Poetry Corner August 2010

Wild Ride
by Dennis Martin from Rhythmic Notions

It’s a wild ride
Building like a great volcano way down deep inside.
It’s like wildfire
Burning ‘cross an open field ‘til there’s no place to hide.
And you sweep me away,
Soaring high on your sweet love,
I never want to stop this wild ride.

You keep taking chances,
Living on the edge,
Watch the candle burning from both ends.
And I keep running with you,
Trying to keep up,
Ignoring every message that life sends.

And it’s a wild ride
Building like a great volcano way down deep inside.
It’s like wildfire
Burning ‘cross an open field ‘til there’s no place to hide.
And you sweep me away,
Soaring high on your sweet love,
I never want to stop this wild ride.

Someday you might slow down,
Take a chance to rest,
Learn to smell the roses on the way.
‘Til that day I’ll stick by you,
Trying to keep up
‘Til there’s only one thing left to say.

It’s a wild ride
Building like a great volcano way down deep inside.
It’s like wildfire
Burning ‘cross an open field ‘til there’s no place to hide.
And you sweep me away,
Soaring high on your sweet love,
I never want to stop this wild ride.

Untitled
by Dennis Martin

Chattering, clattering,
Nothing much mattering,
Ceaseless profusion of audio splattering
Eardrum to eardrum
Wistfully scattering all that is new,
Newsworthy or no.
You know the one,
Jittering, twittering,
Much like the hummingbird
Jumping and flittering
Flower to flower,
Sliding and slithering
Gulping each morsel to
Make itself grow.
You stop to listen
All in your dithering.
Cannot believe so much
Aggregate blithering.
Just so much bilge water,
Nothing for keeping,
But nowhere to hide
And no cliff for leaping.

Website: http://www.iwritesome.com
Lulu Storefront: http://www.lulu.com/dsmartin
Plays: http://sites.google.com/site/playsbydennissmartin/

Things Shift
by Pamme Boutselis

Things shift.

Once
you had to reach
up avariciously
for me.

Now,
inexplicably,
parts of me
gravitate easily
down to
you.

Pamme Boutselis is a writer from New Hampshire. More of her poetry can be found at:
http://beachtowelpress.blogspot.com/

OLE SIS
By Jan Bossing

They shone like fire; pale yellow eyes,
Side of the road; in bright head lights.
I jerked my head around to see.
What could that big black shadow be?

Ears were like cups, turned upside down.
Long, long tail, whipping all around.
What did I see? I can’t believe.
I can’t trust what my own eyes see.

I quickly glanced up to my rear view.
Truck lights behind me, then I knew.
Black cat, just smaller than a horse.
Beast of the woods; panther, of course.

I started to shake, shook some more.
I pulled into a crossroads store.
Jumped out, ran in. “Guess what?!” I said.
He looked up, smiled, and shook his head.

“Here, have a beer; settle down, miss.
What you saw? Why that was Ole Sis.
Last big cat, the end of the line.
Someone sees her from time to time.”

We sit on the bench, drink our beer.
All of a sudden, we both hear.
The high-pitched scream ends in a cough.
She calls to me; I’ve had enough.

I start to shake, I start to cry.
I want to run; I even try.
He pats my hand, he takes my arm.
“She won’t hurt you, she means to harm.”

He tells me then, “We just see one.
No mate, no cubs; she’s all alone.”
I look at him, I see the tear.
I see sadness, I see no fear.

I’m lucky that I saw the sight.
Edge of the woods; edge of the night.
I can’t believe Ole Sis saw me.
And I saw her – clear as could be.

A rare, rare thing; won’t happen twice.
The last big cat, the end of the line.
Twenty years gone, I see her yet.
The sight, the sound – I won’t forget.

Jan Bossing © Joelton, TN 2010

To Mr. Presley
by Rita Janice Traub

Jesse Garon Presley,
stillborn innocent
older identical twin
of Elvis Aaron, in your
unmarked Mississippi
grave: You’d have looked
alike. But would you have
been alike? Competed?
Harmonized? Known riches,
fame, adoration, lovers
aplenty, as he did? Or taken
a different path? He brooded
about his destiny, this greatest
superstar, unsure, questioning,
thinking of you, perhaps
excessively. Anyway, one hot
August day at Graceland,
he caught up with you.

Rita Janice Traub is a Fulton County, Georgia, free-lance writer and editor who has enjoyed creative writing from early childhood. Writing both poetry and prose has been a lifelong joy. After spending many years in California composing briefs and motions, she and her family relocated to Georgia, where she set up her own business, specializing in marketing research and information technology editing. Rita was nominated for a Rhysling Award by the Science Fiction Poetry Association.

The Prodigal
by Joseph A. Zapalac

Yes, the prodigal son of faith has returned.
The quest to find life’s true meaning burned.

Many were the paths he crossed over the years.
In life’s journey, he encountered many fears.

There were times he strayed from his course.
He faced challenges without complaint or remorse.

This prodigal’s return came with repentance.
Penance from God was his sentence.

When invited to confess, it troubled his soul.
He lacked courage to confess his sinful role.

But much good remains in this kind, gentle man,
Because God watches over his own time and again.

The prodigal returned, looking to heaven above.
Bitterness gone; his heart is filled with God’s Love.

The prodigal sits in church, with an empty stare.
Once an elderly lady sat in that particular chair.

He loved this sweet lady with her beautiful smile.
His faith grew which he hadn’t felt in quite a while.

In her, the prodigal saw God’s Love in her eyes.
She left, never to return; His empty heart cries.

Love washed the pain away in the prodigal’s heart.
He sits by her chair; their spirits never far apart.

Author’s Frustration
by S.R. Lee
Struggling with the art of fiction
I eavesdrop frequently,
but to no avail.
For note taking in a restaurant
is obvious, rude!

But today in a service station
I watch a young man pace
between potato chips and cashier.

Cell phone in hand
he speaks freely
“Hey, Raven, is Brandy there?
“Yeah, yeah”
“Not yet”
Names of a newer generation.

Perhaps they have serious issues.
The young always believe themselves to be real,
but even he goes no further.

I leave with no new short story
not even a novel
in mind.

S.R. Lee was born and bred in Middle Tennessee and lives on family land south of Nashville. Mostly she has been a mother and teacher and wife. She enjoys the privilege of being an aspiring writer.