Sunday, April 19, 2020

RIP Peter Ganick

Rest in Peace Peter Ganick 

He was a friend and a mentor. 

You can read some of his works featured on this blog on this tag.

Thursday, April 16, 2020

Jim Leftwich - two poems

1. Fragile ecologies underfoot
giFts my prOXy bOtaNicaL
uNder sPidEr-MeRCury
unDEr tHe heLiOphYsical
asHTRay beHaviOral sOLar
haMmerHead fisHing
in fuRry tRipLicate

2. A sort of piano or pumice
quaNTum EyedRips
nO jOkE uNdEr nOt
a jOke joKEr JoKing
siLence fOaming mY
guests gUesses My
metHOds aRe cOnCave
prOtein witHOut
iTs AnciEnt Sea

Thursday, April 9, 2020

Tom McDade - Two Poems

1. A Shock of Oil and Color

Framed here as naked as Godiva is a damsel, 
crotch welded in imminent climax and firm 
breasts like pleasant spurs; face full of ecstasy, 
her steed assigned the frenzied role. 
How closely allied are ecstasy and frenzy? 
That stud is the shade of the purest chocolate 
and this rider might be planning a way to slip 
under him to enjoy his sweet thrusts 
with hope of birthing a female satyr. 
` She’s fair-skinned and her long, blazing hair mimics 
his shaggy mane.  What is with this flying equine, 
eye crazed and froth spilling from his mouth? 
No chance we have a filly or mare, sheath quite 
visible. Is he reacting to the weight of this
Rubenesque beauty? Wait a minute – 
that belly. Has he done the deed? Is he attempting 
to flee? My God, his front legs are like those 
on a monster film horsefly. Away from this shock
of oil and color: what fantasies, what rolls 
in the hay, what nightmares.

Thomas M. McDade

2. Merc Park 

If I am dreamed but once, I have access to memories. 
I slip through 
delicate seams, 
make myself handsome 
forget this lifetime 
of cuteness. 
I fell from the castle 
and lived 
when Sinatra still knew 
all the lyrics 
to “Funny Valentine.” 
I drank Thunderbird 
with a madman 
sporting razor hooks 
for hands. 
The bikers fear him! 
I hotwire a Merc, dull grey, lowered, louvered 
4 on the floor skirts 
hellfire decals everywhere hubcaps silver moons 
a plaque dangling off the rear tag 
that sparks the road 
when the clutch goes pop! 
There is a suicide knob 
where a beautiful woman lives. 
The thought of her launches duck-tailed knights 
into frenzied dances on high voltage wires. 
Suddenly she appears in a holy light 
filtered through lenses of Budweiser glass. 
She is a saint lighting candles on the hood 
with spaghetti sticks 
for the IRA dead, 
a runt calico kitten 
hisses from her shoulder. 
We ride to Twila’s 
trendy tattoo salon. Bells of Ireland 
drawn on our necks. She says she cares 
and grips my arm strong as Jack Daniels. 
Sparks trail the Merc like fireflies or passion 
of beaches, graveyard grass. 
And wouldn’t the Druids book 
us passage on a hot air balloon 
across the Irish Sea?  Take us to a castle 
where her blood 
will find good pace 
and if there is no chair or bed 
the stone floor will soften 
like the headstones of soldiers 
and writers under prayer. 
I stare into her eyes as if they were crystal 
hanging from the rear view in a New Age van 
and incense seeps through 
the floorboards like an  
aroma of Kent cigarette. 
The radio crooner sings of a dame, 
a tall drink of Ballantine 
slick as Tru-Ade Grape. 
Then Father Knickerbocker interrupts 
with a sermon says it’s okay for cripples to ride 
boxcars and play harmonicas 
to the wind blowing 
through their braces like hymns. 
He adds that all distillery profits 
should benefit the homeless. 
Hooker shows up to carve our initials 
in a tree spelling 
“In dreams find memory.” 
He claims he can croon 
“Valentine” straight through, prosthesis for a microphone, 
but the melody would ring rather false 
with classic beauty around. 
He pulls a Polaroid 
from under a passing swan’s wing. 
Snapping her picture 
a hundred times, 
she does not protest 
but allows just profile. 
I watch her develop 
for hours 
silent as a hex bolt 
as she became each time 
shiny and crispy. 
We feed the loons 
trail mix and bagels until she disappears. 
The photos are nothing but unpublished poems 
with names of Triple Crown winners for titles. 
My belles of Ireland cause rashes. 
The Merc turns into a picnic table where the madman 
crosses his metallics  and she returns 
in a silver sedan. 
Surely what’s spoken 
in tongues through a Buick window 
is grand – 
goes without saying. 

Thomas M. McDade 

Thursday, April 2, 2020

John C. Goodman - Three Poems

1. don’t look away
there was a quiet moment
when the clouds held the rain
there are no goldfish in the sky

teacup with a broken handle
on a lonely windowsill
filled with light

our actions define us
our words defy us

pieces of the past, jumbled puzzles
where we started was not the beginning
where we stop is not the end

the light that shatters the glass

the road is as along as it is, no longer, no shorter
no faster, no slower
no wider, no slimmer

do you love her more than you love me?
measuring the infinite

shucking off the past
the blue light lies soft on the horizon

how romantic were the lush colours dancing in time
how dry and cold the classic stone poised and still

2. reconnoitre
reconnoitre the vine leaves
in lockstep becoming
papier-mâché bulldozers

For I sing and I love it and would give up everything for that

happenstance of brevity
the cold beauty of stares
revolving on marguerites

“take a stab at it”
said the man with the dagger
and the polished soul

shoes that fit no one’s feet
screwed into semblances
reduced to moth wings

seldom do the vectors smile
preferring perversion to agoraphobia
and ignorance to definitions

remember the closed doors
knobs are hostile to insurgents
remember the closed doors
locks and bars
secrets and indiscretions
remember the locked doors
the darkness entrapped
3. blush
a blush is as good as a squint to a maneater

a bobcat with ratchet gears
for tears

forever and forever is an indication of never more

looking ahead looking behind
are the same 
a ribbon of prose
crystal gardens of stolen ticks
a bland reunion of tocks

and somewhere love is left
like dust motes under the bed
swept into corners
vacuumed up on Sunday mornings

vapid and reproachful
the lees of emotion
trembling in teaspoons

the measurement of passions
the more
the less
ranking judging grading evaluating judging

how could I love more than I love now?
how indeed
the cold wind blows under winter doors

chilling the ankles