TABLE OF CONTENTS - POETRY

Ghetto Heaven - SaschaValdez
Glupiec - Jakum Nowak
Golden Ratio/Golden Significance - J. David Mason, M.Eng.
Pädagogik lernen - Merlin Carl
Poem in Greek - Chris Ksioufis
In Memoriam 1995 - Karin Henderson
Personal Significance - Matthew Rees
Summer Lightning - Kevin Skehan
My Dear Good Man - Paul Nachbar
Time for a Friend - Robin Hammer
Lost Alumnae - Kay Lindgren
Windstorm - Kevin Skehan
The Poet's Game - Paul Nachbar
Amanecer - Jorge González López
The Pretty Good: For Andy Z (mainly) - Paul Nachbar
Ahhh - Paul Nachbar
La Rue Voltaire - Paul Nachbar
Amid Paradise/Prisons - Paul Nachbar
American Poet - Paul Nachbar
Situation - Paul Nachbar
How Do You Feel - Robin Hammer
Fibonacci Series  Mark Norman
My Hometowm/Looking Back - Paul Nachbar
The Old Poet - Ed Glomski
You, In My Dream - Ed Glomski
Valerie in Shades of Lavender - Ed Glomski
Stillness - Daniele Pinna

Ghetto Heaven - Sascha Valdez

You know I need my baby
And my baby needs me
Don't take it so heavy
I need a little company
It's 10:07
It's time to make a little Ghetto Heaven
Lisa loves brandy
Especially peach
She keeps it by the radio and listens to the Reverend preach
It's a quarter past eleven
It's time to get some Ghetto Heaven
Ghetto Heaven- baby all I need in this world is you.
And when I fall, baby you always get me through.
Sister needs a good job to get her through the day.
She doesnt have money but always has a way to pay.
It's 3:07
It's time to sell some Ghetto Heaven
Baby girl a new life to switch
Laying all cold..alone in a ditch.
It's time to see some Ghetto Heaven.

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Gdzie biegniesz? Otaczam Cie kregiem niewidzialnosci...
Gdzie jestes? Widze Cie w poswiacie ciemnosci...
Kiedy wyjdziesz ze swych mrocznych przeszlosci?
Pragne Cie dotknac, zbadac w swej schizofrenicznej zlosci...

Ped, ped w zapomnienie...
Tlams, tlams w sobie to pragnienie...
Wyjdz ze swej chitynowej obojetnosci
A wówczas pozbedziesz sie codziennych mdlosci

Smiej sie z siebie, wyszydzaj swe bledy
Nie popadaj jak zawsze w hermetyczne kregi...
Polej, polej sobie przyjacielu
Wypij, wpypij za skuwieli wielu
Trzymaj sie mocno w swojej zaleznosci
Znajdz choc odrobine w sobie milosci

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Know that Pythagoras
Was much ahead of us
Perceiving Golden Ratio so real
In nature and the ideal
From Keplar to Copernicus

Philosophers spent their lives pathetic
Pursuing the enigmatic
To view a proportion as beautiful
Whether form being architectural
Or concepts esthetic

While Pisa's tower was leaning
Fibonacci gave meaning
Numerals Arabic derived
Sequence natural not contrived
Reciprocal to phi was seeming

Lisa's proportion divine
Had Da Vinci in mind
Fibonacci used a rabbit
Which really had a habit
To see sequence in time

Setting up the idea
From there to Galilia
That planets and tunes harmonic
Keplar's spacing sonic
And octaves ever familia

Einstein’s energy is geometric
And gravity non-symmetric
That brings us to the present
With stock markets effervescent
And Fibonacci numbers stoichimetric

Those astute might see
Some meaning in my symmetry
ABABA rhyming does refer
Because both are similar
And verging on irrationality.

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Ist´s auch noch so früh am Morgen
meist hat man noch and´re Sorgen
und er Lehrer kommt zu spät.
Kriegt sich so die Lehrerrolle
mit sich selber in die Wolle
nennt man´s Ambiguität.

Toleranz soll man ihr geben
lehrt er - das braucht man zum Leben
und wer will schon kleinlich sein?
Kann man doch - ohne zu bangen
gleiches auch von ihm verlangen
-also trifft man nach ihm ein.

Künden sollen diese Strophen
auch von vielen Philosophen
die wir heftig diskutiert.
Trockene Deterministen
wie Existenzialisten
wurden hier durchexerziert.
Leise ist es nie gewesen

denn wenn wir nichts tun als lesen
kommt leicht Langweile auf;
die wir wirklich garnicht schätzen
darum flogen hier die Fetzen
leidenschaftlich streiten wir.
Watson gegen Schopenhauer
Frankl liegt schon auf der Lauer
Stoff zum Reden hat man hier.

Steht ein Schüler breit im Raume
wie in einem bösen Traume
greift er Lehrers Schlüsselbund.
Läßt dann seine Augen schweifen
gleich wird er sich jemand greifen,
sieht kurz auf ein Weiblein - und -

hört kein Flehen, keine Bitte
reißt es roh aus uns´rer Mitte,
daß uns fast das Blut gefriert.
Pfeift und schmeißt die schweren Dinger
auf die zarten, schwachen Finger
schon ist sie konditioniert.

Was wir hier so alles trieben
und dabei im Lehrplan blieben
macht uns so schnell keiner nach.
Schwerpunktthemen selber wählen
streiten oder and´re quälen
Päda ist ein schönes Fach.

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In Memoriam 1995 - Karin Henderson

My husband's Dad took pleasure in black jokes.
He would have liked his burial - it was weird.
His ashes turned up in a plastic flask,
placed on the organ which he liked to play
before reduced to waiting while a hole
was dug for him, and for a lovely rose,
"Warm Welcome", orange-red and glowing, bought
at B&Q that afternoon - to pay
a tribute from his children to their Dad.

His widow shunned the ashes, feeling bad
for him: so near the keys, yet come to this.
The postage stamps sat right next to the urn,
but when I dared ask for a stamp, she said
she hadn't any. Business too must wait.
Because the widow could not face it all,
they left it till she started cooking lunch.
One red-haired freckled grandson got the job
of smuggling half the ashes down the stairs
in an old yoghurt pot, to feed the rose.
They'd brought their Dad upstairs to portion out
his goodness - the herbaceous border, too,
would have some ash. His elder son received
the ashes through the window from the boy.

We daughters-in-law waited in the lounge,
not wanting to intrude, but looking out
to see more ashes scattered lovingly
over perennials by his daughter's hand.
"So now it's done," we said, our voices low,
then froze to hear a hearty laughter ring:
"Oh no, no! That's just bonemeal, that stuff there!
We felt the rose would need some extra in,
and what was left we asked her to throw down
there on the border. I came in for him,
the rest of him, just now. Mind, maybe she
thought that was Dad. She'll feel a fool, I guess!"

With that, my husband left us. We were stunned,
and swore that we would have a proper grave.
The story of his ashes would have made
the dead man's list of favourites, the ghoul.
His widow told us later that it bloomed
so well that year, the garden - he'd be proud.

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A silent scream of common human will
that one, in loneliness would not believe
is such a torment that we all do feel
our own withdrawn existance we all grieve.
For my part, here I will to you confess
my verse, among my friends, sparks no complaint.
But when I'm left with but myself to guess,
'gainst Shakespeare and Petrarch, my words fade
faint.
You workers and you gears of law and state,
though if you stay within your local frame
you seem to be the masters of your fate,
in worldly view portray no right to fame.
Yet know: though legends past impressive be,
the future's legends past be you and me.

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Light without heat
Silent, holy, calm, bright,
Strobe-lights on the far horizon
Starbursts tossed above the sodden earth.

The firmament erupts in sudden blazes
But no sound marks the the battle
of invisible celestial giants--
Even a whisper jars the ear.

Somewhere a heavenly war is raging
Somewhere the air is rent with rumbling,
Powers of darkness trumpet themselves forth
And the night is caught in a web of splendid absolutes.

Morning finds the spell unwound
Sunlight creeps up on cow-shapes in fog.
A field, dew-spattered, dove-flecked,
Rolls away toward a hazy infinity.

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I did not understand
The issues here
They were complex
Too difficult for me
I did discuss
And thought
And voted upon that
And maybe
Other things.

I did not understand
The glowing praise
The tears of joy
The smiles of pride
Congratulory winks
What did I do
That was so excellent?
I am not sure.
Could you explain.

My good man here
The proposition really was:
Is everyone like everybody else.
You voted "yes".

I did not understand
The ins and outs
Of such a proposition
I felt quite grim
What did I do?
How did I merit
The nasty remarks
The broken friendships
The minor punishments
And harsh critiques
That now
Are everywhere?

My dear good man
The proposition was:
Is anyone like anybody else?
You voted "no"

Aha!
He said.

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the seconds click
you're healthy or sick
you didn't know how
it would be now
but you're somewhat safe and sound

believe you me
I couldn't foresee
the time I dread
when I wake up dead
yet for now I'm still around

be you well
or be it hell
time well spent
rejoice or repent
is it better to be than not?

looking past
the times were fast
when they were good
or had the mood
yet for time I always fought

make time slow
or make it go
it's your friend
until the end
or is it even then?

enjoy the bad
as if all you had
is what is here
in love or fear
this time won't be again

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I am one of those
severed members of the class -
rhinestone come unglued
from a dimestore brooch
once discarded, now a prize
collectible,
fifties vintage.

It's time to put it back
together, time to fill
every silver-painted socket
with an unblinking pastel eye
that does not repeat the color
to its right or left. It's time
to unblind the gap between
the pink and amber, time
to find the chipped blue,
lavender and pale green
faux brillants. It's time
to put each in its proper place.

Yet, no one knows where to look
or which stone filled which hole

in the beginning.

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a river of arctic air
winds a serpentine path
across the fallow earth

lifting all manner
of debris
moving things as if by chilling magic

leaves and litter
caught in its coils
dance madly to the hushed music
twisting themselves into arabesques
like marionettes held aloft
by unseen hands
above the slate cloud-cover

blood quickens in its embrace
as if there were a string or two
tied to our very bones
locking us into the selfsame spell

skin smarts
under raw fingers of frigid wind
yet there is nowhere else
to be
now

a few drops
then a steady fall
and a rush for shelter

standing under a handy grove of pines
to wait out the worst

the hairy neanderthal in his day
likely passed such an afternoon
worshipping nature

finally the skies open out full
and the spout pours down
cascading
welling up
on cigarette-strewn sidewalks
drowning
all
sense
of
time.

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The sun is just the sun
The moon is just the moon
The day is just the day
The night just night
The stars just stars
The world is just the world
And we ourselves
Are just ourselves
No more
No less.

Things change of course
And do not change
Here I include myself
On this list...and
(Thank you for your silent vote)
I include you too:
Things always different
Things always the same
"Oh great!"
"So what?"
"Dunno.."

By some fluke here
In the course
Or perhaps the scheme of things
I did not enter the professions
But played the poet's game
Don't ask me why...

The moon is and is not the moon
The sun is and is not the sun
The stars are and are not themselves
And we are and are not ourselves
Dont' ask me why.
Dont' ask me why I play the poet's game.
Oh, you did ask?
Hmm.
I guess I sort of like it?

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Translation – Amanecer

Dawn - Jorge González López

The tram falls from the branch,
on a rocking chair
that counts stars
in the misty fragance
of narrow streets
falling from the tram.

Fruits with a grey elf
escape from the platform,
perforating the bedrooms´ ear.

Fleeting, the place-name rises,
arrogant, severe,
round in the rhyme of spheres.

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The Pretty Good: For Andy Z (mainly) - Paul Nachbar

Oh yes well
Things are pretty good
Nothing is too out of place
Everything is
Mostly
As it should
Be.

There was no
Reason for such and such
An excessive
Whatever
He or you or I
Was being dumb
Too crazy or too sane
Or inordinately clever.

Everything here
Is basically just fine
What's yours is yours
What's mine is mine
Why bother here to think
Or spill
More unnecessary ink?

Yes things are
Well pretty good
No reason here to dwell
On anything
(who doesn't alas?)
Let's take some Answer
And march
RIght out of Hell.

I know that I
Or you or he or she
DId wrong
Whatever doesn't
Quite kill me
Will surely
Make me strong..

Oh yes perhaps
THe world is
Hopeless
But myself?
I'll change
Of course
Though why should I
Change here
More than anybody else?

Or perhaps I here
Am hopeless
But the world
Is out there
Lovely world...
Out there somewhere
And will surely
Offer
Better things.

Alas I say
cannot help
But stir the pot
Me being me
And when one
Stirs the pot
One is
Responsible.

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Best in these times, keep it small.

Ahh
I say
A heart and mind
As big as the whole damn world

Best in these times, keep it small
Keep it neatly in the boundaries
Or when they get to it, my friend
There'll be nothing left at all

Ahhhh!

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Yes I will meet you over there
In thirty minutes
I mean of course La Rue Voltaire.

Yes we shall meet
And with enthusiasm greet
At four o'clock upon La Rue Voltaire.

There is a little place you know
Where only the most chosen go
A little place upon La Rue Voltaire.

And we shall endlessly discuss
The ins and outs of all this fuss
Don't worry--no one now goes there.

And we shall dialogue or think
Or just resolve with one vast drink
Oh sweet cafe upon the Rue Voltaire.

And we shall know just what to do
About the many and the few
Be careful: there is someone there!

Oh you and I shall find release
That place is foreign to the police
Sweet dive upon the Rue Voltaire.

Who cares,my friend, if things make sense
If one was too intelligent or dense
All things are solved upon La Rue Voltaire.

And I shall raise a toast to you
In words just suitable to few
Sweet haven on La Rue Voltaire.

Then we shall relish endless feasts
And gab of angels and the beasts
Bleak heaven on La Rue Voltaire.

Nobody is totally alone
Although their hearts most turned to stone
Sweet hell upon La Rue Voltaire.

And then to each we doff our hat
And wipe our shoes upon the mat
And say good-bye to Rue Voltaire.

Back to the dingly dusty grinds
In which we nearly lost our minds
With memories of Rue Voltaire.

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Amid paradise/prisons
Concocted by social scientists
Who hide behind the scenes
I feel utterly insane

Amid paradise/prisons
I sort of assented to
Without absolute awareness
I exist without a brain.

Amid paradise/prisons
Ah you feel like such a clown
Sometimes they lift you up..a bit
But mostly drag you down.

Amid paradise/prisons
Run by twisted rulebooks
And regulated by these experts
I am alas in endless pain.

Amid paradise/prisons
Constructed out of nothing
For the sake of Mental Health
I feel totally insane.

Amid pardise/prisons
I am utterly nowhere
And totally at fault
It all goes against my grain.

Amid paradise/prisons
It is all done by committee
It is all done by the Law
And one really can't complain.

Amid paradise/prisons
Nature turns to riot
Self turns into nothingness
And living is just vain.

Amid paradise/prisons
Well outside there is no shelter
And inside there is compromise
I feel in such endless pain.

Paul

P.S. Not a good poem in any technical sense but accurate in some ways I guess about the Institutions run according to Middle Classe Values and Compromises and Constitutions and Amendments and Documentation and Argumetn and Debates and Hierarchies and Structures and all that Stuff that we all LIve By and And Mostly Cannot Help Ourselves.

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My muses all corrupt and practical
My mentors all corrupt and logical
I wanted to be pure and innocent
No wonder I too tell a bit of bull
Wiser here to be most reasonable
Though passion says that is not possible
And ethics say it is not feasible
Though darkness here is often seasonable
The Truth, we know, is mostly flexible
What's Real is often very bendable
And purists mostly not befriendable
Alas it sometimes feels impossible
I'd want to soar to heights unreachable
But is that worth all that is miserable?

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The sad, human cry of
"Get me out of here!"
The sad, human awareness
There is nowhere much to go.

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Will man eventually treat everything as goods?
will someday society let us barter our moods?
you can borrow my optimism for so much a day,
or sell me your sadness, I'll take it away.

cheap smiles from those who like to frown,
some extra energies for a night on the town.
need extra tears when you don't feel like crying?
a little more compassion for a friend that's dying?

hey officer, that man, he stole my heart-
ransacked my feelings and tore them apart.
I was counting on my love to pay the rent,
you see my gumption's gone, my wit is spent.

how will I live, I would normally fear,
but that's leased out for more than a year.
mom's already slipped me her initiative twice,
until next September, dad won't be nice.

who do I know that I can deceive?
an easy mark wearing his heart on his sleeve?
I'm so confused, I can't tell what's real
hey buddy, how do you feel?

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Fibonacci Series – Mark Norman

Phi

you
see

the
sacred

geome-
try of

musical sci-
ence, of whispered

chants of pyramids
amongst the burning sands of time

The golden answer “Man” hidden among
the rhyme, the lesson taught before time began

Each verse nearer the “golden mean” when the goal of
understanding closes the gap, creator and soul, we travelers of infinity

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Looking back on things there I can see my pessimism
Everything was fine there, yes the problem was just me
Everyone was happy and the rest was just my nonsense
All of them are good, yes, as good as good can be.

Looking back on things here I can see my hesitation
Everything was perfect, yes I brought this on myself
All these folks were happy, so despair was my decision
What an act of whining here to blame anybody else.

All the lovely families are absolutely normal
All the kids are beautiful and have such high IQs.
And the town just functions here like well-adjusted clockwork
Everybody happy but some Negroes and some Jews.

All the lovely families were really picture perfect
And somewhat in unison took out their garbage bags
Those who would betray our love took off for nasty cities
To hang about with radicals and disrespectful fags.

Yes, the town, I must admit, was always picture perfect
Everyone was joyful in their marriage, no divorce
All the teachers lovely and so good about their lessons
All zoom off to Harvard, well I might say here, of course.

All the games were fair here and there really were no problems
On Sundays all the people would march off to their own church
Naturally since all was fine, there were no other questions
Everybody quite content like birds upon a perch.

All the folks just did their job, there were no situations
Everybody kind and good, quite gentle, told the truth
All the police were gentleman, took care of all the problems
And lovingly corrected the sometimes wayward youth.

Yes the town was safe here and was governed with great wisdom
Every politician was a man of humble fame
Yes I do admit here that all this was my decision
Doubtless here there perhaps some Communists to blame.

Everyone took care of all, as if they were your brother
Everybody smiled and laughed and loved their simple truth
Glad to be alive here, in this town and not another
All here would agree with this, all the folk and each youth.

Nobody complained here for it was just always pleasant
All the lovely things that one could purchase at the shops
They would see a play or just stroll by the gazebo
Life was no more dangerous than sweetened lemon drops.

All the gloom was mine here, and I make this my revision
I was grumpy, bad and bored, had nothing else to do
Everything was wonderful, perhaps you all should move there
Now being so sweet and sincere..how could I lie to you?

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The old poet knows,
Why the forest grows,
He also knows,
Time heals,
He feels,
Life's pulse.

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I saw your silhouette
In a dream
And you were speaking
At the Freedom Forum.
You told us
Not to
Leave the grapes on the vine,
For they would rot.
Then you faded
Away, behind
The gray overlay
Waking me pensive.

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Valerie in Shades of Lavender - Ed Glomski

Valerie in shades of lavender,
Last night I had a dream of her,
Sitting on a hillside,
Alone and glassy eyed.
Remembering herself as a young bride,
In white, but now that love has died.
As I silently approached,
And on her space did I encroach,
She looked and shyly she did smile.
But I was dreaming all the while,
And though I loved her soft white face,
Never did I feel her sweet embrace,
For as I reached my arms to her,
Shakily and so unsure,
She softly, slowly slipped away,
And nighttime once again was day.
Tonight, perhaps, again I'll dream of her,
My Valerie in shades of lavender.

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My eyes slowly focus past the foggy window and onto the desolated vision.

Branches raped of their sapful leaves reach out into the crisp cold air like synapses.

The winter breeze has flipped spring's elements an now shows them off. Instead of bountiful plants, a vast mirage of gigantic roots. They stretch high towards the sky as if needing the gray hue of the thick clouds to feed the fruits hidden deep underground.

With distance, objects counterpoise each other; all the dark colors mix homogeneously and become a vague indefinite: nothing!

Only faint flickering lights in the distance prove to me the existence of something past my frozen backyard. The crackling ether makes them simmer to oblivion. If it weren't for these earthly stars that guide my eyes through the realm of reality, I would feel stranded, encapsulated in my one-windowed room.

Outside, infinity oppresses my tired eyes. Inside, the anxious nothingness of my soul collapses onto my fast-beating heart. I am motionless. I see everything, but perceive nothing; I feel nothing, but sense everything. I am but a speck of volcanic rock on an immense white dune that desperately senses the collision of totality and non-existence. The misty breeze will envelope me and I will dissolve in the still turbulence of eternity.

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