Window Seat

Pocket Notebook, Entry 1

Window Seat

The city breathes through a flicker

of clouds, sighing Welcome home.

And I, with my temple pressed

where countless heads have rested,

feel the ground weighting me down,

plucking my feathers

            thread by        intricate thread.

Peep Show, a Tango

First Place Winning Poem in the 2012 Oakland University Department of English's Ekphrasis Contest

First published in Oakland Journal, September 2012

Triptych: His and Her Perspectives

This ekphrasis poem was inspired by Michael Dec's poem listed below. To ever understand the angles of perception. Here is my attempt at decoding and recreating two unique perspectives during a moment of simultaneous experience.

Hour Glass

Five Minutes to Spare

2010 Publications

Pink Panther Magazine, Issue 9, Fall 2010
Featuring "Emigrant" and "Self Portrait" 

 

Macomb Guild of Writers: Original Founders

Jenifer, Nancy, Cathy and Stella

More than One Word Could Contain

We watched, mouths fixed in the horror of an O,
only our eyes willing to say what our mouths wouldn’t.
And we waited

knowing in some far off thought bubble lodged
in crowded dark corners of far off recollections
that we should flee this volatile moment for safety.

But we just stood like conditioned soldiers in waiting.

Maybe we wanted to feel rooted in some distorted
sense to the heart of this raging, eruptive force
that was larger than the excuse of life living within
each and every one of us in our relative smallness.
Just maybe we wanted to feel important in the larger
picture that was painted upon each of our imaginations.

So while the earth trembled and the waters raged,
we stood in our unity, waiting for what was coming.

Maybe we’d forgotten how to seek our own shelter
in moments of crisis. Or perhaps we’d grown to enjoy
the pain birthed from disaster in all of its pounding,
bleeding glory as it never quite mastered slicing us
as deep as we cut ourselves in our self-destructive ways.

So as the womb of that mound gurgled and churned,
dislodging its earthy indigestion of dissatisfaction,
we did nothing but stand there, our curiosity growing.

Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad when Vulcan unleashed
his full fury and wrath. How many of us pondered
how the volcanic¹ streams of oozing lava would even
flow over layers and layers of fossilized molten ash?
Or if, when unearthed, it could even penetrate
the crusted foundation of such a hardened humanity?

So as the pits of Hades chewed and spit its spawn
seedling offspring into a numbed, frozen society,
testing the spirits and boundaries of the atmosphere,
we continued to stand as one bleeding, breathing organ.

Tale of Two Worlds - Lightened

Tale of Two Worlds

The Visage of War Is Actually a Visage

Me Horizontally (a triple sestina)

Road to Eden

There’s a road I wake up on. 

It always leads to loss. 

I recognize the road by the faded flowers

that litter the adjacent footpath. 

Today I woke up in a nightmare;

I found myself crossing that road.

The roses were spent; the daisies were dead;

and the footpath was tangled with weeds.

Stumbled alone on that desolate path,

while others phased by in a blur.

My hands, they reached out; my heart

shriveled in; my hope flushed out with a sigh.

I traced my finger on an ashen trail

and painted my face with the black.

Wandering faerie or warrior maiden?

The river reflected deception this day.

Nothing to lose but a last thread of faith

I wandered the pasture of trust.

Now down on my knees, my hands twisting

grass, I coughed up some fibers of fear.

The fibers grew legs; they traveled away –

I watched as they marched out of sight.

Exhausted, I rested my head in my hands,

blending into the dew and the earth and the night.

When morning arrived, I sheltered my eyes

and tightly wrapped up my weak heart.

A fluttering feeling danced on my chest.

An odd scenario played in the sky

as butterflies danced and dipped in the breeze.

Their glittery fibers were painted with care

as if they had been since the dawn of creation.

The roses and daisies were painted as well.

Geometry

It’s a ripe, juicy apple on the tip of your tongue

The way the morning smells when the sun first appears

It’s the bite of fresh cut tears that never hit the ground

The accidental brushing of hands in passing

It’s in the tucking of hair behind nervous ears

In the meeting of lips to cheek in a warm embrace

It’s in the awkward silence of long goodbyes

From the depths within the eyes of new love

It hides in the things unsaid between friends

Lingers upon the moist skin of intertwined bodies

It can’t be summed up with mathematical shapes

It’s warfare, camouflage, the casualties of cause

Tucked into the gain of someone else’s loss

More than a feeling, it’s the fibers of existence

It’s in the ice cream sundae shared with one spoon

Passionate, enduring – it knows no boundaries

Complex to the nth degree, compounded to infinity

It’s the best puppeteer that money can’t buy

A sea of drowning swimmers struggling to shore

It’s much more than can be summed up with letters

A plague, an epidemic – its infection is for life

And when the day is done, it begins all over again

Abraham

Built him into a statue that day

right in the center of town. A monument;

forever memorializing all he encompassed

Regal, a real intellectual; he looked good

in a tie. We visited him often, stroking

the stone of genius or simply to say hi

His eyes were frozen in a warm smile;

that same smile we grew to cherish,

the one that let us know he truly cared

The windows to his soul were dressed

in a tone of sadness, though, like they held

onto our worries with his. Light resonated

from our statue when we did something

pleasing. We couldn’t help but bathe

in that radiance, cleansing ourselves

of our iniquities and basking in the afterglow

Just below his feet rests a bronze plaque

It reads: Here sits the orphan father;

our mentor, our refuge, our friend.

Cherished and valued is the guidance

of such a respectable man. He waited

for us through all seasons, no matter

the weather or storm. An embraceable form,

while set in that stone, his pliable ways

still could nurture. It’s hard to say what

the future holds for our immortalized gem.

Can he stand the test of time forever

while enduring the force of our elements

as they erode and chip away at his armour?

Will we ever tire of probing his gifts?

Would a new day dawn where we’d forget

to stop by, even if only to extend a “hi?”

BAC Street Journal Semi-Annual Submissions

Just a reminder! We will review all submissions in October for a November magazine release. Guidelines below.
The Editors

BAC Street Journal is accepting submissions of poetry, short fiction, black and white photos, and black and white drawings for consideration. BAC Street Journal will publish twice a year. Submissions will be accepted through Oct. 1, 2010 for the fall 2010 issue and March 1, 2011 for the spring 2011issue. The magazine is a project of the Beverly Arts Center, a not-for-profit fine arts facility, and funded by the Beverly Arts Center Auxiliary Board.

There is no payment for accepted works. All works must be original. First consideration will be given to works that have never been published; previously published works and simultaneous submissions will be considered. If you are submitting a work that has been previously published or is currently being considered by another publication that must be disclosed at the time of submission.

All submissions of poetry and fiction must be typed, single spaced if emailed, or double spaced if sent as hard copy. Please use standard, readable fonts in at least 12 pt.

Publication rights revert to the authors/artists once their work has been published in BAC Street Journal.

Poetry

All styles.

Max 50 lines.

Submit up to 5 short poems or 3 long poems at one time.

Short Fiction

All styles.

Length 250 to 2500 words.

Submit up to 2 short fiction works at one time.

Photographs and Artwork

Black and white (grayscale) only.

High resolution jpegs only. 

Please make sure that images are no larger than 8x10 inches.

Submit up to five works at one time.

FOR ALL EMAILED SUBMISSIONS:

• Type “Magazine Submission” in subject line
• Save ALL text and image files with author/artist name AND name of work, i.e. John_Smith_Summer_Day.jpg. (BAC Street Journal cannot be responsible for files that are emailed without being properly identified).

Email submissions

• Poetry and fiction should be copied into the body of the email AND attached as Word or RTF documents.
• Photos and drawings must be sent as high resolution Adobe Illustrator files or jpegs (at least 300), with max size of 8X10 inches. Black and white (grayscale) only.

All submissions should be accompanied by:

·        A short (25-50 word) bio, suitable for publishing if work is accepted.

·        A self addressed, stamped envelope (SASE) with sufficient postage, if work is submitted via mail and is to be returned. Manuscripts received without and SASE or sufficient postage cannot be returned.

·        Name (last name, first name), address and phone number or email address of author/artist, and date of submission should appear on all works.

Send submissions:

bacstreetjournal@gmail.com

(email preferred)

or

BAC Street Journal

Beverly Arts Center

2407 W. 111^th St.

Chicago, IL 60655

(Copies are available for purchase. Send check for $6.75 made out to Beverly Arts Center to the address above, attention Grace.)

Canary

Elucidation

Falling from grace 
one pearl at a time 
Once      strung      along, 
all elegance and poise 
Now the stockings and stilettos 
leave a corpse in their wake 
A memorial 
of simpler days 
The little black dress hides 
in the back from my view, 
right next to the long 
forgotten 
shoe boxes 
It recoils from my touch 
and redirects me to the grey 
one toward the front 

Of course, I shake my head 

At the edge of my bed 
I sit looking at my things – 
all the while feeling like a stranger, 
an intruder in my own world 

Just above my head 
I sit looking at me 
looking at all those things, 
feeling like a stranger 
intruding on this world 

At the back of the closet 
sits the little black dress 
Peeking its long forgotten eyes 
around lace and cotton 
looking at the stranger 
and intruder now looking at it 

None of us noticed
the shadow on the wall 
lurking in timelessness 
Sliding the last pearl 
from the string in her hand, 
she grins and shakes her head 
“Interesting,” she says, 
extending her hand.

Grasping at New Life

Self Portrait

I do

I signed the deal that day in blood,
then sealed it with the kiss of birth.
Loyal. Faithful. Servant. Friend.
Wonder what that’s really worth.

Intoxication: love is grand.
Floating through the clouds on high.
Invincibility sets in, waving
in awe while Golden Eagles fly by.

Unveiled eyes begin to sting.
Ears that ring reach pressure points.
Innocence drowned in a paper bag,
suffocates mobility of tender joints.

There’s a glade I visit when I’m down,
to fall back upon the earth and weep.
I lie beneath the willows’ shade
and cast my cares for them to keep.

My tears, they fall from grace to dirt,
penetrating Gaia’s breast.
These tears are roots: they sow and reap.
Ash to beauty. Release most blessed.

How could I know the flowers trapped cares;
releasing them to the hummingbirds’ probe?
Nature’s nymphs, so innocent and sweet;
singing my secrets across the globe.

A melody sweet (to vultures in wait).
The mountains, they hear, along with the sky.
Once the crows catch wind, the fat lady sings.
And all I can do is eat some crow pie.

There’s a fly on the wall – no wait, there’s three:
their steely little eyes fixed upon me.
They watch as I pet that angry mutt,
and blink when it growls and pees on our tree.

Now what can I say to make any sense?
I guess I’ve got some explaining to do.
I grasp at the wind for answers in flight.
One day I might decode this thing I do.

Innocence Restored

The innocent energy those baby blues held

still kept their vigor long after they faded to hazel-green.

It’s hard to recall the moment they became so wise,

those hazel eyes.  They now looked older than their years.

It often pained me to see such innocence lost.

I wondered if I could have stopped it and at what cost.

Then one day, his prey games took a fateful turn.

Instead of chasing for sport, not knowing what else to do,

he ate that baby bird, and drew the life right out of it, too.

Now when I search the depths of those vibrant eyes,

I see the youth restored to my favorite feline’s face.

My Head Was in the Clouds All Right

Dream-filled balloons sailed away that day.
I noticed that you forgot

to tie a note on the end
of each string.
How will they know what to do
when they reach their destination?
How will I ever reconnect
with the prophecy that fills each one
with such hope?

How could you turn your back

on my dreams? It seems
silly that I even have to ask.

Dancing in the clouds
without a care in the world;
high on hopes and hopes on high.
The sky’s the limit
(for the harm they may find along the way).

Pillow-talk: one’s been pierced
by Cupid’s bolt.
It's said that the fool’s bolt is soon spent.
Those Heartsease spread like wildfire, you know;
consuming everything in their path –
and that’s just for afternoon sport.

What will become of the one
sitting within the belly of the whale
shaped cloud? Will rebellion
reign or submission sustain?
An abortion? Birthed before its time?

There’s the one that got sucked into the right
wing engine fan at the wrong time.
It’s said that it was skinned beyond recognition,
save the shiny red string that to this day
flies at attention during every run.
A confetti still dancing

as it never got the note that the party’s over.

What about the others? I suppose I’ll never know.
I never dreamed I’d need a forwarding address
the day I felt so high
with my head in the clouds,
waving at my beautiful balloons as they traveled
away from me–

floating into someone else’s reality.

Table for One

She bought a bus ticket goin’ anywhere
Nighttime’s always the loneliest time

Walking the boulevard; she’s a shadow within the shadows
Blending into the darkness, she hopes to dull the awkwardness
Streetlights mock the nightlife just across the street
Happy faces headed toward intimate places;
their breadcrumb trail disintegrates
before it can illuminate the way

She ducks into the corner diner. “Table for one.”
Empathy’s out of fashion; the hostess rolls her eyes
Pulling out a book, she hopes to dull the awkwardness
Formalities skipped, the tension fills the air
Without a second to spare, the waitress jots the order
and retreats back to where the air isn’t so stale

One act down, the street envelops the shadow again
Any lounge will do: worn red carpet wins tonight
With a few drinks in her, she hopes to dull the awkwardness
The dance floor’s full, she knows she’ll blend in enough
So much time passes. The loneliness cuts like a knife
Licking her wounds, she’s about to call it a night

when she feels the warmth of a taker within reach
He tests the boundaries, at first without his hands
The exploration begins. Hands, lips, tongues inflame
Back rooms, back alleys: What’s the difference?
They’re all the same. Just another dark place of hiding
serving a higher power for hit-and-run relations

In an instant it’s over; she and her shadow reunite
Filled once again with emptiness, she’s hollow
All she ever wanted was to be loved
She boards the bus more broken than when she arrived
The darkness sinks his teeth in, releasing
bone-chilling venom that seeps deep
into the new cracks and settles in for the night

Ready to Explode

A little man resides inside me. 
He’s been confined to my mind 
for some time. Even my 
therapist agrees. Today, he’s escaped; 
he’s running amuck. What the… 
my air’s been cut off, and I think 
he’s ripped a hole in my heart. 
He’s wearing a path from my head 
to my heart. A burning rises; 
my throat’s on fire! Are those toxins 
cursing through my veins? I knew 
refusing the meds was a stupid thing 
to do. This torch runner’s crazed; 
he’s set my mind ablaze. I’m burning 
up here! Bubbling over, the steam’s 
consuming my screams. I want out!