FOUR POETS
Karen Berry
CoyoteHe sneaks down the hills, zig zag sly,
venturing in from the wildness
that rings the subdivided, the fringe
where the untamed eke out
an existence on the edge.
A shambling, stinking creature
unfit for the zoo, no pet.
We leave him food.
We want him to be beautiful.
He is not. He is untouchable,
fearful, ragged, filthy.
Might as well trap that useless thing,
let the blood run from scarred veins,
expose the sharpness of animal bones,
flay the hide from diseased meat and sinew,
comb the snarls from verminy fur.
Why not cure it?
Why not hammer it into pliability?
Why not line it with a skin-colored satin,
and make of the ugliness
a soft, lovely covering
for a softer, lovelier lady?
But he has his yellow eyes
like piss holes in the snow,
and he has his yellow teeth
shown in smiles that lie.
He has a place, marking the bounds
of where we walk in safety.
And he has a gift, an offering,
a call, a night song to solitude,
an eclipsing hymn to the diminishing moon,
a serenade to raise the hair,
an ascending scale of the utterly alone.
Kimberly Hinton
ChooseWhen the blue-black
clack-clack cold strikes and strikes
against the window panes
And the yellowed paint is peeled
in strips
and flakes from the weather worn wood
and all the birds huddle
together under the brambleberry bushes
complaining about the
minute long days.
When the dragon's teeth hang
from the edge of the sand shingles
threatening to bite the
pedestrians puffing by
and the trees stand naked
with their black arms reaching
and scraping the low sky.
Where will you lie? Where will you lie?
When the silk sun song
says rise, do rise
and the clack, clack
is replaced on the panes
by the pat, pat
and the birds sit on the born bud branches
with their wings spread out
complaining about the rain
and eyeing the boy next door.
When the black streets shine
with the slap, slap tarp
and the trees pop, pink and white
and we blinking, exit
into the occasional sunlight.
in a high blue sky.
Where will you lie? Where will you lie?
When
the lake diamonds glisten in the
late hot sun and the
players jump wave, speed and laugh
over the moss green
and I stand near a shore
with a pole and a worm
so far from my phone that
I never hear it ring?
Will you wait until
the play tired trees give one last
gasp grabbing the colors
from the memories
that linger and look longing
backwards at the past
When the sun rode and rode
high all day in the sky?
Where then will you lie?
When will
you die?
Bob Marcacci
For the Funeral at ThreeGloria runs through a green field
collecting white lilacs, and baby¹s breath
springs up where her bare feet touch.
The dancing horses dream.
Collecting white lilacs and baby¹s breath
for the funeral at three,
the dancing horses dream
they can make the sun come.
For the funeral at three,
the prancing horses prepare.
They will be there for everything
led on in blue through birds.
The prancing horses prepare
to sing wild songs for Gloria.
Led in blue through birds,
her mother runs with the singing horses.
The dancing horses dream,
collecting white lilacs and baby¹s breath.
Eric Marin
The DirgeI play a dirge on scalding pipes
in honor of a world now dying.
I remember the great green woods,
the songs of maidens in the pastures,
and the sweet taste of love and wine,
though time has taken all but memories.
The last shreds of my power
allow me to stand and watch
the world I love scoured clean
of life by its cruel new gods.
I play my pipes where once a forest stood;
now only glass shards speckle gray soil.
My cloven hooves burn and smoke
At the touch of ovened earth,
and my lips sizzle on the
glowing metal of my pipes.
But I continue the dirge
to honor ancient memories,
as columns of toadstool clouds
circle the scarlet horizon.
A looming garden of destruction
grown by human pride and fear.
My pipes still play
their ghostly tune,
for my name is Pan,
and I cannot die.
But as I look upon
a world now barren,
I grieve for its loss
and for my own as well.
I realize now that even an
immortal heart can be broken.
