May
Waterways: Poetry in the Mainstream, May 2003 And every time you come to a diner
Huffstickler
May, 2003
Waterways is published 11 times a year. Subscriptions -- $33 for 11 issues. Sample issues $3.50 (includes postage). Submissions will be returned only if accompanied by a stamped, self addressed envelope. Waterways, 393 St. Pauls Avenue, Staten Island, New York 10304-2127 2004, Ten Penny Players Inc. (This magazine is published 7/04) http://www.tenpennyplayers.org
Deidra Suwanee Dees 4 Ida Fasel 5-6 M. A. Schaffner 7-8 R. Yurman 9 Joy Hewitt Mann 10-11 Cynthia d-Este 12-14 Richard Kostelanetz 15-16
c o n t e n t s
Bill Roberts 17-18 Richard Luftig 19 Jon Petruscke 20 James Henry Brennan 21-24 Sylvia Manning 25-26 Geoff Stevens 27 John Grey 28
Mortar Crevices
peering through the frosted window, looking out at the cold wind he sees smudges of tiny wrens find drinking water from mortar crevices in the red brick sidewalk Deidra Suwanee Dees as he concludes his breakfast alone, sipping the last of the coffee from his McDonalds cup
An ordinary day in the garden. My peach tree mourns the cruel and deadly sharing of its life with borers within. Insects fault leaves with fine blemishing crochet. Flowers ever on the defensive yield the perfection they were meant for to the abuse and mindless mayhem of sticky small tongues in relentless feeding.
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Ida Fasel
Days
My body catches the tempo of the universe, with every step gaining momentum, reaching a rejoicing deliverance to light out of nature matter of the heart not material. Serenity gives sinews to thought, raises my head from the ground to sky.
6
In such an ordinary day, happily, the primroses flourish despite the harsh winter. New leaves are appearing above the withered. I take the path to the bench in the woodland of the willow, air soft as fur breathed on.
M. 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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Old Cow
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.
Newly Divorced
R. Yurman Dawn cracks past the edges 0f yellowed window shades the bits of blanket hes salvaged battle the early chill in this new life bedsprings creak overhead and aged steps shuffle across a bare floor he crawled into bed at 3 a.m. now turns over to re-enter sleep at noon hell breakfast alone tired and pulsing with light
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There is some romance in telling you I was born in a prison hospital to a woman falsely accused. Half lies are easily swallowed, like cold coffee bitter but flowing more quickly than hot truth. The wind is chattering outside, blowing wet kisses at the window and the coffee has left a new ring.
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about sunsets that crown the edge of the peak and the conjunct of venus and the moon on the lip of a purple sky nearly gone to wine.
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Life must be unlearned to do that, denied, kept in fortresses designed to keep out the tiniest howl or perturbation of the natural world.
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Who can say they are not satisfied with life, not fulfilled.
Spring frees the illusion of death Footfalls in rhythm on the pavement pick up resonance from the firmament.
Imbued with life, one is forced through the field of lively matter.
Natures afoot, light penetrates all but the most closed reclusive holes.
Green shoots can move cement, roots penetrate clay and the movement of trees seems like dance.
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Richard Kostelanetz
InSerts
CrypTogRam HoSpitAl
ApPaRatUs ImpRoper
PhenoMenOn
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My kid brother
Thinks hes something A veritable sage Always advising me Recently its been To warn me That I should Bill Roberts That I know Because in some Way theyre all
Negative at times. Dont want to Sound pessimistic but I havent heard A word from Brother Jim lately.
First published in Joey and the Black Boots, Autumn 2002, Issue #39
Bill Roberts I take such arduous of what transpired notes but no one ever voluminous notes refers to my notes meticulous notes ever during our meetings certainly not me. just for something to do and everyone exclaims oh, what awesome notes we have a great record
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Notes
First published in Joey and the Black Boots, Autumn 2002, Issue #39
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The poems intent was to confront, pick at the reader and bother. Her reaction was so exactly my design we both were caught with our guard down.
My Name Is Elizabeth
And I am all about Time and Love. Well I guess everyone is, but with me, Love and Time swirl round within me Like the wild winds of an ocean storm; I mean, I think a lot about Time, obsess Sometimes about the ending of good things . . . I hold onto them as if Theyre pure gold, Which they are; And by Love, I mean it, Love!,
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I live hard/I love Hardlife is good, pretty good But Time and Love can be Rough 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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And I love deeply My family, my friends, my children . . . I really am one of those who Would die for my children, do anything For those I love . . . And I love a lot of people.
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 surrounded By Blessings, have known more happiness than most, And I know I do (yes) Good Work;
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Though sometimes Im fraught with care, (cheeks wet with the tears of it), I live with great Passion . . . I celebrate the present, and await The future with a kind of useful Trust.
I know I am loved, loved a lot, and more Than most . . . that maybe, even, I am Loved as much as I love, and, After all, It doesnt get any better than that.
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there is the thought that all of us are Dannys friends, derelict with grief
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just finishing up Tortilla Flat second reading second cup of coffee (read it first in the , hadnt since):
Sylvia Manning
morning
for Danny is only human and his house this place we were given, home for a while
but previously also quite unable to save friend Danny or his house
and I would go and lie in the grass with the lot of them, or carry on like a house afire with daily business, mourning
but a mocking bird caught a worm in this fat arid place and now eats it and now tells me, So what? Dannie died and his house with him, but we are one nesting pair, and the early bird apparently still gets it, so there.
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Unpublished
Unpublished, you wish to break the bubble, so you take your spoon and trace the letters in the froth. With caffeine to keep you awake, you go on and on until 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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Geoff Stevens
John Grey The works unconscious by this. whose blueprint Then the life is. includes other people. Fingers are a running motor, cant stray from the pattern even if they wanted to. Now no pattern has a loose thread, a frayed edge, not even those
You are weaving what you long to wrap yourself inside. But even before youre done, you have.
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