992 lines
20 KiB
Plaintext
992 lines
20 KiB
Plaintext
|
|
|
|
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
|
|
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
|
|
S A N D R I V E R J O U R N A L
|
|
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
|
|
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Sand River Journal is a collection of poems gathered from the newsgroup
|
|
rec.arts.poems; it is posted monthly in ascii and \TeX\ formats to r.a.p. and
|
|
related newsgroups. Current and archive issues may be retrieved by anonymous
|
|
ftp at the site etext.archive.umich.edu in the directory /pub/Poetry. This
|
|
archive includes PostScript versions of the formatted journal, which is
|
|
publication quality and can be printed on most laser printers.
|
|
|
|
Poems appear by authors' permission and constitute copyrighted material.
|
|
Free transmission of this document (electronic or otherwise) is permitted
|
|
only in its entire and unaltered form; to inquire about individual poems
|
|
contact the authors by their email addresses. The editor takes no
|
|
responsibility for the fate of this document, nor does he claim ownership
|
|
to any of the contents herein.
|
|
|
|
Send comments and finished contributions (please reference SRJ) to
|
|
asphaug@lpl.arizona.edu. Enjoy!
|
|
Erik Asphaug, Editor
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _
|
|
|
|
|
|
Issue 8 - March 21 1994
|
|
|
|
Vernal Equinox
|
|
|
|
_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
-----
|
|
Matin
|
|
-----
|
|
|
|
Later, in the chill of morning, you lie
|
|
silent, still, as if sculpted from ivory.
|
|
I look in your eyes and I am lost, lost --
|
|
that is sufficient bribery, and enough
|
|
reward; my soul would cost you nothing more.
|
|
|
|
I will keep this memory, like a scar.
|
|
Out the window, the trembling rays of the sun
|
|
gather strength to bully the fading stars.
|
|
Over the river, the full moon dances;
|
|
it dances, spins, and sinks behind the trees.
|
|
|
|
|
|
Edward Gaillard
|
|
gaillard@panix.com
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
---------
|
|
wind-poem
|
|
---------
|
|
|
|
on leaves of silk
|
|
i wrote poem-prayers
|
|
and strung them to the wind
|
|
like butterflies
|
|
a few drifted on apricot flowers
|
|
in shangri-la ... perhaps
|
|
a few found their way home
|
|
to you
|
|
|
|
|
|
zita maria evensen
|
|
ac869@freenet.hsc.colorado.edu
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
---------------------------------------
|
|
Rilke Drunk, in a Cafe with Rodin, 1902
|
|
---------------------------------------
|
|
|
|
He sees: not the throbbing flicker of the room
|
|
nor even the particular radiance of angels,
|
|
but the sculptor's carved Mosaic face
|
|
undulating before him, dissolving in candle flame,
|
|
rippled like the black cat's muscles
|
|
he watched that afternoon
|
|
in the Jardin Des Plantes.
|
|
He can see through the artifice of shaping
|
|
to find the darkness at their hearts.
|
|
|
|
|
|
Kenneth Wolman
|
|
woldoc@woldoc.jvnc.net
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
--------------
|
|
I remember her
|
|
--------------
|
|
|
|
I remember her as a young woman in white hair
|
|
and a flashing heart like no traffic
|
|
light and lucid
|
|
going down
|
|
for the third time.
|
|
|
|
|
|
Ralph Cherubini
|
|
ralph@bga.com
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
---------------------
|
|
d is for down and out
|
|
---------------------
|
|
|
|
we sleep
|
|
a lot of children
|
|
in our facility.
|
|
|
|
we sleep
|
|
your children,
|
|
dallas.
|
|
|
|
we sleep
|
|
your unkempt
|
|
children.
|
|
|
|
say hello. say hello
|
|
to calcutta,
|
|
big d dallas.
|
|
|
|
|
|
Marek Wojciech Lugowski
|
|
lugowski@aristotle.ils.nwu.edu
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
------------
|
|
sneak attack
|
|
------------
|
|
|
|
the night was
|
|
nice, a movie and too much
|
|
to eat
|
|
we got home and
|
|
it was late enough already
|
|
and we went to bed
|
|
|
|
only you couldn't get
|
|
to sleep, there was this
|
|
funny pain
|
|
in your shoulder and it
|
|
was nothing but it was
|
|
something
|
|
|
|
so we called the doctor
|
|
early saturday morning
|
|
and he was asleep so maybe
|
|
tums would do, or an aspirin
|
|
|
|
but it didn't so we called
|
|
back and just to be on the
|
|
safe side, let's go to the
|
|
hospital and see, you know?
|
|
|
|
and it was
|
|
early saturday morning
|
|
and we were tired but we were
|
|
worried too so we went
|
|
|
|
they took you inside and
|
|
I filled out the papers
|
|
|
|
and after the xray and the ekg
|
|
they let me in and you were
|
|
pale in the paper gown but
|
|
smiling a little
|
|
and the docs and nurses said
|
|
it was something
|
|
about your heart
|
|
|
|
but they weren't sure what
|
|
so they gave you steroids
|
|
because thats what you do
|
|
when it's something
|
|
about your heart
|
|
|
|
and about three
|
|
minutes later everything
|
|
went crazy
|
|
and you were thrashing and
|
|
yelling and the doctors were
|
|
giving quick orders and the
|
|
nurses were holding you and
|
|
the monitor was beeping
|
|
and there was no room to
|
|
get close
|
|
|
|
so I stood back
|
|
and cried
|
|
|
|
well, you made your point
|
|
I love you, all right
|
|
now cut this out and
|
|
let's go home
|
|
|
|
together
|
|
|
|
|
|
Alan Schlutsmeyer
|
|
alan@sentinel.jpl.nasa.gov
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
-------
|
|
Clarity
|
|
-------
|
|
|
|
I see now
|
|
that your immobility is a knife aimed at my heart
|
|
your nonchalance a roving gun
|
|
your dispassionate stance a seeping poison.
|
|
|
|
My love you are a band of assassins
|
|
disguised as a man.
|
|
|
|
|
|
Ralph Cherubini
|
|
ralph@wixer.bga.com
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
----------
|
|
First Snow
|
|
----------
|
|
|
|
And then one day you wake to find
|
|
the world is white;
|
|
the blemishes are bleached,
|
|
the rough edges chipped away,
|
|
leaving an alabaster harmony behind.
|
|
|
|
Despite yourself your thoughts turn
|
|
to cause and effect, to creation.
|
|
Enough! It is time to leave.
|
|
You open the door and flinch:
|
|
it is cold outside.
|
|
|
|
|
|
Arif Dalvi
|
|
dalviai@ucbeh.san.uc.edu
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
----------
|
|
Reliquary
|
|
----------
|
|
|
|
Carry me in a charm
|
|
about your neck, a
|
|
strand of hair, a
|
|
tooth, a spot of dust.
|
|
|
|
Toss me in a
|
|
cerebral ocean, to
|
|
wallow a few
|
|
decades longer.
|
|
|
|
Carve me in granite,
|
|
pink and enduring,
|
|
and plant me in
|
|
a garden with
|
|
daffodils and mud.
|
|
|
|
Catch me in dye
|
|
and silver specks,
|
|
and keep me in
|
|
a frame upon the
|
|
window sill.
|
|
|
|
Scan me into one
|
|
hundred thousand sintered
|
|
dots, and store me on
|
|
magnetic film.
|
|
|
|
Do this in
|
|
remembrance of me.
|
|
|
|
|
|
Karen Tellefsen
|
|
kt1@cc.bellcore.com
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
---------------------
|
|
meaning that I should
|
|
---------------------
|
|
|
|
the only Carmen I have known
|
|
is the shadow in my desire
|
|
|
|
to hold and to be held
|
|
to behold
|
|
|
|
|
|
the life
|
|
long eyes in shroud black hair
|
|
draped skin sharded bone
|
|
obscuring
|
|
sight inscripted lines unsung
|
|
|
|
we meet: to talk
|
|
anticipate
|
|
one chapter sent
|
|
one seraphim
|
|
as night caresses candles wane
|
|
|
|
anew in moonlit tress
|
|
again I found this precious language
|
|
words and murmurs
|
|
seeking lips sweet nectar
|
|
singing praises alleluias
|
|
|
|
one note not taken recompensed
|
|
in Carmen's song of lies confessed
|
|
|
|
|
|
John Adam Kaune
|
|
jkaune@trentu.ca
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
------------------
|
|
Consequential Star
|
|
------------------
|
|
|
|
Is the gift of light any less itself
|
|
for its coming from afar?
|
|
Look around and span the sky at night
|
|
who can say a star's no consequence:
|
|
oh star, where did you come from,
|
|
and star, only you, as star, can tell
|
|
of original creation and why we are
|
|
entrained within this universal amber night...
|
|
And what came before, and what's outside?
|
|
Only a star might know (if any know at all)
|
|
and for that, and for its gift of light
|
|
(no less a gift for its have come from far!)
|
|
|
|
|
|
R. Bloom
|
|
rbloom@netcom.com
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
-----------------
|
|
Isabelle Brasseur
|
|
-----------------
|
|
|
|
the white shadow of her father
|
|
dances in this requiem
|
|
she drops from the throw
|
|
on a sharp edge scribing
|
|
an arc that eases her deep recoil
|
|
|
|
l'ombre blanc de son p\`ere
|
|
danse dans ce requiem
|
|
elle tombe du lancement
|
|
sur une vive ar\`ete tout en gravant
|
|
un arc qui att\'enue sa d\'etente profonde
|
|
|
|
|
|
E. Russell Smith
|
|
ab297@freenet.carleton.ca
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
----------------------
|
|
Washington Square Park
|
|
----------------------
|
|
|
|
And so here we are
|
|
sitting on a park bench,
|
|
watching a soot covered squirrel
|
|
climb a dead tree.
|
|
|
|
You're acting paranoid
|
|
about being downtown
|
|
and I'm kicking myself
|
|
for bringing you here.
|
|
|
|
I keep making the same mistake
|
|
over and over again,
|
|
as if programmed
|
|
into some compulsive loop.
|
|
|
|
The odds are against us, Maria.
|
|
You've come with too much baggage, anyway.
|
|
Your kid's afraid of carrousels
|
|
and your husband's got a gun.
|
|
|
|
|
|
Virgil Hervey
|
|
virgo@panix.com
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
-----------
|
|
Birth-Pains
|
|
-----------
|
|
(to D.J.E.)
|
|
|
|
Don't you know that you are
|
|
as a child to me?
|
|
When I scold you with
|
|
the sharpness of labor pains,
|
|
my hard-edged caresses
|
|
folding over your fears upon these sheets,
|
|
canceling daylight with the
|
|
thought of dark warmth--
|
|
I am pleading inside:
|
|
I am the first-time mother
|
|
who tries too hard to flood your life,
|
|
to draw you into my skin each night
|
|
and flush you out anew each dawn.
|
|
Soft, you are soft,
|
|
floating away from me through time.
|
|
I ought to be the Amazon queen who
|
|
eats her young; then I could
|
|
keep you inside me,
|
|
rolling you 'round the back of my mouth
|
|
slowly, like a thought.
|
|
I burn red-hot to see you
|
|
draw close to another,
|
|
one who will not lose you in her darkness.
|
|
But I know darkness created the light
|
|
before you and I gave birth to one another,
|
|
and darkness will again swallow us.
|
|
Although your after-birth rots in my memory still,
|
|
I will carry you in dreams--
|
|
through wars and adolescence,
|
|
and your marriage to another.
|
|
I was born to bear this sorrow,
|
|
and I will continue to pain every year;
|
|
as long as it takes your place,
|
|
as long as this mother of a dead son still loves inside.
|
|
|
|
|
|
Sylvia Chong
|
|
schong1@cc.swarthmore.edu
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
-
|
|
4
|
|
-
|
|
|
|
Four four for? just for
|
|
the beat is the beat is the beat is a beast
|
|
the beat is a beast that wants to breed
|
|
it lives in your body and moves your feet
|
|
four four for? just for
|
|
the nature of rhythm is to mate
|
|
to fraternise and integrate
|
|
a lustful eye on the neighbours' cousins
|
|
four four for? just for
|
|
the rhumba shall lie with the acid jazz
|
|
and the zouk with techno, merengue
|
|
and the children shall be brown and lovely
|
|
four four for? just for
|
|
purity pedigree forro martillo
|
|
reggae takada and irish reels
|
|
the blues had a baby by everyman's culture
|
|
four four for? just for
|
|
the avant-garde is a planned mutation
|
|
saving the gene pool from stagnation
|
|
we love and hate the stranger babies
|
|
four four for? just for
|
|
batucada ceilidh rave
|
|
to lock your body into time
|
|
your heart your brain and genitals
|
|
four four for? just for
|
|
becoming, creating a generation
|
|
the children shall be brown and lovely
|
|
rich and healthy, randy, fertile
|
|
four four for? just for
|
|
the children shall be brown and lovely
|
|
rich and healthy, randy, fertile
|
|
dump you for a younger model
|
|
four four for? just for
|
|
the beat will dump your generation
|
|
take up with your sons and daughters
|
|
blind them to your waving finger
|
|
four four for? just for
|
|
the beat is a beast that wants to breed
|
|
infecting with the gift of lust
|
|
it reinvents the wheel of life
|
|
four four for? just for
|
|
|
|
|
|
Michael J Norris
|
|
michaeln@cs.uq.oz.au
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
-------
|
|
Rafting
|
|
-------
|
|
|
|
(When I thought I lived alone, in air)
|
|
I saw, mostly reflections. I learned,
|
|
I learned at length
|
|
To slow that frequency of shimmering
|
|
and speed it up again at will.
|
|
|
|
Useful, that. Submerged now,
|
|
I see Sirens high, and
|
|
M! M's still spinning
|
|
Priceless threads, pale honey to
|
|
Catch the glances, hair, smiles
|
|
|
|
I too will use. Because
|
|
On "low" at last, humming,
|
|
I float upwards, lost to gravity,
|
|
Limbs dancing in light before
|
|
The Buddha.
|
|
|
|
|
|
Marie D. Schneider
|
|
mds@utdallas.edu
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
---------------------------------------------
|
|
do you know the taste of a tangerine sunrise?
|
|
---------------------------------------------
|
|
|
|
do you know the taste
|
|
of a tangerine sunrise over cairo
|
|
or pepper-hot rice served on a ti leaf
|
|
on the brown river markets of bangkok
|
|
|
|
how would you know
|
|
five-spice days and saffron nights
|
|
a hunger for the taste of bitter melons
|
|
a passion for bird's nest and shark fins
|
|
and chocolate hugs and kisses
|
|
|
|
do you know the taste of viking fires
|
|
taunting the midnight sun
|
|
or the alpha rush of running barefoot
|
|
at the edge of kilauea
|
|
|
|
i am a splash of gauguin colors
|
|
on rain-washed mornings
|
|
i am a starry night van gogh
|
|
woven with notes of the blues
|
|
|
|
|
|
zita maria evensen
|
|
ac869@freenet.hsc.colorado.edu
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
--------
|
|
machtlos
|
|
--------
|
|
|
|
at The Only, night: Friday.
|
|
pinball hammer stone
|
|
blond spike hair smoke
|
|
candle-lit ashtray
|
|
|
|
she whispers to a friend
|
|
"i don't care - fuckit,
|
|
i'm living now - ."
|
|
|
|
the one be/inside her
|
|
caught in frills & chains
|
|
speaking of long-worn leather
|
|
copper & brass - ornamental (h)air
|
|
|
|
frostingravedglass
|
|
illuminated tree below
|
|
|
|
font of Avonlea, a doe's eyes -
|
|
with a lips' quiver
|
|
I know she is young
|
|
|
|
|
|
john adam kaune
|
|
jkaune@trentu.ca
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
----------------------------------------
|
|
olive sweater olive garden i hate olives
|
|
----------------------------------------
|
|
|
|
oh scurvy flusterer. oh if this is how it is supposed to be
|
|
then i don't want it. understand?
|
|
|
|
understood. would biting my lip not saying a word...
|
|
could. we try. again?
|
|
|
|
i am i am i am your disconcertina. heave a sigh oh
|
|
won't you sta-aye. heave a sigh. hang the wisp of a
|
|
curtin across your eyes. the top of your head feels
|
|
so very
|
|
|
|
hot. why did my ogling reduce you to white spots.
|
|
|
|
i promise to reform and act like a mature adult that i am
|
|
not. but. you will have to help me. please start wearing
|
|
a black chadora to cover that stupid grin of yours that stu
|
|
pid grin. i find myself toxically fond of you without you
|
|
|
|
within.
|
|
|
|
|
|
Marek Lugowski
|
|
marek@casbah.acns.nwu.edu
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
-----------
|
|
Celebration
|
|
-----------
|
|
|
|
They are brown
|
|
like two coffee beans.
|
|
I don't know why
|
|
this surprises me, except
|
|
mine are pink.
|
|
I guess I just
|
|
never thought about it.
|
|
Your other things are also
|
|
different shades of brown.
|
|
Mine are pink,
|
|
more or less.
|
|
|
|
You are called "yellow".
|
|
I have trouble
|
|
grasping this.
|
|
You even tell me so,
|
|
"I ama yerrow."
|
|
and poking your finger
|
|
into my chest,
|
|
"You are a gwei-lo."
|
|
(white ghost)
|
|
I lay my arm next to yours
|
|
on the sun streaked pillow.
|
|
Sure enough,
|
|
I am a ghost.
|
|
|
|
But for gender,
|
|
I thought we were the same.
|
|
We spend the afternoon
|
|
celebrating the differences.
|
|
|
|
Virgil Hervey
|
|
virgo@panix.com
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
----
|
|
girl
|
|
----
|
|
|
|
all I got
|
|
was a first impression,
|
|
my vision stained
|
|
|
|
the sharp and bitter details
|
|
slowly eroded in time
|
|
until now
|
|
a softly curved image
|
|
remains
|
|
carved into my mind.
|
|
|
|
|
|
Luus
|
|
lucienk@wfw.wtb.tue.nl
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
------------
|
|
Reggae Melee
|
|
------------
|
|
|
|
Eight of limbs atwine
|
|
our sinews mon
|
|
a coca bowl
|
|
of rasta fazool.
|
|
|
|
Come didja know
|
|
salvation mutters how
|
|
tools for tyrants
|
|
don't arch their backs
|
|
|
|
To blink. The high
|
|
sun bounces, pick
|
|
up your things and
|
|
hide the bones.
|
|
|
|
Ee I so dread
|
|
the {\it oso} dusk of my
|
|
head, aye so soon
|
|
after a wailin noon.
|
|
|
|
|
|
Seth Graham
|
|
sethg@utxvms.cc.utexas.edu
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
------
|
|
sheets
|
|
------
|
|
|
|
i'm a sheet lost to the wind
|
|
as grandma would say
|
|
when i didn't know what that meant
|
|
blowing insideoutside around the yard
|
|
loose from my line
|
|
|
|
crumpled against the garage
|
|
my lord how the boy carries-on
|
|
and look at him now, all tuckered-out
|
|
up against the garage now,
|
|
but like a sheet to the wind before
|
|
how he carried-on
|
|
you could say he done run out of air
|
|
|
|
keep that liquor from him, grandma would say
|
|
if she were still around, that is
|
|
she's off her line, in her own way
|
|
lost to the wind, or the ground, you could say
|
|
and me, i'm just enjoying the breeze
|
|
|
|
|
|
Chris Losinger
|
|
cdl0915@ritvax.isc.rit.edu
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
----
|
|
seen
|
|
----
|
|
|
|
the confines of security.
|
|
I saw essences.
|
|
wave wanderers in airs above us.
|
|
lamb shied from sun spun glade.
|
|
He is Essene, Escher squared.
|
|
dust-found books in shelves
|
|
have bound me.
|
|
Inside
|
|
avocado greenglass eye.
|
|
tell us,
|
|
cope alone above in star -
|
|
ob serve.
|
|
|
|
|
|
John Adam Kaune
|
|
jkaune@trentu.ca
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
-----
|
|
hawks
|
|
-----
|
|
|
|
spongy beach
|
|
|
|
climbing down roots
|
|
from steep hill above
|
|
|
|
forbidden lake
|
|
muddy prints on chilled water
|
|
merciless miracle ice
|
|
island beckoning
|
|
|
|
hawks circle and swoon
|
|
|
|
too risky, he said
|
|
|
|
island beckons
|
|
uttermost coolness
|
|
|
|
he isn't here
|
|
not now:
|
|
island beckons
|
|
hawks circle and swoon
|
|
cool zephyrs
|
|
|
|
eyes above
|
|
eyes below
|
|
ice between
|
|
|
|
no eyes to see
|
|
noone to know
|
|
cirrus dreams
|
|
|
|
abandoned beach
|
|
alone with hawks
|
|
|
|
|
|
Barbara Taylor
|
|
bit00@cas.org
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
----------------
|
|
Loving His Loves
|
|
----------------
|
|
|
|
Life is a house of cards. (I thought.) Blow,
|
|
Holy wind,
|
|
On Sappho's oaks -- so his loves
|
|
Imbricated me, all leafy smiles and glances.
|
|
|
|
Don't breathe! His
|
|
Gravity inverting
|
|
(Eddington)
|
|
Made light of my insight.
|
|
|
|
Refractions then. Beaming
|
|
Through water, a filigree,
|
|
Gold threads through me shivered,
|
|
Weaving on the sandy bottom.
|
|
White holes in Vermeer, Bonnard's unpainted patches,
|
|
Left "Spaces in your togetherness"...
|
|
|
|
|
|
Marie D. Schneider
|
|
mds@utdallas.edu
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
-------------
|
|
You will know
|
|
-------------
|
|
|
|
You will know
|
|
if it grows and grows
|
|
if each shoot from the one
|
|
calls forth a shoot from the other
|
|
you will feel it
|
|
a growing together
|
|
a walking next to one another
|
|
down a beach of infinite duration
|
|
on a journey which seems of utmost importance
|
|
though you sense it to have no end and no destination
|
|
yet will it seem of crucial significance
|
|
|
|
you will know
|
|
|
|
and at some point on the journey
|
|
mid-step
|
|
you will turn your head slightly to the left
|
|
and you will see the companion
|
|
whom you have grown to love as your very self
|
|
you will look
|
|
and you will know.
|
|
|
|
|
|
Ralph Cherubini
|
|
ralph@bga.com
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
-----
|
|
Dream
|
|
-----
|
|
|
|
Dried grass and three leaves adorn the lawn.
|
|
Ruined temples to Gods long lost
|
|
are strategically placed throughout the town.
|
|
Ammo sings in the streets.
|
|
|
|
Exiles are still an improvement.
|
|
The burnings at twelve o'clock low have stopped.
|
|
Under the sand, the grass, the growth so green
|
|
it dazzles you.
|
|
|
|
And you are alone... you've traveled here before.
|
|
You know the path, well-worn, the road
|
|
that goes to nowhere that you know of...
|
|
the dream so strong the guilt now dim.
|
|
|
|
Perhaps you'll return, in terms of commitments.
|
|
Windy days seem lost without the magic of your words.
|
|
The sounds pile up upon the scrapheap,
|
|
I still try to touch the sky...
|
|
|
|
My failing in your twilight your best hour your demise...
|
|
my memories clash and run the steps that I would take for you...
|
|
the only things I want to say.
|
|
My words to tell you what it's like out there...
|
|
|
|
Awaken at dawn for the light to come.
|
|
You've known for a thousand years just what will pass...
|
|
Compromise the truth scratch at the wall...
|
|
Only pray that you can dream of home.
|
|
|
|
|
|
Jack Godsey
|
|
kane@online.oau.org
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
----------------------
|
|
the air is the essence
|
|
----------------------
|
|
|
|
you want me to give you metaphores,
|
|
parallels outlining you
|
|
|
|
so i tell you that you touch me
|
|
like the glass filled mistral
|
|
from deserted plains
|
|
|
|
like that hurtful breath of life
|
|
that blinds, like
|
|
the essence of you in the air
|
|
is how much air you are to me
|
|
|
|
like the air is the essence
|
|
|
|
|
|
Luus
|
|
lucienk@wfw.wtb.tue.nl
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
-------
|
|
Reverie
|
|
-------
|
|
|
|
Seasons roll along with their
|
|
undying repetition:
|
|
|
|
Four years later,
|
|
still I haven't changed.
|
|
|
|
Erik Asphaug
|
|
asphaug@cosmic.arc.nasa.gov
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
-----------
|
|
deliverance
|
|
-----------
|
|
|
|
ambrosia milk-filled sky I see
|
|
half-moon glare atop the treeline
|
|
severance of moon and sky
|
|
|
|
|
|
what night is this
|
|
that brings the shadow of stars
|
|
to eyes of awe and contemplation?
|
|
|
|
|
|
the leaves know not of change -
|
|
for Autumn only
|
|
does death infuse imagination
|
|
leaving wind in colours, invitations
|
|
to the chrysalid Winter
|
|
|
|
circle
|
|
Spring
|
|
|
|
What transformation sees my eyes in passing?
|
|
|
|
|
|
john adam kaune
|
|
jkaune@trentu.ca
|
|
|
|
|