The Bookcase

The bookcase
has been replaced with
another bookcase

The new thing is made in Sweden
and assembled
in the wet dreams of code breakers
and psychiatrists

I try
all the bits are there
I thumb tiny pieces of metal
into crude wooden holes
the ‘designated ports of joinery’ I believe they’re called

Before we know it
we have a coffin shaped box
in the middle of the floor

The inevitable heated exchange ensues
planning ideas are slung back and forth
with the girlfriend
she’s flustered and gorgeous
I’m half erect and inappropriate
- which is more than can be said about the cheap furniture

and then I pause

Wow
look at us all grown up
we’ve made it
we’re finally fighting
about things
that don’t matter


Danny D Ford

Bergamo, Italy
theunfoldinghead@hotmail.co.uk
www.theunfoldinghead.co.uk

Running

Your stepdad’s in Intensive, 
horizontal, hooked to tubes. 
He won’t 
even know we’re there. 

But we set out anyway, past the neighbors’ 
bay gelding pacing his paddock –
horse that’s never known a halter, never 
been led out into fresh green morning. Forgotten 

steed. He whinnies, pricks his ears, 
listens to the herd in free pasture down the hill. 
His hooves have churned bare soil to mud. 
He does a one-horse dance against his fence. 

This first Saturday in May – Derby day, 
a fleet field of colts and fillies – 
but there’s no chance the hospital will be tuned 
to paddock-parade at the Downs. 

I need to see horses running. Look at this 
solitary gelding. Snuffle against his muzzle. 
Slip onto his back. Muscles slack – let’s kick. 
Remember how to lip-flick a latch –

the gate hangs open on its hinge. 
May means spring. 


- Taylor Graham
Placerville, CA USA
poetspiper@att.net 

Low Fat Cheese

Goats give the lowest fat milk to drink and eat
processed into white acrid cylinders,
they may take all sorts of shapes such as
smoked stones, ash powered dungs.

A sharp knife slices a roll of cheese,
a white, creamy patch keeps stuck on its blade.
I lick it carefully
my craving tongue avoids the cut
of the metal carving tool in my hand.

With my fingers I pick up the slice:
a thin white washer pure as snow,
I could bleat as I eat this tiny titbit
but I hum and I my tongue spits saliva
outside my mouth, on the verge of my lips.



Walter Ruhlmann
http://lorchideenoctambule.hautetfort.com
Nantes (France) 

The Metamorphs

When she and I in clowning coltish forms
Full spun with laughter, every atom splayed
Went spitting ecstacy; our foaming tongues
Trod home together leaning side by side
Collapsed into platonic beds of sleep
‘Cross our flesh would creep a blighted smut
So restless squirmed as dawn began to drip
Not every night, but every other night

Not every night, but every other night
The buried sunsets rise again, again
Through broken vessel eyes, through waking drought
Hold hands and ache for sleep and cringe and groan.
The world is cheap, we have our games of dice
And now and then we’ll lose and end up stung
We play at things, personas yoked and spliced
Dissolved in morning light – the metamorphs.


D.P. Laker 
daniellaker@hotmail.co.uk

Snow White and Rose Red:

 A Jurassic (*) Interlude




Before tea & discourse
we enter the room of string theories.
It's a fairly safe venture
to slip through the grasp of logic
& into the hands of mysticism.

Your eyes widen with delight
at the knotted sculptures
strung between pairs
of indifferent hands.
Your head cocks
to the left
to synthesize
the undertone of spellcraft
crackling over the speakers.
You postulate
the endless ways
to twist the universe
into the shape
of your desire,
& opine against
the lack of Time
to warp circumstance
to suit your needs.

Your preoccupation
allows the bonds
of sisterhood
to loosen between us.

copyright 2010 marie lecrivain

(* based on an exhibit from the Museum of Jurrasic Technology) 




Marie Lecrivain
Los Angeles, CA, USA
marie.lecrivain.pd@gmail.com

Poetry..a lifestyle?

Over the years, I have enjoyed reading many wonderful submissions of poems. There have been poems that truly delighted me, inspired me, horrified me, or at least in some way genuinely touched my heart. I have never been too impressed with poetry that seeks to express cerebral sophistry. I find some of those kind of poems simply dull. And that may be just because I find poetry at its best is, like music, a direct link to the emotional part that dwells in most mortals. A well chosen image, a finely turned phrase, melody whether in a piece of music or a stunning verse, will connect in a flash to something very deep within, something valid and ancient if you will. The bard can take us to this place where shivers of wonder yet endure.

Whether poetry can be a lifestyle I am not quite sure. Perhaps if your entire passion revolves around this rather ephemeral art form. Or perhaps for those few poets who have attained a measure of success. You can find poetry anywhere. In some subconscious slips of the tongue, in some spontaneous unassuming philosophical gem uttered by a pure child, in the heart opening up in joy or despair.

It's all around. You just need to lend an ear..

Before the Law (my interpretation of Franz Kafka's short story)

My curiosity had brought me …to the gates of The Law
But all progress was halted… I could venture no more

A Gatekeeper there stood… who obstructed my path
With his menacing demeanour …and a soul filled with wrath

Warning not to continue… on my journey ahead
For more frightening will face me: The thought filled me with dread

Though my hunger for knowledge… of what lay inside
Simply would not relent …it just would not subside

But he held firm with his caution… of the immanent danger
So now who do I trust …myself or this stranger?

Held back with uncertainty, burdened with apprehension
Unsure of my fate… I’m held here in suspension

So I patiently waited, hoping he would relent
But time just marched on, with opportunities spent

As my life drifted on, and the years passed me by
All that remained… was just waiting to die

The end brought me courage… to enquire of this gate
Though I was informed, it was just for my fate

And thus when I am gone, it will be closed up and locked
I’ve no time to be sorry, nor time to be shocked

I think of all those ambitions, of those things I’ve desired
For the unique opportunities… that left me inspired

Although I look back and wish for… this chance once again
It is time to accept… this is where I’ll remain

But the long-term companion I chose …it was fear
Controlling my choices… it drove me to despair

So now at the end… I am filled with regret
The price that I’ve paid …is a terrible debt

And what of the lesson …I chose to endure?
It was my time spent in judgement… Before The Law!

Michael Major, 
London UK, 
mike@kafkaforourtime.com