"When peace, like a river, attendeth my way, When sorrows like sea billows roll; Whatever my lot, Thou has taught me to say, It is well, it is well, with my soul."
A Poem Too Good Not To Share
PACKET
by Jamie Ross
A green light that comes
when you never saw it coming, never
heard it, felt it, but you knew it
like the woman in the sandlot
behind Abram's Grill
who's just lost her lenses,
on her hands and knees, her
hair cut short but seems as if
it's flowing, and the rush
on her throat like a rise
from birth, the music in the car
as the engine goes silent
while you fold down a seat
for the stashed beam lantern
with it's yellow plastic grip, six
Ray-O-Vacs, the
movement in the trees
beyond Lake Michigan. It's
a wave like that
when the wind gets lost
and the mail-boat from Racine, three
hours late, cracks into a tanker,
where the crew, like you, has
waited on the decks, in the hold
for two months out, to send
a message home—or to get a
certain scent, for just one instant,
of weeds, in the dirt, the both
of you groping.
by Jamie Ross
A green light that comes
when you never saw it coming, never
heard it, felt it, but you knew it
like the woman in the sandlot
behind Abram's Grill
who's just lost her lenses,
on her hands and knees, her
hair cut short but seems as if
it's flowing, and the rush
on her throat like a rise
from birth, the music in the car
as the engine goes silent
while you fold down a seat
for the stashed beam lantern
with it's yellow plastic grip, six
Ray-O-Vacs, the
movement in the trees
beyond Lake Michigan. It's
a wave like that
when the wind gets lost
and the mail-boat from Racine, three
hours late, cracks into a tanker,
where the crew, like you, has
waited on the decks, in the hold
for two months out, to send
a message home—or to get a
certain scent, for just one instant,
of weeds, in the dirt, the both
of you groping.
Wall Project
Records affixed to the wall with command poster strips.
Records: $.99 per record
Command adhesive: $1.84 per 8 pack.
= $7.64 plus taxes.
I am planning on adding two to four more records. I didn't realize how large the wall was!
Drinking Proximo
I could tell you
what is waiting in the doorway
of concupiscence
but the answer is simple:
nothing.
My body is passing
away into the creak and fall
of pain--
the part where numbness sets in.
I can't feel alive.
The doorway is old
wood has been shaved off
paint peels in splinters
and the texture is rubbing away.
I placed a curtain of black over it today.
A shower of disgrace.
Partly Wired
He didn't know if it was
red or white or yellow
that got the lights working again
that would put the flicker back into her face.
Twisting and stripping wire
so that the current can carry
through walls and into outlets
isn't his day job.
Isn't really
his job at all.
The radio dims in sound
the lights waver
and he jumps back.
Once bitten, twice shy.
Takes the time
to make sure his feet
are firmly planted-
left hand takes blue
right hand takes red
heels seized in boot sole
and go.
Cheryl Dumesnil Poem
This is the poem I received in my email box today from poets.org. I love the meshing of a vulture and mitochondria.
Prayer for Sleep
by Cheryl Dumesnil
The chiropractor sent me home
with my left ankle taped, my neck
cracked, and instructions not to sleep
on my belly, so when it came time
for bed, I dropped a tequila shot,
laid back and closed my lids, entrails
exposed to vultures of bad dreams.
From the neighboring pillow,
my love whispered theories
of meditation, biofeedback, post-
traumatic stress, and prayer. When
she asked, "If a divine creator
made the universe, who made
the divine creator?" I mumbled,
"Are you trying to talk me to sleep?"
She smiled, then babbled
past midnight, contemplating out loud
the metaphysics of leaf production,
the wonder of molecules
that make up our bed, the web
of my cell structure connected
to hers, until I fell asleep,
imagining the mitochondria
of words, thinking, if god is
love, let me sleep to this sound of her voice.
"Like an Empty Restaurant Full of Perfume and Balloons."
Rybicki Evening
Eating salmon with capers, herbed cream cheese
on toasted foccacia bread crested with red wine vinegar
marinated onions on a plate, rimmed in gold
water in a goblet, two forks, a napkin in the lap
then, to the bus station, to find a way back,
traversing the flat, black sea with someone learning to compose music
or so says the idiot’s guide in his hands or the man talking incessantly
about someone’s anger. Looking out the city is dark and wet for this evening
no longer smells like home
the rhythm of the city has changed–
it lassoed lights and smells it found in magazines
made a priority of miscellany or perhaps,
this mediocre nose and eyes have developed with the woman
layered under fleece and her father’s sweatshirt,
plodding along,
lost in a tidal wave of revelations and language
tireless when hunted.
Jennifer Miller McIntyre
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