Waterways Poetry in the Mainstream: Volume 24 no. 5

7/30/2019 Waterways Poetry in the Mainstream: Volume 24 no. 5

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2003


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Waterways: Poetry in the Mainstream, May 2003

And every time you come to a diner

just stop and have yourself a cup

of coffee and write a poem.

A l b e r t H u f f s t i c k l e r

from The Lost DinerWaterways, April 90


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WATERWAYS: Poetry in the MainstreamVolume 24 Number 5 May, 2003Designed, Edited and Published by Richard Spiegel & Barbara FisherThomas Perry, Admirable Factotum

c o n t e n t s

Waterways is published 11 times a year. Subscriptions -- $33 for 11 issues. Sample issues $(includes postage). Submissions will be returned only if accompanied by a stamped, self addresenvelope. Waterways, 393 St. Pauls Avenue, Staten Island, New York 10304-21272004, Ten Penny Players Inc. (This magazine is published 7/04)http://www.tenpennyplayers.org

Deidra Suwanee Dees 4Ida Fasel 5-6M. A. Schaffner 7-8R. Yurman 9Joy Hewitt Mann 10-11

Cynthia d-Este 12-14Richard Kostelanetz 15-16

Bill Roberts 17-18Richard Luftig 19Jon Petruscke 20James Henry Brennan 21-24Sylvia Manning 25-26

Geoff Stevens 27John Grey 28


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5/30

peering throughthe frosted window,looking out at the cold windhe sees

smudgesof tiny

wrens

find drinking waterfrom mortar crevices

in the red brick sidewalk

ashe concludes his breakalone,

sipping the lasof the co

from his McDonalds c

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Mortar CrevicesDeidra Suwanee Dees


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DaysIda Fasel

to each they offer gifts after his will Emerson

An ordinary day in the garden.My peach tree mourns the cruel and deadlysharing of its life with borers within.Insects fault leaves with fine blemishingcrochet. Flowers ever on the defensive

yield the perfection they were meant forto the abuse and mindless mayhem of stickysmall tongues in relentless feeding.

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7/30

In such an ordinary day, happily,the primroses flourish despitethe harsh winter. New leaves are appearing

above the withered. I take the pathto the bench in the woodland of the willow,air soft as fur breathed on.

My body catches the tempo of the universe,with every step gaining momentum,reaching a rejoicing deliverance to lightout of nature matter of the heartnot material. Serenity gives sinews to thought,raises my head from the ground to sky.

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Old CowM. A. Schaffner

The bones will tell you how they came to ground.

This neat pile, only a little confused,

shows the work of vulture. It stopped me,

deep in a thicket where Id missed my way,

strung up on brambles like old Laocoon

or a soldier on the Somme. Creeps you out,

finding bones like that, with the sun setting,

glimpsing a golden field a mile away.

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9/30

I dont know how the black wings tracked it here.

You know it wanted lonely when it died.

That wasnt my idea but here I came

to find the massy jaw, the heaped up ribs,

The little purple blossoms in the spine

and the trail beyond, ending at the road.

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10/30

Dawn cracks past the edges0f yellowed window shadesthe bits of blanket hes salvagedbattle the early chill

in this new lifebedsprings creak overheadand aged steps shuffleacross a bare floor

he crawled into bed at 3 a.mnow turns over to re-enter sat noon hell breakfast alonetired and pulsing with light

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Newly DivorcedR. Yurman


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It Seems Impossible To Tell YouJoy Hewitt Mann

I was born betweenthe shower and the sink, spentmy days packed in the bottom drawer.The coffees getting cold as I try toimprove the emptiness of a life patternedfrom accidentslike all the white rings on this table.

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There is some romance in telling youI was born in a prison hospital to a womanfalsely accused.

Half lies are easily swallowed, like cold coffeebitterbut flowing more quickly than hot truth.

The wind is chattering outside, blowing wetkisses

at the windowand the coffeehas left a new ring.

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Imbued with life,one is forced throughthe field of lively matter.

Spring frees the illusion of deathFootfalls in rhythm on the pavementpick up resonance from the firmament.

Who can say they are notsatisfied with life, not fulfilled.

Life must be unlearned to do that,denied, kept in fortressesdesigned to keep outthe tiniest howl or perturbationof the natural world.

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Natures afoot,light penetrates allbut the most closed

reclusive holes.Green shoots can move cement,roots penetrate clayand the movement of treesseems like dance.

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InSertsRichard Kostelanetz

RamPartEmBrace

NighTingAleManAgedFartHer

NoNetHeLessBeAm

MiniSteRingSuitOr

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CrypTogRam

HoSpitAlPhenoMenOn

ApPaRatUsImpRoper

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Thinks hes somethingA veritable sageAlways advising me

Several years olderThan he isThat I should

Do this orThat but alwaysSomething though most

Recently its beenTo warn meThat I should

Completely remove allNegative-thinking peopleFrom my life

A he hasLike maybe IShould remove everyone

That I knowBecause in someWay theyre all

Negative at times.Dont want toSound pessimistic

I havent heardA word fromBrother Jim lately

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My kid brotherBill Roberts

First published in Joey and the Black Boots, Autumn 2002, Issue


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NotesBill Roberts

First published in Joey and the Black Boots, Autumn 2002, Issu18

I take such arduous

notesvoluminous notesmeticulous notesduring our meetingsjust for somethingto doand everyone exclaimsoh, what awesome noteswe have a great record

of what transpired

but no one everrefers to my notesevercertainly not me.


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At The Dollar StoreRichard Luftig

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Some of this stuffmay even be worthfifty cents. Party hats,computer games with 64K,the occasional funnel, spatula,tire gauge, off-brand aluminum

foil all thrown together like dishesat the church pot luck supper.

And over in the book sectionwith the five year-old almanacsthe biography of that aging actrea book predicting the fallof communism the thin,mint condition book

of poems never read.


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I didnt know my workcould incite such loathing.

She hated the poemtitle, on down through all

twelve stanzas.

Then, she hintedat something she foundredeeming near the end,

but avoided specificity,

perhaps not wantingto dilute her onslaught.

The poems intentwas to confront,

pick at the reader and bothHer reaction wasso exactly my designwe both were caughtwith our guard down.

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Inspiration from a CritiqueJon Petruscke


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My Name Is ElizabethJames Henry Brennan

And I am all about Time and Love.Well I guess everyone is, but with me,Love and Time swirl round within meLike the wild winds of an ocean storm;I mean, I think a lot about Time, obsessSometimes about the ending of good things . . .I hold onto them as ifTheyre pure gold,Which they are;And by Love, I mean it, Love!,

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And I love deeplyMy family, my friends, my children . . .I really am one of those who

Would die for my children, do anythingFor those I love . . .And I love a lot of people.

I live hard/I loveHardlife is good, pretty good

But Time and Love can beRough go for me.I am told my name means consecrated by God,But I rarely feel that . . . maybe, sometimes,Some of my people feel this a little,

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For I serve them well.

Though sometimes Im fraught with care,

(cheeks wet with the tears of it),I live with great Passion . . .I celebrate the present, and awaitThe future with a kind of useful Trust.

I only wish, sometimes, that I knew more

Happiness, understood a little more . . .But I know better than to expect that;I know, after all, I am surroundedBy Blessings, have known more happiness than most,And I know I do (yes) Good Work;

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I know I am loved, loved a lot, and moreThan most . . . that maybe, even, I amLoved as much as I love, and,

After all, It doesnt get any better than that.

And, O, yes, I laugh a lot . . . I really do laugh a lot!

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morningSylvia Manning

just finishing upTortilla Flatsecond readingsecond cup of coffee(read it first in the ,hadnt since):

there is the thoughtthat all of us are Dannysfriends, derelict with grief

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but previously alsoquite unable to save friendDanny or his house

for Danny is only humanand his house this placewe were given, homefor a while

and I would go and liein the grass with the lotof them, or carry on likea house afire with dailybusiness, mourning

but a mocking birdcaught a worm

in this fat arid placeand now eats itand now tells me,So what? Dannie diedand his house with him,but we are one nesting

pair, and the early birdapparently still gets it,so there.

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UnpublishedGeoff Stevens

Unpublished,you wish to break the bubble,so you take your spoonand trace the lettersin the froth.With caffeine to keep you awake,you go on and onuntil a poem stirs from the depths.Sometimes it takes days;each diner you stop at,each coffee you purchase,adding just a word or two.

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After Your Divorce. Weaving The ThrowJohn Grey

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The works unconscious by this.

Then the life is.

Fingers are a running motor,cant stray from the patterneven if they wanted to.

Now no patternhas a loose thread,a frayed edge,not even those

whose blueprint

includes other people.

You are weavingwhat you longto wrap yourself inside.But even before youre donyou have.


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Waterways Poetry in the Mainstream: Volume 24 no. 5

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