Friday, December 29, 2006
photo courtesy of Dave Rubio
HAPPY NEW YEAR!
This month features the poets Carol Santoro, Dave Rubio, Cathy Delaleu, Barbara Morgan and Siobhan MacIntyre
Six strings by which to lure you
place me in your supple arms
touch, caress and tease me
enamor me with charm
Reach with gentle fingers
calloused though they be
I'm your instrument of pleasure
allow our spirits to run free
Six strings by which to bind you
tied tightly round your heart
strum softly as you sit here
waiting in the dark
Sing with me of passion
release your fears and doubts
with low and sweet vibrato
share what life is all about
Six strings by which to claim you
relive your life in song
set free the hidden secrets
you've waited far too long
And when our time is over
briefly smile to them and then
place me gently in the corner
until urges call again.
Six strings shall ever chain you...
Sing for me a lullaby
tonight I do not sleep
sit close and whisper soft words
to fill my soul so deep.
Place your cool hand gently
upon my fevered brow
lift my saddened spirit
high up into a cloud.
And take me to Nirvana
let the angels hold my hand
we'll circle life together
a never ending band.
Tell me a sweet story
one I've never heard before
of Kings and Queens and Camelot
and all that I adore.
When sleep has finally calmed me
and demons call no more
hush out the burning candle
and gently close the door.
Carol is originally from Chicago. She and her husband retired to Fort Wayne, IN three years ago. Working for 20 years in the mental health field, she took what was left of her sanity and ran away to where life was a little slower, a little calmer and a little more affordable. Her interests include poetry, bird photography, crocheting and whatever else life has to offer.
I wake up each morning with a giggle and a smile
Take a minute to wonder why the fuck 'The Fuck' is still going on
Then wish I didn't have to swear to get my point across
Wonder if I changed overnight and became the person
People want me to be?
Step to the mirror and all I see is me
The one that contemplates the consequences before taking action
The one that takes action without a second thought
Wondering what will come to fruition and what should be left to rot
Massaging bare feet in the carpet
After stepping on tiles so cold
No one seems to feed me
So I must wait til I'm old
Then the point comes across
To the sleep that I've lost on an imprint in my pillow
It's waiting for me to come back to thee
With the chants of a whispering willow
I sleep to awake
And awaken to sleep
Inbetween I'm part of the riddle
So each breath I take
I will never forsake
Glad to be stuck in the middle
While all that's been seen
Molded this being
Cascades from eternal fountain
That which I let rot
It's what helped build this mountain
Dave's writing can also be found at writerscafe.org and his photography at startlogic.com/~thehypro/
Is It Me?
My therapist calls it 'crazy-making'
The way your words wound
And when I tell you that you hurt me
You tell me
You never said what you said
You never did what you did
That I was the one
Who turned the conversation
Took the first step
Swung the first blow
I play back the tape in my mind
Again and again
It begins with your words
I did not imagine them
It wasn't me
How many times have I wished
That I could have an actual tape-recorder
To play back your words to you
To throw them in your face
And confront you with your lies
Your mind-games that you play with me
How many times have I wished
To play it back to myself
To re-affirm what I know
Instead of letting you get to me
And mess with my head
And make me wonder
Was it me?
Only you can do this to me
(Only you DO this to me)
And I will never understand why
It is what I thought love was for a very long time
(what does that say about me?)
Now I know that it is what love is in spite of
(what does that say about me?)
The Crazy One
Is it Me?
Barbara is 43 and lives in WI. She's been married for 25 years and works as the Chief Financial Officer and Accountant for a demolition company owned by her and her husband. She hopes to one day complete and publish a novel that she's had on the back burner for several years. She has two children: a daughter, 24 and a son, 17 and three dogs.
You left me dangling with the moon
Promised to return two centuries later
When our story will be ready
To be told with built in drama
I've folded scripts like scrolls
Into an old crate
While I waited for our sporadic affair to end
After consummation you don't seem to care
You quoted all my wrongdoings
Ignoring the domestic barricade we lovingly prepared
With our bare hands
You gave up the virtue of love
Without giving me a chance to show you
Our documentary tattered with immoral disorder
I want to see my resemblance in your eyes
To critically acclaim our memories with a Band-Aid
But how can I aid your illustration?
You left a fragile seed to grow without your touch
My little one is a scrapbook of your sperm
She tries to reach for our buried treasures
And suffers the translation of English
She wobbles her tiny feet on a cracked road
Coos like a first-grader mismanaged by family feud
I worry about our intricate love story
Can I craft your selfish heart into my journal?
I rather wait for autumn to drown out your groans
The surprising fact is that my daughter
Breathes better a capella
Cathy Delaleu was born in Brooklyn, NY, spent her early childhood in Haiti and spent fourteen years in Southern California. She now resides back in New York where she works for a life insurance company. She has read some of her poetry at various events throughout the city. Her ultimate goal is to turn her novels into scripts for movies or plays. Her poetry book, Wrapping Thoughts Beneath Emotive Rain, is being sold on Amazon and on her website: www.delaleuwritings.com
reaching out; nothing there
calling for you; no answer
except the cold, forbidding silence
that envelopes me.
a sound echoes in my mind:
a whisper in the darkness of my soul.
your memory is beyond my grasp-
your features blurred, your smile vague...
do you hear my voice calling you,
crying out for you,
my screams tiny in the silence
like a whisper?
no bells peal in my world
no song plays its tune
no sounds form into words to pierce
this oppressive silence.
the solitude is overwhelming
and my hope for love has died
i lay in silent, wordless misery
Siobhan MacIntyre is a married mother of three, a financial advisor at a community college by day and a student by night. In what little time there is left in between, she writes, taking inspiration from her hometown in the Pacific Northwest.