Poetry from Laurie Byro

 

Taos Tree, painted by Michael Byro

Taos Tree, painted by Michael Byro

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A Fox as Fey Totem

For DH Lawrence

Why does the fox that divides the grass tempt me so?
Hasn’t the black whip of the snake hardened my heart?

Left behind, I seem to have a knack for abandonment.
A coven of vixen skulks from its den, stealthy and mad

as dreams.   They are a brown crust of sleep that fades
into  red-ribbon sunrise.  These feral children summon

me;  my soul is a dark forest.  Like any forsaken creature,
I lap up my philosophy of blood.  I have no conscience:

I seek out these scarlet whores as I name my unborn children.
And you, Fox about to disappear into mist, a red gash

of autumn still asleep on my chin.   You have charmed me into
embracing my savage self. They call me the disciple of Rasputin,

the Godson of Caliban. Is love such a fiendish discipline:  my beard,
pelt red, my dog’s head throbbing scandal,  my heart drenched

in Holy wine? I am beguiled by sly brides. I have been reluctantly
corrupted.
Oh, to be surrounded  by vixen in the seductive tapestry of trees.

I have not confessed my intent, nor left my warm bed
of dreams to meet them among a sentinel of fir.  If you examine

my crooked heart, you shall see I am both beast and master,
gamekeeper and  vixen,  a rifle and a thieving fox.

 

Continue reading

Poetry from J.J. Campbell

 

the glorious sound

 
silence
 
the glorious
sound of the
brain turning
off all the
electronic
noise
 
some of us
go insane
inside of it
 
some can’t
live without
it
 
and a few
lucky ones
get to enjoy
it
 
i close my
eyes and
let my
imagination
take over
 
something
these kids
know nothing
about

Continue reading

Poetry from Mahbub

Blows On Me For Stealing Some Money

Once I stole some money from my father’s pocket

It was long since I had done that

At one point my father came to know the matter

He caught me seriously to be a thief

I became nervous but I denied

When I denied he became more furious and dangerous to me

Suddenly at the time of speaking with him

He started to beat me

Again I told him I didn’t

But he couldn’t believe me

And nothing could make him believe

His blows on me over body and head

Took me to the world of death

He beat with sandals and sticks

With what he got beside him

At one time I was going to die

Suddenly I confessed I took the money

He stopped beating and with his burning eye

He warned me if I would do such kind of work

In the next time he would teach me more

That I’ll never forget

How can I forget the torment, my father, you rained on me?

It was not because I took the money for any serious purpose

Only to buy any toys according to my choice

But my father took it to be otherwise

And taught me a lesson to be remembered from time to time

In life.

 

 The World To Me

 

This is the world

The world to me strictly as it is

Where we are played as a ball

Dance on the legs

Kicked to the goal posts

Directly enters into

Sometimes it is caught by the goal keepers

Sometimes the kick is missing

We are all played by the players of the world

Everybody wants to supersede on others

We perform our duty as subservient wearing the mask over

Trodden on and suppression

suffocating as well as severe humiliation

By our upper ranks and positions

It’s an uneven area

Where we fall down to walk

It’s not dark but more than dark condition

I’d not like to stay here any longer

I am a ball, not to be played

I’d  like to shift  the place

and want to live

Where love and beauty play

With the objects of nature.

Continue reading

Poetry from Michael Robinson

Saturday Love Making 
Are you kissing me?
Did I say no?
I meant to say no!
What was I thinking?
Why did I believe I could make love to you?
I’m captured by the memories of my rape.
Yes, I did say it was in my childhood.
I screamed, but no one heard it but me.
No, I cannot be with you tonight.
I will hear my own cries again.
It will shatter my own eardrums,
I will be deaf again.
I will crawl in the corner and die alone with the shouts.

Saturday Night 2004

Slowly the camera follows me across the room,

Each movement that I make is watched.

If only I could have avoided those moments of insanity,

Those moments when it was the darkest in my life.

The nurses wear those white uniforms and smile,

Only if their smiles were real then I could smile back.

One Kiss  2004

She kisses his forehead and holds his cold hands,

Tears fall down his caramel colored cheek.

Poetry from Lil Snott

Springfield

Punk Rock, Fast and Pray

HAYES STREET VERSE

for Gwich’in.
_________________
minority reality
reduction based
aside mountain croiX;
burn aside, road rail..
river mural
rush.
_________

Essay from Donal Mahoney

Caseworker, 1962
 
In 1962, I was a caseworker, not a social worker, in the Cabrini-Green Housing Project in Chicago. In that era, the difference between a caseworker and a social worker was simple. A social worker had a degree or two in social work and was qualified to work with the poor. A caseworker usually had a degree but not in social work. And a caseworker usually had too many clients to have time to do social work even if he or she had a social work degree and knew how to apply it. 
 
To be hired by Cook County Department of Public Aid as a caseworker in 1962, all one had to have was a degree in anything and the ability to pass a test. I passed the test and was assigned as a novice caseworker to Cabrini-Green, perhaps the “toughest” housing project in Chicago at that time. I was assigned to two high-rise buildings with 458 families. I remember their addresses as clearly today as the address of my childhood home. Some things one always remembers.

Continue reading

Cheese from Yeast: essay from Cristina Deptula

When I was growing up, a common dairy advertising jingle on the radio went, ‘Cows in Berkeley? Moooo.’

There may not be many cows around the Oakland and Berkeley area, yet there are several people involved with creating cheese at North Oakland’s Counter Culture Labs.

According to the Water Footprint Network, a global group of researchers and professionals dedicated to analyzing the world’s water use, a pound of cheese requires 381 gallons of water to produce.

Even after the Bay Area’s rainy winter, many people recognize that our state is prone to droughts. So molecular biologist Craig Rouskey and others are developing cheeses less reliant on heavy water use.

Continue reading