November brings us more poetry from Michael Estabrook, and new submissions from A. Thiagarajan and Rachelle Arlin Credo. Oh, and one from me. Enjoy!
But What Was I To Do?
I called her once at midnight from the airport,
terrible weather, snow and ice, sleet,
the cabby never showed
and none would come out now.
I couldn't get home so I called her.
I didn't want to. I paced back and forth
before the phone trying to think of another way.
She came, of course, though it took more
than an hour. While waiting I had
a glass of red wine among the empty
bar-stools and thought how
I was always so happy to see her
after being away on business.
It was always so good to get home.
She pulled up understandably agitated, upset,
and said, as I slid behind the wheel,
"I can't believe you made me come out
on a night like this."
Whenever I get anxious
I find myself cleaning-up,
and making lists:
writing projects lists,
lists of items I need to buy,
lists of plays and operas
and concerts I want to see,
lists, lists, and lists of lists.
I'm not certain why,
an organizing activity I suppose,
a sorting things out,
an illusion of control,
or maybe it's merely
a therapeutic scribbling,
a catharsis of sorts,
like writing poems.
Mike Estabrook lives in Acton, MA. His three children are out on their own but his wife is still there and the stupid dog and the computer and email, so he writes on, to what end he's not sure, but write on he will. He's still trying to get into the best poetry journals and hopes to publish a book of poems about his superlative wife called A Superlative Woman.
His son, baby-son
the anchor of the flying kite of the skies, in storms--
is growing, in minutes, and seconds
in pain (for whom?)
in knowing (whose?)
Is it the hours that matter
or the passing of the mindless
into the mindly that is minded--
son. . .becoming a friend--
he did not open his eyes
that little brother of mine
was born this morning
cried and took some milk
my mom said-
what it was that tormented him
we never knew-
he died in a few hours
without seeing me
I saw him
never leaving me
alone when I play
hide and seek with kids next door-
without further care-
no teachers, exams, nor home work
and the bloody math.
A. Thiagarajan has taught in colleges in India, and is a postgraduate in English.His work has appeard in SubtleTea, Poetic Diversity, A Little Poetry, Poetry Canada, and many others. He lives in Mumbai, India with his wife Rama; his only child, a son, Ganesh, 23, studies in the U.S. Nuances of relationship between individuals, mental pain and cruelty that we inflict on each other and ourselves are his obsession.
Rachelle Arlin Credo
Looking at those eyes
that consumed me whole
in a haunting dream
I never dreamt of.
that intoxicated me
with bitter-sweet promises
only to be broken.
that I ache to hold
in a communion of souls
I thought would be forever.
With the brush in my right
I'll paint my love
in colors that know no infinity.
With a bottle of whiskey in the other
I'll forget you and your infidelity
even for a while. . .
So, there you were...
a figure of resonant vibrations,
whispering hymns replete with passion,
like a phoenix heralded by the tides,
relentlessly flying through the skies.
And there I was...
a searching shadow at sundown,
a sojourner on a forlorn mound,
streamlined with fallible innocence,
yelding with resisting acquiescence.
The Cupid struck my heart...
Oh! My heart liquified with fervor,
oblivious to other people's rancor,
forbearing the torments of reality,
I was swept with a love fantasy.
A realization suddenly rocked my core,
staggering my brains out and shaking my soul,
as pang vanquishes all that's left in me,
captivating my dreams into vain reality.
Then my spirit languished
and my body, lifeless of a broken heart;
I realized your love was never mine
right from the start.
Rachelle Arlin Credo is a freelance writer and magazine columnist from the Philippines. She writes on a variety of topics for print and online publications. wwww.rachelle.co.nr