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In the cacophony of the school playground, I hear
sounds from your voice;
in the stillness just before the storm winds hit, the silence of
your voice.
Rising before the sun, to prepare for the workday
ahead . . .
There, in the tea and toast on the table, the elements of your
voice.
Drifting across the hypothetical somethingness of
the fifth dimension,
those two titanic branes — your voice bringing order to
collision-chaos.
The eager kisses, the insistent hands, the
generation of love-heat,
the ecstatic cries of need and want uttered by your voice.
Lying in the shelter with the blizzard raging on
the wall's other side,
Scott's eyelids fluttered shut for the last time to the "come
hither" of your voice.
Looking at pickles and olives in the Middle
Eastern grocery store,
your arm around my waist, your voice whispering in my ear.
Listening to Vaughan Williams' "Fantasia on a
Theme by Thomas Tallis",
your voice sounding so very clear in those soaring melodies.
Late at night, the sounds of your breathing from
the couch,
the seeker turns a page in the book and reads the words of your
voice.
The bomb was born in shame, in one of those
holes
In the world we never can admit are holes.
It went to the usual school and learned a
tongue
Of knots and rags, a fabric knit with holes.
Fired up to feed the poor and equip the
hospitals
It soon quit school to learn the gist of holes.
It listened when the politicians pleaded
Don't leave your ancient hates to twist in holes.
Our bomb, on schedule, burst out of its
skin,
Rose to the light through a rainbow mist of holes.
A war-wound's not one wound, the surgeon
said.
Why don't we quietly make a list of holes?
But holes are strong and deep, the mourners
said,
And who will hear our screams, if we desist from holes?
What god is on our side that tells our side
To score own goals, run ripped and lit with holes?
Let's sing a Carol, plan our trip to Mars
Where holes will freeze; where they'll be history, holes.
Snuggled in a cocoon en plein air sur
terre
Safe from the predator, en plein air sur terre
Nestled in the hubris near the adder's
tongue
Dreading inner shadows, en plein air sur terre
Teetering edges/vulnerability
And a wild sweet aura en plein air sur terre
Suggestion of it hanging/moving in trees
Enticing rendezvous en plein air sur terre
Softly touching her face/madness of raw
need
Chasing back the shadows en plein air sur terre
Ashes of solitude/like a Luna moth
My morning sky turns flame en plein air sur terre
When I first saw you, I felt a hello-moon,
Like I was phasing into a tallow moon,
Sitting in a chair/hands moving/crocheting,
And I longed only for your allow-me moon.
A sweater, scarf — I really didn't notice.
My eyes were still hazy with a sallow moon.
Watching your fingers back and forth back and
forth.
My swaying and shimmering with a jello-moon,
Wanting to learn the warp of your creating,
Caught up in the glowing of a halo-moon.
Teach me teach me how your Christmas fingers
fly.
I'm ripe for learning/spring in this fallow moon.
Drawn into your eyes I feel their allure.
Ben, said I, it's time/forget that fellow moon.
In a shower of crackling sparks another log goes
in the fire
ting of champagne glasses, warmth of skin on skin, the fire
Faceless shadows in a circle, to the beat of
drums
a first time dancer lights her poi and starts to spin the fire
Smoke jumpers on a wind-swept forest ridge, the
helicopter
trailing water in a bucket on a line stretched thin — the fire
A Galeotto was the book; they read in it no
more
all hope abandon ye who enter in, for mortal sin, the fire
So prettily it curls and shrivels just before it
burns
I save the stamp and toss another of your letters in the fire
You are the fragrant steam of the soup
You are the feeling of fullness after the meal
The cat patiently so patiently stalks the
rabbit
In my seeking I see you are waiting for me
To open the door one simply turns the knob
In the next room you are awake with longing in your eyes
After the long journey I collapse weary of travel
into the chair
And you are there to serve me tea and ease my weariness
The bed is soft and large with sheets of
satin
You are the lover eagerly kissing my eager mouth
Rising from my bed in the middle of the
night
You are the prayer seeking release from my lips
Morning begins with the rising of the sun
The seeker awakes to see you are the light
When you read the ghazals in this issue, I hope you see the thematic continuities, juxtapositions, and leaps that I do.
I have been very ill for nearly a week, so, in the interest of getting this issue published, I'm going ahead with no more comments. I hope to write comments in a few days. (I still can't type!) Fortunately, all elements of the April issue were all ready to go, except comments.
If any reader, not just the poets, sees a mistake, please email me and I will fix it it.