Waterways: Poetry in the Mainstream Vol.28 No. 3

8/14/2019 Waterways: Poetry in the Mainstream Vol.28 No. 3

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Waterways: Poetry in the Mainstream, Volume 28, #3

Now you gleam softly triumphantFolding immensities of light.

excerpted from MotherLola Ridges Sunup and other poems(1920

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WATERWAYS: Poetry in the MainstreamVolume 28 Number 3*Designed, Edited and Published by Richard Spiegel & Barbara Fisher

Thomas Perry, Admirable Factotumc o n t e n t s

Waterways is published 11 times a year. Subscriptions -- $33 for 11 issues.Sample issues $4.00 (includes postage).

Submissions will be returned only if accompanied by a stamped, self addressed envelopeWaterways, 393 St. Pauls Avenue, Staten Island, New York 10304-2127

2007 Ten Penny Players Inc. *This magazine is published 7/07.

http://www.tenpennyplayers.org/mags.html

M. M. Nichols 4-5David Chorlton 6Joan Payne Kincaid 7-8John Grey 9-10Thomas D. Reynolds 11-13Geoff Stevens 14

R. Yurman 15Renee Zambo 16Kay Bache-Snyder 17-18Robert Brimm 19Ellaraine Lockie 20-22Paul Kareem Tayyar 23-24

Bill Roberts 2Donald Lev 2William Corner Clarke 2Hugh FoxM. M. Nichols 3


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Spastic Twin: She Learns to Stand M. M. NicholsGive me a place to stand and I will move the world Archimedes

In a corner of my eye I catchher balancing act.She rides the Kiddy Car -

which gives hera moveable chair, a handlebar to steer

docile wheelsacross busy rugs, and a place to stand up in.I know by hearthow she seizes the bar with both hands,

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Nutcracker-smilingall over, from the sway of her silky hairdown to those

ankle-hiding shoelaces, then, full of gleerisesquirkily in the world while attempting

the sky,

with a sideways glance going for straightnesslike mine.

She was quiet, stood evolving a stance andwobbled it along.Archimedes daughter? She stands, our worlds do move.

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Woman at the Beach Joan Payne Kincaid

This autumn-like day at the beach

we watch an ultramarine blue harbor.A brisk wind blows uncharacteristicallyfrom the north west. It is too fairto be anywhere elseand she is in the foreground in a wheelchairyoung lovely tetraplegic sensing a different reality:

dressed in a sensuous pale lavender spaghetti-strap topshe chats with an attentive Mother and Father;her mother stuffs large chunks of cantaloupeinto her daughters mouth in so routine a wayneither of them gives it a thought:the father asks if we mind him playing some music

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which comes on a high quality systemromantic Spanish songs;she speaks to us in the car

including us in her world Are you enjoying the music?and we are touched by her inclusiveness;the mother removes her jacket and very tenderlywraps it around the young womans shouldersas she sits smiling with wind stroking her tied-back hairconsidering the artist in this timeless place

and the many nuances of life.

In lavender spaghetti strap topa lovely woman at the beachlistens to a man singing love.

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The Joys of Camping John Grey

The reservoir wall is way off in shadow.

The water it holds back edges toward usas if we offer a way out of its cement jail.Same for the fire. It surely knows thecold ground beneath it is the way of its death.But if it could flame a little in our faces

then maybe it could live on like parentsdo in children. The stars Im sure wouldntshine but for us. And theres a pleasureto the wind when it can flutter the shirtsof people. Weve had a great supper that

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surely enjoyed our hikers appetites. Andswapped stories that delighted in being told.Look at those tents. They sit high on rope

and pole as happy as dogs doing what theyrebred for. Our dog, by the way, is bred for sleep.And soon we too will sleep, a sleep thatcant get going now, for it needs our tiredlimbs to stoke it. And dreams are ever anxious

to begin. Theyve seen us free and happyand huddled around the fire. Theyveheard the songs, the laughter, smelt

the food. What must dreams think!Already come true and weve yet to have them.

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The Last Fan in the Stands Thomas D. Reynolds

Impassive gaze

barely registeringthe latest lackluster effort,

he makes a motion to rise,coming off the benchto the roar of the vents.

From a nearly empty court,One appreciative hairoffers a standing ovation.

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The cord on his gold jacketDoesnt realize the game is over,Still waving her frayed pom-pom.

His right foot launchesA half-empty box of popcorn,But the refs dont even notice.

Inside his chest

The bass drummer has an off night,A half beat off the rhythm,

And the fight song is silence,Pumping up the trainerAs he gathers up the towels.

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But all down the bleachers,The old mans erratic breath whistlesIts unwavering optimism,

His hacking bell hornEchoes among the bannersOf long-forgotten championships.

While his digital watch belies

The darkening game clock9:46 left to save the day.

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Enlightenment Geoff Stevens

Enveloping your messages

in silver amalgamyou take the words wrapped in sunshineand cocking your wristas when playing the accordiondraw out the bellows until they stretchthe distance you require

unfolding immensities of lightfor an illuminating mirror-deliveryin morse code.

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Silverfish R. Yurman

Youre like a silverfish, I said

meaning to sayquicksilver

but that small bright unexpectedcreature seemed so rightI kept its name

while youdarting to covereluded me

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Outer Space and Souls Renee Zambo

Few stars are shining through a cloudy skyOn this quiet, April night.Defying the darkness, the death, those stars,So few in number, reach my sight.

I imagine you are in that lightThat fights through atmospheres to me.Like a mass of heat and energy,

How could you die in just one second?The brightest light of these mortal starsThat shines even after their death,Can not compare to the light that I seeSix years after you breathed your last breath.

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Neighbors Kaye Bache-Snyder

Black umbrellasat the bus stop on our corner.Bundled bodiesswaying in the blizzard, waitingfor the red bus.Who are they? Where are they going?

Black umbrellas

folding one by one, and pinionedto each bundle,lining up and disappearingin the red buspausing, then sweeping them away.

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My mother knewthe who and where of everyonewithin a mile.She would light their histories uplike Christmas trees,as we sat sipping rosebud tea.

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Pebbles Robert Brimm

Oh, how Id like

to keep walkingalong this path,gathering thesepebbles to flinginto the poolof understanding,

to stand watchingtheir small circlesreaching slowlytoward each other,embracing, merging.

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An Act of Kindness Ellaraine Lockie

She is one of the womenwho travels daily from her township

Singing in the back of a pick-up truckwith a chorus of othersCome to clean the roomsin my B & B bordering Kruger Park

She sees me walking a path

parallel to the Crocodile RiverI see her running toward meWatch her fall to her knees before meClose the lowest five button holesthat fashion the front of myankle-length straight skirt

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She says something in SwatiLooks up at me as a lilac-blue blossomdrops from a jacaranda treeAnd under the kindness of shadeShe pats my calves

I cant interpret the wordsbut I can read her body languageThere my dearIve closed the open invitation

The accident that wrote itselfacross your womanhoodI know this because hereno woman would walkaware of bare thighs winkingbetween the weave of khaki

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I help her upHold her hardened handsThank her by returningthe sunshine of her smileAnd waddle like a knobbellied duckback to my room where I segregatethe unbefitting skirt to a suitcase

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The Elephant in Our House Paul Kareem Tayyar

He is blue. Not that we mistake him for the sky. Or the sea, even.He does not like to eat alone, which is fine in the summer, but a bit

Of a problem during the school year, when I can hear his hunger pangsLike a hundred air raid sirens crying out from the other side ofTown. Dad says he should be with his own, but I dont see manyElephants hanging out at the 7-11, or playing softball in the cityLeagues on Brookhurst and Warner in the evenings, home runsDisappearing into floodlights.

Im his people. The houses and forests I used to dream of floating oveCan carry me straight through, scenting out what everyone is having foDinner and pointing to the flowers I could survive on if I ever got stucOut here at dinner time. Its true, I am a suburban survivalist: I could lastA bouquet of dandelions and a bucket of water pulled from Langtons c

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But lets face it,Im going to need a larger house when I grow up. Our yard isntEven big enough for the dog, so you can imagine how toughIt is for him. But, hes got a sense of humor about it, at least:

Hey, theres always the pool. I get to perfect my strokes when youreLearning. When my mermaid comes to get me Ill know how to swim.

Hes got a good point. It really is how one looks at things. Its all hereFor me, really. The sunlight and bicycles, the school bell that sets

Me free everyday. Who knows where Ill end up? He says notTo worry if we should be apart for a long time: the blue elephantsAlways wind up at Catalina living near the shore, watching theirFinned girlfriends swimming in the sea.

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A Language Not Entirely Foreign Bill Roberts

The red man teeters in the stiff breeze,

Speaking in Jack Daniels or Jim Beam,Languages not entirely foreign to me,With my knack for slurred words.

Hes chanting a chain of words to himselfAnd for anyone who cares to listen

That today is his birthday, number forty-nine,Or possibly his deathday, having reachedHis parent tribes normal life expectancy.

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I pause to see if hell celebrate his birthOr succumb to the spirit world.Nothing much happens, so I leave him

Behind and duck inside the warm tavern.

I order the red man two fingers of Jim,Me a shot of Jack, and raise a toast to him,Shivering outside, still deciding which wayHell go with his life, painlessly inebriated

On the day of his birth or his death.

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On the Film Becket Donald Lev

After 43 years Becket again hits the movie theaters.What aesthetics! As close to eternity as well come!A beautiful film starring two beautiful male actors . . . womenare almost non-existent, and mostly unattractive except forthe one who was so tired of the two boys games shecommitted suicide I guess she would have been theirstraight cover if they had wanted one and another one,

who, in her incarnation as actress, was marriedto Peter O'Toole at the time, asks Burton/Becketshall I take my clothes off? and is immediatelydismissed. Hah! And Becket is presented as a Saxon, whenall the while he was a bloody Norman! (thank God for Wikipedia!)

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Frame for the film and high point for me is Peter OToole as King Henry offeringhis slim white body for whipping

something he sort of reprised in Lawrenceof Arabia. He might have been said to be the Judy Garlandof the sado-masochists, if Judy Garland wasntthe Judy Garland of the sado-masochists.The question, it should be warned, of Church vs Statein the age of Feudalism, is not

the same question it is in the Age of Bush,Aesthetics should be the only religious, or political,message one receives from this film.

3/07

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Hes getting old

His long black hair

Once thick enough to swing

A woman from

Is thinning on the crown

Varicose veins have wrapped themselves

Like vines around his legs

Gravity is gathering

In his feet

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He calls for a volunteer

From the crowd

Sits him in a caf chair

Grasps one leg and with one hand

Whirls them both around his head

Then brings them back to earth

The crowd goes wild

And he begins to smile

But its tiring work these days

Especially now that few believe

That Gods can pass as men

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Breathing heavily after the show

He picks up the 100 Drachma notes

Thrown on the ground around him

And stuffs them in a leather bag

They mean a flagons worth of nectar

At the scrap dealers bar

In Thissio tonight

Hes almost always thereSitting alone, remembering

That first morning

When it all began

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Turning Hugh Fox

Turning into gleaner bird-clouds wheeling over

just-picked artichoke fields, a meditative crane standing

satoriing in a next-to-a-pond farm, part of a gull flock

exercising over the enchilada bay, nuage -fog burned

off by the midday sun back again by (Salinas River)

midnight.

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Spastic Twin : Sinatra Fans M. M. Nichols

Almost 50 and far apart, we had

dollars to spend,each of us my way nobody elses.

As if we wereidentical, not just twin sisters,I couldnt see

why she had to go swoon with a crowdfor Ol Blue Eyes.She couldnt sing, but loved the sound

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and could screamfor joy & rapture. Then who was I?piano player

Leclair, Hindemith, Poulenc, cultural smarts with my cronies,Didnt listen to the Chairman of the Board.

Time flew and shes

gone. Im listening: his heavenly songs still alive.Rapt, myself too.

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Upcoming Waterways themes from the poetry of Lola Ridge

Number 4 (September 14, 2007):And the faint decayed patchouli -Fragrance of New Orleans

Like a dead tube roseUpheld in the warm airMiraculously whole.

excerpted from Potpourri

Number 5 (October 14, 2007)I shall know you, secretsby the litter you have leftand by your bloody foot-prints.

excerpted from SecretsNumber 6 (November 14, 2007)

Silencebuilds her wallabout a dream impaled.

excerpted from After Storm

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Waterways: Poetry in the Mainstream Vol.28 No. 3