Michelle Smith

Sole Days

Nike hi-tops thrown on a wire

those basketball shoes

black and white

hanging by shoe strings.

How did the pair get so much high?

Tossed up by how many hands

how many tries?

The length of a firefighters ladder

Is that a surprise?

Maybe the same height of an floor

apartment building

or a football field.

Who or what does it reveal

about the wearer?

Footwear adorned on a power wire

Seen in 90026 oh really

instead of 90057 that's typical

90027, 90029

90016 no doubt

90018 that's what is talked about

and 90019 and 90011 string

Zip codes don't infiltrate

those sneakers

the purchasers or thieves do

Street survival

and hustling is learned and earned

in addition to books smarts

in elementary school.

Bang, bang your dead

by gunshots

Fentanyl,

Crystal meth

By those tweakers

Those soles were once owned by someone

Did he or she meet their maker

And death was their fate?

For those running shoes

was not a willing partner of crime

for an attempt to escape?

Are those rubber kicks marking a territory?

Dogs hike their legs

and piss on

the roots of a tree.

The stench of the yellow river

don't forget about me.

A memorial of gang hanging

on a string

There's no 40 oz poured on the sidewalk.

A salt and pepper sky

blankets the city of Los Angeles

The owner is no longer alive.

Thanks To Jane and Me

Part 1

Her twinkling eyes were blue 

like the London topaz 

or tourmaline green.

Depending on what clothes

she wore. Thanks to

Jane and me.

Cantankerous in personality.

She told the truth.

Like it or lump it. When I

served meals in her room.

On good days 

she would eat much food.

On bad days

she had the blues.

Arthritic cracks and creaks 

of the knobby knees

from plies of ballerina dancing. 

Take a toll as a two caregiver transfer 

from the bed to the walker

is welcome and routine.

Her oxygen

nebulizer treatment

provided relief. 

The eyes are

the windows 

of your soul.

Part 2

Your hair is 

your crown and glory.

For the Bible tells me so.

Her shoulder length hair,

snow gray strands of wisdom

softened her alabaster 

and cafe au lait 

colored facial profile,

her dimpled cheeks 

and a cherub shaped chin.

At 90+ at times she 

would put up a fuss

"Why are you here?"

"And what do you want?"

A med tech would say her name

To reply, 

"It's time for your medication."

I'd tell her,

"It's your life's celebration."

I appreciate

Jane and me.

Part 3

Her eyeglasses reflected eyes

of wonder and tiredness.

She beamed with pride 

about her grandchildren,

pruning her rose garden,

and made from scratch 

Hungarian goulash.

"That's how you feed a man,

for the way thru a man's heart

is through his stomach."

Thanks again for

Jane and me.

Her gut was not

always illness free.

Chemo and radiation treatment

plagued her nauseously.

Hairbrushed strands came out in clumps.

Sadly her gut became thinner.

She gained mouth ulcers 

and outer skin lumps. 

So painful that

gently dressing her

flesh and bones

after a sponge bath

hurts too much. 

Part 4

The Lord took her 

one morning 

as she slept

in her Lazy Boy easy chair.

Her shrunken aged body

covered with 

a self knitted blanket

from decades ago.

Her window open,

with a cold subtle wind

Was that her spirit 

departing the room?

No more hospice nurses

to provide palliative care.

The last curtain call 

from her soul dance.

God's angels have released

your affliction. With his wings

in heaven you will soar.

I will miss Jane and me.

Longevity is not promised 

and illnesses are the cost.

My heart will remember

the life lessons learned, 

Rest In Heavenly Peace.

PJ Swift

 What do you do when a mentor dies?

              disbelieve, reject, ignore, complain

                                                                with cries

                        and cry and cry...

                                                  ...until you're dry

breath

        exhale

        reflect, appreciate,

        recognize, celebrate

        regale

learn

        and learn...

        and learn...

                                                  until you die

gia civerolo

 

bad girl kiss *pomo haiku

                                                                                                   Death is a bad girl

She longed to fight and kiss through

                                                                    black eternity 

*pomo:  Post Modern

death insecurities

She was bored with death

Playing dead

Circling the same beats

A well- worn black groove

Even backwards it sounded

All the same

She was bored with death

Disguising the dead in 

Stack of statistics 

Hidden in plain sight

Twisting around a pointy

Tail she was jealous

She didn’t have

She would have loved to

Waved and stuck it

Straight in the air

She was bored with death

Tantalizing her

Whispering the same

Old lies she tried to ignore

An erection always 

Poking her in the back

Pathetic pleas when all

She wanted to do was sleep

She was bored with death

Death wasn’t used to being

Broken up with

Stalking, sulking no matter

How many times she said

No or you are so dead to me

She was surprised by how

Sniveling and insecure

Death could be

dead but not gone

I always felt sorry for you

Even before you were dead

It never felt real with you

Stalking the shelf

Framed black & white photo

Black of your eyes 

Shine only on the outside

Bone structure smile reveals

Big and tiny lies between 

Your very pretty white teeth

A breakthrough sparkle of glass

Misconception of protection

I push it at the very start

It easily breaks

Slashes across your neck

The prick cuts my finger

Deep red blood 

Gives personality 

To the haze of all 

The middle grays

In the black & white photo

Scrapping my brain

All the shrines and 

Sorrys that never came

I pretend to cry for

Pubic consumption

Not a teardrop

Falls 

R A Ruadh

Two deaths

This morning I woke up

I could not remember his name

The memories of the fists

were still there although

without his name attached

they’d lost their punch

I tried to recover his name

remembering his brothers

his daughter and granddaughter

nothing

It felt so good

not having a name

to give strength to trauma

I watched it go down the drain

Eventually his name surfaced

but not from his memory but

through the relatives who understood

but it had lost its power

unconnected detached powerless

a Chinese proverb says you die twice

first your body then when your name is forgotten

This morning I woke up

without his name

Fatal friends

The viper is so small

sneaking and slithering unseen

poised and ready

to place a small fatal drop

of death if startled

the only right to exist

that it recognizes

is its own

CLS Sandoval

Fireworks, Your Family,

And Mint Chocolate Chip Ice Cream

 

Miles and Miles of long, blond hair

Encircle the room; streak out the door

Big Blue Eyes just stare

As I reach to pick her off the floor

 

Four generations gathered here

All at their own place in life

I assure you not to fear

As you release that look of strife

 

I offer salutations to faces with smiles

Who seem to want to know about us

You try to reassure me all the while

And I remind you not to fuss

 

We go outside to grill the meal

You compliment me to no end

With each look, my heart you steal

And to me, love you send

 

All the stress we face each day

Is left anywhere else tonight

Embraced in family, we stay

As we watch the fire take flight

 

I still cannot believe you are mine

I am my best when I am with you

Though I know it is and over-used line

I promise: it could not be more true

Questions

 

Is life really any better than death?

What does it feel like to be high on meth?

When will I finally meet God?

Is it really okay to be odd?

 

Will I ever stop feeling alone?

What will I look like when I’m grown?

Is it ever okay to hate?

Will I ever find the perfect mate?

 

Will all of the trees grow real tall?

Why does it always hurt when I fall?

Will all the world’s slaves ever truly be free?

Why can’t everyone want to love me?

 

When will mothers stop killing their babies?

Will we ever stop cheating ourselves with only maybes?

Is it alright to just set down your gun?

Is it okay to just turn and run?

 

Could I please have help tying my shoe?

Why are the evil abundant and the righteous few?

Will we ever fill ourselves with I cans instead of I can’ts?

In this life, will we ever really learn to dance?

When Death and Birth Overlap

 

On the third day

Jesus rolled the stone away

 

After being consumed by flames

the Phoenix is reborn 

 

Zombies’ human minds die

as their bodies continue on

relentlessly seeking brains

 

Death and rebirth take on many forms

in lived experience and myth alike

and it is not always for the better

jf giraffe

DIA DE LOS MUERTOS (HAIKU) 

The Day of the Dead

Holiday of memories

Special moments shared

Ellyn Maybe

LOST TO TIME

Facebook is the obituary section of a newspaper I didn’t realize I subscribed too. 

Sometimes I’m getting the news years after they’re gone.

Memories on the tip of the tongue.

Decades ago, lives in other cities, countries.

Sometimes immediately but still in the past like a celluloid scrim marquee with capital letters and small breath.

Remembering some moment in time before clocks drifted their sands across eternity. 

Condolences is the language filling the air with a residue of music and dictionaries full of pictures and time stopping glimpses into the cities left behind.

The empty theater seats with a ghost light beaming.

The violin with a fermata note hanging in the air.

Gabby Gilliam

On This Day

12 years ago 

my dad danced with me 

for the first and last time 

before giving me away

11 months ago 

an oven reduced him to ash 

an entire life in less than a shoebox

10 days ago 

I began my first new year 

that won’t include him

9 hours ago 

Facebook showed me a memory 

of my dad walking me down the aisle

8 minutes ago 

I didn’t suspect I’d spend 

my anniversary sobbing

and yet, here we are.

I Need a Minute

I am not ready to explain to my son 

why I’m crying, so I lock myself

in the bathroom and fill the tub 

with the hottest water I can stand 

let my skin redden and nearly 

burn. I am not ready to speak 

the word that will make this grief 

real. I am tired of my friends 

sacrificing pounds of flesh 

to operating rooms just for cancer 

to chew new holes in them. I wonder 

how many tears it will take for me 

to float. The Dead Sea has a salinity 

of almost thirty four percent. I make 

a mournful buoy—hold my breath 

as my head sinks to the bottom,

not yet ready to fill my lungs with air.

Mark Heathcote

Hoping Against Hope

We're accustomed to seeing crustaceans

crabs and lifeless jellyfish along these shores

starfish, excite our alliterations

but any man bereft fleeing bloody wars.

Scooping up a dead child or two, a wife

yes, images of this kind haunt our psyche

thinking of it makes us re-evaluate life

every night, let's be thankful to God Almighty.

It wasn't our child on that shoreline washed

hoping for a place to find a sanctuary 

in a small rowboat hoping, against hope (lost)  

prayers might be answered just temporarily.

Hedy Habra

That Day in Heliopolis

At the movies, 

I'd nest my head in his jacket,

his voice would slow

my heartbeat.

"Don't be afraid,

it is not real."  

We rode camels at the Pyramids.

At the Palmyra café, he put

Backgammon pawns in my palms.

Everyone complained,

"You're spoiling the little brat."

At school, they threw me 

off the team that day.

I was useless, they said,

"What a baby," someone said.

"Leave her alone,

she's crying because 

her father is dead."

I waited all-day

to come back home.

I understood

the black dress,

the pale, thin lips,

the pink Salon glittering,

shining like a monstrance...

"Is it true what they said?

Isn't he coming back?"

The lips moved...

First published by Negative Capability

From Tea in Heliopolis (Press 53 2013)

A Glimpse of Fall                                      

My Art teacher says,

"Never paint a tree

in Spring or Summer,

paint them nude,

when you can see them 

embrace each other,

when their antlered arms 

raise in different directions."  

 

It's too cold to paint 

outdoors where the river 

begins to melt under 

ducks' emerald green.

I'm glad the next-door 

neighbors didn't build. 

Their tall crackled oaks 

will be mine a while longer

still covered with 

shriveled sandy-ochre leaves. 

Leaves dry, cling 

to their old birthplace. 

I think of my mother 

who always wanted 

to be buried in Egypt 

besides her husband, mother, 

in their family vault. 

Now, she'll be buried 

in the New World.

When I'd tell her,

"I'm taller than you 

now," she'd say,

"Don't you know people 

shrink with age?  I wasn't 

always like this."

I try to pull the crisp 

auburn leaves, one by one. 

They look old, dead, 

but alive inside.

They won't give up 

until a new leaf 

pushes them aside.

First published by Negative Capability

From Tea in Heliopolis (Press 53 2013)

I had Never Seen a Dead Man Before

Until my father-in-law died that summer in Tucson, Arizona

He seemed to sleep 

in his suit and tie,

expressionless, 

the color of death freezing

his shrunken features,

almost youthful in his eighties

as if an artist's pencil 

performed a final facelift, 

inverting lines

for a last farewell.

I knelt on the velvet 

rest in prayer.

thinking of the fig tree 

we once planted together, 

of how he always 

saved the juiciest fig

for me: "Here," he'd say 

"This one's from your tree... 

see how well I care for it?" 

 

I felt a pang in my chest,

leaped years and years back

to a January morning: a young

child, taken away for the day,

only to return to a house

filled with absence,

where all had forgotten

how to smile.

I was never told what had 

happened that day, 

in Heliopolis. “Your father 

is in the hospital,” they said.  

I awaited your return, 

week after week,

unable to understand

the silent procession, 

charcoaled silhouettes 

shading spaces

once forbidden to

our clumsy hands, 

beveled doors 

now wide-open,

black skirts hiding pink 

damask silk, flowing 

over gilded Louis XVI

chairs and Bergères

like a flock of Egyptian

ravens, threatening 

my caged love-birds

placed at the balcony edge.

First published by Sukoon Literary Magazine

Jeffry Jensen

DABBLING IN THE DEAD DAYS OF CARPET BURNS

It looks like an atomized toolkit extinction

is making a beeline across a tightly-woven spitfire carpet

towards a gilded neighborhood near you real soon.

Moving vans seemingly coming from Mars

have been lining up for days without stamped paperwork.

It has been said that 41,000 doctors have started probing

only those who have been mesmerized by the suburban misfits

making the rounds near the meteor landing site of last summer.

Since it was giddy day in the Odysseus sandbox,

I took my time before dissembling my rational roots

from an Abyssinian recovery that placed me

near the Horn of Africa for the duration of sweet fig season.

Someone had better put their foot down

on the current chainsaw political rampage.

After our dead-day election, a balloon was

floated up my Eustachian Tube

before I could cry uncle or channel my contempt.

It did not take long for all cliffside dwellers

pressed against a crumbling coast to take up

a crusty metaphysical bitcoin collection

for my possible stunning barbaric recovery.

Eli Goitein

Any body who does not believe

death won't

one day overcome him

is due for a message

one day he will receive

EVERY BODY DIES

Every leaf off a tree

bird fallen from the sky

any motorpsycho madman

headed for a crash

any Jihad soldier suicide

bound to fatal convictions

Any body suffering

wounded deep inside

EVERY BODY DIES

Every breathing creature will naturally

thrust forward into living

make a way past the dust

tho there be a disappointed few

hold to a different view

dissent from what's on offer

and opt for an early exit

but for all of them it's all the same

EVERY BODY DIES

No need to wonder

has it forever been so

millions / no billions of years ago

We come alive in our time

go our way

complete the rhyme

from spiral of birth

to the winding sheet dropped into

earth

EVERY BODY DIES

I'm not trying

to convince or confuse

each one of us will have to choose

make use of what happens along the way

no afterlife / heaven and hell

what we create / the story

we live to tell and then it's over

EVERY BODY DIES

P.S. Any body who does not believe... 

Trish Saunders

KNOWING

The evening lies before us, perfect.

 Here is a table, white-cloth’d, glasses chilled.

Fern fronds wave in the night air. 

Come and drink! Here is wine, vodka, lemons and gin.

Smoking’s encouraged. Everyone’s waiting. 

Everyone she loved or loathed, throughout her life. 

Of course, she is dead. Please, night sky, be kind 

to my mother. She might think she’s dreaming. 

Who will console her at the moment of realization? 

Maybe knowing will be relief enough.

 

 

TOMORROW

Sit down in the empty park. Bang your head against a maple tree.

Observe the watery sun overhead 

as it touches your knee.

 This will help you to not hear bells

of Our Lady of the Lake Catholic Church when they peal

ten times at ten a.m., one toll for each suicide

so far this year, that we know about, 

we don’t count exhausted elderly  

who refuse to open their eyes when they realize

they live for another day, nor do we count

despairing foster kids, or trans who tell themselves,

may as well be dead, who can live without hope of love?

Don’t think I exempt myself--I know something will come

for me sometime. I will be waiting at the window. 

It will be perfect. 

DRINKING ALONE

Never thought you’d disappear

in the desolate night, Louise, 

chaotic noon always seemed

more your style.  

So I would gladly trim 

two weeks off my daylight 

for one more night for you, 

use as you please, 

maybe write    

a new poem 

for our astonishment,  

or (treat of treats!)

send your ghost to share

this bottle. 

Your silence now is lasting.

Before, it was a breath between words.

(for Louise Glück, 1943-2023)

 

Terry McCarty

DEAD DAY

it was 1993 in Las Vegas

a day at the Sam Boyd Silver Bowl

where eggs could have fried on seats

and I sat near nonalcoholic Wharf Rats

waiting for the Grateful Dead to appear

but first, there was Sting in black overalls

playing for an hour to a polite audience 

then, after what seemed like another hour,

the Grateful Dead emerged with the welcome 

Deadhead favorites plus the Drums/Space jams

ending with a cover of A Day In The Life

after the experience

(nothing like a Grateful Dead concert)

I returned to the parking lot 

where burritos and homemade jewelry were sold

while some opened their car trunks

to pull out their instant happy nitrous tanks

as the police, rare for them, looked the other way

POST ELECTION DAY

democracy isn’t quite dead

but it’s certainly on life support 

we hope that the ACLU

and, occasionally, congressional Republicans,

can blunt the excesses of Trump 2.0

as centrist Democrats and the national press

look for ways to thread the appeasement needle—

seeming to stand up without doing so

ARTIFICIAL INTELLIGENCE RAMBLE

let your Artificial Intelligence do your thinking and deciding for you 

plus you can put it to work making what Guillermo Del Toro called screensavers 

but you with little background in art appreciation will call it genius pixel painting 

then you can feed your AI old movies and movie star photos to create a 

teaming of dead Alan Ladd and Humphrey Bogart 

boasting it’s better than movies made with real living people 

and after that you can fly to a foreign country 

to not learn the language 

but speak your native linguistics into a translator app 

and, once you’ve returned home, you tell your math teacher 

you don’t need to waste hours proving theorems 

because there’s AI to save the day for you 

as you persist in believing your Artificial Intelligence 

is all the power you need 

with no more reason to read and figure and learn, 

then you’ll find yourself easily led 

and, eventually, easily enslaved\

Connie Johnson

All That’s Revealed

Your cocked hat 

And your lopsided grin 

The bliss you promise

Your deliverance 

We’re a long way from home 

We are currency, truth untold

We are the grits and the grease in the 

Skillet; we are the gin and the sin

And the sizzled relief

At the end of the day

Amidst the trembling 

Lights, you swallow all the 

Tears that baptized you;

And as the haints bay

At your windows so emphatically,

You come away triumphant

Transformed

We search for home; we’ll know 

What to do when we get there  

A smoky haze, an enclave of

Of lilies and dianthus

You live by the words that describe us;

They’re just R&B: Regrets & bygones

Pen the lines from your vault and I’ll sing them 

Like a soul provocateur prepared to reveal all:

 

I know a lot about secrets 

Oh and I definitely know what is true 

One day you’re going to tell somebody 

Who I am and what I am to you  

Telephone 

I answer the phone.

I make telemarketers reconsider

Their career choice.

I put one foot in front 

Of the other. I make 

Grown men cry. 

Nothing seems to defeat 

Me. Though I know the proverbial shoe 

Will drop one day.   

In the meantime I stay barefoot: 

(can’t be too careful 

Who prophesized this world in which I reside?  

Not me. 

I wanted something different for myself.

Like your voice on the other end of the telephone. 

& all the time in the world in which to answer.

On the Day That You Forgot Me 

your two-step became suddenly 

elevated into jump blues / membrane 

and lifeblood became part of your 

discontented rituals   

I became your vest-style frottoir

you became the processed hair 

of Clifton Chenier 

I learned what it meant to be 

open-handed but eternally empty 

I learned all the words 

to The Blue Angel Club 

I left the soul of myself in Louisiana

I left the dregs of myself in the Sazerac 

you still sip  

Jack G Bowman

Frank’s Conversation with Death

Frank enters the cold half lit room

a small table, two chairs

he waits, his appointment arrives late

they face each other

Frank explains, the illness, anger, disappointment

in his life, abilities, increasing darkness,

despite meaning

 

death chuckles,

points out the obvious, life stages, deterioration,

life span and past spent,

asks about his expectations,

observations, lessons, relationships

with others, nature, consciousness

 

Frank gets angry, wants clear answers,

direction,

death smiles, “5 years, 10 tops, “

then leaves as Frank

sits in silence

wonders what to do with his time.

Wayne F Burke

Consul

April snowstorm closes down the

sky;

white roofs, trees, lawn

I put the heat on

and sit

with a book by

Malcolm Lowry: UNDER THE VOLCANO.

The Consul, Hugh, Yvonne

in Quauhnahuac and

on the bus to Tomalin

with the pelado

who steals

from the dying Indian...

Una mescal pour le Consul

mais pour moi

una espresso

as I am on the wagon

under the volcano

abelow vultures that float like 

scraps of burnt paper overhead

on this Day of the Dead, 1939.

Popcatepetl looks on, impassive

as humanity 

to the unfolding tragedy

in Spain and Germany

and in the Farolito where

el Consul goes drinks among

the Indians, and

meets his doom

too.

Charles Jr.

in a past life 

I was the Lindbergh baby,

s'why I am traumatized by

enclosed spaces,

like the one the kidnappers

put me into--

not Hauptmann

that poor sap

and not Lindy, my father

(what a jerk he could be!)

but two guys

one named Muggsy,

one whose name I did not catch,

the bastard who strangled me

dead--

s'why I am afraid of

strangers,

why I have never liked wearing

a neck-tie.

Driller

sky yawning in the

jackhammered morning--

air compressor hissing;

staccato wha wha

wha and

drill bits chipping away

in the concrete day:

heat from the machines 

in my face; Green Mountains of

Vermont in my line of sight:

this is what I was born for?

Breaking rocks on the Great Highway?

James Luke Stilwell

SO ME AND DEATH

You know, dying, which is what 

I’m doing but we all are in our less 

and more obvious ways

Death

2000 in India due to a heat wave 

and what the fuck are you 

complaining about? 

We never would if we always had 

to measure our death against 

the deaths of the world 

I guess the real question is asking

anyone to care

Well, I want my loved ones 

to care

Yeah big revo there 

and anyone else who wants to 

would be a blessing

So me, and death

Not dying

The final blow of darkness

I’ve never thought about it much

My philosophy was always 

in universe building stuff 

All the grand stuff 

but death

Never thought about it 

in the same detail I waged 

in my purpose of the universe 

Questions I orbited about 

in high school

Never acknowledged it 

more than a vague big end

Heaven? 

Yeah, that’s something 

I couldn’t accept 

in so many ways

The Christian heaven— 

our souls living as our bodies 

or individual egos

So then you get reincarnation 

and that was never a comfort

Always wanted that I survive 

and you get obliviated 

Same as if nothing was 

waiting for you

Plus you don’t get to jump out 

of the system as you do 

with pure nothing though again 

it’s not like you’re going to 

recognize the moment

Damnit! Infant enthroned 

Ego enthroned

That’s what I’ve always wanted 

That it isn’t matter, 

it’s my intellection

That creation at primary 

is intellection

That’s what the writing has always 

been about, so you can’t think 

about death then

Gives the lie to all that

I mean I would have to believe

I don’t know what to believe, 

but when I think about it 

too much, I get scared

Right now I’m just writing about it 

because it’s also doing a poor job 

of hiding behind every third corner 

of my thoughts, like it’s wearing 

a London Fog coat and sunglasses

How long do I really have?

—James Luke Stilwell (1968-2015)

Charles David Valle

Endless Song

From horizon to the beach

Does the hand of heaven reach

In the wilder winter weather

Of the ocean in the rain

When the daggers of the sun

Burst from out the clouds and run

Colors racing cross the sea

For the dance of the sea is a song

Declared at the edge of the sand

And the spray is as crystal in sunlight

Now the surf is a driven enchantment

And the wind is a wonderous thing

It speaks of the winters

As well as the springs

It heralds the summers

Of autumns it sings

In the winter of waves breaking freely

Is the song of the souls of the dead

And the sky is a painting in sumi

And the drumming of waves is a dirge

Till on the waves at day's repose

The sun doth cast a perfect rose

And the sky is incandescent

As it flames away to night

Couplets on Destiny     

And from creations timelessness God came

and where he stepped a galaxy became

By a single blow the soul was wrought

from out the substance of holy thought

Enjoy these fleeting hours, do not repine

for soon the bell that ends your life will chime

Is all earthly time a single verse

inscribed upon a timeless universe

A trail of sorrows followed by decay

with here and there a moment to be gay

To come and sit a while and to converse

amidst the glory of the universe

My dreams came shambling down the street one day

upon which pain and greed and tarnish lay

And do all souls depart in final flight

beyond the ancient portals of the night

 

Shih-Fang Wang

The Wind’s Journey 

At the break of day

The morning wind awakes 

I feel it passing by 

It tousles my hair 

It flirts with my skirt 

The grasses bow down 

As it crosses the field 

It ruffles the leaves 

Of the autumn trees 

It chases the clouds 

Out of the sky 

Continues its journey

Bending the reeds  

Along the river 

And when it reaches the ocean 

Over the waves

It dances its way

Into the sunset 

Life Journey

No one is able to escape demise

It is a must for all of us to face 

Although it may arrive in great disguise  

While health and youth are still in our embrace    

Our destiny determines short or long

We can enjoy days free from fear of death

Then at last we have to sing our swan song

And without a choice take our final breath

So let us treasure our journey on earth       

We must seize each moment without misuse

And try to make this transient life gold’s worth

Through pursuing our dreams and inner muse

Do the very best to fulfill your life’s goal

Mortal time is never in our control 

Dean Okamura

a visit

 

the mood in the room 

does not change week after week 

as if time has paused 

hopes shift slowly into regrets 

yesterday is full of good-byes 

she sleeps surrounded 

by framed pictures of the dead 

brothers and sister 

under mom's and pop's proud gaze 

family still together 

talk to dementia 

will any truth reach her heart 

does she even hear 

no acknowledgment, no frown 

what does truth sound like, anyway? 

a breeze stirs the blinds 

they sway back and forth in pairs 

refreshing the air 

the stillness in the room holds us 

together as we break 

she takes her last breaths 

we wonder how it happened 

favorite things lost 

so much abandoned in haste 

she should have eaten more sweets 

Days of drifting dead in a fleeting world

 

     “mono no aware” 

     – Japanese aesthetic for beauty present in fleeting, sorrowful impermanence 

I feel more 

out of place in the land 

of my ancestors 

the foreigner asking 

where do I belong if not here? 

When my grandparents left 

they forged a new path 

no future in Japan 

they didn’t look back. 

There is much beauty 

in this place 

but I will never 

belong here 

nor understand 

“mono no aware”. 

When I am dead 

do not spread my ashes 

in this country 

my soul would wander aimless 

never touching ground 

and echoes speak 

in words I failed to learn. 

If you find my ashes 

place me somewhere safe 

not in a place of prominence 

nor in such a way to be lost 

I did try to belong. 

Am I alone? 

David Fewster

L.A. WEEKLY GOES TO FRANCE

Michael Ventura went to Paris

To sit in the bathtub where Jim Morrison died

Because that's the kind of guy he is

Slamming shots of tequila and

Smoking Gauloises-Bleu's by the handful

He fills the tub until the water reaches his chin

Screaming "Go, baby, go

Break on through to the other side"

Knowing that with the mere dip of the head

He could crash that barrier and join Jim

And read him the essay on

"Dionysian Archetypes & the MTV Generation"

That he had written that afternoon on Baudelaire's tombstone

While drinking vin rouge and smoking hashish

That he had bought early that morning from a young Arab dealer

Outside the building where Modigliani's wife

Leapt to her death, all the while

Remembering with regret the night before when

He had tried to sleep in the room where Oscar Wilde

Suffered his massive cerebral hemorrhage,

Shooting brains, blood, pus and mucus out of every orifice

In front of terrified onlookers

But someone had rented it out first

Some goddamn little poseur, no doubt,

And then and there Michael wrote an article

"Those Goddamn Mealy-Mouthed Pathetic

Empty-Headed Little Poseurs

Without Lives of Their Own Who Get Vicarious

Kicks Out of Renting Rooms Where Famous Iconoclasts

Have Died and Make It Almost Impossible for Me to

Get Reservations There"

Which will be coming out in 'The New Yorker' later this year

Because right after he finished it he ran into Tina Brown

Sitting in a little cafe in Montmartre

At the table where Verlaine puked his liver out

When Robert Bly came over,

Having spent the day in the hotel where Strindberg went mad

And he and Michael started a dialogue on suicide

Each hoping the other would commit it first

But, unfortunately, they knew each other only too well

So the conversation will be published in book form

By St. Martin's Press this fall.

Back in the bathtub,

Michael Ventura blows bubbles through his nose

And makes little humming noises,

Pretending he's a speedboat.

The moment of danger is past.

His only regret is

That he forgot to take off his street clothes

Before he turned on the tap.

(Originally published in "Revival: Spoken Word from Lollapalooza 94" Manic D Press, 1995)

Carl Stilwell AKA CaLokie

I am the greatest

Ezra Pound for Pound 

poetry champion ever

My verses float like a butterfly

but sting like a bee!

O.K., who wants to take me on

C’mon, T.S. Eliot, while the evening 

is spread out against the sky like 

a patient etherized upon a table

Hit me with your best shot, man!

Hey, Shakespeare

I’m talkin’ to thee, dude!

Let’s me and thou get us hence 

to ye olde Globe Theatre

and  duke it out anon!

How about you Emily Dickinsen?

Just you and me, Baby

Man to man!

¿Or usted y me, Pablo Neruda

Hombre al hombre 

¿Comprehendes?

Hey, Willie Wordsworth 

Get your butt over here!

Me and you, man, 

are goin to recollect in tranquility 

how my lyrical ballads are goin to 

beat the Dickens out of yours!

Come with me, E. B. Browning,

and let’s count the ways 

poetry fans love my sonnets

Rage all you want against 

my poetry machine, Dylan Thomas,

but ain’t no stoppin’ me now

What’s the matter, Thomas Wolfe?

Can’t you go home again--

to your mommy?

Put em up, Virginia Woolf

I ain’t afraid of you  

Who’s next?  

Kerouac?  

Ginsberg?

Beat it, fellows!

Hit the road, Jack, 

and don’t come back, Allen, 

or I’ll give you somethin’ 

to really howl about!

And what are you waitin’ for,

Ferlinghetti

That rebirth of wonder

still hasn’t arrived?

O.K., Langston Hughes, 

take a hike to one of them rivers

you’ve known and bring  

that dirty ole man Bukowski,   

along with you to get a bath!

Come on out of that yellow wood, 

Robert Frost, and let’s see what you got

It don’t matter which road you take

You can run but can’t hide

Well, any one left, livin’ or dead, 

poet enough to take me on?

C’mon!  C’mon!

I’ll vie with any one of you 

one rhyme at a time

or brawl with you all at once 

with blank verse or free

It makes no difference

for I am the greatest

My lyrics float like a butterfly

but sting like a bee!