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Too Many Thoughts in the Woods
Roberta Gould
(West Hurley)
They fill the woods
drown out the berries
unrestrained by any
chickadee's buzz
or the whistle of hawk
Where's the tree
its returned jay?
Where's the pond
its squawking mallards?
Nothing is as loud
as that voice
stubbornly drumming
inside you through the woods
You can't hear a thing
reduced words your thoughts
encapsulate yesterday
its grimace or glee
in little words'
continual noise
that plays on and on
and takes your breath away
~ . ~
Dark Matters
Will Gray
(Hensonville)
At night, dark matters
press the universe down
to a mattress-sized rectangle
large enough for two people
and a couple
of spoiled dogs
He wonders She wonders
about galaxies if happiness is an illusion
flying away from each other, or a goal she could reach
if light from a distant star by simply taking the first step
might reach Earth at the same time she hangs on to hope
it returns to its point of origin, remembering her first step down the aisle,
now empty, around the curve of space wondering if he would miss her if she left
The dogs wonder about nothing;
they are warm, dry, fed, and
safe, curled up with the pack
they love
~ . ~
Bardo Over the Hudson
Susan Jefts
(Saratoga Springs)
Words, Born out of vibrating air
at West 26th Street, air of myth and poetry.
Words, Some danced patterns for me outside
on the sidewalk as I headed toward Midtown.
Words, I ran into more the next day
below the Columbus statue by Central Park,
arranging themselves on purple pansies that
startled me out of any remaining winter.
Words, hanging languidly outside the window
at Café Europa, their fairy bodies hovering
betweem crème brulée and Carnegie Hall.
Words, at the wide throat of the Hudson as
my train rambles northward.
These words flicker like unborn fireflies unversed
in the art of direction, or rhythm, or sound;
They are the ones I want.
These in-between words, lingering low in that
bardo-like place, the sacred gap the mystics so honor.
Here, that place floats on smoky mist over the Hudson.
Air between Gotham and Lake Tear of the Clouds,
life receiving and life giving.
Between being and becoming,
the word, the image,
Poetry.
Bardo: a word of Eastern origin describing the continuous state of oscillation between certainty and uncertainty, bewilderment and insight, that characterizes all of life, a state that by its nature creates gaps, spaces in which profound changes and opportunities for transfomation are continuously flowering — if they can be seen and seized. (SJ)
~ . ~
Home Library
Catherine Norr
(Saratoga Springs)
Word-Garden, printed and bound, line the shelves
Like Fall hedgerows; cornstalk thoughts rooted and growing
Books askew, nestling, leaning,
Unfurling awareness of others' breath, capturing stories.
Some packed tight like sunflower seeds in August bloom
Van Gogh and Klee next to Monet and poetry,
Cookbooks and song—I step, step, step along this path
Familiar, yet new, tracing with the eye each shape and stirring.
Side by side, gardening and morning glory twine round
Books on fitness, zen, and witness of saints' valley and fen,
Mysteries and nature tales, mountain lore and Shakespeare players
Speak their tongue in artistic form.
The words on the page ripple along, out and in
Beyond, within, lead to remembering
The fragile wing of colorful dragonflies,
Of water lap—recalling echoes, faint murmurs
And the air, sunlight and wind—out and in, beyond, within,
Beckoning forth, enticing, inviting: Breathe.
~ . ~
Mobius Strip
Matthew Spireng
(Kingston)
Nobody said the argument
was one-sided, but it was.
If you traced its path through
each little twist and turn,
you'd see. What seemed the
opposite view was just
the same old story a little
further along. But consider
how often in life we realize
what we are doing seemed
unthinkable years before,
how for each of us,
no matter how unique
the path seems, it always
comes back to the same place—
we think, for the first time.
That blankness some call death
others call rebirth and, really,
it makes no difference at all.
Nobody said the argument
was one-sided, but it was.
[August Ferdinand Möbius]
~ .
Others Looked Up
Matthew Spireng
(Kingston)
The bone lodged in his throat
and as others looked up from their meals
because he began to choke, face
contorted, the grotesque sound
of a cough stifled by lack of breath,
the bone dislodged so no one
had to rise to try to assist, and
he did not collapse to the floor
writhing in spasms that ended in death
before anyone could finish dialing
nine one one, his wife crying out
Oh my God Oh my God help him help him
please, meals ruined, chairs tipped, stories
of the dead man in the restaurant
taken away and repeated for weeks,
and, fear receding, he thought briefly
how his life had changed.
~ . ~ . ~
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