MARCH 21, 2O16 by LYNNE SAVITT

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 
full year & one month since yr stroke
finally you will be placed in apartment
on quiet street with assistance in day
time you’ve lost a year but yr voice is

back from dead & feeding tubes
therapy more drugs than small
pharmacy to take yr left side hand
& leg not working well you balance

on cane & confidence snow falls
this first day of spring you move
into everything is new abode
bright blue furniture brings

you happy at last in over year
ago you couldn’t say my name
now i miss you & love you nightly
we speak as i remind you to take

9 p.m. medications are set each
day in tiny piles an aide helps no
bars in shower chair to sit on tell
me bed is big enough for two when

are you coming you ask me last time
i saw you i fed you small pieces of
pizza kissed yr forehead rubbed cream
on yr feet & drove home to family hundreds

of miles away i wanted to be the one
who took care of you daily i spoke
to nursing staff & sent yellow flowers
yr favorite chocolates & greeting cards

medical staff never thought you’d
make it but no one knew you like
i do love you more today than ever
strong & stubborn you beat all odds

thirteen months i called each day
sometimes three times or more
just to hear you speak my name
keeping yr promise to be
the last man standing

Losing Pieces by Scott Wozniak

I once heard
a man say,
“Though I’ve
never
been broken,
I too
know how to
pick up
the pieces.”

He tells me this
as I’m sitting
in rehab
for the third time
in two years,
trying to fix
a scattered
jigsaw mess.

I can’t trust
A man
Who’s never
destroyed
Something
he loves.
He doesn’t
know how to
reconstruct
himself
from aftermath.

I tell him,
“I am broken,
unrecognizably
smashed
by my own hands
destructive
tendencies,
and each time
I try
to put myself
back together
it gets more
difficult,
there’s always
another
missing piece.”

He simply says,
“There’s still
hope.”

I assure him
I lost
that piece
a long
time
ago.

Bill’s Socks by Donal Mahoney

Hillary was at the podium
setting the record straight
for people who have a problem
with the tone of her voice.
She said when Bill was
president some folks said
she should have stayed home
and matched up his socks.
No way, fans in the crowd
booed their response.
But in a city far away
a husband at home
watching on TV
leaned over on the couch
and whispered to his wife
he’d bet anything
Monica would have put
those argyles together.

Somewhere In the Dark by James Babbs

she’s still beautiful and
I knew she would be
when I saw her again
after such a long time
she’s the kind of woman
who will age gracefully
who will always turn men’s heads
no matter how old she gets
the kind of woman
I will think about
every now and then
when I’m sitting by myself
somewhere in the dark
the kind of woman
who will laugh softly
before pushing the hair
away from her face
the kind of woman
who makes it feel okay
when she slowly turns
and walks away
after telling you goodbye

Shoelaces on Fire by Bradley Mason Hamlin

Heaven
feels like
a one-armed bandit
waiting
to roll dice sideways

snake eyes
and
will she be there
the angel of mercy
already
undressed
of earthly baggage
selfishness
of self
stripped naked

open arms
at mystic gates
will she tell you,
you did okay
not perfect
but no one is …

or will clouds float
just out of reach
ghost breath
filtering past fingertips
slip fall
you trip
falling

as
great golden gates
smash shut
dead
like prison doors
crashing
and echoing
as you fast fall
eternity
ends
hitting bottom
where you belong

shoelaces on fire
as demons
take you by the hand
whispering,
never the luck.

Barley by Andrew Taylor

The grapes aren’t green they will slowly turn red
among the grass is barley
ready for harvesting
it is carried in bags

Three poems by Ted Kane

Hoofprints in the Glass

I had a dream that I was
Walking with the Devil
Along the shores of
The River Styx

As I looked behind me
There were two sets of footprints
My human ones and a set
from a pair of cloven hooves

As I watched them stretch back
over the course of my life
I saw the hoofprints form dance steps
at my greatest debauches

I noticed,too, that in my times of distress
There would be but one hoofprint; when
I asked Satan why, he said “That’s when
I was kicking your ass with the other foot”

____________

Haiku

Does a poem sent
to an empty forest get
a rejection note?

____________

The apple was great,
Eve, just not ‘getting kicked out
of paradise’ great

Dented Grandpa by Kevin Ridgeway

a photograph from
their 50th wedding
anniversary shows
the rose colored
indentation at the
center of his head
that they all say
he sustained at
ten years old when
a large mule kicked
him there inside the
family barn in Illinois
which revealed why
he had the ability to
cuss loudly in Thrifty
Drug without a care
and embarrass my
grandmother by
refusing to wait in the
car for the prescription
pills that she hoped
would cure all the
side effects from
a blow to the head
that made him so
goddamn stubborn.

Drowning like Li Po in a River of Red Wine by A D Winans–Reviewed by Charles Plymell

 

 

Drowning like Li Po in a River of Red Wine: Selected Poms 1970-2010.  Bos (Bottle of Smoke Press)

 

 

 

Drowning like Li Po in a River of Red Wine by A D Winans is a book to be proud of. It’s a pick-it-up-random poem book that gets right to it, with selected poems organized chronologically from past publications, 1970-2010. One might think that 364 pages of verse (and colophon page) would be a lot to take in, but it is not. Everything is all right, like the years went by, exactly right, bringing it all back home. San Francisco was home to us all. She opened her doors to everyone, alone, weary, and timeless… from Jack Black to Jack Micheline. Everyone got a taste of that home, but Winans is the only one I’ve met who was born there. He must share her coiffed comeliness and spiritual highs, splashing her nacreous pearls from deep black water splayed into the fog of love, the mist from her eddies pressing back the lusty egalitarian thrust until it obeys. It always seemed a small town because it’s vertical, on different planes, each neighborhood seething with scenes. During my limited tenure, it seemed I lived on every street, if not neighborhood, or knew someone who was in this or that scene. And floating through those different planes were layers to its natural beauty that gave off the essence of love but could also sink down darkly and cruel as hell. Through the eyes of Winans one can live those streets again, like a Bob Kaufman looking out the window of a Muni bus in silent study of all action passing on her streets to the last window-framed panorama.

 

The book too, is exactly right, as a book should be made. The poems aren’t tucked in as a filler to the pretentious pages of slick magazines; they are presented in the best selection of typeface, the poems placed correctly on the page. Li Po would have approved. It has the right feel, the right dimension, and the right geography to go back to and turn the pages like wrapping dreams.

 

Winans and I are about the same age, and we both discovered the Beats in the late 1950s. We both had unconventional childhoods. My best times were in the fifties. We heard the McCarthy hearings in real time. We developed a similar political philosophy somewhere between Li Po and Upton Sinclair. Like most poets in the Bay Area grown into the sixties there was politics in our poetry. He served time in the service. Mine in the ROTC … a Clinton/Bush deferment. I arrived in his old middle class neighborhood, the Haight, as the decade of the sixties began, before the kids took over the streets from little Russian ladies. He knew poets I did and the bars they read in, and the magazines they published in. San Francisco was constantly changing, sometimes overnight.

 

I didn’t know Winans in San Francisco but met him later at an Independent small publishing event. We took part in some of their organizations. We learned how the game was played and over the years watched it change as the poetry politicians began to take over as all things government do with friends rewarding friends. Over the years, we have corresponded and shared our views on poetry, political scams and awards. We spot the phonies and neither of us much cares for labels.  We’ve seen famous poets howl against Moloch and the government only to receive several thousands of government money and keep the Beatnik flack, not black, flying at the landmark tourist bookstore in North Beach. We’ve seen hypocrisy in all flavors in all the poets the city spawned. I’ve often wondered how Winans sees the invasion on his home turf.

My biggest regret is that I wasn’t with him when the great jazz clubs flourished in the days of Billie Holliday that he remembers in his poems, or the great blues legends like Johnny Lee Hooker. Yes, the times were always changing there. By the time Pam and I went to Mike’s Pool Hall with Ferlinghetti (Pam was underage), the Go Go girls were dancing in every joint. I got to see Sonny Rollins at an embarrassing two-drink minimum gig in North Beach when he was either too sick or too broken to wail. Yes, the city was built on Rock and Roll, Fillmore and the Avalon et. al. But the poets knew that it was really re-built, again and again. It all comes back in the works of Winans. It comes back as subtle and real as Bo Diddley’s words at the Avalon, a thriving line-in the street psychedelic hall bringing us the new sounds and lights. His words haunt me when he came to play to a handful, this then relatively unknown who said “And here I am now playing for you. Mercy Mercy Mercy.” I think I know what he meant. You will get the full history with Winan’s poems. They tell it real. San Francisco was always home to the outcasts from any origin. They became family. The moon on the water beckoning for all comers. The sun over the hills and bridges all bringing commerce, ships going to war. Friends and families living and dying. A changing city like the long nights and sunny days. My sister died in that Chinese Lantern of the Western Moon.

 

Jack Micheline came by to rally me to read and bring the word to the people. I had a good job on the docks and was starting a family. Besides, I said to him, how would you compete with the fame of sensational book trial no matter the poet and poet store owner was out of town and let the Japanese-American clerk who sold the book stand trial, just in case it backfired. The days of Life and Time are over. They just want the tourist version. Micheline left dejected, but hopefully to Gino and Carlos bar to have a drink with Winans and revitalize the words again. Or the Anxious Asp to hear poets insult the poets from Cleveland in their hippy drag. It was like that. It could be a tough town. We didn’t walk to the docks with Longshoreman hooks in our belts for nothing. The town was built on many layers of compassion and destruction, giver and taker, almost religiously. I wonder sometimes how a poet would live all his life there. Probably by writing lines to William Wantling, an example of the many poets who walked the streets of his town: Looking into the cracked lips of sorrow/I walk the harsh streets of tomorrow. (Pg. 297).Pick it up and open it anywhere. But to really find out how the poet down South who wrote about the poet up North and what happens with the poets from the East who come to the West and drank at the bars in Winan’s home town, you’ll just have to open the book in a river of red wine on pg 183.

 

–The hardback is sold out, but paperback copies can still be obtained from the publisher.  Contact Bill Roberts at http://www.bospress.net.