Poetry from Blue Fred Press

Monday, June 26, 2006

Tim Sansom

THE WOODS


The gilded trim of the linnet’s wing
Splay tapered to her feathered form
Whose delicate maths sway and swing
Each blissful breeze, each trying storm


Dawn’s warbling sweet cacophonies
Calm gently amidst glistening dew
Earth’s rhythmic fulfilled prophecies
So regularly ensure they do


Those shrieks and tweets from dense wet woods
Play sweet and real trustworthy scales
A music not puffed up but good
Our spinning sphere recounts her tales

Capillaries of unmarred streams
Like slim deft digits reach and spread
Descending dales steps and steins
To quench life’s thirst and cleanse the dead



Our forbears knew the trees I’m told
No map nor compass was required
They read on bark the sap and mould
It told of rainfall routes and time


Moist worms recoil from two for joy
With six for gold scarce next to us
Above behold each girl and boy
Our swallow’s airborne exodus

Each morning cracks with leaps of light
Awaking mice, sedating owls
Then stirs of warmth replace the night
As black shapes change to grazing cows


And deep into the covert woods
Each fable dances with each myth
No soul can claim “They are no good!”
Nor that the Goblins do not live.

Thursday, June 22, 2006

Maureen Doyle

Blowsy roses bloom
like women with unkept hair
trifling and raucous


Evening garden scents
can make one drunk and sappy
all from crumpled petals

Wednesday, June 21, 2006

t.kilgore splake




becoming

graybeard bardic soul
standing eight count
on road to oz
cold dark alone
musing
that was then this is now
WHAT TO DO
plastic insurance card binge
od 40’s b+w films
alky brain cell suicide
grand sexual orgy
ask nun’s blessing
jack armstrong’s "wheaties"
mad man giving away possessions
wooing woodland witch
liking idea
time doesn’t exist
denying nursing home confusion
diaper
wheelchair
toothless
blind
good day rallies
waiting on sign
telling inspiration
"it is now"
dancing naked
long loose hair flowing
beyond
metes and bounds
return to womb
end of the earth
coyote
catfish
raven
bluebottle fly
companions
knowing grinning smile
smooth pale bone
spring
road kill
skull

Thursday, June 15, 2006

Norbert Blei: Spam Poems

Patch

Don't let the other guy get the girl
Arm yourself with Ultra Allure pheromones tonight!
Join thousands across the world.
Penis Growth Patches
Are the most potent patch.
Fuel up.

XUCarbonic

I haive the moust beautiful
wetches in the world.
scorecard ribosome cozen.
They're perfect, not overprized. restitution.
tahoe faithful.
See
and tell me
love to see you
But
if you dont,
here watc16h3znowbymail.com/rm
We'll be just fine.

Bruce says: these are part of a new work Norb is preparing in which some experiments with language and form are made for the modern age. Let the Press know what you think either in the Comments field or via email. As part of my new resolution I will not be answering comments unless requested to do so by their author, so you can have your say without being put down, at least by me. Fill your boots, dear reader.

JOE SPEER

Room to Let

smooth skin college sophomore
searching the campus purlieu
for lodging other than dorm
sign on cardboard in window
to let
reminds me of the gall
of Galsworthy’s Soames
selling the house he built for his wife
and she lives in it without him
a 1936 Plymouth in the driveway
ceramic chimes icicle porch
knock knock
shrill voice bids enter
Mrs Smith peers over steel rimed spectacles
surrounded by art books
she looks for pic of osprey
to embroider on doily
walls canvassed with her paintings
she tells me stories of her 89 years
the room is at the end of the hall
her crutch points
a van Gogh Thoreau simplicity
40 dollars a month and kitchen use
i move in the same day
two other roomers share house
Rudolph is into jurisprudence
phones his girlfriend twice a day
Jimbo consumed by sports
volunteers to referee girls volleyball
weekends spent busting kegs with paper cup
her daughter visits bimonthly
to clean and drink cup of instant coffee
before she skedaddles back
to vending real estate
once we solidify friendship
she becomes a target for puckish darts
i hide her crochet needles
tie her crutches together
change channels as she leaves the room
we watch the news
and shout bring our troops home
one night i gulp down her milk
unawares and retreat to my room
she calls out my name
and asks if i emptied her glass
i was reading Homer
the part where Polyphemus
hurls a stone at nobody
i might convince her
except for white arc on upper lip
then after every random breeze
she accuses me
of making calls to Singapore
of spending spring break in Thailand
to spend funds on skin trade
she forces me into peace pact
and our relationship levels off
one Saturday evening she
explained the death
of Pat Garret
”i heard he was blasted
with a shotgun
some goathearder
in revenge for Billy”
”not a bit of it”
Mrs Smith said
”he was shot in the back
of the skull
while urinating
about four miles east
off highway 70”
one rainy day influenza harbors
in my chest
i stop speaking and recoil to bed
she sets up a tray with
orange juice and hot soup
she sits in the chair
to describe how Michelangelo
saw david in the stone
when semester ends i
visit mountain meadows thawing
Canadian geese on wing over
glacier park
in fall i return to class schedule
after matriculation at NMSU
i call Mrs Smith
line disconnected
i visit the house
it has a for sale sign
i call her daughter
my mother went home she says
between the Rio Grande and the Gila
past the stone house
in the Black Range
where she and husband built
away from the well
where injury forced
move to city near daughter
sorry to hear that
things change so much
in three months
she was a labor of love
i walked until i saw a sign
room for let
Mrs Smith was standing
on her crutches in the corridor
sending a last message
from the
ethereal hallway


JOE SPEER is the editor of Beatlick News and runs the Beatlick website (http://www.beatlick.com )

Saturday, June 10, 2006

bruce

kicking love

this is when
i would have
called her:
before lunch,
before the first
bottle.
i can't now
and i miss it
badly.
i'm kicking love,
and the
delirium's
tremendous.

Friday, June 09, 2006

Dave Church

FOREVER USEFUL

I couldn't find my scissors
And my ruler broke in two.
A postcard picture
Of Bukowski
Leaning against a fridge
Holding a bottle of beer
Was strung out on the wall
Near my desk.
His poet eyes seemed to blink
And say--
Go ahead,
Use me
While I'm still sharp
Around the edges.

I cut that piece of paper in half
Just like the man himself
Penned a poem--

Straight like nothing at all.



~Dave Church, from Providence RI, USA, will have more poems in forthcoming issues of ANGEL HEAD.

Thursday, June 08, 2006

Bruce

love


love
vanishes
like a dream
in the morning
fallen
waking
to a
body
with knees
and arms
dangling
going
to the loo