| Poetic Matrix periodic letteR Archives |
| Mary Ellen Cavanaugh Lunar Logic Poets have lunar logic the cones on their eyes gather light from shadows, illuminate secrets, see rainbows before they appear. For poets rapids stand like tiny glass-blown knickknacks, sparkle...sun shatter and sprinkle like sequence into frothy rootbeer pools. Sun worshippers crave a constant light. Poets value the sparkle and dark syrup alike. Moon shadows and illuminations are of equal value. They reflect warm, dark untwisted places... the legacy of contemplation, the fruit of being. Gail Rudd Entrekin Planting A small soft fetal planet I am adrift you orbit me large and surrounding muffling and pressing you tend me like a summer garden and on a dark turn you enter me like sperm finding egg's secret entry press your root deep down into the earth of me planting where you have so patiently cultivated whispering to me so I'll know the precise moment seed enters tube flashes into the mysterious dark Mid-life When enough river has poured through me and I am clean, smooth and hollow I hug the winding ribbon home effortlessly, the tired dog beside me, the leaves, green and gold, massed beside the road in a blur of promise. We are descending, yes, but slowly, as slowly really as we came up long pauses for rest on the flat spots. Perhaps going down will take as long as coming up. An empty vessel, I come from the car and they pour into me, their clear voices tossing, their sweaters, blue and pink and green, gyrating. They fill me with their jumble and clang, their raucous wishes and their dreamy cries. Meanwhile, down forty-nine, the Yuba River spills over the Sierra to the sea like an endless dream: all night a hundred voices talking as they slip away. Karen Jean Matsuko Hood Warmth Warmth of my shoulder is what I long for Rekindle those feelings. Long lost Lost in the hurried melody of time. Passion needs rekindling once again Burning desire for a single breath A single breath that freshens my soul The burgundy rose fills my ears As butterflies march outside my window Marching to a harmony so pleasing In my wait for the final rhapsody The harm only of this longing The fire does finally ignite As I am in a somber silence Too deep to awake the light of night The final hour Mournful Lark I hear the sound of the meadowlark Song clear but somehow distressed The lark is singing over grains of wheat As fields slowly disappear Golden hills turn to pavement Now we yearn for the cheerful call The call of beauty lost Once we had the fields of gold And celebrated the song of the lark Now we have cold asphalt And barren fields To mourn the silence together Where once we both could dance Dancing to the melody Of the mountain meadowlark |
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