Saturday
Aug032013

Poetry by Katharine Wheaton, Casey Dorman, Raul Loera and Craig Sibley

Two Poems by Katharine Wheaton

 

Blackberry Snow

 

And then I walked down the short road near the cabin

Picking as I went a few warm, early blackberries.

At the end of this road a slim path heads across the stream,

And up into the green and ferny world beyond.

I didn’t cross the stream and go into the woods

But rather sat on a small log and watched the clear flow before me,

Which made just a bit of music as it went.

Here and there the water was sprinkled with white “snowflakes”

From the blackberry flowers above.

In the cool dark of the trees the frosty petals were dropping away

From berries closed tight and green yet.

“We’re not ready,” the thorny vines whispered fiercely.

“Come back next month.”

 

Voyage North: Pt. Reyes

 

(Pt. Reyes in California is mostly separated from the mainland by the San Andreas Fault. It is slowly moving up the coast, like some huge rock vessel.)

 

The ship of kings drifts quietly northward,

Slipping along the face of a mainland

Which has lost all direction and is mired in its uncertain future

And in the tragedies of its inhabitants who did not pay attention.

Except for the fact that one very important passenger is not on board,

I have everyone I need here with me.

I am wishing we could stay on these decks of smooth, wave-washed sand,

The quick bells of sunlight glittering off teal cold ocean,

And Chimney Rock, dreaming beyond.

I am listening to the exhalation of wind in the imprecise drifts of foggy sails.

Seagulls cry in the rigging.

We are flanked on one side by guardian flights of pelicans,

Stringing out in undulations along the waves.

Some move on ahead of us, others come up from behind,

Our heavy-beaked escorts.

The seals, who have pushed dark round heads out of the water,

Curious to watch our passage, say, “Wait! We’ll come too.

We’ll come with you. Behind is only destruction and loss.”

The ship moves so slowly no one else notices we are leaving.

 

Two Poems by Casey Dorman

 

Cohort

 

There are fewer of us now.

And soon we’ll all be gone,

Replaced by offspring who, themselves no longer young,

Spawned children who have little time for relics

Of an age they never new first hand.

 

What made our news is history now,

Taught in school in wordy texts

And grainy pictures, capturing images once alive

Of presidents, revolutionaries, thugs and heroes,

Footnotes now in time, which has moved on.

 

Things change; the new becomes the old

Until our species or indeed, our planet’s

Gone without a trace and no one’s left to find what was

A foolish, proud, courageous race, which

Disappeared as everything that once lived does.

 

Don’t Ask

 

The first mistake is to ask the question, the second is to try to answer it.

                                                            Ludwig Wittgenstein

 

Where did it go? It’s still alive inside my head, those voices from the past, those images of Ike and JFK, poor Bobby too, and Martin, Elvis, John and George, Marilyn and Natalie, Liz and Richard, Gidget on the beach and Mickey at the plate, my dad, my mom. What does it mean that I was there? That I was where? It was a time and not a place. And what about today? It passes just as quickly and the age that never knew the things I cherished soon will find its present has become the past. And so it goes. Within a hundred years no one who knew me will exist. Where will I have gone? And what about the thoughts inside my head, the memories of things that mattered once and then will matter not to anyone? This is the enigma of life, the question without an answer. It is a fact and not a puzzle to be solved.

 

Raul Loera         

 

Faded Past

 

The past now seems so far away

The simple times although at the time didn't seem so

Now I sit here; the past a distant memory, so far away

 

It was so easy wasn't it?

It was in your grasp

You moved around free of distress, free of this mess

But here you are

The past was so easy but now it's so far

 

It gets further away every day

Sinking into what used to be

Sinking slowly into nothingness

Fading

 

Two Poems by Craig Sibley

 

The Avant Garde, Leotard Bard

(a confutation to the proposition that William Shakespeare was only a pen name for Mary Sidney) 

 

If wily winsome Willy, were in reality a woman... what a womanly woman was he!   

But what if dear Willy, ‘twas man, NOT a filly… who wore only what women might wear?

One need not long wonder, with his manhood asunder, how the Bard might be mistaken as “she”.

If Willy wandered wistfully, walking sashay perpendicularly, whilst whiling away every day...

Attired fair and frilly, be sure Willy was a dilly... a sequined writer and wordsmith he’d be!

Please don’t think it silly, would Willy be silly really... if he dressed in transvestite’s array?

 

 

 

A Boy Named James

The real tragedy of James Dean’s life

 

Every man is doomed, and destined once to die...

yet imagine dying twice, before your time draws nigh.

Little James died first, when he was a lad of just nine.

Then died once more, when his car crossed that line.

He suffered great pain, when his dear mother perished.

Her love and affection, was all that he cherished.

James’ father then killed him, when he sent him away.

No love left for James Dean, so he lived dead everyday.

Some called him a rebel, with deep bouts of sorrow.

Being a rebel comes easy, when you have no tomorrow.

A sad broken life, and a fast broken death.

He was already dead, when he took his last breath.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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