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Locked Inside

I have often marveled at the glory of the sun,
When it rises above the trees in full bloom in the summertime-
Innocently gazing over the magnitude of its mysteriousness-
I could capture each moment within my cupped hands-
Each moment that its rays pirouette, casting its shadows
Upon the grass that is nearly laughing as it sparkles,
While it reflects in its dew each ray at the dawning of every new day-
I am alone every morning when I awaken to welcome
The miracle of each new day-I am alone as I hope and wish that
Someday I can be a part of this gift nature has bestowed upon this world-
Being in motion with the gentle breeze that rustles
The leaves on the oak and maple trees which I can see
For miles and miles until they reach the mountains on the horizon,
Then meeting with the sky-
The sky, cobalt blue in its hue and there, not a cloud to be seen-
I see the trees, the mountains and the splendor of the sun at daybreak-
I can see the dew upon the grass capturing the sunlight, as
Each ray reaches out as would a cherub with her arms outstretched-
I can feel the gentle summertime breeze lightly touching my arms
In an almost sentimental way-

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poem by Claudia Krizay
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You Read My Poetry

You read my poetry
and you need a locus,
something to hang on to,
a familiar milieu, a focus,
right ascension and declination,
a starmap and astrolabe,
and the usual pictures painted
on the lens of the usual telescope.
If I had wanted you to follow me
I would have dropped breadcrumbs,
I would have spray-bombed the trees
an adolescent cadmium red
to show you where the road goes.
I may have been pulled like a weed
from the garden of Eden
and tossed to the wilder side of things,
a meteor among boundary stones,
but that doesn't mean my darkness is tar,
or all these stars are a kind of quicksand
you're sinking through like a sculptor

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poem by Patrick White
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The Wren

It was a quiet morning;
As usual my wife Laureen opened the front door (leaving it open wide) in hopes that the cat would follow her out. (Little did she know that a small intruder had flown in through the open door.) After retrieving the morning newspaper, with coffee mug full of steaming coffee Laureen settled into
her morning ritual, with "Neferkitti" (our cat) snuggled on the bar stool next to her.

Suddenly there was a flutter and thump as a tiny wren flew into a window in the dining room.
The bird fell to the floor momentarily stunned. Taking advantage of the moment, with great speed and agility Neferkitti pounced on the helpless bird. Mouthing the bird softly, she presented her catch to her master. Horrified Laureen admonished the cat, screaming "Let her go". With great reluctance the cat dropped the bird on the floor. After a few moments the bird flew up to a tall cabinet, where she landed to assess her predicament.

At this time I was laying in bed reading, when I heard Laureen shout loudly "Ray get in here there is a bird in the house'. I slipped on a shirt, grabbed my glasses, and walked in just as the bird took flight and landed on the rail leading to my upstairs office. Walking up the stairs slowly I reached for the perched bird who quickly flew back down to the family room. Not seeing where she landed I searched the room. Suddenly she flew into a large picture window in the family room. The confused bird sat on the sill looking out of the window. I approached the bird, who made no attempt to fly off. I reached down, and with cupped hands gently picked up the traumatized bird. She chirped once and settled into my warm hands.

Making my way to the sliding door that leads to the outside deck I stepped out and opened my hands to release the bird. Gripping the index finger of my right hand she was reluctant to fly. I stood there, and time froze.

Our eyes met, and I felt the impact of what was happening;
From the wren's perspective here stood a god-like giant with the power of life and death over her. From my perspective there perched on a single finger was a tiny creature who I could crush with hardly any effort. In that brief moment we were both experienced the miracle, diversity and fragile nature of life.

"All creatures great and small"

Walking over to a bench on the deck and with palm up I waited for the bird to step off onto the safety of the bench and freedom. She gripped even more tightly, as if she'd found safety in my hands. With my left hand I gently coaxed her off my right hand onto the bench, where she stood looking around. She made no effort to fly away, so I went back through the door, closed it and stood watching, hoping that she was not seriously injured.

While walking up the stairs to my office I heard Laureen (who'd been watching) exclaim loudly;

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poem by Ray Lucero
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Scouring The Patina Of Time Off With Stars

Scouring the patina of time off with stars
the way I used to grind pyrex plates
with varying grades of carborundum
down into telescopic mirrors, then silver them
with a vapour of aluminum to add
to the luster of their parabolic eyes.
Been looking into the darkness so long
I'm beginning to shine on my own.
Now from moment to moment
there's as much darkness coming out of the light
as there are black holes sand-blasting
the hour-glass shape of this bubble of the multiverse
with firestorms of desert stars as I make my way
from one oasis to the next where the mirages
wander in out of the night to drink
from the reflections of their own faces
with hands cupped like the hulls of leaking lifeboats.

I don't believe a life of delusion is any less painful
than a life of enlightenment, even if

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poem by Patrick White
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The axis life and love rest on

Early February
I was grabbed by the heart
by a hand that has left an unassuming mark
dragged me into his world
so eager that I ran and led the way
only to fall to the ground
and now here I lay
looking up at the stars
constellations showing all that we are
you're looking at Pegasus
and I can't take my eyes off of Cepheus
but I am blindly hoping
that eventually they'll align
And the Greek God's will cry
because their remains are what will
make our world shine
Sometimes I see you as a tornado
of chaotic beauty
spun with excitement and bravery
I see you in puddles with rippled reflections

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poem by Vanessa Grixti
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If I Die

If I am to die today, listen and please try to understand
I am not to be blamed, as
These woods are adamantly magical, although the sky,
Overcast and gray as it is,
I could envision the rain falling, though
No droplets seem to be touching the ground,
Paved with asphalt it is,
Black as a nightmare it is, and
If I were to have been attacked or strangled by
This strange person whose voice I have heard commanding me to die,
Some horrific humanoid creature that wants me damned, dead and gone,
If I am to die to day, it is to be my fate;
I just cannot persevere,
Not one more moment, neither a second longer, as
My pain has cut me so deeply,
I believe my time has come.
Please do not pick roses for me, neither
Wild flowers whether be wild violets, dandelions or
Let the morning glories open and laugh all they care to, as
I cannot laugh, but neither can I weep,

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poem by Claudia Krizay
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Land of chocolate

I took a walk out of the ordinary today
i didn't work, rest, nor did i play
i walked out my front door with a wish
a wish that i could walk to a chocolate land
so i closed my eyes and imagined...
and there it was in my mind...
a fudge chocolate gate stood in front of me
i ran up to it with urgency
to my surprise the gate was locked and could not be opened
a note in white chocolate stared me in the face
it simply said in big bold itallycs
'please eat your way through the fudge gates'
and so i did...(i took a huge bite and chewed and chewed)
i bit one whole bar off this fudge gate
(and because i'm imagining it, my hunger is never satisfied
and i can not get sick, WaaHaa!)
i finished my BAR of chocolate and huddled through

I could hardly believe what lay before me
the clouds where only forty feet above the ground

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poem by Allen Steble
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A Labour Day!

This empyreal, celestial bodies & the core, all a place assigned,
Mine lies in a wearied sunrise, crackling in a pool of sweat, cupped in my palms,
Like an obelisk, defiant heaving dawn from the elements,
Passing of my day, fathomed in the Sun’s shadow, moving across my length.//

No lofty notes sing my praise, with a catch in their heart,
No great affections fret their inattentions or miss their embrace,
In penury my sweat reigns; intimidations &wretchedness, all on me are in vain.
Your skyscraping cathedrals were once putty in my hands, thrown into your windowpane//

Alpha &Omega of my life, bejeweled with the non-material Tiara of undiluted sweat,
Where my hands had’nt reached it hastened darkness;

Sweat Talk; --
I embark on my great journey; I am sweat, talisman of the diligent,
Trickling beads across his forehead & chin, fat shining,
Hoodwinked by pimp time, ran into bricks that went to build your house.
Faithfully waiting for him around the corners, during his work pauses,
I have felt the cellar chills, as sepulchral as a church confession,
Flowing down his side locks, lingering in my path, patient.//

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poem by Seema joglekar
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The Life of Love XVI

Spring

Come, my beloved; let us walk amidst the knolls,
For the snow is water, and Life is alive from its
Slumber and is roaming the hills and valleys.
Let us follow the footprints of Spring into the
Distant fields, and mount the hilltops to draw
Inspiration high above the cool green plains.

Dawn of Spring has unfolded her winter-kept garment
And placed it on the peach and citrus trees; and
They appear as brides in the ceremonial custom of
the Night of Kedre.

The sprigs of grapevine embrace each other like
Sweethearts, and the brooks burst out in dance
Between the rocks, repeating the song of joy;

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poem by Khalil Gibran
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An Explanation of America: A Love of Death

Imagine a child from Virginia or New Hampshire
Alone on the prairie eighty years ago
Or more, one afternoon—the shaggy pelt
Of grasses, for the first time in that child’s life,
Flowing for miles. Imagine the moving shadow
Of a cloud far off across that shadeless ocean,
The obliterating strangeness like a tide
That pulls or empties the bubble of the child’s
Imaginary heart. No hills, no trees.

The child’s heart lightens, tending like a bubble
Towards the currents of the grass and sky,
The pure potential of the clear blank spaces.

Or, imagine the child in a draw that holds a garden
Cupped from the limitless motion of the prairie,
Head resting against a pumpkin, in evening sun.
Ground-cherry bushes grow along the furrows,
The fruit red under its papery, moth-shaped sheath.
Grasshoppers tumble among the vines, as large

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poem by Robert Pinsky
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