Waterways:

2002
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Poetry in the Mainstream

March

Waterways: Poetry in the Mainstream, March 2002

The tiny sickle shaped sliver of the new moon Barely skims over the clock tower of the Jefferson Market Library, Dim and pale, it hangs in the twilight sky. Mimi Pebler, "Moon Over the Village"

WATERWAYS: Poetry in the Mainstream

Volume 23 Number 3 Designed, Edited and Published by Richard Spiegel & Barbara Fisher Thomas Perry, Admirable Factotum March, 2002

Geoff Stevens Charles Pierre Joanne Seltzer Phyllis Wax Susanne Olson David Sapp

Waterways is published 11 times a year. Subscriptions -- $25 a year. Sample issues -$2.60 (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 2002, Ten Penny Players Inc. http://www.tenpennyplayers.org

4 5 6 7 8-10 11-12

Joy Hewitt Mann Lyn Lifshin Phyllis C. Braun Ida Fasel Will Inman Albert Huffstickler

c o n t e n t s
14-15 16 17 18-20 21-22 23-27

Barbara Fisher Richard Spiegel

photographs

3, 13, 28

Ruth Richards at her loft party 799 Greenwich St.

The sickle moon is a reminder of the prison for women that once stood behind Jefferson Market Library now spotlighted by nights cyclic sequence of events.

The Sickle Moon Geoff Stevens

This courtyard holds a dark intimacy jeweled with muted window lights. Ghost clouds of languid day trail through its cobalt sky.

Spring Night at Patchin Place Charles Pierre

After Pud Houstoun

From hanging baskets of impatiens, tightly bound buds quiver with promise, Above this village niche, a new moon sails, windless, toward dawn.

and clicking heels on cobblestones punctuate the cries of late-night lovers.

To the Moon in Cameo Joanne Seltzer O late riser O sliver in the sky you shine on snow that nestles our parched Earth. O Mother Moon you knew me when the world was fresh like snow and my hair matched midnight, you knew me when I did not know myself. You will grow round. The snow will turn murky before the melt. You will cover your face with creepy film. And you will be reborn.

I was up so early the full solstice moon was still shining its bright eye through a scrim of cloud. A smokey scarf fluttered across the banjo eye and the last few notes of nighttimes quiet song teased the air. Moon and sky began to pale but I could see the man up there, the shy man who shuns the day. I could see him creeping, sneaking away.
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Lunar Lunacy Phyllis Wax

Between black and gray rags a skinny band of flaming fuzz seconds then gone erased patchwork of opaque dark reappears bright magenta crimson gliding into purple lavender ruby interlaced with orange golden shreds softer now

Sunset at 30,000 Feet Susanne Olson

smears of tangerine on carpets of azure turquoise indigo marine sliver of silver suspended resting its delicate curve on streaks of anthracite cloud snakes slate-gray and puffs of leaden mist performing enigmatic dance slow motion in a sea of sapphire lapis ice and brandy-tinted cream molten copper paling to brass cobalt swirls stirred into pewter pearl
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ash blurred across metallic sheen of steel lost vanished behind a wall of charcoal cotton candy as the plane descends to earth.

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Just beyond the dusk we find a small spot on the river bank and sew ourselves into a patchwork of blankets quilted with arms and legs, the greasy aroma of carnival food, and the fussing of exhausted infants, the whole throw-cover impatient for fireworks.

Fireworks David Sapp

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Our daughter lies back, her small form hugging the ground as if shes dizzy from the earth spinning through the summer night; with wide, exuberant eyes, mirrors of the heavens, she points at the moon and a bright star, a planet, her whole body wriggling in glee, her awe chiding our jaded gaze; then, with heavy, sated lids, she falls asleep before the garish colors

and the pummeled air jangle our senses.

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Later, with the kids in bed, we lie awake awhile, shielding our eyes but marveling at the moons radiance flooding the room and at the paleness of the sky at midnight; our old habits tempt us to pull the shade but we havent the heart to shut out our childs newest treasure.

Brad Graves & A.Thomas Perry performing at West 12th Street Block Party

I remember the carousel horses like a dozen planets grounded by tinny music. Faces stretched out as I rode; lights were comets streaking round my universe. You held sister, laughing, waving her hands as I swept by, begging to be big and ride round and round forever. We speak now, you and I, of how much slower life was then: sixty miles an hour, a wicked speed; bikes went slowly; people strolled. But, the carousel . . . ah, the carousel . . .
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At the Country Fair with You, Mother Joy Hewitt Mann

The kiddy-ride on which I place my son turns steadily, an age before he comes toward us both grinning and waving hands, and slowly he is gone and slowly he returns. Round and round; in and out of phase. Walking home he gapes at the moon drawing our faces up with his questions. Yes, there, I say. And I wonder about your daughter, my sister big now riding the space carousel beyond the moon.
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the geese start up Or its the loose shudder a whirlwind caught. Next to your skin, skin you dont touch or curl up next to, purple buds clench like a raw heart. The moon hisses. A flock of stones grind under night clothes that chafe and leave a bruise. No

The Blue 3 AM Lyn Lifshin

thing soothes from the window. If the geese drift close you cant see enough white to tell. Old newspapers clot. Your hearts an SOS of drums from deep in a wild wood youve lost any sense of how to leave

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Head bowed, eyes downcast, in tight-fitting flowered knitwear, she sits quietly in her wheelchair. I call her name, say mine. She raises her head and smiles. Oh hello! Im glad you came. I kiss her cheek. I say, Ive brought you a pine cone and a spray of pine.

In The Village Nursing Home Phyllis C. Braun

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She takes the cone, her fingers feeling the small wooden ears stacked round and round, tier upon tier like a small tree. She strokes the soft needles that bend from the twig of pine, sniffs their pitchy aroma, painting with her inner sight the woods she used to walk in pine trees whisper in the wind, pine needles fragrant underfoot. She holds the moment like a gift, before the shouts and clamor of supper in the nursing home begin.

No wind, no planes, even the house wren is still. The layered branches of the spruce bank one another unmoving. I love trees. They are in constant renewal, old of bark, young of crown. Life-giving trees, if we could speak! Niches signal the sun is going down. The evening primroses are opening, lavishing all their worldly wealth of fragrance on the air, and I come in for my share.

The Swing - Ida Fasel

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A song sparrow is singing unseen, voice full of sparkle and confidence: line, trill and melody neat and joyful, notes as clearly defined as if read from the score but phrased out of himself. The turquoise sky makes way for sapphire. I have been indoors all day, windows closed to the heat, and now I idle in the swing put up for our children. The stars are tuning their child-size violins. Time past becomes time now. I hear Julie tuning hers.
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In the emerging outlines of things darkly seen, darkly glowing as the moon picks out the trellis, my white dress, me for deeper clarity and longer shadows, I keep my place in the quiet we share, overall luminescent, pearls of the mother-of-pearl.

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summer recollections - will inman how often have you stood under that arch green corridors just eased of thunder battlements leaned near suns burst and in your breasts foreboding yet dark of impatience. that green those forested birdcalls that tender high arch between sky darknesses your frail shoes wading inverse
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counting thrushcalls down dripping branches

curled lip and eyes turned hard i dared not fill my arms with thrushcalls, with dogwoods green for healing you wouldve seen only fingers and wet lips and a kindsnake out chasing lizards and the arch wingless ready to break

i wanted to touch you feared your scorn

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from The Laughing Day #2 summer/fall 2001

I am working out an equation for measuring friendships in coffee cups. This certainly must be a thousand-cup friendship after lo these twenty-some years. But theres another way you could go about it. You could do a diagram of a friendship by charting the locations of the coffee shops youve met in. I think of the Chuckwagon, the Tower Restaurant, the Dairy Queen across from the Ching Wong Laundry, a tidy, old-fashioned place in North Troy, Vermont, that I cant remember the name of, the Caf du Jour, the Cactus Caf on campus, the Sundae Palace on Duval Street,
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Waiting for Sylvia - Albert Huffstickler

the Rexall, the Night Hawk, Uncle Vans, The Plantation, the Red River Caf. Theres a chronology working here also but thats another dimension. So what comes of all this coffee, all these cups? Perhaps theres a dark brown essence that distills over the years, a rich, vibrant brown glow that pervades two peoples auras when they come together and blends them into one person and this is what is described as friendship. Its something to think about. But here she comes. Well talk about it later.
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From ZZZ Zine XXXI, Arcadia FL, 2001

Starlight and Ashes Albert Huffstickler Shadows in the corners. Some days Face in the mirror. I dont really need I stalk contentment mountains. like a hungry lion. I just need to know theyre there. I would live a focused life and still not see what I dont want to. The day said rain. The night said stars. I said count me out.

I ask myself who Im trying to impress: someone dead someone forgotten someone who never was. If I wake up tomorrow

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and Im not me, who will I be?

Starlight and ashes I hear your bones singing, starlight and ashes and arithmetic.

Dogs know: scratch when you itch and let the rest just happen.

Something about essence: sometimes, now that youre dead youre more present than ever. Nature is difficult: what do flowers dream about?

I think she was really a dream the sea dreamed and the night blew into my mind. All we know for sure is that were here somewhere
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He said, hed lived a sinful life but the wind forgave him.

Im working on a plan to feed the hungry and keep myself in cigarettes.

From Unwound Magazine, Laramie WY 27

PJ (Paul Johnston) on 6th Avenue by the Jefferson Market Branch of the NYPL

ISSN 0197-4777

published 11 times a year since 1979 very limited printing by Ten Penny Players, Inc.
(a 501c3 not for profit corporation)

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