TABLE OF CONTENTS - POETRY, page 2

Questions - Kathleen Cesaro
For Jon - Thomas Hadley
Listening to Random Stuff on a Random Local Radio Station - Paul Nachbar
What's the Point? - Karin Lindgren
Just Feeling Pythonesque, This Morning! - Thomas (Torg) Hadley
Beyond Tachyon - Thomas (Torg) Hadley
The Echo of the Silence - Hernan R. Chang
Drugged and Drowsy - David Ellis
Attempting to Write - David Ellis
Searching for the White Knight Sir John - Mark Norman*
La Felicidad - Hernan R. Chang
For: Someone or Something - Paul Nachbar
La Noche - Hernan R. Chang
Mentor - Kathleen Cesaro
Home - Kathleen Cesaro
Cogito Ergo Zoom - Thomas (Torg) Hadley
Recueillement Translation - Kay Lindgren
Untitled - David Ellis
May I Transmit? - Thomas (Torg) Hadley
4K-pax/the Krax: {(OK, (k?) or [Que'?]: - Thomas (Torg) Hadley
On Art - Tine Wilde
Eyes Blink - David Ellis
Allison Sings Opera - Paul Nachbar
Haiku - Hernan Chang
Bloat Afloat - Jon Marin
I'd Rather Be a Rhinoceros - Kay Lindgren
Nueve Nova - Thomas (Torg) Hadley
Don't Hide - Kathleen Cesaro
Me, at last. - Kathleen Cesaro
Where We Fit In - Jon Marin
Radiant Rainbow - Hernan Chang M.D.
Like an Eagle - Hernan Chang M.D.

Questions - Kathleen Cesaro

Hello, Star...
Couldn't sleep.
(If not Sneaky Planet behind a facade of reflected light),
could you please tell me:
Who put you circling in the sky to keep watchful eye on us?
What do they call you, and what do you call me?
Where was I when you were born?
Why are you winking at me?

Hello, Sun...
I see you're up.
(Just a teensy hint about solar power--please?)
Could you please tell me:
Who made you the center of our solar system?
What do we give you, in return for warmth and light?
Where are you taking us, at speeds we can't comprehend?
Why do you smile anew at each dreadful day?

Hello, Moon...
You're glowing tonight.
(Is my far-away love looking up at you, too?)
Could you please tell me:
Who is to say, if night follows day, or day follows night?
What do you say to wolves to make them howl?
Where would you go, if we set you free?
Why do you pull us, this way and that--is it a game?

Hello, God...
I know you're here.
(If you are listening to me),
could you please tell me:
Who?
What?
Where?
Why?

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For Jon - Thomas Hadley

well, it's true that summer starts on July 5th.
we did have an 85 degree day ten days ago.
then we had .85 inches of rain, ok.
i was born and raised across the lake from Seattle.

now i live across the salty puddle of Puget Sound
from the Emerald City.
i have skied the Austrian alps
dined in die Schweiz, in Mont Blanc-Chamonix,

seen the Louvre, Florence, and Reichs-Museum,
scaled St. Peter's Dome,
wandered Venice,
quaffed god's rainwater on the Rhine,

sipped tea at Damascus Gate,
coffeed at Istanbul's Bazaar,
quenched with Retsina in Athens,
Slavonika in Croatia,

coarse wine outside Thessaloniki....
ate goat yogurt, swam cerulean seas, and
slept in Crete's caves,
gargled Chatenuef-du-Pape in a tent France's fields,

walked Italy's cottswolds and lanes lined with crosses,
trod the Appian Way and scented the Colloseum....
of all these places,
and of my love, my fondness for them all,

only Cascadia is truly my home.
Cascadia, the land of Orcas and Sasquatch,
of Salmon, the Raven, the Bear,
and of the Eagle.

Here, I am native,
born of this earth alone.
Seasons are only seen by one being's eyes
one day at a time....

You can change your ground,
but you can't change your sky.

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(Listening to Random Stuff on a Random Local Radio Station) - Paul Nachbar

somehow sitting here
and listening to the Spirit in the Sky
i no longer care what is what
or what was or is true or not or real or not
or what was or is bad or good or whatever
or what was partly this or mostly that
hey, great thinkers dot the encyclopedia
and some university faculties
and occasionally the New York Times Sunday Section
and they know better
and I can at least paraphrase most or comment or innovate
well good for them:
i am writing sonnets in a world of widgets
and need protection
even if the proection is somewhat insane.

somehow sitting here
and knowing the feeling once again
i dont' care what is different and what is the same
or who is to credit or to blame
or who won or lost in anything
writing sonnets in a world of widgets
or what is apparantly a world of widgets
hell who cares
i might sometimes forget my own name
i need protection
from the indirection
even if some of it is utterly insane.

somehow sitting here
as nowhere as anyone can be
i make glass seem as solid as steel
writing sonnets in a world of widgets
oh no this can't be entirely real
different message on the radio
the sky the same
labor and capital prices for the widgets
trends and interest rates and opportunities
and innovations ups and downs in related markets
raw materials management crises technology whatever
books of solutons dull and clever
all markets being first or second cousins at most distant
business worse or better or the same.
i'm writing sonnets in a world of widgets
who cares if anything's to credit or to blame?

somehow sitting here
on a green chair on a rug
in an apartment in a building
on a street in a neighborhood
in a town in a state
in a country on the globe
i realize this is no imperial robe...
thinking more of sonnets here than widgets
it is easy to end up upside down
or rightside up or out in space
or down below where some folks drown
or simply absolutely odd
now the werewolves of London may or may not really be there
but they sound cool so I don't care

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What's the Point? - Karin Lindgren

The point is,
period.
Connect the dots
bright in the dark.
The picture will take form.

The point is,
arrowhead
tells if your shots
have hit the mark,
or if you're cold or warm.

The point is
needle, pin,
where angels dance
upon the head
and camels cross the eye.

The point is
fingering
the guilty glance.
What is not said
will crack the alibi.

No line to trace,
no bow to shoot,
no seam to baste -
The point is moot.

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Just Feeling Pythonesque, This Morning! - Thomas (Torg) Hadley

(As Tufftat Dibble, I dabbled at piracy
in trebled basso profundo "In the Navy"
making like Travolta, index finger up and hip-swaying,
with my plastic saber gesticulating
sailing seas of silliness
happy to be alive
scowling, skulking,
toothily goofing...

now, that curtain has fallen
the audience dispersed
i scribble wavelets of verse
which slap against
my barnacled boards....

I await to see what
the next tide may bring...

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For Paul Godot - Thomas (Torg) Hadley

Thus,
dining on chicken, wine,
hearing humans hen-cackle in
a magickal wireless box:
their "ado" about muchly nothing...
ones sonnets
are more important
than w.c.w's "red wheelbarrow in the rain";
everything depends upon
a poetic soul
scribbling
lightning
beside such glazed chickens.

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Beyond Tachyon - Thomas (Torg) Hadley

postulated: tachyons faster than light;
thought is faster than tachyhons?
'tis a wavicle or particlon?
two points can exist from one source
up/down until viewed: observer effect.

there is no stasis
but hyperstasis which is a frequency of flow
so intense it is
appearing to be still, a consistent
inconsistency.

does a ganglia exist without the next?

does a neuron have entity?

does a muon notice
the Moon?

if superstring theory is correct,
hasn't this posting
been presupposed
by you?

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The Echo of the Silence - Hernan R. Chang

The streets are empty now
Wish I have a beer to calm my thirst
In this warm summer night
I can hear the echo of my own steps
Going down the street
I can hear also the echo of your voice in my heart
I wish I have more time to tell you what I have in my heart
I guess it’s late and I ran out of time
You are gone long ago
I don’t need to explain anymore
Your name will be just a memory
Next time I think of you
Next time I hear from you
It will be like the echo of the silence
Like the emptiness of the echo of the silence.

The streets are empty now
Wish I can stop thinking about you
In this warm summer night
I can hear the echo of my thoughts
Going down the street
I can hear the echo of your voice in my soul
I wish I have more time to tell you what I have inside
I guess it’s late and I ran out of time
You’re no longer here
I don’t need to explain anymore
Your name will be just a memory
Next time I think of you
Next time I hear from you
It will be like the echo of the silence
Like the emptiness of the echo of the silence
Because you’ll be no longer here
Because you’ll be gone.

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Drugged and Drowsy - David Ellis

A drugged and drowsy
mind wanders, waxing
philosophical or dreaming
unrestrained: disjointed
kiddy boy, slumbering cute,
carefree and skipping.

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Attempting to Write - David Ellis

Attempting to write, I find slim words formed
Thinly by waking moments, through rainclouds
Storming up thunder and lightning, enough
To awaken all but the deep sleeper,
The log, saturated by blood poison.

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Searching for the White Knight Sir John - Mark Norman*

All coconut and jasmine
white satin's caresses
so lonely, as accepting
his all too taboo menthol kisses

So long in cold hollowness
under stained wallpaper skies
grunts and groans covered by her false little sighs
from the obscene shift of shadow above the headboard

She slips into her dreams, shutting her eyes
held tight in make believe
protecting their blue fathoms
well beyond his embrace and heaving brutish cries

A/C cooled air, soured with sweat
a musky relief as he
rolls to the side, she notices the red stain
from the corner of her bruised lips smeared upon the sheets

No whispers here, hollowness
only, reality registers with "just another guy"
rising so empty from this her favorite lie
shoes dangling loosely, black pumps, by her side

Looking for love, it's no longer the money
the cost of escape rises, as the years pass on
she winces as she dresses, leaving for the next john
and a negotiated fee for her last chance romances

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La Felicidad - Hernan R. Chang

Una mañana cualquiera llena de aventuras.
Una tarde plena de trajín y de ajetreo.
Una noche cálida inundada de detalles intrascendentes.
Una jornada atareada y simplemente llena de...felicidad.

Me detengo un momento para mirar al horizonte
y poder dar gracias a no sé quien por dejarme
sentir el efecto inigualable de la presencia humana
cada día de mi vida.
Para dar gracias por permitirme utilizar todos mis sentidos
y darle “sentido” a mi vida.
Sin esperar respuesta miro de nuevo al horizonte y
prosigo mi camino.

Me detengo de nuevo para pensar en voz alta:
¡que éste sea un gran día para recordar!
Que éste sea al mismo tiempo
un día memorable para redescubrir de manera retrospectiva.
Que cuando me vea al espejo ésta noche antes de irme a dormir
me diga mientras me miro fíjamente a los ojos:
ya ves? Esta es la verdadera felicidad.
Sí, la felicidad auténtica.

La felicidad no se mide con las chequeras del banco.
La felicidad se mide con la calidad de los recuerdos.
Que mis recuerdos sean testigos partisanos de mi felicidad.
Que ellos sean parte de la muchedumbre que me aclame sin condición,
y que me hagan disfrutar de manera reiterativa y hedonista.
O que mis recuerdos sean mis críticos más tenaces
y que mi mayor castigo y condena sean
esos mismos recuerdos por los errores que cometí.

¿Cómo poder describir la felicidad?
La felicidad es una cosa cotidiana.
La felicidad está llena de simplicidad.
La felicidad es libre de impurezas.
Es brillante como el sol del mediodía en un día de primavera.
Sí, yo pienso que la felicidad está hecha de los recuerdos
de una jornada atareada y memorable.
Sí, aunque nos resistamos a creerlo
ella está al alcance de todos sin distinción alguna.
La felicidad está hecha simplemente…de nuestros mejores recuerdos..

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For: Someone or Something - Paul Nachbar

It doesn't matter if I'm sane or not
I've been the victim of so many harms
Though here I too have done my share of wrongs
Please hold me in your more than human arms

It doesnt' matter if you're there or not
Beyond the offices, factories and farms
It doesn't matter if they care or not
Please hold me in your more than human arms

There are so many times I've fallen here
With such a vast variety of charms
And certainly I too am not an innocent
Please hold me in your more than human arms

I thought or called Thee by so many names
Beyond pure reason with it's many charms
Perhaps there's beauty in one's darkest hour?
Now hold me in your more than human arms.

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La Noche - Hernan R. Chang

La luz del día ha dejado paso
al brillo de los faroles que insinúan
miradas lúbricas a la muda obscuridad.
Una obscuridad que se deja seducir y
se doblega sin oponer demasiada resistencia.

El parpadeo de los anuncios de neón
se mezcla con el ambiente cargado
de humo y perfume barato de la taberna.
Las miradas furtivas se dejan sentir
como si fuera el comienzo de un ritual.

Un ritual seglar y sin prolegómenos
en el cual la decencia y el recato
se sacrifican con impunidad
para dejar paso a los instintos,
la lujuria y el desenfreno.

Las horas pasaron vertiginosamente y
la luz del día se apunta débilmente.
Atras quedarán los gemidos de placer ó de dolor.
Con la noche se irán las palabras y
las dulces promesas hechas en el lecho.

Mañana será otro día…
¿Quién se acordará de ésta noche?

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Kay,

This Sonnet is for you.

Mentor - Kathleen Cesaro

Though sharing gifts is not what many do,
especially what they've learned through years of strife,
at times there are a very treasured few,
who'll guide the novice and enrich a life.

The water at the deepest part of lakes
is still, beneath the rushing of the wave,
quells turbulence and trouble that it makes,
providing peaceful depth, a soul to save.

Attempts to be a shadow on a wall
or rug that's tread upon at every chance
mime frightened snails that won't come out at all,
'til waves of friendship toss them out to dance.

With nurturing, we give our hearts to hold
the giver's gift to be returned, tenfold.

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Home - Kathleen Cesaro

I stride, as though my feet were being drawn,
to wilderness where footprints never go.
I glimpse a flash of speckles on a fawn
and feel the wary peeking of the doe.

The air vanilla thick as I inhale.
I dream against a Ponderosa Pine.
A rabbit springs to life across my trail,
his heart a-thumping, synchronized with mine.

A Red-winged Blackbird warbles to his mate.
Without a thought, I imitate each sound,
then noticing the hour is getting late,
resign myself to sadly turn around.

The shadows stretch to touch me as I leave.
The life that's thought is mine awaits. I grieve.

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Cogito Ergo Zoom - Thomas (Torg) Hadley

i think, therefore I am,
i believe...
for I see multi-faceted
perceptibilities
in ponderable
Byzantine syllogism-puzzleboxes
patinaed in absurdity's
slick-shiney shellac

oh, eye see that which
I b'leive, "eye-think",
perception is Reality
(convoluted volition
is my condition), we get
that which we seize...

timing, altitude, attitude
in measured degree
meshed in synchronicity
give luminosity to
poetical parhelical
sun-dogs/moon-dogs
you may/not so see

my halo is slipping
whilst I play a' la Gemini:
I am Amy G'dala and Sara Bellum
dressed as Cowboy/Indian,
kicking sand until
my brain-playbox is emptied
and 'tis past time
for milk 'n' cookies
an' a nap

tittering girly-giggles
give way to sea-deep guffaws
each delightful discovery herein
is arresting, giving one Pause
to re-ponder inklings previously
unthinkable, now plausible...
ever-yet evanescent:
i am a bubble of celestial champagne
tickling God's nostrils....

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I take this opportunity to share with you one of my favorite French
poems and my translation of it. - Kay Lindgren

Recueillement

Sois sage, ô ma Douleur, et tiens-toi plus tranquille.
Tu réclamais le Soir; il descend; le voici:
Une atmosphère obscure enveloppe la ville,
Aux uns portant la paix, aux autres le souci.

Pendant que des mortels la multitude vile,
Sous le fouet du Plaisir, ce bourreau sans merci,
Va cueillir des remords dans la fête servile,
Ma Douleur, donne-moi la main; viens par ici,

Loin d'eux. Vois se pencher les défuntes Années,
Sur les balcons du ciel en robes surannées;
Surgir du fond des eaux le Regret souriant;

Le Soleil moribond s'endormir sous une arche,
Et, comme un long linceul traînant à l'Orient,
Entends, ma chère, entends la douce Nuit qui marche.

- Charles Baudelaire, Les Fleurs du mal

Contemplation (Kay’s Translation)

Behave yourself, my Sorrow, and calm down.
You called out for the Night; it falls; it's here.
A murky atmosphere enshrouds the town,
Brings peace of mind to some; to others, fear.

Behold the throng of fools who do not frown
As Pleasure cracks a whip with cruel sneer.
Go summon tears from every laughing clown.
My Sorrow, let me hold your hand. Come here,

Away from them. See bygone years that file
To heaven's balconies, dressed out of style,
And watch Regret rise smiling from the deep.

Beneath a bridge, the Sun slips out of sight.
While shadows veil the Far East, fast asleep,
Hear, hear, my dear, the soft steps of the Night.

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Untitled - David Ellis

Depressed stamina,
drowning in poison,
therapy of chemicals.

Weeks incarcerated
in a hospital bed,
with ventricular, aortal,
and the "normal" kind
of catheter, each redirecting
wayward bodily fluids.

A cancerous teen,
in a world apart,
isolated from friends,
nearly lifeless
but uninterred.

With deathly pallor,
senses anesthetized,
a body tries to revive.

Gauze, soaked
and sanitized
with Betadyne solution,
wafts the hospital
scent throughout.

Unable to escape
disease or IV pole,
chained to bed
by monitors of pulse, blood
pressure and oxygen
saturation.

A drugged and drowsy
mind wanders, waxing
philosophical or dreaming
unrestrained: disjointed
kiddy boy, slumbering cute,
carefree and skipping.

Or skipping
a heartbeat,
gone under for surgery,
fear of death
parried
by determination
to survive.

A life
deverted,
on hiatus
from everyday concerns,
striving through sleeplessness
to see
a new dawn.

Daydreams
of a time before
treatment and hospital,
a birthday party
without the shadow
of cancer.

Recall the inception
of headaches, cerebral
pressure, hydrocephalus,
somnolence developing
into a coma.

Emergency,
ambulance,
surgery:
premature and unpleasant end
to a coastal summer vacation.

Bitter brew
of medicine has exorcized
the malignant grey mass,
an unborn evil twin.

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May I Transmit? - Thomas (Torg) Hadley

We hold you in our
more than Human arms, our son....
We treasure you and hold you
from Eternal Harms, our beloved One....
We guard you invisibly as we
treasure the Son of Light
which you have always been
are becoming more and more again of,
each
day by day,
each moment,
won and won
one by one....
You are not Alone.
Be Still, and Know that
We ARE
All One
Indivisibly, inseparably, infinitely,
Continually,
But only in the Now....
let each moment be a
Death and a Resurrection,
where you release the Past,
and all attachment to Outcome of
the Future:
attain detachment of dispassionate Observation
and find there revelation
of impugnable serenity:
it's all in your
Imagination!
Believe what you Believe,
and See It.
That was my Door:
I am only a Rabbit.
Go Tell Alice!

(also sprach Torg)

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4K-pax/the Krax: {(OK, (k?) or [Que'?]: - Thomas (Torg) Hadley
pax (pax poetica universalis}::
::

"Metaformed-meta-Ku for Du"
Wilkommen, vei einar Norski;

{Gruess Gott}

< a ChangeForm>

eyes fined dis world, found it
lacking, stacking gold afore
a shiney golden Calf...

Babel confounded us,
yet Mother ever's Mother...
I curb my Knave Tongue.

Lexicography
of lyric lithographies
shall perplex the Best

of humankind: Eden
conflicted by hellish Dreams:
lusty flesh it is...

to taste this Apple
Eve-Pandora did say
Is to Be as God!

Have we not gnawed it
beyond its dark crimson Core?
Here: Perceptions Door!

(also sprach Torg)

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On Art - Tine Wilde

On Art

1. Thinking is time and again starting anew
2. Doubt arises whenever the wind of thought is rising
3. Thinking is active doubt
4. Doubt is just a more receptive state of certainty
5. Poetry and thinking are next-door neighbors
6. Thinking and living fully are the same
7. A thought has a certain weight
8. Doubt is the mother of beauty
9. Art is an attempt to breathe life into reality
          1.1. Thinking          is time and again starting anew
1. Doubt arises whenever the wind of thought is rising
2. Thinking is active doubt
3. Doubt is just a more receptive state of certainty
4. Poetry and thinking are next-door neighbors
5. Thinking and living fully are the same
6. A thought has a certain weight
7. Doubt is the mother of beauty
8. Art is an attempt to breathe life into reality
          1.1. Thinking is time and again starting anew
          1.2. Doubt arises whenever the wind of thought is rising
1. Thinking is active doubt
2. Doubt is just a more receptive state of certainty
3. Poetry and thinking are next-door neighbors
4. Thinking and living fully are the same
5. A thought has a certain weight 
6. Doubt is the mother of beauty
7. Art is an attempt to breathe life into reality
          1.1. Thinking is time and again starting anew
          1.2. Doubt arises whenever the wind of thought is rising
          1.3. Thinking is active doubt
1. Doubt is just a more receptive state of certainty
2. Poetry and thinking are next-door neighbors
3. Thinking and living fully are the same
4. A thought has a certain weight
5. Doubt is the mother of beauty
6. Art is an attempt to breathe life into reality
          1.1. Thinking is time and again starting anew
          1.2. Doubt arises whenever the wind of thought is rising
          1.3. Thinking is active doubt
          1.4. Doubt is just a more receptive state of certainty
1. Poetry and thinking are next-door neighbors
2. Thinking and living fully are the same
3. A thought has a certain weight
4. Doubt is the mother of beauty
5. Art is an attempt to breathe life into reality
          1.1. Thinking is time and again starting anew
          1.2. Doubt arises whenever the wind of thought is rising
          1.3. Thinking is active doubt
          1.4. Doubt is just a more receptive state of certainty
          1.5. Poetry and thinking are next-door neighbors
1. Thinking and living fully are the same
2. A thought has a certain weight
3. Doubt is the mother of beauty
4. Art is an attempt to breathe life into reality
          1.1. Thinking is time and again starting anew
          1.2. Doubt arises whenever the wind of thought is rising
          1.3. Thinking is active doubt
          1.4. Doubt is just a more receptive state of certainty
          1.5. Poetry and thinking are next-door neighbors
          1.6. Thinking and living fully are the same
1. A thought has a certain weight
2. Doubt is the mother of beauty
3. Art is an attempt to breathe life into reality
          1.1. Thinking is time and again starting anew
          1.2. Doubt arises whenever the wind of thought is rising
          1.3. Thinking is active doubt
          1.4. Doubt is just a more receptive state of certainty
          1.5. Poetry and thinking are next-door neighbors
          1.6. Thinking and living fully are the same
          1.7. A thought has a certain weight
1. Doubt is the mother of beauty
2. Art is an attempt to breathe life into reality
          1.1. Thinking is time and again starting anew
          1.2. Doubt arises whenever the wind of thought is rising
          1.3. Thinking is active doubt
          1.4. Doubt is just a more receptive state of certainty
          1.5. Poetry and thinking are next-door neighbors
          1.6. Thinking and living fully are the same
          1.7. A thought has a certain weight
          1.8. Doubt is the mother of beauty
1. Art is an attempt to breathe life into reality
          1.1. Thinking is time and again starting anew
          1.2. Doubt arises whenever the wind of thought is rising
          1.3. Thinking is active doubt
          1.4. Doubt is just a more receptive state of certainty
          1.5. Poetry and thinking are next-door neighbors
          1.6. Thinking and living fully are the same
          1.7. A thought has a certain weight
          1.8. Doubt is the mother of beauty
          1.9. Art is an attempt to breathe life into reality
          1.1.1. Thinking is time and again starting anew

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Eyes Blink - David Ellis

Long eyelashes
dip into tears.

A tissue tries
without hope
to absorb
the pain.

Injections and
transfusions:
a phlebotomist
completed the
necessary transactions
during treatment.

Sharper needles
still pierce me,
delving into my
tender soul.

What have I become,
that friends refuse
to see? That none
can understand?

I am alien:
isolated, unwelcome,
unable to connect.

Is it easier to be
alone in society
than contained
behind cold walls
with my cancer?

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Allison Sings Opera - Paul Nachbar

Allison sings opera
In her apartment
The swamp across the hall
From my swamp here.
Or mostly it is ascending
And descending scales.

It is nice
Most of everything else
I hear in this place is rap music
Which I 'get into' or 'like'
Or sort of tolerate or hate.

Rap music gets you excited or agitated
Or makes you want to take off all your clothes
Or kill the enemy
Or just stay on that couch
Maybe forever
Trying not to listen
Because it's all doomed anyway.

Allison sings opera
Or ascending and descending scales
That's nice too
I might stay on my couch and keep one ear open
Or one eyelid
Hell, if everything is doomed anyway
At least we'll go down in some style.

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Haiku - Hernan Chang

Rosa serena,
Ponto lleno de verdor,
Camino sin fin.

Haiku - Hernan Chang

Under the bay grass
An ant delves a burrow
Facing the drizzle.

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Bloat Afloat - Jon Marin

Mister Wunkie was shaving
As he usually did
Every third or fourth morning.
Glancing down into the sink
He discerned fine patterns
In his lumps of cast-off shaving cream.
His eye then noticed designs
In the orange peels and coffee grounds
That topped up his garbage.
He marveled at how easily and naturally
He could produce Art.
"Truly", he thought, "I am a natural artist".

Mister Wunkie entered the commuter car
And stood to make an announcement.
His rasping instrument
Sounded a claxon bellow:
"While you may lack my natural talent,
You can yet aspire to become like me --
Smug, conceited, self-absorbed and boastful.
Yes, Yes, YES!
You can do it if you only try".
Silently, though, he doubted
That they could achieve much
Without his guidance.
"Truly", he assured himself, "I am very special".

Mister Wunkie watched as the passengers moved away,
An ebbing tide,
Steady as a bored recessional
After a tedious sermon.
Their motion settled his attention
Upon its customary object -- his self.
"Truly", he observed, "I am an engine of change in the world.
And I must be very important indeed
To get so much space to myself."

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I'd Rather Be a Rhinoceros - Kay Lindgren

"It is much better to have the screaming
sensitivity of the soul uncovered by any
protective skin than to have a tear-proof
rhinoceros skin in combination with cold
fish blood."
-Yevgeny Yevtushenko

Is it really better
to let my soul
lose its hide?

A naked soul
is a ripe persimmon
with skin so thin

a fingertip can bruise it,
a fingernail can slash it.

Although such fruit
might make your taste buds
blossom, I have seen those

who stand in horror
of that blood red pulp,
as if it were a shattered heart.

Mouths warped in disgust,
they grab the quickest picker
upper on hand, wipe up

the oozing mass
and throw it out
with coffee grounds
and chicken bones.

It's food for fruit flies.

What good is there
in letting my wounds
loose their lips
and scream through poems?

Who listens through a screen
of metaphor? Who hears
the figurative screech?

My larval muse
cocoons my head in gauze,

as the world hurtles
headlong like a rhinoceros.
Its hoofs stampede us.
Its horns gore us.

The world sheds poets
like scabs, but poets
leave no scars.

I'll be the rhinoceros,
trade my flayed soul
for a calloused hide,
my pen for a horn.

I'll weigh four tons
and trample all those
who have laughed
at the sight
of my soul undressed.

There is nothing worse
than being a poet
in a universe
where the beast
fits in best.

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Nueve Nova - Thomas (Torg) Hadley

[for Hernan 'n' Kay]

Rhino's blind, a nose
only to sniff out sense, just
reacting/ charging

i am what i am
not yet what i shall become
but am becoming

sometimes i'm a weed
in someone's perfect Garden
a vacant lot's rose

injustice brings rage
i'll charge blindly to pierce
bloody-mindedness

pathos brings my tears
i crave the balm of Angels
thirst for some kindness

i, Ferdinand, Bull
snuffling a dewey daisy
snorting to Heaven

Alchemist, i mix
my metaphors to make gold
from my leaden thoughts

i am what i Will
but only by becoming
that which is Belief

in a world of beasts
only faith can make Magick
You help me Believe...

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Don't Hide - Kathleen Cesaro

Rhinos stomp and charge,
trusting little daisy now
trampled in the ground.

Rhinos snort and huff,
everything lies flat and dead,
no food to be found.

Rhinos tip, then fall,
tiny sprout pokes up and smiles.
Daisy's still around.


A tough hide keeps out piercing pain, but it can't feel life's tender tickles, either.
A strong inner being can welcome both and survive.
Smile, Daisy!

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Me, at last. - Kathleen Cesaro

I am persimmon
Rhinoceros food, no doubt
Go ahead, bite me!

Valor--no remorse
Acceptance--no frustration
Sweet Surrender--peace

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Where We Fit In - Jon Marin

The world makes its clothes to fit regular folk.
Search in vain
For size twenty shoes
Or a size twenty dress --
It's not set up to make them.
More than ninety percent of everyone
Post IQ scores below one-twenty.
A one-fifty IQ's like a size twenty foot:
Systems evolved to fit regular folk;
They're not made for you or for me.

Our talents are welcome
Insofar as our they can be of service
To those who don't have them.
A chasm separates them from us,
A chasm two standard deviations wide.
The world institutions are structured cacoons
That allow "them" to function,
Where they need only be adequate
To work and produce and succeed and be happy;
Where they can set themselves banal objectives
And heroically strive to achieve them.
The world stands more to lose from their blindness
Than it can hope to gain from our sight.
Its systems are crafted
With its safety in mind
As havens where "they" can do more good than harm.

Few as we are, and we really are few,
There are more of us than the world really needs.
"They" are essential;
"We" are extras -- saffron on the human stew.
I am reconciled as I sip my Scotch.
I want the mashers and the cookers
And the blenders and the bottlers
To do tomorrow what they did today.
I don't need them to be creative,
Or brilliant or daring or imaginative,
But only to do their well-defined job.
It's a small but comforting compensation
To know that my Dewar's will never vary.

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Radiant rainbow - Hernan Chang M.D.

Radiant rainbow
That follows the misty rain
You bring us true hope

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Like an Eagle - Hernan Chang M.D.

Like an eagle
Through the deep blue firmament
Yes, like the wind.

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