MP

Month: November, 2010

“These Supples of Clean People,” Ray Succre

The sprawling hug of warmth wills me pet,
and calls to me caress hair, head and shoulder,
these supples of clean people,
articulated rollicks of waves washed up,
of water boiling, of muscle and sinew
and tissue and organs freely fit and daughtered
to embraces like milk in a cup. Click here to finish Ray’s poem.

“Relics,” Rafael Gamboa

Our living room is full of priceless artifacts.
A pair of white boots;
a handful of weathered books;
a pile of pitiful poetry and prose,
printed years ago by other hands. Click here to finish Rafael’s poem.

“You Here/You Gone,” A.K. Jackson

Rage is a craving.
It stretches for my body when it is still enough
to feel for you. Fills my bloodstream
with bits of broken starfish, dead flowers,
anything. My mouth is acid hot
and full of grit. Click here to finish A.K.’s poem.

Alex Warble

“At the Home 70 Years Later,” Barry Basden

     The bomber pilot remembered coming back to London’s East End, his house gone up in smoke and ash. Sirens, the crunch of broken glass, fire hoses, men in tin hats. Strawmen sitting cross-legged in saffron robes, chanting, the smell of gasoline in the air. The little girl running toward him, arms outstretched, howling, skin peeling from her body. And his grandsons, something about the Khyber Pass.

“Grab Bag,” Amanda Deo

When I was a kid all
the mothers would
give out grab bags.

Paper hats and
plastic spider rings.

At nineteen I pulled
you out of the bag
at Mavericks on
Rideau St. and now
I’m desperate to
put you back.

“Feeling Down?” Alex Warble

“Of Tintern Abbey I Thought,” Elhabib Louai

Alone as I were deep in thoughts as dreams
The sweet fresh breeze caressed my face
Swiftly hugged my wide uncovered chest
While I walked down that half-empty street
With an old inherited suitcase of books full
And I wondered how faraway I wandered Click here to finish Elhabib’s poem.

“Politics – for Sharret,” Michael Thomas

(A Tribute to Charles Bukowski)

         Politics, like everything else, is the same as it is with the horses. You have the hot hand for awhile and then you don’t. Pretty soon you’re standing in line to bet the losers. It’s doom. The water rises. You know it. Everyone with half a brain knows it. It’s all been said, so what else is new? Sandy was wondering and coughing and thinking these thoughts in the Sellers line at the track. She made her bet and stepped to the bar to watch the crack of doom on closed circuit. She ordered vodka straight up, 31 degrees. The barman kept a bottle in the freezer. Click here to finish Michael’s story.

“People, people, people,” Alex Warble