IBPC March 2010

[sonoranpoet]

Nominate! Early and often...remember if you are nominated please send a release to me. ty. Sue

[sonoranpoet]

This is a wonderful and timely sonnet by Wilt. Fantastic!

Reaching Out

An island heaves and shivers like a child
with whooping cough and fever from the ‘flu
as tortured gasps of final words tattoo
the air above white beaches, bodies piled
like logs along the shore. Above the wild
ravines and mountainsides, the sky (once blue,
now gray with smoke and tears) bids sad adieu
to turquoise seas, to breezes soft and mild.
When restless earth erupts and lays to waste
our human world, this Maya we all trust,
foundations shake across the universe.
Though some may say disasters can be traced
to God’s displeasure, or to some ancient curse,
we all reach out and help… because we must.

[mo]

Hi! Today I want to nominate Alice's poem:

At the Top of the Island

At the top of the island, where it is cool,
they said, the cherry trees bloom,
now, before the great heat of spring
rises up around them.

His Japanese heart
thrills at the mention of cherry trees,
the ancient ritual of going to view them
rises up in his blood.

We drive to the top of the island,
through the colorless military town,
down an obscure road, past churches and schools,
and into a neighborhood of elderly plantation houses.

We rise up this road of neatly-kept memories
to find that some immigrant, two or three lifetimes ago
planted five cherry trees along his fence,
maybe never saw them bloom.

At the top of this road they stand in a line,
thinner than their stately cousins in Japan,
more blushing in blossom than the pale flutter flowers
on the historic trees along the palace moat in Tokyo,

but for him, they are sacred, these five poor trees,
embodiments of beauty, memory, and pride.
And so we stand in the road, neighbors peeking from behind curtains,
bowing to the five cherry trees half in bloom


By Alice Folkart

[connied]

Sue from the House--Awesome!!

Humpty Dumpty or the 200 Year Rule

I.
I am seven. I hear that some countries
you live in tell you what to think.
Tell you what books to read.
The government doesn't want
you to know much. You could
become dangerous. They aren't America.
We are free to think, to say.
We Pledge Allegiance. After prayers
I sit, my Catholic school jumper
is wool and itches. The nun
has a little gray mustache and tells us
about Russia and Communist China.
The bell rings, I am free to play
stocking ball in the playground surrounded
by the chain linked fence.
Mother Superior guards the entrance.
I wonder if she has any pajamas.


II.
Journalists punch Smith-Corona
keys deep into the night. Thick
glass ashtrays fill to the brim.
Once there were tricorn hats
and muskets, men willing to die,
not just deal and lobby.
Must have been a nation buoyant;
a floating confidence
in constitution and leadership.
But were there hints, small flaws,
superficial cracks? Be-telling
of the fissure that polarizes us.
Flowers and guns. Warming
and Warning. Tea Parties and
artsies. Jesus and justice.
Stawberry fields nothing is real
and nothing to get hung about...

III.
Mouthpieces pose as neutral
lines etched in sand and salad.
Words tossed-bitter radicchio
and swallowed up in media
quicksand, everyone banging
keys, twittered and blogged:
bamboozled, maybe.
Fair and balanced. Liberal left,
Religous Right. Na na na na, hey hey,
goodbye. Advertisers rule.
Oh Kings of commerce the new
keeper of the kingdom.
Global economy.

IV.
The voice of news spends
most of his time in the gym
and on his cell phone.
He gets a manicure once a week.
Tickets to this Sunday's game
wait sequestered at the call window
for him-- a job well done.
His teleprompter's like family.
They never go anywhere without
one another. With enough cash
and perks and the right human prop
every story can become another.
Every pawn's got a price.
All the king's horses and all the kings men...

[AJFolkart]

A good ABCDarian from Wilt at the House of 30

Another Zealot

As a poet, you expect hard days,
bitter moments when critical
comments like crashing cymbals
drown out
everything else,
freeing phantoms
grown from neuroses,
holding you hostage
in a pitch black
jail cell where perfect
Keatsian couplets echo,
lyrical and richly
melodic about life and loss
(not that you can ever hear
or see another person’s
pain and suffering
quite as well as your own) until,
reeling from your inadequacy, you dig deeper,
search for words that ring
true without twisted syntax, for images
unencumbered by glaring artifice.
Vexed and unfulfilled,
wandering blindly (like Superman sans
x-ray vision) among the clamoring
yammer of awkward phrases, you’re just another
zealot in the throes of one more sonnet.

[sonoranpoet]

Wilt's terrific Cherita

The First Cut

the tree surgeon came today

made quesadillas on the sidewalk
chanted accolades to the spore geist

the old ash kept silent
waiting for the first incision
the plum cried tiny flowers

[AJFolkart]

A splendid poem by Wilt of the House of 30.


I Heart You

when you hand me as we walk
across the street

when you ear me no matter
what I’m saying

when you belly me from behind
as I wash dishes

when you nose me the moment
I get out of the shower

when you mouth me silly
as we turn off the light

when you foot me just before
we fall asleep

when you eye me as I sleep
after a restless night

when you heart me back
year after year