Vol. IX, No. XXXVI
Moving slowly up the coast
As the well drowned skies
Flood all the earth
Once again
High up a hill
Watching the heaven's deluge
Rising with great force, We advise that outdoorsmen wear noisy little bells on their clothing so as not to startle any bears. We also advise outdoorsmen to carry pepper spray with them in case of an encounter with a bear. It is also a good idea to watch out for fresh signs of bear activity. Outdoors men should recognize the difference between black bear and grizzly bear feces. Black bear feces is smaller and contains lots of berries and squirrel fur. Grizzly bear feces has little bells in it and smells like pepper.
Sixty-five miles to the west, December
the coffin like-buoy
shot lengthwise from the sea
The soul of the searcher
Wandering the millennia
In pursuit of our frail humanity;
The earth’s dark fingers
To vanish below the ocean wave
That breaks across the shore;
To swallow whole the waters
And return from the vortex
To sing for you beneath blue skies.
September 2008
Beneath the interstate highways,
Her dogs sleeping beside her for warmth at night
As she pursued her would-be killers,
A small handful from the Af-Paki mountains
Out wilding on women they thought
Too disrespectful of men.
-- And hers are quite sharp –
Disappeared them from the world
If she had wished – and she wished --
But she did not, would not,
Even as she blocked their blows
And drove the men running down the street away.
One of the dogs has died from its injuries,
The nights spent sheltered by the stars
Are slowly fading dreams.
I hold her in my arms, wrap her in my heart,
As the enemy stirs her memories,
Wracks her body with pain,
Shatters her feet, bone by bone, until she escapes
Back across the line into my embrace.
Made well dead by thought and hand;
She is here, beside me in our bed.
Some nights, I count her wounds,
Placing my hand on each of her scars,
Loving each one – and her --
More than I know how to tell
Or a nation will ever let me say.
September 2008
But I might be the only one who is working
On being respected and well known
A century or more up the timeline.
And have my ragged manuscripts carefully preserved
By generations of westward starfarers,
If not the occasional university scholar.
But feel little need to tell them what the centuries are.
If I can have a handful of intact poems
That survive both self-assured book burners
And the passing arbitrators of neo-tastefulness,
I will have succeeded;
Even if my lines are only fragments like Psappho,
I will keep the flame alive
To be picked by those who follow.
September 2008
Waiting for morning
For the battle to begin;
Surging towards
Which threads they must cut;
Admit to our errors,
And place the blame appropriately.
September 2008
The eye of the storm charges inland,
Rushing across the less populated parishes
Away from the watchful media eye.
N’Orlins waits out the storm surge,
Her fate unknown for hours.
Winds it way up from
Past the waters overtopping the canals,
Holding fast against the ocean’s determined rise.
September 2008
Will find me here, pen in hand,
Trying to weather out one last storm
Before the world grows weary
And my eyes too weak to speak.
For loved ones I have not seen,
Voices from the past, already dead,
People I wish I had thanked
Before this all comes to an end.
Is arriving too soon to finish
Everything I would, if I had my if’n’s,
To know and love you so much earlier,
With time enough to start this all again.
September 2008
Chasing the hurricanes
Along the coastlines
While Giordano Bruno
Philosophizes in the courtyard.
Through the iPod speakers
Of the Buddhist monks
Marching, orange in orange,
Through the streets.
Screening his calls,
Avoiding the collectors,
As he carefully sets up
His HD wall set.
September 2008
Carrying their manly stuff.
Wearing their dress shirts
And neck penises as they
Double time up the escalator;
Knock the women over the edge,
Trying, with the best intentions,
To minimize the impact if the women
Stay all scrunched down along the right.
September 2008
Take Jesus violently in my bed,
Then ask if I was as good as Magdalene
Or was Mary the best he has had.
A nice Jewish Rabbi like that,
His sperm would fill my soul and body,
Sanctifying my womb as his own.
I’d walk the streets until the sun comes down
To be rolling in my sweet baby's arms
Your Momma was a virgin
I’m just your poet girl
Rolling in your arms.
Lilies bloom in the fields around us,
I’m on my back, looking up at heaven,
You only have eyes for me.
I’d walk the earth ‘til the stars have fallen
To be rolling in my sweet baby's arms
‘Til my sweet lover’s back,
Jesus, but he was good in bed.
September 2008
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Starpoetby Lisa Jain Thompson.
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