Copyright remains with the authors
From
'Poems and Pictures' by Joel Arnstein
Just
Friends
Our
love will never bloom
And so
never run to seed
And die,
We are just
good friends,
She and I.
Although we
live in different worlds,
We have
crossed bridges
To greet
each other with smiles,
And, in the
music of the afternoons,
We talk
with tea and cake,
Ease each
other's pain so much
Listening
for each other's sake,
But never
sit too close
In case we touch.
For fear
our love might bloom
And run to
seed and die
Our
friendship remains
As constant
as stone.
Poem
I
found a poem
In the street
On Tuesday.
It was red
and yellow
And
slightly sticky
When I
picked it up.
It said,
"Lick me .... Delicious!"
Like all
poems it lied
But helped
to explain the truth.
Joel Arnstein's Web Site: www.west-end-house-gallery.co.uk
From
'From There To Here'
by Brian Dann
Sticks
I bring you sticks
I bring you sticks
I bring you
more sticks.
Long; short;
bitten by
other dogs;
sticks
wrenched off trees, still green;
fat sticks
devoid of bark
showing the
twist of the grain of the wood;
sawn-ended
bits of palings.
I bring you
long twigs;
hollow
stems of dead yarrow;
long bendy branches
with which
I will persist
which bar
me from passing
through the
small gates in parks.
I
bring you sticks
I bring you sticks
I bring you
more sticks.
I
bring you sticks
almost
boughs of trees so thick
I can
hardly get my teeth into.
I would
bring you that long stick beyond the railings
but I
cannot reach through the gaps
and will
not risk displeasure
by leaping
over to fetch.
I bring
sticks near
and wait a
way off
to see what
you will do.
I thrust
the sticks at your feet,
push them
at your hands.
But none
please you
none will
you return to me through the long air
of a decent
throw for a dog
for whom
sticks are the essence of art.
If only I
could puzzle out
the sort of
stick which would evoke
that
eternal, godly, throwing response
which makes
life whole.
I
bring you sticks
I bring you
more sticks
From
'Weathered Spiral' by Peter L.Evans
searching
...
searching
through a drawer
I had not
opened for some time I find
a drift of
cards pushed to the back.
I had
forgotten these
husks of
our relationship -
love you
miss you sad
not
possible to ring so
happy to
have spoken want
to be
with you always
every
minute want you -
all crap.
I will not
take them to the paper bank
to be recycled
so many
lies to come back
hidden
within the paper.
I will burn them
put the
ashes in a plastic bag
in a
plastic bag in a plastic bag
bury them
put a stone on top
and forget
the place.
but now I
have this space
From
'Walking Away From
The Shadows' by Janice Fixter
Homecoming
Hurrying
through the lattice gate
which leads
me to the field, I notice
the stream
is the same
as it's
always been, only smaller.
The water
swells and swirls it's way
past twigs
and leaves not fast enough
to keep up
with the spirit dance.
It bubbles
on, sometimes peaceful,
sometimes
babbling clear
it flows
here, there, to places where
I once had
time to follow.
As a child,
I would sit and dream
and dabble
in the stream, but never
crossed the
water to the other side. Oh,
I knew I
could have straddled this divide:
a breath of
courage and count to six,
a giant
leap and safely on the grassy slope
I would
have been. But I never jumped
not wanting
to be stranded there too soon,
I waited
while the years were culled
and
childhood dreams that should have stayed
were
stolen, betrayed by a kiss of knowledge.
In one easy
stride I cross the stream
how small
it seems now. Now that
my legs are
longer and my mind
has been
tamed by reason and logic.
I sit alone
on the grassy slope
soothed by
the sound of lifeless years
flowing
free and watch a thousand seasons
slip away.
The water bubbles on,
sometimes
peaceful, sometimes babbling clear
it flows
here, there, to places where
once more I
long to follow.
I remove my
socks and shoes,
take a
breath of courage, count to six
...and jump.
From
'Small Histories' by
Alec Linstead
The
Mushroom Gatherers
They come
to the woods
In autumn
When the
birch and the oak are gold
And the
acorns carmine
Before the
burial of leaves
On misty days
When
distance is a gradation of greys
And crows call
And magpies rattle;
The
woodpecker cautious
Searches
with bobbing head
And long
black beak
That bores
the ground for ants.
They come
to the woods
In old wrap
round aprons
And dark
ample suits
With cloth
covered wicker baskets
Peering
among the leaves
Searching,
they say, for mushrooms
As they did
in Latvia
Or Estonia. Once.
And women
with Hermes scarves and dogs
Tricolours
and rubies
And squads
of black and tans
Pass them
chattering of Charles
And Mummy
and mortgage.
They have
never made
A political
decision in their lives.
The
mushroom gatherers do not look up.
They stir
the leaves gently
Moving with caution
As over a
mine field,
And lifting
the cloth
They lay
their treasures
With
infinite care from bruising.
And the
acorns fall dead in the calm.
These
mushroom gathered here
Are a sweet
taste in exile
To be eaten
late at night
In a single room
Far from
the dacha.
From
'Survivor' by Julian Van Hauson
The
Etching
With their
arms around each other
I have seen
them go
into the
dark forest.
No birds
exited, startled,
for none
were there. There
was only
darkness, silence,
growth by rings,
and the
flesh like a grafted rose
warmed by
its own
alchemical sun.
They
searched for each other
in a garden
of faces.
But what
was that acid, clear as water,
that
dissolved them
with such
exquisite kisses?
Nothing
leaves the forest,
except
images, images as thin
and white
as skin
blown on
every wind -
images of transcendence.
And they,
fixed as outlines,
darkened by
precious ink,
have
achieved metal:
the
passions of the soul
have made
them ghosts.
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