RE / VERSE Fourth Anniversary Post: BLUE IS A FUGITIVE COLOR

photoart: sharon auberle

BLUE IS A FUGITIVE COLOR

by Sharon Auberle

It is the color of ambiguous depth,

of the heavens and of the abyss at once…

            ~  Alexander Theroux

Do you remember that night

I said I would have to leave?

Under a blue moon

in Clem & Ursie's Bar

you asked would I walk toward

something      or away

           

            and I said a horizon

is what I need, 

a road rising to meet me.   

Dante's 9th Circle of Hell isn't fire

but ice     

           

            yet blue light

has the energy to escape ice

and remain visible.

            Too often invisible to you I became     

           

                        blue

is a fugitive color  

fades quicker than any other.

~ first published in Peninsula Pulse

The Raven's Croak

photo: ralph murre

The Raven’s Croak

by Tom Davis

Hunched down beside a woodpile, ebony,

In shadows from the cedars overhead,

The raven blinked black eyes, its dishabille

Of feathers rustling, stirring up a dread

So dark it seemed as if it called up from the dead

White wisps of spirits buried in the snow.

The raven hopped on top the woodpile, head

Cocked, moving like a dancer in a show,

A shadow’s shadow pantomiming woe.

Dawn’s darkness deepened as the raven leaped

Into the sky and hovered as the glow

Of blood-light saturated earth and seeped

Into the raven’s eyes, its dance undone

Until its beak croaked out the blazing sun.

~ first published in An Ariel Anthology (Ariel Woods Books)

The Healer

photo: ralph murre

The Healer

by Ethel Mortenson Davis

You have been yourself at the edge of the Deep Canyon and have come back unharmed.  ~ An Elder of the San Juan Pueblo

I was invisible.  ~ An Asiatic Eskimo

In the snowy canyons

you came to me

as an eagle

and whispered

(in almost audible sounds)

"the key to the secret

of healing. . ."

For my wounds

had gone beyond wounds

and had festered

into deep holes

in my sides,

and gangrene had set in,

but, in a whisper,

you came and said,

"you have the keys within you.

You are the stars

in the starry night.

You are the source

at the mouth of rivers.

You have the medicine

to heal

already in your bones."

And my wounds became

as faint as the sound

of feathers,

as pale as the ringed moon.

And the healer

came to me

in the face of the wolf.

She came

and nodded to me

with her deep intelligence,

and her eyes told me,

"your spirit is strength.

Your force is as great

as volcanoes,

for your goodness prevails

over the dark;

your goodness

has brought you out

of the deep canyon."

And again the healer

came to me.

This time as a bear,

a joyous white bear

with great white paws,

and she told me,

"you were invisible,

but now I see you.

You have gone

to the edge of the great canyon

but have come back

unharmed.

"And now your laughter

will become

as mountainous as thunder,

and your tears

will be the tears of glory!"

I tell you.

I have put my ear

to the great Earth

and have felt your presence.

~ previously published in Poetry Cha Cha and in

    I Sleep Between the Moons of New Mexico

Sahara Blues X

artwork: ralph murre

Sahara Blues X

by Olajide vincent Ajise

We live in a war zone,

Mars’ solitary confinement,

where demons wearing turbans

perform ablutions

with cooked-blood of cherubs.

Here, adrenaline rushes

at the herald of shrapnel;

sights feed on blood-red corpses. Sadism.

We are now a sod

living under the canopy of grisliness;

a hamlet experiencing hell on earth,

For the mitochondrion of our glory

has been pilfered by bombs

and fear now writes epitaphs

on the nudity of our streets.

Help us, please.

~ first published in The Poet Community

Writer's Trap

artwork: ralph murre

Writer’s Trap

by Mary Bone

I should be cleaning house,

But I sit down to write a thought.

My only audience, a mouse.

The one I haven’t caught.

~ first published in Lucidity, A Journal of Verse (1994)

Watching Snow

artwork: william marr

Watching Snow

by William Marr

1

As the footprints in the snow

get deeper and deeper

they become harder and harder

to comprehend

2

Falling on the feverish face of

a homesick boy

the snow melts and turns into

a warm tropical shower

3

A sudden toll

of the steeple bell

shakes down

the snow

from the Cross

~ previously published in Autumn Window (Arbor Hill Press) and Between Heaven and Earth (PublishAmerica)

Elusive

artwork: ralph murre

Elusive

by Scott Thomas Outlar

We’re all looking

for something better

than what we are;

something deeper

than what we’ve felt;

something stronger

than what we’ve sensed;

something more honest

than what we’ve

been telling ourselves;

something more steady;

something more calm;

something more real

than what we’ve experienced;

something that never

winds up hurting us

in the end;

something sweet

that isn’t addictive;

something alive

that doesn’t die on us;

something powerful

that never loses its grace;

something that never runs dry;

something that never talks back;

something that comforts us

when we are hurt;

something that understands

the existential pain;

something that does not lack

in the moments

when we need it most;

something that is brave

when we are full of fear;

something that fits the bill;

something that naturally

smiles for the camera

without having to fake the cheese;

something rich without pretension;

something high without a kite.

~ first published in Dissident Voice

when your grandmother . . .

artwork: ralph murre

by Marty McConnell ~

when your grandmother mistakes your girlfriend for a man,

do not rise up over the dinner table
like a sequin tornado

or a burning flag. it is Christmas.
though the forks

curl their tines into tiny silver fists
and the frost-

rimmed windows blink in embarrassment,
focus on your lover

as she clears her throat, extra low, passes the salt
to your grandmother

who thanks the young man with the strange
haircut and delicate

hands. this is no time for declarations and no one’s
seemed to notice

though the milk’s gone solid in the pitcher
and your father

is suddenly fascinated by the unmoving air
in the other room.

your mouths do not move, except
to chew. this is family,

this is holiday, there are no affairs, no
addictions, your family

crest reads in elaborate embroidery
the less said,

the better. though your father did offer once
to pay for your therapy

back when no one you knew was in therapy
and there was no way

you were going to talk to a stranger about things
you’d never say

to your mother, even drunk, even on Easter. so
to say something now

about what might be a mistake, or just the easiest way
to explain a mohawk

would be bringing sand to the bank. unprofitable
and a little bit

insane. you study your lover’s chin. the tweezers wince
under the sink.

she could be a boy, you think. apocalyptic Christian
emails aside,

maybe your grandmother is progressive. astute
in her own

Southern, incidental way. your voice offering her
the butter is a punk band

playing an abortion clinic. all feedback
and nobody wants you.

she’s your grandmother. she’s nearly 100.
your uncle

took thirty years to get sober. your grandfather died
still owning the manual

to every piece of machinery he’d ever owned.
you still

don’t know how to make any kind of pie.
there are no

family recipes. in the far corner of your liver

your other grandmother

looks up from her patient sectioning

of a grapefruit,

offers you a chunk of your own atrophied

tongue, trembling

at the edge of her serrated spoon.

~ first published in the Beloit Poetry Journal

Christmas Night with Ukelele

artwork: ralph murre

Christmas Night with Ukulele

by John Sierpinski

I am twelve, sitting in a chair in a new striped

polo shirt, and cuffed, corduroy pants.  My

hair is slicked with Vaseline and water, shaped

and parted like Roy Rogers’.  When I smile,

there is a gap between my front teeth.  The new

transistor radio I unwrapped earlier crackles,

“Chestnuts  roasting…”  Tinny.  The radio

is the size of a brick.  Uncle Ted appears

at the top of the basement stairs and says

“Ho, ho, ho, Merry Christ…”  He stumbles,

swallowed into the great white, flocked tree.

The color coordinated ornaments and spotlight

shatter.  Crunch.  Are pulverized.  At the end

a remote sick, little bell tinkles.  Aunt Junie,

Ted’s wife, curses like some deranged drill

instructor.  Ted lies on the thick shag, fine

shards of red and green glass sprinkled in

his graying hair.  He attempts to get up —

a slow motion roll, a shuffle of feet.  “I’m

sorry,” he drones, with a faint smile.  Aunt

Hilda comes to on the sofa, looks at Ted,

and declares, “Let’s all take our clothes off!”

I sneak a glance up her pleated skirt.  My

mother catches me (a scolding look).  I feel

more and more uneasy, and  steal down

the stairs to the knotty pine, rec. room bar. 

My father is singing, “All is calm…” Uncle

Sy strums four strings, the little woman- 

shaped body of the ukulele.  I ask, “Can we

go now, Dad?”  He continues to sing: shot

glass in one hand,  lips slack, a lopsided oval.  

I ask again, “Can we go?”  I touch his sleeve.  

His hand slaps hot behind my ear, pushes me

away.  Tears slip from my eyes, the enamel 

orchid on the stringed instrument grows fuzzy. 

Later, I’m in the backseat of the car.  Wheels

slide  in rapidly falling snow, and my mother

shouts, “Be careful, dammit!”  The dashboard

light like a match flame, illuminates their bloated

faces.  The falsetto speaker hums, “I’ll be home

for Christmas.”    I stare out the window.  Crystal

snowflakes fall without menace or harm.

~ first published in North Coast Review

Mermaid Tattoo Becomes Enmeshed . . .

artwork: ralph murre

Mermaid Tattoo Becomes Enmeshed

in Her Relationship

by Sylvia Cavanaugh

I was crafted carefully and with cunning

to link my ink to this relentless red flow

nailed down to the pulse 

like a seashell ocean’s echo my 

two dimensions bend and arch

they ache to the rhythm of his three as

I’m plastered flat to a twining twitch

of muscle and deeper down

I sense the bone I cannot grasp it makes

my stomach turn and yet my

tiny nipples burn I yearn for him

trapped beneath the death of him

as his outer layer flakes away

and I’m the only witness

we hover over women with

their open legs like rowboat oars

the wretched separation 

distantly they beg for us and

gnash their teeth

we heave and sweat

the salty sea and thrash

a flash of scale on

spangled tail

'til his eyes roll back

and stare through mine

~ first published in Peninsula Poets

The truth is often hidden . . .

purse by turtle ridge studio

 by Firestone Feinberg

The truth is often hidden

As if it's made of gold —

Although it can't be stolen

Neither bought nor sold

Nor stashed away in purses

Nor kept in wallet fold —

The truth is — truth is worthless

Until the thing's been told.

~ first published in Verse-Virtual

Venus de Milo Goes Bowling

artwork: ralph murre

by Kelley J. White ~

Venus de Milo Goes Bowling

and you gotta love her, she’s just no good at it,

but she gamely stumps forward, ball pressed

between her chin and breast, and it keeps falling

out, clunk, clunk, and rolling in the gutter

and she’s up against Michelangelo’s David

with all that long-limbed, lazy power

concentrated in his wrist, looking out

of half-closed eyes at his own powder blue ball

and the Discus Thrower, wired tight as a Banzai

tree, all speed and follow-through, and she

would like to drum her fingers, she would like

to chew her nails, she would like just this once

to tear her hair out of that classic bun, then

the doors open on the outside furnace heat

and in comes Kali, on a tongue of white flame,

Kali, in her Blue Avenger Aspect, and

Kali she shifts her face, click, click, serpentine,

to each side of two mudra’d hands, catching

our girl’s eye, with that Ray Harryhausen classic

movie animation motion, then

whack whack whack, whip whip whip, smack smack smack,

strike, she rolls a prefect string with the house black

ball

~ previously published in  Ze - Books

A closing

photo by rose mary boehm

A closing

by Rose Mary Boehm

On the other side of you

there is a no place,

where silences build

bridges across hidden waters,

where Pirandello’s actors

are searching for a stage,

lost for a script.

Concrete begets concrete,

and the heart can no longer

accommodate love, or perhaps

it just dies,

gently,

of negligence.

~ first published in Ann Arbor Review

At Bus Stops on Thanksgiving Day

artwork: ralph murre

At Bus Stops on Thanksgiving Day

by Donal Mahoney

Before dawn, people

who work on Thanksgiving Day 

wait in the wind for a bus

to arrive or maybe not.

It's too cold to talk 

so the people stand

like minutemen and plan

a revolution that would shock 

nice families who drive by later,

children tucked in scarves

and mittens, laughing

all the way to Nana's house 

for turkey, gravy, stuffing

and later in the day

a ballerina of whipped cream

twirling on pumpkin pie.

Thanksgiving is the day

America asks for seconds

and sorts its servers

from the served.

~ first published in Eye on Life Magazine

The Connoisseur of Canoes

artwork: ralph murre

The Connoisseur of Canoes 

by Jimmy Pappas

Nursing a drink in my right

hand, I enter the boathouse

and wonder how long I can

pretend to be sipping the few

drops I have left. The group

forms a circle shoulder to

shoulder in my peripheral

vision. Occasionally, someone

glances my way and turns

back quickly to avoid eye

contact, while I stop at a boat

and touch the varnish with

one finger from my left hand.

I pretend to be a connoisseur

of canoes, an aficionado of

aquatic vehicles, all the while

wishing the ice in my glass

would melt faster so I could

take another sip. Until it does,

I stare at my reflection and

wonder if people had it wrong

about Narcissus, that he

didn’t fall in love with

himself, just out of love

with the rest of the world.

~ previously published in Atticus Review

Seeing Mountains

photo: sharon auberle

by M.J. Iuppa

Seeing Mountains

in shades of amber, an ecology of ash

& aspens, their expansive reach to a cloud

chasing sky casts a spell  over me . . .

                                              

 I look up into heights I rarely perceive

from a farm whose land was once smoothed

by the press of a glacier’s hand.

                                                      And so, I slide

into the pool of my shadow & sit there quietly

waiting for the windless explosion of monarch

wings or a thousand  leaves  tumbling like loose

coins tossed into autumn’s sunlight to take

 my breath away.

~ first published in Blue Heron Review

THE CHARACTER OF HATS

artwork: ralph murre

THE CHARACTER OF HATS

by Michael L. Newell

A hat properly aged

releases the fisherman

cast inside a steel worker,

the dancer shimmering

in an accountant's figures,

the sailor deep

inside a coal miner,

the woodsman wandering

in a priest.

            *****

A hat aged properly,

stiffness mellowed into character,

smells of salt water

brine pickling skin, rain

streaming through Douglas Fir, firewood

kindling friendships, pipes

lit from embers

warming conversation, contains

sun, earth, tree, fire, rain, and moon.

~ first published in Bellowing Ark

Water Sign

artwork: ralph murre

Water Sign

by Margaret Hasse

Two-year-old Charlie loves water,

loves the force of water 

in gutters, pipes, the second hose

bought to keep peace between brothers

who spray tomatoes with the intensity

of fire fighters at a five alarm fire,

loves the sources of water:

faucet, penis, rain, spit.

He longs like a pilgrim for wet places

where his worship is

complete submersion:

bathtub, swim pool, lake.

To praise water,

he secludes himself in the bathroom.

Ascending a stepping stool to the sink,

he opens valves to an endless rush

of new pressure in copper pipes.

So much water, why not share it?

Give it away until it seeps

through the floorboards,

showers into the kitchen,

fills the bowls on the table,

flows on the heads

of his amazed mother and brother

who do not immediately recognize

that grace might descend like this –

inconveniently –

from a complete enthusiast

who needs to be forgiven

for being generous

with whatever he loves.

~ previously published in Milk and Tides (Nodin Press)

So, This is What Living Means

artwork:ralph murre

So, This is What Living Means

by Angela Consolo Mankiewicz

What a relief, to finally know

what living means:

an extra skate key

stashed under a garbage can,

on the right side of the stoop.

Years ago, I tried to ponder all

the great questions.  I read Nietzsche

and Dostoyevsky and fell in love

with a bulge-eyed Frenchman.

I tried to do what was expected

of a working class kid in a state college:

think, read, talk the big questions;

prove your mother right.

But I was a fake.  Friends read N and D too,

and understood them.  They were impressed

by my love for the bulge-eyed Frenchman,

my facile quotes delivered with meaningful

pauses.  They didn't know I yawned through N

and read D because he told a good story.

Marriage and a real job distracted, just in time.

I had things to do and need not ponder

what living means.  I stopped reading N

and fell out of love.  But kept D by my bedside.

Later on, with divorce behind me and poetry on my mind,

I watched my cat play with a terrified lizard;

I looked at rain; I choked on hot winds scorching

my tomato plants and began to ponder again,

but nothing happened.

I read N again and the bulge-eyed Frenchman, but I

didn't fall in love.

I understood better this time, but I was still

shaky on details and settled down with D

to forget myself.

"Why" is a good word, a solid word that can

occupy a lifetime.  But an answer to why isn't meaning.

"Is" is a good word too.  Something of substance.

Like an extra skate key stashed under a garbage can,

on the right side of the stoop, just in case,

just in time.

~ originally published on AmherstWriters.org