Poet's Ink Review

February/March 2007

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Essential Awareness

I planted kiwi seeds.
I did not expect them
to crack the little black shells
and sprout up curved, green.
I didn't know
the leaves would have problems
popping off the seed's shell
and could die
like a baby chicken too weak
to push anything but the tip of a beak
out of its shell.
In my seed, fruit, flower, and tree bark
there is nothing,
no mention of
the fuzzy leaves
so much like the fruit
I stole the seeds out of,
or the way the leaves would curl
with a change in humidity,
or how the seedlings
die unexpectedly.

Lydia Miller

Lydia is a mechanical engineer and lives in Minnesota. This is her first published poem.

Listen to the Wind

I had a bonfire last night
where I burned all your photographs,
love letters, anything with your name on it.

I watched all your fancy words
dance in the wind-
transformed.

The sky can hear your empty praises now.

Jesus in the Coffee House

A long-haired man sings
a Woody Guthrie tune,
looking like a saviour
on the small stage.

When Jesus comes back,
he'd be a folk singer-
a troubadour with songs
of love and redemption.

Jesus wouldn't make the Top 40.
He'd be a shoeless bearded man
with a guitar in his soft pale hands
and peace in his pocket.

Dean Johnson

Dean is a writer originally from Northern Minnesota. His debut collection of poetry entitled "ours before dawn" is available from lulu.com.

Canvas Bolero

From the artist's sweaty palm
And through his fingers channeled,
Then finding rest upon the canvas,
The resonance of the painter's soul.

Vibrant pigment splatters off
And then to the pull of gravity condemned
Forms a magnificent colored rain,
A technicolor starburst on the floor.

The brush, it moves as if to mock
The beating of a rhythmic heart,
Singing praise of truth and love
While locked in passion with creation.

When, at last, the dance is done
And the muse's tools are put to rest,
Upon that canvas wet with paint,
There bleeds the artist's soul.

Jamie Grimes

Bittersweet

Solitude, a mother's friend, who waits in shadows of monotomy
Until desperation renders her blind and deaf to the clamoring guilt
That accompanies her imaginings of companionless adultry

For only an ungrateful whore would trade the warmth of coupled sheets
To follow the luxurious breeze of loneliness that courts the quite tide
Of pirate seas that never thirst for treasured gems of privacies

Trapped within the barred crib is a reminder of the vows she made
Through the impetuousness of youth that is too often ruled
By moments of forgotten lust. Only when passions cool
In nuptial shade,

Will the moon reveal the golden shackles she unwittingly forged.
Thousands of indifferent nights unveil the prison rods
Of love turned cold,
Leaving only frosty echoes from the days before her soul was caged.

So death becomes an absent friend who continues to withold
The gilded path to enchanted black where no man can molest
The peacefulness her spirit craved since the day her youth was felled.

Yet each morning she awakens. Inside her tomb she sits
Nestled in a mausoleum disguised as marital bliss.

Liz Perry

Liz is a 39 year old mental health counselor. She usually writes fiction, but started writing poetry after taking a writing class.

One Monday Morning

I am lost in the jungle of American Industry
Stuck with my pinstriped suit
And business strut

Coffee in hand
Pounding the pavement like the rest of them
To the click-clack of heels on the sidewalk

Are you proud of me now, Daddy?
I'm part of the machine

Me-with my semi automatic smile
And cell phone that never turns off

It makes me sad sometimes
The way we don'tlook each other
In the eyes anymore
And lie through our teeth for politeness

As if it would kill me to know
That sleep walked past your door last night
And the song on the radio made you cry
Because it reminded you
Of someone who loved you once

Chelle

Chelle is 20 years old.

the earth can never be round

red-tailed hawk floating in blue
on a slow and circling wind
pulls me caught in a kite string

of thinking. the wildgrass prairie tilts away
but my clawing fingers cling too much
to the heavy, dirty things

of earth. I fall, tangled in string and wind
it around and around me and dream of being
in concentric wind-pure circles

Erik Richardson

Erik is a journalist and business consultant in Milwaukee, Wisconsin. His work has been featured in a number of publications, including Arbor Vitae, Poetic Hours, and Free Verse.

Cabin Pressure

Lost luggage
Delayed flight
Chicken or beef
Security check
Shoes off
Jacket off
Belt off
Brain off
Toothpaste
Plastic container
Experiencing turbulence
Overhead compartment
Overbooked
Super shuttle
Window or aisle
Overside baggage
Oversized room-mate
Willing and able
Tray table
Full upright position
Bye now
Bye now
Ba-bye
Ba-bye
One hour delay
Non-stop
Direct flight
Indirect flight
Dinner service
Change fee
Service fee
Airport fee
Toll booth
Oxygen mask
Flotation device
That's dinner?
No smoking
Hundred dollar penalty
Ba-bye
Bye now
Captain speaking
First officer
Second officer
Last officer
I want to be an officer
Ba-bye
Bye-now
Occu-pied
Oh no, please do't talk to me
Families with small children
Help boarding
Boarding pass
Lunch service
Electronic ticket
Internet ticket
Lower fares available
Experiencing precipitation
These are blankets?
Deplane
De-ice
De late flight
Moving sidewalk
Oh yes, please talk to me
USA Today
New York Times
LA Times
Boise Broadcaster?
Ba-bye
Bye now
Seatbelt sign illuminated
These are pillows?
By-now
Transcontinental flight
Pam Am
Bankrupt
US Air
Bankrupt
Delta
Bankrupt
American
Bankrupt
Experiencing a delay
Forty three dead
Two hundred injured
Ba-bye
Bye now
Ba-bye
Ba-bye
Bye bye
Beverage service
Orange juice please
Remain seated
Complete stop
In flight movie
All electronic devices
Ba-bye
Bye now
Ba-bye
Headsets available
Four dollars
Ba-bye
Bye now
Ba-bye
Experiencing terrorism
Ba-bye
Bye now
Ba-bye
Ba-bye
Bye now
Ba-bye
Bye

Mark Lawton

Mark is a writer, teacher, soccer coach, and expert napper living in Portland, Oregon. This poem was first published at BarfingFrog.com.