Breathe

The maple trees told me it's in the ashen branches
Where the squirrels hide 
Their little child soul set afar from human conditions
I surmise the longing of things
From near and far 
Where the river is spread out against the sky
The night stars are falling around
I saw in a sleep
The jumpings and quiverings of non living things
Stay in my mind like a biscuit parchment paper
I blew the dandelions too loudly
Alas they catch the midheaven star
The North node of all our dreams where they shine
I now think of the maple trees 
The red apples sodden
With arched bow whites 
I know not what to name these
Perhaps they carry their own destiny
A hidden blush of lost stars and milkyways
I breathe in thee. 

LADY LIBERTY CHANGES HER TUNE *

The “tired” and “poor” now fleeing to our borders

can just turn back. Go home. It’s not my problem.

If they face massacre—Scrooge said it best:

“Decrease the surplus population.”   Yes!

These “homeless,” “tempest-tossed” are welfare pests.

Let “huddled masses” huddle somewhere else—

not in my backyard. Or in my country.

We’re not averse to proper immigration.

We spread a welcome mat for white-skinned Aryans—

rich, well-fed, well-heeled—like Musk and Murdock.

Let’s face it—God’s another sticky problem.

Those who call God “Allah” or Jehovah”

are heretic, like brown-skinned Papists; those

whose culture sees God through a different lens

should just convert, be born again, conform.

It’s time for Christian nationalists to rule.  

I lift my lamp and sneer at shithole countries.

We don’t need “wretched refuse” eating cats.

A golden door for some; for most, a wall–

with tariffs on all imports. Brave new world!

                       *  THE NEW COLOSSUS

                        Give me your tired, your poor,

                             Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free.

                             The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.

                             Send these, the homeless, tempest-tossed to me.

                             I lift my lamp beside the golden door.

                                                          –Emma Lazarus, 1883

Copyright 11/2024                Patricia Doyne

A Miss At Twilight

They were called marbles.

They were called reasons.

I am never where I am

when I need to be.

When “I’m sorry” is necessary

or “I’m leaving” is the only response.

I fear life is destructible

and consolation

is a round-trip ticket

to go round and round.

It’s in your eyes.

Your eyes looking into mine.

Counterfeit glances

through a snow globe,

leaving tiny droplets

behind on the surface,

soon to gather and stain.

Gather and stain.

Suffering

is a repeatable offense,

a language

the soul whispers to the heart

on a dark, lonely night

with darker contemplation

to come.

To gather and stain.

Broken and repellant

in a bookstore

that sells small bags of marbles

I see

Cat’s eyes and beauties.

Tragedy radiates from them,

they have no function,

except to be.

Except to be.

Reason teaches us

that

to be completely forgotten

is to climb into ourselves

and be put

in another’s pocket.

I am a miss at twilight.

At dawn

I separate myself from the chasm.

Somewhere in between

you have a thought of me

and I tremble

involuntarily

like

a visitor

at a cemetery.

The Woman I Need

I am as seaweed on a stone

either clinging from the last pass of water

or anticipating riding

on the next wave.

I am a silhouette of myself at times.

Burdened

with modern unforgiveness,

holding my hand over

a candle burning

through

one day from another.

If one is to dream

love is an extravagance,

yearned

from the bedroom

while

experiencing

the cold nights of winter.

I can hear the seams

losing strength.

An allusion

bearing the solemnity

of difficult questions

I ask myself.

And music

provokes reminiscences,

devoid

of a predicate.

What remains

are desire’s

bittersweet

scars.

Experiences,

are dangerous grounds,

abandoning oneself,

abandoning

what is necessary

to understand

tragedy’s consequences

or

contradiction’s demands?

I

yearn to foresee,

to weave a net

across

the enigmas

and dissipate

the contrived

influences.

There is a pier

where beneath,

the waves splash in rhymes.

Every Sunday at dusk

a woman

with long brown hair

stands at the furthest end

and smiles

every time a cat

strolls along the

guardrail.

I lose interest in myself,

while

watching that woman,

that woman.

That woman

is the woman

I need.

Philip received his MS in Psychology from Simon Fraser University, Vancouver, Canada. He has published Five books of poetry: Mirror Images and Shards of Glass, Dark Images at Sea, I Never Finished Loving You,  Falls from Grace, Favor and High Places, and Forever Was Never On My Mind. Three novels, Caught Between (Which is also a 24 episodes Radio Drama Podcast https://wprnpublicradio.com/caught-between-teaser/),  Art and Mystery: The Missing Poe Manuscript, and Far From Here. Two plays, The Apparition and The Poet’s Masque. Philip has a column in the quarterly magazine Per Niente. He enjoys all things artistic.

My hands don’t tell me to touch another,

not to hug them, not to kiss them, 

not to slap them, not to stab them,

nor even feel for them at all.

My hands write,

write the scenarios I played out for crowds.

I write until the skin on my hands disintegrates,

blood puddles on the paper,

scattering stories unable to be spoken.

When bubbled crimsons agile hands daunt an 

unchased stars truthful lies,

no escape to tame relocation.

Although memory stings like rays,

escaping towards shallow shadows,

hollow to silent foretelling fate.

Dried up hopes flourished again,

lines weren’t nothing but stables for either.

We know yet fear the ideas 

of a galaxy collapsed fate.

Fate connects us more to ourselves

than any addiction punctured into our backs.

Told they will suppress our emotions,

we quote what they tell us

in grief,

in love,

in translucency.

Our bodies tell the truth.

addiction is emotion in hiding

when they are not to be.

Emotions are never more alive 

when cut into you.

A Child of God:

Writer has a few questions.

William Blake insisted that at age four he’d seen God watching him, his head pressed against Blake’s window. 

Scholars and layfolk cite this as the beginning of Blake’s prophetic afflictions.

God-believing scholars and layfolk.

But the eyes of the Lord are in every place, no?

After all, a thing unseen is neither good nor bad. 

As Heisenberg and Schrödinger proved, it’s only thinking that makes it so.

And who worth their weight in salt doesn’t watch after their children?

Brooks Lindberg lives in the Pacific Northwest. His poems and antipoems appear frequently in The Beatnik Cowboy, Horror Sleaze Trash, and elsewhere.

On Earth

We are quiet

we are calm

we are word hunters

we are labors

we are cookers

we are timekeepers-

of our stars

with the sun warm stars

with the moon our resting heart

with the days we become strong

We sometimes sing a song

when we are happy in life’s psalm.