The Bride.

Her face rested
and she didn’t smile.
Her lips lingered together
stretching in a never-ending line.

Her hair was a bird.
Flying across the skies.
Shiny ornaments flashed light
On her kohl painted eyes.

Her earrings whistled
As the wind passed by
She just sat there
as cold winds sucked the air dry.

Neither did she utter
Nor mumble a word.
Silence
was heard.

What more could you do ?
When fate betrays you ?
Gives you all the happiness in a day
and then takes it all away.

Shabab Nahian Kabir

“Lord Krishna’s Counsel”

I Walk Away

Not In Anger Or Spite

Nor Malice

Yet I have felt all these things intensely

And I let them come,

And I ponder what am I feeling?

Why?

How to act? For Myself Is Not Touched

The feelings are transient

I wait with patience

I observe

Then The emotions change

From anger to fear,

Fear to sadness.

The emotions speak true.

Sometimes I feel angry

But as I feel it,

I realize it is not anger but frustration.

Does anybody care?

And If so whom? Time will tell.

Words are spoken

But words serve the speakers’ purpose.

They can be false, untrue.

Time Will be the true test of words.

Actions are what matters, Time will show

In time, we shall see

Raymond D. Johnson 

Johnson is a writer of great patience!

Angleworms in a Bottle      

 

When the birch is ablaze with leaves of fire 

Or bowed with a drape of ice 

Have we absolute faith that spring will come 

As we ring around the sun?

 

The bee will gather pollen dust

Near the fork of a budding birch

Yes, spring will come, as we know it must

The phoenix return to its perch

 

Not angleworms in a bottle 

Although our part is small

We persevere, in spite of fear

The gravest matter of all

Robin Cohn

Impact

 

I drive on this cool morning, 

perfect sunshine, vacation looms, family in car.

POW

Events so fast,

Jesus Take the Wheel, the song in my head, along with Dad's voice

crash after crash, time stands still, car spins in front of us 

brake, brake, brake—not  enough brake

I bullet off the road to avoid collision

heart gallops, but calm, so calm

not realizing memory of this never leaves

controls 

limits

 

Young driver fell asleep at the wheel, lost control, 

probably on the phone, but afraid to admit it

everybody shaken,

at roadside now cars whizz by, no one stops to help

Mom clutches head, slammed into window by first impact

eggshell skull of the elderly

trip delayed 

trip continued

trip surreal

drag home, car parts pound pavement, sparks fly

800 miles of white knuckles 

 

Untaken trips pile up after that

constant memory

constant fear

constant companion

reason to avoid highways, fear won't evacuate

no protection from random intersections of time, matter, space

wrong place,

right time

body unblemished

mind forever marked

fear of impact


Sherry Howard

Joyce’s Wonder Shirt

 

I hope

I will

never like her

in a wonder shirt

 

so much like

something Joyce

once wrote

only not at all

 

and he knew

he spoke

of Molly

of course

 

and I

know not

neither who

nor what

 

or even if

it is true

do I

hope to never

like her

in a wonder shirt?

Anthony Watkins

December 13th.

Wordless, jobless,

penniless.

What am I waiting for?

What am I writing for?

Imagination,

vindictive, jealous,

keen on fighting,

blood and hunting

for a monster.

I am listening to

the Keiros4tet. I know

Harmony’s somewhere

Behind darkness.

I knew the time was useless,

It’s gone. A long,

long time ago

It chose others and abandoned me.

I’m just familiar with a room

Where the furthest star

is glimmering

 

recurrently.

 

Nells Vade

Vader claim to be a desperate loser, a lone wolf, a passionate reader, an art amateur seeking an inspiration, still dreaming of travels and miracles, tasting this life. Loves autumn, rain, pies, black and white films, fine wines, and a good conversation. Sensitive for excellent performances. and yet, is anything but!

 

Soothsayers

 

"Will the cattle soon recover?"

asked the Ancient to the Seer.

 

"Ahhhh, dost thou see

the falcons traverse the western stars,

the owls that mute their hooted

songs, the moon - with sun polished

blaze - trapping our breaths in icy

haze. Thus, the signs of gods are clear",

divined the crystal eyed seer.

 

"Will the markets see a correction?"

asked the Anchor to the Analyst.

 

"Well,

The rising swoon of index CNY

reflects capital deepening,

catching capital share,

tracing true the axiom:

bursts of booms shall always persist."

Thus divined

the crystal glassed Analyst.

Roshan Desai

AN ANGEL

CROUCHES

 

An angel, newly formed

crouches on the first band

of morning

Balances there with tears

at the ready, but still unwept,

and no wings as yet to spread.

In the thrum and daze

of daylight, a signature

of swallows slips silently

close to her; close as breath,

as thunder.

Shuddering, the scissor-sharp                                                                   

birds liberate plumage,

surrender quills.

Finally, in concert, the birds

—a flurried involution—

arch their gift,  lay it tender

on the newborn's angel shoulders

Haste away before she can think

to raise her eyes.

S.E.Ingraham

Nevertheless   

 

Yesterday  

the land was thirsty and impatient,

it lay belly-up and waiting.

Today

the pond is brim-full,

fish gulp at the fresh sweetness,

birds sing of the rain

and of bird-news

which I do not understand,

but I believe it must be better

than other news

oozing from our ailing land.

 

My doors are thrown wide open,

I sit, flooded by the sun --

humming my own strange song,

which I understand no better

than those sung by feathered ones.

 

For in times of hatred

fluttering on flagpoles,

I cannot imagine why --

but it really does not matter,

today the birds and I,

today we sing.

Annette Snyckers joins ModPo from South Africa

Reckless Abandonment      

Words,

deft prodigals

side-stepping my brain,

slipping away singly

or in defiant collectives

like truants,

leaving my doors ajar

to casual plunders,

I have your rooms prepared

with fresh sheets and flowers.

Linda Ireland

Map of Time

Stars, wheeling across the ancient map—

Points of reference

When fixed by legend—

Transliteration is the key that turns the lock

And spills them out into uncharted waters.

Here be dragons,

Guarding the passage between the known and unknown,

Preventing you from sailing off the edge

Of the page

Into oblivion,

Obliteration,

Alliteration like stones stepping you back,

Iteration, in the vocabulary of the stars, confirming

The spot you marked with your “X”—

You were here. You were.

(Though just between you and me we know how slippery here and now can be,

And how deceptively small the space circumscribed by dragons.)

(Map not drawn to scale--

Your mileage may vary.)

Kathy White

Get Your 1st Annual ModPo Anthology Print Edition

These 41 poems by this year's Modpo students collected in "chapbook" form

Price $5.00 first volume, $4.00 for additional copies. S&H $2.00 each volume (outside USA may add additional shipping costs)

Profits to go to Kelly Writers House

ZEBRA FINCHES CALL AND RESPONSE

                                                                         It

                                                                  doeS work beneath the     

eggshell

    a song    an alternative to build on     rePeat un-repenting

               upending any specific classificatiOn. anything you

 

         hear  an influence of weather  what'S

                                                     more speculatIve

                                                                         Than

                                                                       bIrth

                                                  lyric master: Our

                                                                 pareNts

 

 

                                                                        sOng reversing  tactics     

sustain the oblique

                     music  catalogued in our grateFul restraints

powerful be-deep beep meep oi ha!

 

                                                 eggs synchroniZe  with

                                               calls soothing thE outside and

                     inner  warned   the heat of life Before hatching

                                                song is

                                                         not a lineaR

                                                                      dreAm nor

 

 

                                                  dramatic with Finality 

                                                                  song Is

                                                                         aN alternative to build

on repeat un-repenting  upending any speCific family

                                                                    anytHing you

                                                         think you'vE heard  

 

                  an influence

                                            of weather  what'S more speculative

                                                than birth       lyric master

                                                                     

In part inspired by: Science Mag: “Zebra Finches Call Prepares Their Eggs For Climate Change”

Mary-Marcia Casoly, a native San Franciscan, CA, author of Run to Tenderness(Pantograph Press & Goldfish Press, 2002) Her chapbook, Lost Pages of Bird Lore  is part of the Small Change Series (Word Temple Press, 20121)  Believes in life long learning, Loves Modpo, incredibly inspiring.

Glossary 

The room was empty and full of sun.  Is this a paradox?

The womb was empty and full of son.  This is a mutation.

The difference between paradox and mutation is a line 

defined by the lines that follow.  This is context—not to be

confused with contexture, which is closer to conjecture.

Therein lies the difference. 

Information is a by-product of difference.  A son 

is not a sun . . . and yet he warms me.  Two sons are brothers,

a mother a daughter, a father a son.  We grow in this light.

Relationships define but transcend time.  Which role rises

in the hierarchy?  Is order temporal?  Circular?  

Questions drift, are drawn to shore.   

       

A small change, only a few letters, a few cells.

A small mutational change.  Evolution?  Cancer.

Words are illusory.  What has this to do with the moon?

What has this to do with a crab?  How does a word begin to die?

Cut out the letter C.  

What remains? Not an answer.

Tautology is a form of rhetoric and subject to abduction.

(I run off with rhetoric often.)  It is a question of balance,

walking the line between reductionism and holism, learning

to walk barefoot.  Information resides in the distinction between 

foot and wire.  To be misled is to hang in space.  

I prefer a word—to hold on to.

 

Pamela Joyce Shapiro

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