Saturday, July 11, 2020

Bruce McRae - Three poems

1. To The Powers Of Twelve

Two-faced January,
frigid February,
a baneful March.
Falling through the numbers,
April vindictive,
May the animal
we’ve long suspected.

A sudden June has befallen us,
planets in regression.
A heated July.
An argumentative August,
its fugs and thunders.
September made of wax.
Luscious October,
posed provocatively,
like a cold shower.

November undressed.
The bastard-child
they coined December.
A blow to the sternum.
A lowly servant
to reason’s master.

***
2. The Palm Of My Hand

Render unto Caesar, sayeth the taxman,
his face like a final demand,
his face like a stormy Monday morning.
Like a door kicked in.

Your name is underscored in red,
thus spaketh the taxman, his jaw clenched
like a fist, like a knotted rope of hair.
His words were spit and bitten.

Discomfited, for want of another term,
I examined closely the holes in my hands.
My mind wandered childhood’s summers.
I lay in the tall grass and surrendered sweetly.

***
3. Wrong-Headed Prophet

I’ve a face like a torn curtain.
A face like a punched wall or rat’s dinner.
Like a smoking battlefield.
What Shakespeare would tag rudely stamped
and curtailed of fair proportion.

A stranger in stranger times,
a frightener of small children,
I’m not the prettiest angel in the choir,
my face like a crumpled map
jammed in haste to the back of drawer.
Like a dog chewing a hornet
or car crash on a desert road.
Where few are known to travel.
Where the unloved walk alone.

Saturday, July 4, 2020

Patricia Walsh - 2 poems

Patricia Walsh was born and raised in the parish of Mourneabbey, Co Cork.  Her first collection of poetry titled Continuity Errors was published in 2010, and a novel titled the Quest for Lost Éire, in 2014.  Her poetry has been published in Southword; Narrator International;  Third Point Press, Revival Journal; Seventh Quarry; Hesterglock Press; The Quarryman; Unlikely Stories; and Otherwise Engaged.  A further collection of poetry, titled Outstanding Balance, is scheduled for publication in March of 2020.  She was the featured poet in the inaugural edition of Fishbowl Magazine, and is a regular attendee at the O Bheal poetry night in Cork city.

Saturday, June 27, 2020

Robert Ronnow - 2 poems

TED Talk



Biology TED talk, Ken Burns WWII
Multiple choice plus open response =
Teacher cares, out there among the English
Mathematics, fractions to imaginary i

Anything can happen any time, I mean
Mass killing—public school, movie theater,
Post office when every mother wears a gun
Yet happiness permeates like CO2 + sunlight

Photosynthesis + electricity = burning bush
Hot tea, hot shower pleasure perfect rest
Early to bed, no more lies, complexity
Poetry about history, i.e. Wolfowitz

As for non-fiction, most things qualify to know
Astrobiology, search for LUCA, FLO
Minerals on Titan, organisms on Enceladus
Divination on Iapetus, peace on Earth and Tethys

Volcanoes and tsunamis, Big Red One and Private Ryan
Don’t stay up late, take your vitamins
Sin and crime being nothing more than
Mental malaise, imbalance. Love and compromise

Tolerance, practice worksheets, brilliance
Prejudice and superstition, Tha’s a wrap
Nothin doin, ain’t gonna happen, freedom’s when

Yes is mostly a blessing and No is always an option.

***
Material Life


Absolute science and art of being whole
at one and under no delusion that
mankind (or nature) give a shit
whether you amount
to something or not.
Narrowed down
nothing

nothing but matter matters, matter, content
of life (serious, love it) hate
death, for the hell of it, to
see what it’s like in
the heart of
darkness.

Deeper and deeper I go
but who would bother to kill me
or love me? Belonging to the drums
of wooful war I
woof and bay like
every other
dog.

Down I go to the depths of material life
the material is spirit wrought
by the material world. The
drum and jet plane
the bird and sumac
the pollen
seed.

No answer is forthcoming for the young fool
importunes to ask too frequently
the fool’s question. What
is my next move. He
steps lightly and does
not seem to care
quite where.
The

material world is reality, my friend
and sadness is the spiritual root


without which the love-nut
may be reached only
by stretching
the emotions
bare

raw, where desert delights exhibit
movement in the sunlit light. Where
none find their way
without following leaders
sometimes the wrong way.
The path
is

apart from the dance or the dancer who
cutting cross country laughs
at his perennial fright of being
caught outdoors, out of sight
alone with the wind and rain
for days on end
in hiding.
Up

on the roof, the telephone ringing,
books getting delivered to the library free,
gratis, no fight, no love
a meager understanding
of what rolls
the earth.
Gravity

rolls the earth (and may sometimes rock it)
each of us achieving the gravity of a planet
and pulling the world apart with our loves.
Taking existence beyond the limits
set for it, into
the universe
beyond

We went out beyond the surf
into the adirondack of trees waiting,
wanting nothing, mountains
wanting to grow slowly.