© Gary Blankenship
(Note: Goma is a Shinto
ceremony where 108 pieces of wood, representing the illusions of the
soul, are burned. Inhaled or massaged into the skin, the smoke is
said to heal.)
5.
Pocket Change by Janet Buck
"What
are the roots that clutch, what branches grow
Out
of this stony rubbish?"
T.S.
Eliot,"The Wasteland" -- 1922
As
locust of grief gathers its legs
for
the pounce and traffic spins
in
its clotted grave,
answer
escapes by channel of fog.
I
am seized by the question's thrust--
turn
toward ways you fanned a purse
and
opened it on Christmas Eve.
A
man with his face inking a sign
marked
homelessness, dotting
your
"I" with a tear of having more
than
your heart required in wallet clutch,
pushed
you to extend your gift.
You
dropped $5 in his lap.
He
smiled the way a cock must crow
waking
up a sleeping farm.
Teeth
became a rope of pearls,
real
in their soft reward.
Passersby
withdrew from slug trail poverty
and
the wind raced its breath
toward
frost and clung.
"Pocket
change, that's all we are
and
all we have, trading pennies for a dime."
The
song of it all in photograph
rekindled
decades hence in water bath
for
wisdom's tiny carrot curl.
"One
clash with fate, that's all it takes,"
you
murmured quietly, as if your vocal chords
had
violins in lumpy throat.
That
single reach. Rendering a bible's jacket
more
than paper babble bound.
Undaunted
by his drunkenness and sour cough,
a
memory pushes through my hands.
6.
Sea Witch's Lament by Cyril Wong
I
know what you must be thinking,
that
we witches are a sorry lot -
old,
spiteful, ugly as sin. Regardless,
every
spell will have its price,
the
rules not of our making.
Neptune
knows I did everything
to
stop her, even warned her of
that
taste of hell in every widening step,
barb-wire
scrape of air against skin,
center
of her body clenching
like
a fist, hot red tears drooling from
that
brand new mouth fixed open. But
she
was ready with sacrifice, silver voice
she
pressed like a bribe into my webbed,
unwilling
hand; so sure she was
of
marrying, of her womb filling
to
its brim with baby pairs of feet.
The
younger ones are like that, tails
bright
green and glimmering, shifting
rainbows
in every scale. Golden hair
fresh
out of water, and already, they
gush
about longing, the desire to be loved
like
the scissoring of her body into two,
damage,
we know, that is also permanent.
©
cyril wong
from "Fairy Tales
Undone" series
7.
arc of desire by Cheryl Latif
candles
burned to pools of wax
scent
of wet sand, bodies mingled
crescent
moon, rising tide
the
cry of shorebirds
listen
deserted
streets draped in lamplight
words
on skin, on paper
fresh-cut
flowers, summer berries
jazz
ballads, unmade bed
we
have journeyed the sacred
shattered
mirrors, unfinished letters
leaves
rustle against glass
horizon
stretched taut sunset to twilight
hearts
pierced, bleeding sky
breathe
nightstand
photos, sunday mornings
poetry
books open to random pages
sun-dappled
pillows, french lace on satin
coffee
cups in the sink
we
have yet to know
©
Cheryl Latif
8.
Isaac by Yong Shu Hoong
I
did not want to embark
on
a long conversation
but
I knew I had launched him
and
that it would probably be hard
for
him to stop
especially
after a beer or two
So
I stood beside him
and
played the good listener
occasionally
nodding agreement
to
remind him that I was there
as
he rattled on about being a good Marine
ready
to embrace uncertain fate
in
some battered Third World
He
spoke of the glory of sacrifice
priding
himself on the warring spirit
inherited
from Cherokee forefathers
But
looking at how delicately
this
freshly shaven head
was
pivoted on the beef-fed torso
I
thought instead about how young he really was
and
how he could very possibly die
lying
in the foam of his own blood
while
half-dreaming about a wife
he
could only remember
touching
once or twice
©
Yong Shu Hoong
taken
from Isaac Revisited, Ethos Books, 2001
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
9.
A Christmas Without A Dad by Kurt Schweigman a/k/a Luke Warm Water
Yes
Virginia, they still hunt Indians in South Dakota
This
may have not been uncommon
in
the 1800’s
But
this happened
early
morning
December
10th, 1999
A
Newcastle, Wyoming patrol officer determined
Albert
Six Feathers Jr.
to
be driving
in
an erratic manner
A
90 minute
high
speed chase
ensued
Surrounded
by police cars
it
ended in a pasture
outside
of Edgemont, South Dakota
with
3 shot gun shots
fired
from the Edgemont Police Chief
through
the front windshield
of
Six Feathers’ car
2
of those
while
he backed his car away
All
3 shots connected
killing
Albert Six Feathers Jr. at the scene
at
the age of 32
Law
enforcement controlled
the
story for weeks and
were
cleared of any wrong doing
cha-chink
BOOM!
Excessive
force was used for a crime
which
would amount to a misdemeanor
prior
to the chase
cha-chink
BOOM!
No
attempt was made to use
tire
spikes or
shoot
out his tires
cha-chink
BOOM!
Albert
Six Feathers Jr.
was
unarmed
Yes
Virginia, I hope there is a Santa Claus
because
another
Christmas passes
and
Albert’s
4 young children won’t receive
presents
from their Dad
They
still hunt Indians
in
South Dakota
©
Kurt Schweigman a/k/a Luke Warm Water
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
10.,
Conscience of Art by Gwee Li Sui
Are
you here again
under
these words,
my
country's boredom,
contentment's
failure?
Unable
to rouse
yourself,
disbelieving
of
all ideologues
(and
so of words),
you
assume poetry
is
lazy politics.
You
sleep on sheets of
distractive
metaphors
laid
out by everything
that
makes you happy
and
a hypocrite
for
you can't stop writing.
© Gwee Li Sui