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!

It’s Always Winter Here

Bursting at the seams 

Exvibranimate 

Yet, it’s always winter here 

Buds of passion test the forecast 

Dorpeekmant 

While axis orbit skips another beat 

Shards of glass soil window-box garden 

Compermafrost 

The Snow Queen and her snow bees’ never ending rein 

Dying to bloom in due season 

Birdeath 

As frozen time and space paint
the smile on Jadis’ face 

A spark of hope that drop does make 

Isothermalite 

Yet day's short while bright; all’s cloaked in night

Coming or Going (Going Nowhere, revised)

Sonnet 10: Restless Spirit Roams

My mind is cleared. My soul is not at rest.

An empty mind is tempted with this test:

What will you fill me up with once I’m cleared?

Will you replace the clutter with what’s feared?

Or be sparked by Prometheus’ veiled fires

     and stock it with the things of heart’s desires?

Perhaps it’s time to build on solid ground

     with truths and tribulations proved most sound.

Selection is a process, not a task;

     it's not a time to form another mask.

Importance should be placed on choosing wise

     and balanced thoughts – not fantasies or lies.

I’m standing at the door; I’m looking in.

I’m really still not sure where to begin.

Alone Space in this Cold Place - To be Published in the BAC Street Journal

This daily grind is wearing to the bone:

My wheels are spinning while I run in place.

How many times do I have to be told

to guard my heart from growing hard and cold,

and bite my tongue or find myself alone?

I’m blowing out hot air in empty space.

My mind’s a mess; I’m orbiting in space.

Just floating out there, chilling to the bone;

I’m going nowhere, feeling all alone.

Quite unprepared to dress for such a place,

I bundle up. “This world is very cold

and ruthless in its ways,” so I’ve been told.

So many times I wish I would have told

you how I feel about this stale airspace.

Then instead of leaving me out in the cold,

now and again you’d throw me a small bone

to satisfy me in this stagnant place,

you’d be with me. Yet here I am alone.

I have this fear of being all alone;

It’s bottled up with other things untold.

Trying to fit in, I’m out of place:

just like the odd stone in a herringbone

design; it’s cut to fit into the space,

and then once changed, emotions are acold.

You break my heart with cutting words so cold.

They break me down. Can’t you leave me alone?

How can you say these things? I have a bone

to pick with you; and once you have been told

my thoughts, my mind and heart will have the space

to fill the new uncluttered, empty place…

Can’t love take over bitter’s prior place?

Let freedom rule by purging all the cold

and dying things once hidden in that space.

“Life’s too short to go it all alone.”

These words of wisdom often I’ve been told,

but living by them takes more than backbone.

Within this space, I know my place:

I’ll bruise the bone; I’ll bear the cold.

I’m not alone is what I’m told.

Room with a View Meets L=A=N=G=U=A=G=E Poetry

Season Fade and So Do They

Here for a season, or so, they “come and go talking of Michelangelo.” [1]
Never rooting, just tilling – never planning for a harvest
Here today, gone tomorrow, leaving a breadcrumb trail of sorrow
Heartstrings snuggly connected. Were they not detected?
Over plucked cords are soon rejected. The grass is surely greener,
brighter, full of new life on the other side of the horizon
I guess there’s nothing more to say. Their words disappear,
picked up and carried away in the winds of yesterday
Why’d I look back? I’ve learned that lesson the hard way
Now rooted, a vibrant and healthy soul. Do I stay or do I go?
The cycle of rebuilding and starting again has grown old
It’s so cold without the comfort of their warmth. It’s so cold
The weeping willow shudders, folding in on her solitary darkness


[1] From Eliot's "The Love Song of Alfred Prufrock"

There for the Picking

The stem of eVery rose has a thorn
It’s a wonder I’ve survived so many pricks
A renewed wOund heals slowly, if at all
An empty souL is really full of spent blossoms
Trusting is scAry business, if it can even be done
To be safe: a Thing both desired and extinct
Willing...imagIning my no meaning no. Plucked; undone
Fallen petals On overgrown grass is this
disappointmeNt in its many forms of bloom

You Stopped that I’d Take Notice

Silver flash of light
     the sky’s in bloom today
How graceful in your flight
     a grey and white delight

Symbol of peace: blesséd watchful eye
     Purity. Sacred
     Spirit of love and hope

goddess of the Morning Star
     riding grace she calls her own
     The pet she can’t confine

You are mine, while I am yours
     A cageless soul-to-soul
     bond in realms unseen

So divine; your spirit fills the air
     your spirit is the air
I breathe you in and eat you with my eyes
     I am full. I see you, and I know
My eye’s on things above
     sweet spirit of the Dove

Room with a View (Within Glass Bubble revised)

Glass shards under nails
Shattered dreams
snow flakes make

Solitary fish cry [1]
dies
trapped in this glass
Fists held high
These walls run deep

Day draws nigh;
no sleep

Stagnant air;
breathe to sigh
Misty morning
waxes dry

Where to hide?
Small space:
old places, same faces

Tipped over, upside down;
flakes fall:
drown

Smile masks pain
Yet can’t
erase           yesterday, today,
tomorrow

Same small space:
rat race
Rancid pace preserves


[1] Taken from Wolfgang Borchert’s Do Stay, Giraffe

Vortex Portal

There’s an internal drawer
I’ve recently discovered
I can’t tell you where it is
that would be cheating
Its contents remain a mystery
The journey to its discovery
has left an interesting impression
I could tell you what’s in there
but where’s the fun in that?
You must find it on your own
if you dare
Only the adventurous need apply
The four-dimensional stuff
can be found near the front
The rest must have slid


to the back of the drawer.

Maladaptive Minute Hand

1 

reason: Voice of

2 

Solitaire sophisticate

3 

Pep-talking fool

4 

Pathological rationalizer

5 

Target turned

6 

soundboard

7 

Lightbulb

8 

turns the key

9 

Victory?

10 

Reason

11 

Rewind

12 

and hit play:

1 

reason…