evolves
As this is not only a healing for you
But for all those whom you come on contact.
As you continue to absorb
So do you instantly emit
A shower of reflective cognition
Enhancing the prana of each life touched.
Travelling from the crown to the earth
All parts in between
Leaving behind in its wake
A symbolic, sustaining metamorphosis.

Michael Mc Aloran

bones strings
of the


upon which



shroud of

night to

the desolate

to ashen


I spent some time as a criminal in the city but the head gangster had a
little problem with me so I only got the dregs but at least I had my own
apartment of course it had belonged someone who had died in the line
so I was out at any time the handle was broken so no security and the
big police tapped in but other than that it was quite comfortable I swore
off meat from poverty but I kept getting hungrier and hungrier it was a
strong wind which picked me up and ran me down the highway where
believe it or not I was actually safer than sitting in a warm cell the howl
was so delightful and breakfast in an old greasy authentic spoon diner is
something I savored destiny which was perhaps a mistake but the Hand
put me in a sort of a maze I did not start I became and the labyrinth was
even now branded in my brain and I can still hear him laughing as I was
chosen but rescue would have been an insult I had to find my own way
out it was a lonely chance but I had to take it without any help and so it
took years to recover but at last I broke thru & it all worked out finally

Valerie Poulin
Distant Voices

In her dreams, a mother calls to her child.
A distant voice calls back.

In the light of day,
she dreams a tree,
places palms against
trunk, presses her cheek
to its rough, rests her chin
in collar bone. A late study of pose
and position. In theatrical slope,
there is a suggestion of loose
workings. Her body pulls
away, in search of
the sky’s other half.

In the light of day, she believes
if she encircles the tree long enough,
she’ll will her arms into branches, branches
that will lift her, in search of the sun.

She’ll will her arms into branches,
branches that crawl over one another
reaching for light. She will dream herself

tree meeting sky.

Stephen Williams

Getting over the hump of life,
into the greatness of moment-to-moment

The sky changes like your soul…

A pool of water listens…

A woman makes the wind weep…

A baby cries like the roar of God.

A pearl forms…

A tear falls…

One laugh is worth all the pain.

Let us cheer…
Spreading the news.

2 thoughts on “Poetry #119

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