John Zedolik writes

The Reins

                                                                

Two pigs, one unleashed,

have purpose in the park—

acorns under the civic oaks

that bear their bounty every fall—

so snouts to the grass and straight

to the trunk, reined slightly back or not,

nimble even carrying their weight

upon hooves peeping between the blades,

the tender, upright and obedient,

follows to the source, a glutton

for the gathering of two intent

upon the yet-giving earth

whose final skin peels off

under their snuffle and twitch,

yielding to those whose appetite

and will masses with much greater press. 

John Zedolik writes

Ars Vbique Est                                                 

Our generously arced spigot

in the half-bath reflects

the faux-gilt and frilled

mirror of this home’s previous

owner into a semblance

of Munch’s screaming man,

but I am at relative ease so

acknowledge the pain the lips

on the chrome, pursed into an “O,”

express, wash my hands, pump

the dispenser of liquid lavender soap

so lose sight of the little

agonized simulacrum of the brush,

turn off the light, rest assured

the tortured face and matching eyes

will be waiting with their angst

and dread whenever I need a shot,

a taut perspective, of immortal gloom.

[Ars vbique est = Art is everywhere] 

 

 The Scream -- Edvard Munch

John Zedolik writes

Doubtful Armor                                                     

The tale, over tea and coffee

on an easy Saturday evening

was of loosed armadillos,

minor mayhem and mischief

on a hotel floor then false

reporting to earnest police,

which yarn elicited laughter

from the group whose members

were reveling in their third decade,

some parenting and some almost,

so what better than a story

of those southern scramblers

of neutral to unattractive temper

on account of their small brains,

according to the raconteur,

in contrast to these relatively

young and prosperous representatives

of a species with much larger

noggins and proportionate brains encased

to boot though without the plating

the old Spanish attributed

to the low mammal, so needing

at times such diversions concerning

carpet-covering chaos little critters

and other unthinkers bring.

John Doyle writes

The Lesser-Known Presidential Assassinations

For Alyssa Trivett

I was born with lots of things across my hands,

snowflakes, blood, 

water from the Rio Grande.

Nothing compromised the science 

of each individual component,

snow-drifts grew larger, 

started a family,

moved north, blocking tin-can Ford trucks on freeways.

The blood I took, 

I added it to the bones from lesser-read pages in the Holy Book,

Adam had sisters, brothers, no-one spoke of, 

Eve was married twice before.

The lesser-known presidential assassinations spring-up

from tributaries of the Rio Grande,

William McKinley -

A good Protestant

County Antrim name

with sizzling stagecoach wheels

in thickened rains - gives church-yard

its Sunday chatter. 

James Garfield is mentioned in archives

where cigars, brandy

and the Witherspoon family 

of New England make generous donations

to rebuild our church-hall blown down 

in the winds and rains of 1908.

I was born with lots of things across my hands,

it's a map that remains,

its fauna blotchy

like dead animals hunting near a desert dirt-track

mutes and blind-folk 

were too terrified to rub with tar.

This is the word of someone's Lord;

Praise Be

John Doyle writes

Migratory Birds Going Home to Africa

The radio was shouting at you, pleading with you...

David Byrne

Vaguely orange with offerings of brown,

such a rusted sky - 

vapor-trails like Nuada's veins.

On the radio tonight I pretend it's Carl Corcoran

whom I've missed like an Uncle gone to war.

Carl plays Heartland Rock, Carl plays Afrobeat,

I remind myself every April, as this requiem is due-

about now - all these birds who fly southerly, 

marmalade-burned sundown, grass still brown.

It's five inches-high at our crossroads -

three local streams meeting like Uncles returned from war,

and I smell the farm and primary river

they flow to, sometimes - summer maybe, but usually April,

birds' whooshing chatter that plays Heartland Rock

on the radio, now that Africa is leaving.

Hey there Carl, tell me

if anyone is listening anymore,

on a transistor radio in a tent, something orange flashes overhead…?

John Doyle writes

I’ll Send You a Postcard Tomorrow Amelia, That I Promise

Negatives of my shoelaces

fade from my shins

as I dissolve into my myself,

appearing moments later

as an acrobat in Rush and Lusk Station

haunted by the puppeteer

who pulled the children

like seaweed from the waters -

it makes a believable alibi

explaining myself 

to a man checking tickets

who spent last night sleeping

in a wooden hotel from the late 19th Century

while his wife, son and daughter

trotted off to Sunday School

unaccompanied

Arlene Corwin writes

 Two Looks At The First Reality 

 (or What or Who creates it all)

Depending on one’s leanings,

And assuming one is interested,

I, myself am all-enthralled 

By themes self-vested in.

One view is that Reality, the Primary

Is really One, without a sun - just one Entirety.

The second is the same Supreme

With arms, legs, body, plus an aim;

One which we address by name.

Who often spotlights sin and blame

But calls on us to love our neighbour -

Finely tuned through daily labor.

I find I prefer the former:

One which says that causes good in motive, act

Result in good-ness as a fact;

And causes whose intents are wrong

Though mind is rational and sharp 

Will end in ends that taint and warp. 

Each theory is complementary.

Depending on how you are born

(with preferences pre-natally ‘learned’)

You can arrive one early morn

At one with It-The-Energy,

Free from all impurity.

These little stanzas simplify

A lifelong try

At transformation.

Drawing on our screwed-up best

At wrestling with the gifts and mess 

We’re born to guest.