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Poetry

Autumn leaves at my feet, mud clinging shoes,

brisk west wind blowing with cooling bluster,

crows flying with fluffy low clouds brooding,

scent of mortality pervading air.

One wonders about vaunted ambition

as clumping feet tramples red-orange leaves

while forebodings of winter shiver bones.

Just what is it that we wish to achieve?

All will pass, even renewal of leaves.

 

Yet many crave headline folly of news,

or the illusion of media fame.

It’s best to live kindly in the moment

where love conjures happy contentment,

and like mushrooms create your own small rain

by hefting your own spores of hope in air!


Plato declares all poets are liars

because they use metaphors,

yet Plato himself employs

allegories and metaphors.

 

Businessmen boast of bs profits,

yet such exaggerations are not labeled lies.

Politicians make a living from lying,

yet conjuring fables is considered opinion

rather than outright corruption,

which they call “price of promotion.”

 

Our texts about the divine

are rooted in metaphors

and even unusual stories.

As a rule, poets lie least

because they have nothing to lose

except their reputation

or practical sense of fun.

 

And when soothing spring arrives

with scent of cherry blossom,

apple and pear blossom,

do any of these ambitious liars ever think

that history itself is a story

which will not survive

humankind’s demise?


Mint: a cosmopolitan family

with so many attractive relatives

that they cannot be kept from your table!

I’m in love with sage, basil, oregano,

while I keep in touch with thyme, rosemary,

and common wild mint that grows by my door.

I’m not lucky enough to lounge on teak,

yet I can rub shoulders with lavender.

 

Over seven thousand species toss scent

into air, although some mints just look nice

like my garden companion Coleus.

Every leaf emerges oppositely,

each pair whorled, some posing at right angles.

Most have fragrance, structure, savory taste.

 


America, your rouge looks like a whore:

conflict of interests and corruption,

addiction to international war,

insults, for-profit incarceration.

Some say, “Nothing new, we’ve been here before,”

but the algorithm-scale of deceit

has made a mockery of prudent law.

And what about our nation’s balance sheet?

 

Where is our Founder’s Christian altruism?

Do we cherish Franklin or just his bill?

Why do we worship guns and fascism?

How are we now a Beacon of Freedom?

 

I’m taking as stroll up a local hill

to cleanse my mind of blunt pessimism.


Granularity populates a vortex overflowing:

seed to vagrant soil, sudden shower;

dune of sand lit by shore lightning;

gravel underfoot in moonlit park;

pin-points of water welling in eyeball;

multitude of atoms we cannot see;

trillions of star-galaxies in a swirl.

 

Rotundity highlights it all,

and to be curiously round in mind

remains best whenever you see a friend

come round for keen conversation.

 


by George Quasha in Poetry
Mon Jun 20th, 2016

traveling at 90 hands free and no fear

preverbs for José Reissig on his birthday

 

A poem never asks why it says what it says.

Some live accordingly.

Our...

by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Sun Jun 19th, 2016

Let’s celebrate the hero on the floor

 

My father was a machine steel-cutter.

He would often arrive home with splinters,

sometimes as many as a deep dozen.

 

My...

by Kathleen Weaver in Poetry
Mon Jun 13th, 2016

Goodbye to the Lamb

Wheat, apricots, immediate love,

the April lamb’s insouciance,

whatever the sun can manage —

 

I want to stay . . . with the rushes

along...

by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Mon Jun 6th, 2016

Senior Moments

                for Cherry

You forget the name of a character in a Trollope novel

but that’s understandable.

You forget the name of the company that provides your electricity...

by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Fri May 27th, 2016

Say Hello

 

Like flowering seeds in tornado breeze,

not all soldiers survive their assigned task.

And not all civilians offer their thanks

to those who have survived their brush...

by Kathleen Weaver in Poetry
Mon May 23rd, 2016
That man
 
              that I may reduce the monster to myself  
—Stevens
 
What is his game? what horse 
can carry him,...
by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Sat May 14th, 2016

Buttercups bursting in greeny meadow,

oriole chattering in oak above,

geese squawking and euphorbia prolix

under golden orb setting in the west,

as midges celebrate their most brief lives.

Amid...

by Michaela Coplen in Poetry
Mon May 9th, 2016

Intermediate Arabic

After Safia Elhillo

 

the arabic word for weeping:  بكاء /bika/

the arabic word for staying:  بقاء /biqa/

the only difference is how you hold

the sharpness in your throat

 

هاجرت /haajartu/  to...

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