Mellen Poecry Press.
by Floyd Albert
"Albert's poems ring with the truth of experience....
continuously offer a compassionate mirror to life--a
meaningful mix of wit, sadness, and joy."
I am thinking about Lorca
And his passion for wild language.
All the great figures of speech,
He said, are dead, used up,
Wrung out and packed into the shelves
Of dusty, silent libraries.
We must change the way we write.
We must invent new words
And new similes. We must change
The world, which has lost its poetic passion.
We must change ourselves.
When the fascists heard about this,
They shot him dead in a Spanish courtyard.
His blood flooded the riverbeds
And the olive groves.
We cherish him now,
But he is dead,
With his unfinished poems
Waiting to be sung.
A STUBBORN PINE IN A STIFF WIND
by Earl Coleman
"Fueled with superabundant vitality, a driving
cadence and a trunkful of allusions, historical and
literary.... he points to areas of privation, pain and
vulnerability which we attempt to skirt or
camouflage. An exhilarating trip!
We have thrown our bones
together friend, across the mesa,
you and I, and let the dust determine
where we turn our heads.
A painted feather east or west,
a hawk above, the sage in bloom,
and we would gallop off without reproach,
our pockets empty as the skies,
since neither thought to save
two pennies for the eyes.
PERILS OF THE AFFECT
by Lucas Carpenter
"Carpenter makes poems remarkably
unadorned by image or metaphor, giving
his voice a quality I want to describe as
spartan. Reading them with contemporary
expectations is a disorienting experience
and one I strongly recommend."
In the middle of the moors near Blackstone Edge
rests a fragment of the imperial road
that once linked the legions at Chester and York.
I sat cross-legged at one jagged end,
nine feet from the curb on either side,
gazing down worn basalt paving stones
to where the road seemed stretched
to the scalloped horizon. My radiant mind,
unfolding like a peacock's tail,
scanned the moment for meaning,
something to feel and tell.
the trouble with scenes like this is,
you either have mystic sweet communion
with the secret life of things,
ego dissolved in the dark juice of memory,
or you're mock-seriously horrified
at how much nothing
hallucinating sweaty blue-eyed Celts
placing stones for a centurion engineer
who liked Gaul better,
their shaggy women and their wine.
TOUCHING EARTH AND SPIRIT
by Robert J. Musante, III
A death is slightest split and upward throw
at the point of conscious crimson meeting
a whitened zone of precious light in flow,
some gleaming specks of truthfulness fleeting.
Beseech alive a break from flesh of time,
then the thrusting scenery, grayish space
as others wallow in the earthly grime--
a stoppage sunken in decaying place.
Above, a world encircles warmest shine,
pervading spirit mingling boundless eyes;
the heavens' power bringing forth a sign
for rising bliss which pleases, with surprise.
Heaven's entrance sprawls through darkening earth
near death to open sweetest fate, of mirth.
TO THE ENDS OF THE EARTH
by Thomas F. Lombardi
Prairie Sunset in a Kansas Wheatfield
Yesterday the prairie grew,
Sensuous, green, wildflowers galore.
Today wheat grows gold intentionally.
Bread envelops the earth.
Tonight the sun sets low,
The prairie's green is megagreen.
The wheatfields metamorphose
From green to 14 karat gold.
Behind the sky, the fat moon,
And clouds, pink ahead;
The stillness marks the stillness
At storm center, tornado free.
The meadowlark's sweet melody,
Singular sound, pricks the looming dark.
At center stage a happy band of friends,
Breathe innocence in paradise.
As the sun vanishes cars bum rubber
Down a quiet county road,
The dust heaves up this night's news.
Life's waywardness stilled by perfection.