Wednesday, February 28, 2007

March 2007

Some new voices this month: Michelle Reale, Branch Isole, Janet Butler and Ernest Williamson III.

Michelle Reale

Not All of Me Will Die

Whatever is familiar
Eventually falls victim
To whatever comes next

And in that way
It, too, becomes familiar
I can't cry over a lost landscape again
Tears like that are for a woman with no bones

I've got no strength to leave behind
Home after home
Dilapidated shelters fit with corrugated memories
With outposts in that delicate part of my brain
That can't, won't let go.

Of course avoidance can be
An effective coping technique
But, as the similarly affected will know,
It functions solely in the short term.

Realistically, you can only avoid
Certain streets and passage ways for so long
Or else you will block out
Your entire universe which consists of only
Thirty-six square blocks anyway.

Grow a spine!
Traverse the well-graveled road.
Most importantly, don't look back.
You'll come round here again.
If not in this life, the next.

Michelle Reale is the Circulation Supervisor of a University library working on her Master's in Library Science. Her fiction and poetry has been published in Verbsap, 3711 Atlantic, Moondance, Lily, Underground Voices, Philadelphia Poets, Springfed and GreyBorders.

Branch Isole

As Easy As

Flirt if you must
to find hidden within
that which you've kept secreted
from both yourself and from him

Allow this new love
for himself to discover
that which will be shared
with yet your next new lover


In the pitch of the room
a dim light glimmers afar
at journey's end
as dream becomes real
to mind's eye
and so the trap is set

Slipping into nightmare
absent of aims and goals
future's path by default
a disquieting status quo
Until the dream collapses
drawing unto itself
all current energy and thus,
this dream implodes

Dream to nightmare shattered
with the break of day
As dawn's first light doth glow
sleeper safely awakes
and once again is gathered
back into reality's arms

Branch Isole writes of issues and emotions surrounding personal responsibility, choice and avoidance. Author of Barking Geckos and God i believe, Branch's 'voyeurism poetry' engages the reader in common life themes often experienced but not always voiced.

Janet Butler


Gods stroll in befitting nonchalance
the shady lanes
where temperance is virtue
and agitation thought unwise
for those who thrive on adulation
admiration, emulation.

But they watch, all the same.

Quick glances search the veils of Gaia-
the airy graces that lace her fertile lands,
probing hidden sores that fester
beneath the greens and blues and browns
she wear in vaporous splendor

They watch, they judge

they name
the seeds gone bad,
the growths an infected something
of buds that wilt before the blooming
limp beneath a moon in aristocratic retreat
from sounds that fill dark skies
the jarring din
the cries that rise
and buzz tired bees
before the ponderous gates
of paradise.

The heart of it all

Sun splatters against that fine sharp line
where day cracks and night comes,
a somber, majestic, brooding power
that emanates from the heart of it all,
watching the shifting dance of galaxies
with subtle indifference.

A conjunction of perfections

and time stopped.
A trill of chirps
under a smudge of clouds
broke into a motley January day
skies blued
and thick light lay heavy
on quiet streets.

A tear in time was all it was
but a clarity filled the sweet-scented air
and I paused a moment in Eden.

Janet Butler's poetry has appeared in The Green Muse, Language and Culture, Miller's Pond, Spiky Palm, Wild Violet, Slow Trains and Flutter, just to name a few. After living in Italy for many years as an English teacher, translator and watercolorist, she transferred to the Bay Area. CA. For more on Janet, visit

Ernest Williamson III

The Values of X

she's talking about love and chance again
like some rotary phone
skipping the appellant ring tone
amid her throbbing heartache for a lived fantasy
love making no pain no monotony of groans
all vespers now with a continent of shame of age
of opportune chances constrained by fear
of attrition
of death
so I don't listen to her anymore
that woman of my past
a vixen of variegated deceits
a kiss slow and telling one night
and a cold hint of boredom
sifting through golden songs
like Stevie Wonder's Lately
another night
yet lately
I still sing among a peace assumed
here on the corner of my trouble
somewhere between foresight
and fresh
crackling love

A Deceptive Privilege

I never could fold my clothes very well
like a sentient male in lofty forests
awaiting mimetic prey to walk my way
and ascetically waste into me
I was lazy
but Silvia our nanny
was far from lazy
she was as a looming brush stroke
dallying along pallid stretched canvas
patient like midnight blue
but forceful
like neuronal kisses exploding
in the mind of Einstein
during inspirational moments of connectivity

so I stand here beneath my balcony
of my 34 room mansion
blue in the face and guilty
guilty of my own consciousness
in my own home
in my own laundry room
standing 5 feet behind Silvia
trying to observe and learn how to fold
to fold clothes

A Confounding Patriotism

I love the way she forgave my sins
alluding to comparable separations
in tunes by Coltrane and George Benson
she's so often in the midst of rare moments of peace
her name is legions of vaulted African equations
beautiful proofs with contrived improvisations hissing
in the weltering sweat stained in Western tents
I still love this place
it's a firm chair aware of its feeble legs
brave yet weighted with apathetic isms
like my woman
aforementioned nicely in line five
sexy true yet ignored
and not just mathematically

Ernest Williamson III is a self-taught painter and pianist who has published poetry and visual art in over ninety online and print journals. He holds a BA and an MA in English/Creative Writing from the University of Memphis and he's PhD student at Seton Hall University in the field of Higher Education. Visit his website:

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