Bubbles All the blurred circles bursting in the close background while mirrored up front. - Davis
Category Archives: Poetry
Poem – For an Old Lover
For an Old Lover I can see your gaze on the horizon, steady, not like mine as I drive alone glancing at everything that measures how far I am from home. The number on the trip odometer is a fraction, nominal in the permanent measurement, scant but significant, vital to the equation’s precision, it itself a testament, as you know The eyes’ weariness serves warning for the midnight blues, but music waits in the cold morning when I’m trembling close to you. “And these are the days for roses, poetry and prose… -O'Connell
Poem – Mount Corcoran
Mount Corcoran -Albert Bierstadt, 1877 The black bear waits to kiss the water’s edge Under fallen trees the trout nap together and the waterfall hums almost unnoticed. Just a “mountain lake” before the water dried: From a hidden source the artificial light shines on the sides of white-capped triangles. Under the clouds, poor Al renamed his baby. Under the approaching clouds, cranes relax against redwoods, rubbing against the aging sequoias. The paintbrush dabbed lightly before another application, before the bassinet wails asking to be tended. Oh, let’s frame it. -O'Connell
Poem – Fortune Cookies, Too
Fortune Cookies, Too The son becomes the father when the father passes your obligation becomes your life We replace the old hardwood living room with thick gray carpet it’s not an accident if you allow it Katie’s waist thins over time stretches mark the months Billy depended on her make sure to caress them when you bathe Mother spends the day with her grandson the sparkling boy waits to become a man everyone loves you, she says His first word makes Katie feel like a mother his second muffled just too obscure The cognac is to remember him. everything else; habits over time never too much just enough to keep warm. He can’t be replaced she screams from the bathroom we’ll find him if it’s the last thing I do The salt in her tears remind me to keep her face on my neck when she cries Don’t try seeing around corners make slow wide turns a moderate speed is key His face blank when he sees his younger sisters distorted reflections of time sometimes the experience is neither joy nor sorrow Katies weeps as she squeezes and feels him all over. make sure parts are not missing. -Saechao
Poem – The Next Day
The Next Day As our language thrived father faltered in his bed trying to push his once strong thoughts the noise he succumbed to the pitter patter beeps from machines sounds of the gong My nephew blows into a fifty year-old rhino horn for fun delight mimicking the old man in flowing silks and flat linens he hops around like a manic Easter Bunny pink and red and white flapping against the wind According to records he could have been fifty-five the next day but who knows about the next day she wakes and walks into a room of smoke smell of freshly slaughtered swine the horror hidden when she sees the lips of the creature, already puckered pursed for a devilish kiss Shrill cry of the child ripping the room’s sheet of smoke I hand my young nephew to her the reluctant acceptance he reaches right for her brown tresses still ruffled from the cat nap I almost felt bad about sleeping with her the night before we were quiet, almost motionless. Breathless. The unfamiliar room. I wanted a new life a replacement someone new to love the timing was wrong it never happened The words terse, ensuring no slips. Nothing wasted, nothing given. Guarding ourselves; what can happen. Oh, the memories. The soundtrack the light provides the clichés we avoid with might we don’t want to make love pushing the trap away the scorn we possess And we watched then waited. And we talked then waited. Driving through the hills with the beautiful trees dying again with their sunset foliage: This exodus into the ground. -Saechao
Poem – Wanderers
Wanderers Looking for a place to settle my Father walked me between the tracks leading to the next town, our town with a different name, familiar enough. Trains push air under dust, it is so dry, our breathing; like eating dirt from the earth. It’s a drought, he says, not looking at me. Our destination is not visible curves hide what we’re looking for we see buildings above treetops Later, Father pours Tennessee whiskey from his flask onto my bee sting, Russian vodka into my shot glass; we bond that way desecrating our bodies. My Father talked into the night, our loose rhetoric. His stories’ morals I can’t live with his heroes suffering less than he has. I mumble his words to my wife, not verbatim, and in English; I don’t remember exactly what he said. My artificial intelligence, resident of a child’s closet, remains untouched, unblemished. -Xiong
Poem – To Jazz
To Jazz A Conversation with Steve Davis From the stereo system someone unnamed from the Golden Age or so it seems filters through the dancing smoke Dueling trombones on rolling rocks of Pennsylvania echo of glacier tympani in Yosemite Hear that counterpoint Cats don’t play that way anymore modern day baroque and most are broke “Shit! Man…no more like this, no more… god bless ‘em.” Sweet sippin’ gin to milky singin’ hands, fingers moving grooving with the break, wrist slapping hands clapping Lace that shit, it’s gotta stick. Nothing’s too fast, Nothing’s too fast, keep up, cat. “You can do this, you won’t need a demo.” -Saechao
Poem – Permanence of Ink
Permanence of Ink Moth banging against tinted window not knowing the shortness of life. Its seconds ticking away; even grains of sand run out. The permanence of ink crosses barriers of time, the way we thought, And think of life, love, and…death— what color may it be— for all to see eventually. What color it may be, it stands with no regards ever since it’s been put on paper. Much has been written, Even more said, less remembered. Truth, lies. It doesn’t really matter. record the significant they tell me I should keep the insignificant on paper in ink so I don’t forget what I don’t need to remember my father is gone the smell gradually, too the pictures don’t lie but I’d rather have his painting, black and white he used to tell me— I forget the exact words— the gist was to not forget all that was and will be important what were those words he spoke to me that last day Ah, “Don’t forget what matters to you. You can write it all down, but even ink fades.” -Davis
Poem – City Lights
City Lights in the city’s perfect emanation of light -Carolyn Forche Traffic light spotlights the hungry man on the corner holding a cup for change. Christmas lights bring out his high cheekbones ragged pants over thin thighs eating into themselves. Red light district nonexistent in fishnet stockings and black leather miniskirt. Street lights lining dirt road curving around a bend a paved highway migrant worker and colleagues in an earth-brown van headed southbound to cabbage patches in Watsonville. Boardwalk lights enveloping broken relationships between high school sweethearts in their thirties their six year-old on a porcelain horse chasing a dream that will always stay a few lengths away. Wall Street lights selling the junk bonds analyst the idea of becoming a poet his office light is not bright enough for him to live comfortably, but he feels fine. Porch light waiting for the return of a prodigal son lost to necessities. -Smith
Poem – Migrant Burden
Migrant Burden Migraine headache a migrant backache from father to son. An American daughter-in-law our burden together. Donna wears her emotions on a flushed pale face washed with ivory cream what she brings to the table white rice mother taught her to wash and steam. Her father and brother wonder why I never finished business school, but her mother is happy her daughter is happy. We drink red wine, Sonoma, Sunday afternoons, after everyone gets home from church; sitting on the verandah watching working cars go by speaking of Marx and Aquinas they are intrigued but don’t understand my religion something Donna picked up when we met at Catholic school after late morning mass I was studying alone in my room my father wanted a private education I don’t show the pain father says I have a hard case, a soft heart hidden from the people I know especially Donna’s little brother whom I gave shooting lessons aim and technique— elbow in, shoulders squared —but no concentration, unnerved easily something his father detests my son’s burden a homeless father telling him he needs to be home by midnight instead of orchard parties surrounding pumpkin patches, where the girls are prone to get naked and pregnant. -Saechao