Wednesday, October 31, 2007

November 2007




This month features
Brian Watson and Beth Stolar Kehayes


Brian Watson


Summer Silence

Silenced by the only thing that ever gave you peace,
you wander wildclad
through the thunder-scorched night air.
Hot, wet pavement beneath your feet,
autumnal rainwater soaked by summer's heat.
Wandering, wondering,
lost in a careless fog,
silence wrapped around the hazy streets.
Playing the guessing game with yourself,
leading to the inevitable:
"What if, what if, what if?"
Half-formed situations in your brain,
miscarriages in a pregnant mind,
in a night of aborted ambitions.
Trailing ideas that lead down the same path;
conception, obsession.
Enveloped in pressing humidity,
beginning to discover yourself.

Emptiness

The bed seems so big since you left it.
Its twisted and coiled sheets so lonely without you here.
Yet the incredible impression of your body remains;
on the bed and in my head.
The sculpted impression of your head
is molded into the cottonwhite pillow
that contrasted so beautifully with your hair.
Our scents hang in the air above me like a wedding veil.

It seems so long ago, oh, it seems so long ago when hours ago
you and I, together forever in memory,
belonged to the breathless world of fullbodied touches.
Our honeyed lips and satined skin
roiled and flowed with the sheets
that encased us like a womb:
a resolute barrier against the emptying night.

Still, our unending kisses had to end,
and the passionmarks that resulted will fade with time.
And you my love, you too will fade with time,
and so will I,
until nothing of us remains.

Eden


Shadows in my mind,
like leaves in the garden of Eve.
Bare feet on primordial earth.
The sense of inheritance beneath my feet,
something far greater than I,
forever beyond me.

Patterned shadows filter across the ground,
moving to the breath of the wind,
shapely, shifting.
Trees and seeds, unreaped harvest,
untouched fields.

Ivy twines around the trees,
carpets moss on the sharp stones,
and nature goes on around me.

Still,
underneath the willow's shadow,
beneath the mossy granite,
Lilith blossoms in the secret places.

Brian Watson is an 18 year old poet who has been writing for only five years. He attends Keene State College in New Hampshire and has been published in inside me, a production of the Live Poet's Society of NJ. He is majoring in English and writing and hopes to become a college professor.


Beth Stolar Kehayes


Temperance


She hugged herself
in summer’s twilight
consoled by
life’s palette.
Alone.
Time would temper the
longing. Pink
sky ebbed into orange,
twisting
against a violet streak
amidst the birds’ mantra.
She might believe
in magic.
The air cool, fresh from swim
as her wet body
embraces hairs rising
and dripping.
A journey to
forfeit fabric
for skin.

The Sand Dollar

The petals cracked
as I fed an African Violet,
ruffled greens on a sill.
The test remains halved
with its five doves
scattered,
at my feet.

The Echinoid is a mystery,
primitive beauty.
Five keyholes in which to feed
the flower hatch marks
like Leonardo,
cartilage fragile,
as ghosts of the sea.
The fantasy I could recreate
were I with rapidograph,
charcoal,
and soft granite pencils.

The mouth has gaping chambers,
where stalagmites mingle
with stalactites
and I can see a monk among the caverns
as well as plankton
being swept by cilia.

A dove’s wings crumble
from my thumb
and I am left with an anchor.
And four doves to set free.
I am inspired
to draw the beauty
of your spine
against the calcified
cusp
of what I am
unsure of
yet hold in my palm.

Asbury Park Repentance

I am unable to recreate words
only the title
and the bishop’s black sleeve
while throwing a gilt cross into the sea.
The cool cavern of Convention Hall
with its friezes of mermaids and dolphins
hovering like angels.
Our hum of rubber tires over concrete
smoothed by years of sandy heels
as we neared opaque salt covered doors
to feel the slats of the boardwalk
rumbling.
The day was hot for September
and the baby was still in a stroller.
I was seven pounds lighter even with the guilt.
The youth dove to redeem
what their futures had not yet prophesied
and I in the garb of offense.
The ache of not forgetting a face
or the timeless shadow in deft tears
of all that I have carried
and will always seek.

Beth Stolar Kehayes has a Bachelor of Fine Arts degree from The College of New Jersey, USA. After a twenty year hiatus from the discipline of writing she has been making up for lost time. Her poetry has appeared, or is forthcoming, in over twenty publications, e-zines and print, including Tipton Poetry Journal, La Fenetre, ken*again, Chantarelle’s Notebook, Beauty/Truth Press. and Gold Dust Magazine. Beth is currently Co-Editor of Flutter Poetry Journal.

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