Poetry

BILL SAYS LET IT RIP

 

re: Bill Scheffel

 

Bill, yet i think

of the 5 limes you gave

me last night now in a half

circle around the eggplant

with its own green top

on the edge of

the blue

wire

 

basket and despite

war, i am

happy, i don’t mean i

just sit on the sunnyside

of sorrow, i mean

i am happy, the limes

bob on the river,

the eggplant

blows its

horn

 

Tom Path

 

 

WHY BILL?

 

I was living in hell anyway,

so I thought I’d burn off all the karma I could.

 

Maddy Radish

 

 

SITTING OUTSIDE ON A FRIDAY MORNING

 

It’s raining.  I can smell toast from one of the 4 houses that surround me – one on either side, two across the alley.  The gutter is dripping rain onto the plastic cover over the grill.  Birds are singing.  The garden is in its half dead/half alive state of the spring.  My cat reposes nearby.  Oatmeal is frothing on the stove, and I have to be at work in an hour and a half.

 

Eileen Malloy

 

SHE IS FORTY

 

She is forty.  Each morning

she walks the shore of Lake Michigan

not far from where

the automobiles—but not the trucks—

stream by in rich profusion,

yet close enough

to still delight in spray of the waves

as they crash against the layered concrete

 

Later in the day

she dives into the plexus

of distributed servers, clamoring texts,

studied telephone calls,

conference table cabals

and flickering Zooms,

pursuing distant goals

and scattered expectations

 

When dusk descends

the razor knife

is tucked within the sheath,

providing an evening and a night

where the play of ease,

exploration and dream

gently unfolds

 

Frank Ryan

 

 

TALL STOOL CLEAR WINDOW

 

Perched on tall wooden stool

cradling warm glass of whiskey

quiet

close by, others, passing to and fro

through the battered front door

of the neighborhood tavern

as the night slowly uncoils

 

We see him through the clear window

as we saunter the stubbled Hasted St. sidewalk,

seemingly holding himself for attention

as if waiting for a distant drill sergeant,

flanked by empty stools

now only memories

his constant companions

 

Above him a silent T.V.

other end of the long Mahogany bar

raucous laughter, strident declarations

as barkeep fills the glasses

murmuring, reassuring small talk–

Winter night descends deeper

faint wind rattles the sills

 

Frank Ryan

 

 

FLYING OVER IRONWOOD

 

Mach 0.770

true airspeed 499 mph

distance to destination 1415 mi

headwinds 42

sudden turbulence at 34,000 feet

Daydream of delighting with friends

amid the ease of Phagtsok Gedün Chöling Temple

abruptly interrupted–

plastic cup brimming water exploding,

violently pressing against the seat belt

Less than five seconds

calm is restored,

soothing voices massage us,

momentary upheaval,

simply pass the crackers

and, if you may, put all thoughts

of an imminent, unruly death to rest_……._ _

 

Frank Ryan

 

 

FOUR TWENTY

 

Momentum of each day often

unnerving

best to step back, appreciate,

relax into all that’s arising

whether wide vista of Olympic mountains,

manicured fields of Tuscany,

or just strum of impersonal cubicles

Four Twenty

is many things—

day the beautiful and vivacious woman was born,

always inquisitive, exploring the pulse–

Four twenty, that hour and day to celebrate

play of heightened sound, spreading ease,

auspicious time to gently interrupt

Moment after moment

year after year,

illusion of clambering a mountain

with axe and pitons

when in fact

best to simply tune into effortless play

of Four Twenty

 

Frank Ryan

 

 

SOME DAY

 

Some day

They will know

Full import

Of a life

That has been unfolding

From raspy first breath

Through today’s syncopation

Perhaps on that day

All will marvel & delight

 

Frank Ryan