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PoetsWest Selected - a page for poetry and essays(Authors retain copyright to all poems and writings posted on this page.) POETSWEST ONLINE Poems by Olivia Diamond, Jed Myers, Charles Portolano, RaynRoberts.
RISE UP by Olivia Diamond America is dying today. Look and see. Connect the life support system, Nurse. The broadcast blares Miss Liberty Declines; her vital signs are weak. If prognosis is poor, pack your bag, But where to go and who can afford A tank of gas to get across the border? We grew up thinking She was great But this latest war to make the world Safe for democracy, rid of terrorists, Has busted the bank and left us bereft Of foreign friends and made export of Munitions our primary stock in trade. Morticians and casket makers thrive. The housing market for the living drops From sea to shining sea while daddy Watches reality shows hoping tomorrow He'll find a job washing cars part-time. We pump sugar water into her veins As fast as we can even though our kids Don't read or ask questions anymore. They can't hear us raise objections Because their ears are plugged to hear The piping of music from inane pods Consigning them in isolated safe space, an electronic ipod island where thoughts Abort before the mind can conceive them, Other men's genius in hand-held device. America is dying and will sink soon Into the dustbin of popular culture. Can't you hear the whistle blowing? Rise up! The boxcar stops to carry You away, way down Dixie, away down. The mud covers New Orleans and horns Clay-clogged, can't blow Glory Hallelujah. Extraordinary means to resuscitate Are called for. Rise up, oh, my people! Olivia Diamond ********** I HEAR WALT WHITMAN SINGING I hear Walt Whitman singing. Humming the psalm of the universal soul, In youth I swilled his verses; I'm old And echo his hymns to earth and sky. Rich and poor, mechanic and scholar, Ant and elephant occupied a place In his broad compass and so do I, I, of the generations after him crossing Brooklyn Ferry, chewing a blade of grass. I hear Walt Whitman singing. Lofting in Montana, he's a golden eagle On wings of windsong. I see him Ascend over my mountain home, Dally among the larches, spy a mole In the grass, clasp it like a word to maw. He blabs with the pine squirrel, He blooms with the glacier lily, Pulsing with his baritone, I gulp sky. I hear Walt Whitman singing Everywhere, in glade or ghetto, In coyote call or infant's wail, In the snap of twig or clap of thunder, In flash of trout on my silver hook. His sea chanteys in my ear thrum, Whisper, bellow, croon eternally Faithful like the tide-tossed strand, Rocking me in the cradle, endlessly. Olivia Diamond An Illinois native, Olivia Diamond has a B.A. from Northern Illinois University (1969) and M.A. in English from the University of Missouri-Columbia (1972). She taught English as a second language in Riyadh, Saudi Arabia for two years. Has written two books of narrative poetry: Women at the Well (American Studies Press, 1989 and 1stBooks Library, 2001) and Land of the Four Quarters: A Poetic History of the Incas (Northwoods Press, 1994). She was Editor-in-Chief of The Rockford Review from 1988-90. Her short stories and poems have been widely published in small magazines throughout the country, including PoetsWest, Amelia, Raccoon, Bellowing Ark, Haight Ashbury Review, Chiron Review, Tamaqua, The Bellingham Review, and in Concert at Chopin's House, New Rivers Press, 1987. Her poem "For My John of the Cross" was nominated for the Pushcart Prize. She is a profiled writer in the Rockford Literary Anthology 2000, Confluence. See http://www.mountainofdreams.com/
HARD LIGHT Late summer midday, the concrete wall of the market across the street, flecked sidewalk, metallic sheen off the cars' parked bodies, a young woman's firmed shoulder against the gray steel bench's back where she sits, talks to her baby set amid the stroller's bright struts- all in a hard light, solidity of sun, eight minutes out of the oven. In this dense gel of the manifest world, my emptiness is exquisite. Jed Myers 9/5/08 Jed A. Myers
Johnny's gonna get a gun Sitting in the Mall intensely reading Barry Glassner's The Culture of Fear, willingly waiting for my wife to finish her shopping spree, when an old man with a cane sits diagonally across from me. Then a young man, a mere boy, with a baby's face sits next to me, with a Marine's pamphlet held firm in is right hand. A bright smile spread wide across his beaming young face when the old man said, "Thinking about joining the Marines?" "Yes, I gonna sign up as soon as I graduate from high school. My parents can't afford college. The Marines will pay for college, and I'll get good training that I can use for the rest of my life." "I spent 8 years in the Marines, best years of my life, saw the world, became a man. I'm proud of you, son." "I can't wait to defend my country, our flag, our freedom," he said, with a wild frenzy raging within his darting baby-blue eyes, like he was itching to go on a killing spree, itching to pull the trigger of an automatic rifle, itching to finally be someone. "The Marines will make you a man. What's your name, son?" "Johnny". I wanted to take that old man's cane and crack him over his balding head, fracturing his empty skull for filling this boy's head with dreams of glory. I wanted to scream out loud, but instead I just walked away for war brings out the worse in all of us. Charles Portolano ********** Taking a Stand Martin was a meek man, he began each day praying to Jesus, the Prince of Peace. He went to work everyday as the head librarian in town, working hard to earn his pay. He loved to read poetry, listening to classical music, taking long walks with his wife, and playing with his three kids every chance he could. Every Sunday morning his family went to church, but when John McCain became the Republican choice he couldn't stand the thought that this man with a temper could be Commander-in-chief, so Martin loaded up his car and headed off to St. Paul to the Republican convention; Martin just couldn't lie down and let warmonger McCain send our young ones, maybe, one of his boys, off to endless, senseless wars. He joined the other protesters, carrying signs claiming: McCain - our next war criminal. That Thursday night when McCain spoke his lies to those under his sway, meek Martin was hauled off to jail with a smile spread wide across his tired face and a sense of pride that he felt for the first time in his life deep-down inside. Charles Portolano ********** When the bugle calls In countless counties across our great country in Industrial factories workers make endless landing gears for our bombers, navigational systems for our smart bombs, our supersonic jets, turrets for our tanks, armor for our soldiers; while putting food on countless tables, sending our kids off to good colleges; pork barrel spending bringing home the bacon to countless counties, waving our proud flag in God's name for in God we trust; marching on for what's the sense of having a standing army standing tall, full of pride; certainly not to stand around collecting dust or stand down, got to get that war machine moving on or else it will begin to rust, so we bring our values to others so they too can enjoy our democracy, a Pepsi, a cheeseburger, with the freedom to see how good life gets when you march in step with the American way. Charles Portolano ********** Inherit the Wind Minister Matt pounds down his fist upon the pulpit, startling his flock, waking those about to doze off. "How dare that demon, that false prophet, speak out against the word of our God. May he be struck down dead for distorting our God's divine word; dragging his word into the gutter, he who denies the word, may this black Devil that walks among us suffer eternal damnation, and those that listen to this wicked one know the Lord's wrath. Let us pray that God shall rain down fire and brimstone; a tempest so fierce as to tear down his house where his word is heard. Let our Lord bring lightning down upon him, and those heathens that come to hear his heinous lies bear the burden upon their lost souls." Suddenly a thunderclap is heard off in the distance, as the wind picks up, trees bend, branches snap off, banging against the building, The thunder grows louder, nearer, as those of the flock burst into tears, crying out in anguish. A lightning bolt illuminates the heavens, striking the tall cross upon the roof, it tumbles down with a crash, the wild wind bursts through the wooden doors, rushing down the center aisle, knocking Minister Matt hard to the pulpit floor - then darkness descends, filling fear in the hearts of the frighten, shocked flock. Charles Portolano ********** Sensing the end coming… Walking down Main Street, under the street lights, down along the grass path, we pass the filling station where Dad buys his gas, next our Church with its white cross illuminating the dark night sky, then the empty barber shop, where all the men of our small town of Danbury mingle and talk for hours about baseball, who won, and, of course, who lost; how the teams are doing in the standings. Ray, the barber, knows all the batting averages of the each of the players in the American League; he could talk a blue-streak about America's game, as he calls it, walking down Main Street with my girl, Edna, walking to the soda shop, in the center of town, to have a cherry coke soda and a big, heaping piece of Mable's apple pie, the best in town, hits the spot every time as a smile spreads wide across our young faces, filling our bellies, being so content, we walk home under a full moon shining through the oak trees that line Main Street, with the white noise of meaningless chatter, I can sense the end of the summer coming, making me think… Will I even talk to blue-eyed Edna in the crowded hallways of our high school, this our Senior year? Charles Portolano Charles Portolano was stationed at Luke AFB outside of Phoenix in 1977-78, fell in love with the desert and five years ago moved to Fountain Hills, Arizona. He started writing when his daughter, Valerie, was born with life-threatening illness. His collections of poetry include:
After The Film, Capote Forgive us the violence in men we make Murderers of love, our most unloved-- We use Like sacrificial sons, killers we kill, and create. RaynRoberts ********** BUDDHIST INFOMERCIAL Love is the discovery of one person Who will Share your own high opinion of yourself In return for Doing the same for them! Sex, a most additive intoxicant And Beauty Essential to all Romance Are indirect ways To what lies beyond "love"... Compassion For all that lives. So take the direct route, Reflect on what the body is And where is goes, Kiss your lover with meditative lips. RaynRoberts ********** FALL AT SALMON CREEK And he brought it down, sun burning between us free as mountain air, cool water sweat on skin the wide rock we lay on, deeper than any bed a pleasure nest innocent as the maidenhair. Naked on granite or in stream, he pointed out turk's cap and columbine, wild orchard and lobelia were never more pure more alive the moment quail flew up through the ascending fern and trout leaped in a clear pool… He brought them into being, and nothing, no one could harm me. Sixty feet from the top, sixty feet the water of Salmon Creek Falling like clear-light-sun-fire cascading into summer. Oh the idiotic idea of time! If heaven is more than a dream It's here, and he… no, we brought it, we bring it… into being. RaynRoberts ********** Units of Energy This is a bit of pay-per-view history: Two units of energy, electrical opposites, In the ordered chaos of New York City, forced apart, yet drawn like moon to earth, Confiding a greater mystery than time or powers imperial, exploded on impact. Oh, the passionate blast of these unions! Pieces of empires may lie in the shrapnel Or the simple lines of unforgettable tunes, immeasurable force of flowers, fire Business, poetry, humor rain like water in hell- Origin of sorrow, insight, warmth Nothing equals the creative destruction of birth; nothing's as cosmic or common as family, Yin and yang in each, each balances a lack, each watches the other's back lifetimes. My father, a fighting unit, soldier, gardener, American everyman; Mother, a life-giving power A goddess, only to him- the two as one began in a look, word, a natural collision of flesh But where it ends isn't sure- what's clear? Generation's eternal demand, a primal energy In every living thing, and yes, E = MC squared, but there's no perfect formula for love. RaynRoberts ********** EPIGRAMMATIC Because they have none or won´t listen well, those with stories and those with none to tell Don´t always get along so well. RaynRoberts ********** Neighborhood Notes Where is the heart needed to answer the demands of life? My sleep is full of nightmares I shake from my head as I wake. Each time I do, there's less of me- you'd think some doctor Would understand this- I've given up on being understood. I find lunacy in the world and in me-why should it matter, There's a lunatic in everyone, just look closely, long enough- In the kitchen sink a spider struggles to climb impossible white walls. I pour coffee; go to the study, to the gurgle of a mountain brook: Recorded sounds drowning out the world, the horror next door. On the window sill, in an envelope, my father's will waits. I should have burned it, thrown in a campfire long ago. Carpenter ants are trying to invade, I lay traps in the garden Wish I had traps for the evil around my house, my body, I drive it out of mind every chance I get, but it waits at every turn. The Dhammapada sits on the back of the toilet, my reading glasses Lie on top-some would call that a sign, I just see eyeglasses And the right thing to read, open the window for air, last night It rained, the sky, blue as the light dying in my father's eyes, is mute- I'll call a friend, tell her I woke to genius, that too is in the world, Some get a glimpse if they look long and deeply enough Even while a murder of crows gathers in the cherry tree, even as ants Regroup with heavy intention, a spider is washed down the drain.- All these things and causes created have serious ends. Where is the heart needed to answer the demands of death? My neighbor, a paraplegic, the man I would like to call freak Stops his wheelchair under my window under the same mute sky, His mother appears with a jacket, he rolls away; his garbled goodbye Is utter nonsense to me, but she looks in his eyes, she understands. RaynRoberts RaynRoberts, a poet who writes about peace, war, political and social issues was born in Jacksonville, NC and is a long-time resident of San Diego and a graduate of the University of San Diego where he studied English Literature and Religion. He recently spent several years teaching in South Korea. He's published three books. His latest collection, published by Poetic Matrix Press in August 2006, is Of One and Many Worlds. The Fires of Spring, a collection of Buddhist poems, is reviewed by editors at The Golden Lantern and Poetic Voices. In 2006 he was included by Evolving Editions in their interfaith understanding series Illuminations. His work appears in the printed anthologies: The Book of Hope and The World Healing Book from Beyond Borders Press ~ In the Arms of Words: Poems for Disaster Relief by Foothills Publishing and Sherman Asher and The Philosophical Library of Escondido California's New Anthology entitled Paths. He is widely published. He toured the country in 2003 to promote a collection of experimental and traditional forms, Jazz Cocktails and Soapbox Songs.
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