Monday, November 30, 2015

poems by Doreski, William

Greenland and Antarctica

Field ice knuckles down to the sea
and fractures. Slabs coast away
to addle container ships lurching
to New Jersey, Hamburg, Rotterdam.
I lie awake worrying that bergs
as big as Manhattan will crush
these fragile ships and deprive us
of necessities fresh from China.

Aren’t you worried, too? Your back,
as you sleep your crescent of sleep,
is a map on which I can project
new seas, new continents no one
even mildly sane has explored.
Maybe you’re dreaming of field ice
shuddering as thick rivers melt it,
climate change sickening the air
with the cries of failing species.

Maybe you’re dreaming of hiking
those ice-fields with me, crampons
groaning with purchase, ice axe
poised to slaughter pale creatures
that loom in the chilly fog. I press
against you, hoping that layer
upon layer of flesh will protect
the planet from its ugly secrets.

You stir a little but snooze away
my local effects. Antarctica
and Greenland seem so far away,
their rugose coastlines beaming
with winter sun or brooding
with winter dark. Which winter
are we? Early traffic sizzles
as the daily commute begins.

No one commutes to Greenland
or Antarctica, but the ice fields,
caught between competing eons,
simper like freshly printed paper
on which the latest scripture scrawls.

Red and White Stripes

Framed in the red and white stripes
of your six pillows your face
goes adrift, warping into places
I can’t enter without mourning
the forty years we discarded
like a cargo of empty oil drums.

The city grumbles to itself
with most of its passions muted
by the buzz of construction sites
and the criminal expressions
of cops in fresh new uniforms.
We should visit the museum

with its Dutch masters blazing
and Goya too angry to paint
but painting anyway, on and on
into black and gray infinities.
We should lunch like typical
elderly couples, late blooming

over delicate little sandwiches
and glasses of oily white wine.
In a few minutes the patter
of your bare feet on the hardwood
will present angles of vision
no one since Adam has enjoyed.

The snore of traffic will become
gossip of epic proportions,
and the stoplights will pause
on yellow for hours at a time.
The cops will almost learn to smile,
creasing their aggressive trousers.

Then you’ll fade into distance
rendered geological by habits
we hope to acquire. And then
I’ll know why the red and white
stripes of your pillows say nothing
of ordinary blood and flesh.

Thursday, November 26, 2015

Lana Bella poems:

Lana Bella


from the outside,
the house was painted rose salmon 
with blue shutters,
in what silver stains lived another life,
I stared at my shadow on the wall,
its gaze traveled where hued runnel bled into 
the yolk-sun overhead,
then earthward
to a pair of feet standing in the brew of leisure,
what wonder drug was this
when I let idleness become a river of two suns, 
one was the leaving moon drawn closed and dark,
the other, the wakeful one,
seared imprints where my shadow 
gave chase into breath's filter, 
conspicuously near,
just once beneath this heat's imprint,
I would like to be 
on the side of a place where leisure went to hide, 
and not be felt or seen--


an autumn pine cone laden of sap drove
down my prayer balloon, then inside my 
fingers it stretched heavy like a wrecking
ball yawn, her mouth, red and upturned, 
snapped my impossible wound in two as 
a forked bone,
I held within the songs she sang to me, 
remembering an ocean parting between 
us now--her sand-paper words that still 
rapped my knuckles into bend hastened 
like a storm tearing through my flesh, 
I stood on a tale which went untold, dim 
in the autumn breeze that traveled the 
narrow turns of her cinched chiffon robe,
it was a brief indulgence, I knew, for the
end came ever so keen and fine, 

her gaze rose over miles of shifting planes, 
and upon the fickle skin of these nimbus
my love restraint laid down in mourning, 
orphaned like a shrapnel dispersing along 
the unforgiving soil,

I became a stone lay unobstructive, stoic
to her leaving over then round the carved 
landscape, even when everything that grew 
around me pinged of twin emotions: her 
baptismal stamp and my elegant sorrow,

so wherever or however long I will live, I will
tuck myself carefully away in a place only
known to me, without her--


an old man wraps himself in familiar threads 
of the garden's atmosphere,
with his bad hips and worse eyesight,
he folds in two as if a bent dollar bill, 
it is early spring,
sunlight and birds make their descent
below the window sills,
where he is knuckled deep in dirt,
a handful of clouds and blue daffodil
plunk down besides his burnt-brown skin,
he breathes them in,
leaving shadows like an angel's nimbus,
looking about the garden,
he wonders how little things like bird seeds
and fertilizer
could release the pulses of emotion,
when he is most lost.

if I could reach out, 
and take hold of
the first word you spoke as it was then,
because at some point 
I became just an empty catchphrase
that traced your skid-marks
with my eyes--

I let your ghost settled the weight 
on my body,
a thin stale leash of smoke
tethered me to the earth
as I dug with my hands through 
the russet dirt,
for your messages 
from the grave--


Dear Suki: Los Angeles, December 2nd, somehow, just now, 
I find a memory of you in that old pair of blue jeans, the one 
that tears awfully at the knees and fades from front to end. 
My melancholia, this, when there is nothing to lean back to 
unless I am holding on to some visible threads with your 
invisible glue, how steady the ligaments, how imperishable 
the starch. This may seem silly but it is not my intention to 
make you sad, at any rate, I think I will don your blue jeans 
over my wool leggings, to add an extra layer to ward off this
December cold. So that my stirring moves just so against the 
memory of your body.

Tuesday, November 24, 2015

vintage poetry presents Peycho Kanev :

The Reportage

A wooden cabin in the woods.
I sit by the dusty window and
look at the greenness of the world

Nothing interesting happening
inside but out there on the ground
between the trees and the bushes

there’s a little red and blue bird
bathed in afternoon light. It just
stands there as if trying to communicate

with me.
Hey, little birdie do you want to discuss
the problems of Essentialism or maybe

you prefer to ponder on the sorites paradox?
Whatever you want. But before that, please,
take notice of the bobcat which is slowly
creeping towards you.


You write these poems so someone could read
them, right? And someone reads some poetry
right now, probably not written by you but
it’s still good.

The printed page glitters in this dark world,
giving enough strength to the heart for just
one more beat. It is still night and the book

in my hand flashes as a lantern on the shore,
a rescue beacon to all illiterate ships wandering
through the eternal darkness

and the seagull perched on the rocks tells me
that he’s the author of Pablo Neruda’s The Captain's
Verses  -
we all live for that moment, literary or not.

 Come Morning

And the darkness slowly retreats
like a Napoleonic soldier from
the dazzlingly white Russian winter,
carrying nothing but his shattered pride.

On my doorstep you write with your
sparkling letters the beginning of today’s
bright tale, which includes everything,
even me and the shadows like homeless dogs

sniffing the corners and looking for a shelter.
Please, do not come yet. I would like to
sit by the candle light a little more and finish
reading the autobiography of Leon Trotsky.

And after that? Well, then I’m all yours and
you can do with me whatever you want, except
taking me for I walk out there. You know
I can’t stand all this whiteness, I’m a night

person and so is my house, which right now
is awash in your shameless light and the books
on the shelves are already burning and I feel
like I’m back in Nazi Germany in the 30s. 


Peycho Kanev is the author of 4 poetry collections and two chapbooks, published in USA and Bulgaria. He has won several European awards for his poetry and he’s nominated for the Pushcart Award and Best of the Net. His poems have appeared in many literary magazines, such as: Poetry Quarterly, Evergreen Review, Front Porch Review, Hawaii Review, Barrow Street, Sheepshead Review, Off the Coast, The Adirondack Review, Sierra Nevada Review, The Cleveland Review and many others.



Thursday, November 12, 2015

Vintage poetry presidents (true classics) The Fly by William Blake

The Fly

Little Fly,
Thy summer's play
My thoughtless hand
Has brush'd away.

Am not I
A fly like thee?
Or art not thou
A man like me?

For I dance,
And drink, & sing;
Till some blind hand
Shall brush my wing.

If thought is life
And strength & breath,
And the want 
Of thought is death;

Then am I
A happy fly,
If I live
Or if I die.

Thursday, March 19, 2015

A Poem Writ While On The Treadmill

       G David Schwartz 

Dedicated to Ms Brittany Francs

Brittany is so pretty
And I did get a hug
I think then she and me
Could someday be in love
She is so attractive
Her smile
lights the day
And if she was mine
I’d never run away
She has a light lifting laugh
And a gorgeous smile
I would be so happy
To be with her a while
Her long black hair flows down her cheek
And I just love to hear her speak
For the sound makes me want to be
Oh brother is she married?

 I Didn't Want To Get Old
G David Schwartz

I didn't want to get old.
When I was a young sprout
Now I se its too late
I just don't  want to go out
Age us seems to me
Is an introduction to
Being in the grave yard
Not visiting any one new
And also not standing around
Something -something, something ground

 I Can Never Kiss You

     G David Schwartz

I can never kiss you
Not now, not in a while
Because I do not want to
Ever cover up that  smile

Welcome To Cancun

  G David Schwartz

Welcome to cancun
Like you flowered shirt
Just don't run around
or y'all fall dawn in the dirt

I'll Not Call Him A Salty Dog
  G David Schwartz
I'll not call him a salty dog
Although he has a tail
He is not I will not take

Not here, not anywheres

Sunday, January 25, 2015