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.

Jim Leftwich - two poems

1. Fragile ecologies underfoot
giFts my prOXy bOtaNicaL
miRrOrfest
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

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 

inscribed 

“LOVE DON’T CARE” 

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 

reminders 

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 

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