Montclair Write Group Sampler 2016
Page 9
if we try.
What if we try?
What if
we never had to know of greed,
if
we never knew the feeling, hate,
if
we never knew the vice of lies,
if
we never knew the vice of waste?
Could
we finally know to cherish life,
could
we really know how to love,
could
we only know to speak the truth,
could
we only know to care for us?
If
we thought it was important enough,
if
we dared to have it our own way,
if
we wanted to, I'm sure we could,
if
we wanted to, I'm sure we could,
if we try.
What if we try?
What if
we finally had had enough,
if
we felt the weight of the last straw,
would
we finally stand up for our rights
and
say, "we're not taking anymore"?
could
we make our leaders do our will,
could
we put an end to all this strife,
make
a world that lives in peace,
make
a world that has respect for life?
If
we thought it was important enough,
if
we dared to have it our own way,
if
we wanted to, I'm sure we could,
if
we wanted to, I'm sure we could,
if we try.
What if we try?
What if we try?
Author Bio:
Ronald Douglas Bascombe is a poet/writer who has been writing and performing his poetry for almost 50 years. Born in Harlem, New York, Bascombe developed early efforts at writing when sending letters and poetry home from the Air Force. Once home, he joined a writer’s workshop led by Sonia Sanchez at the Countee Cullen Library in Harlem. He performed with the Cosmos Nucleus poetry group and was a contributing writer/journalist for Expansion magazine and Sunday Morning newspaper. He won first prize in poetry in the 1976 National Ossie Davis/Ruby Dee “Write-On” contest sponsored by the National Black Network and performed his children’s poetry in the New York Metropolitan area. He has been published under his own name as well as Jayne Lyn Smythe and Oronde Lasana and recently published his first book, “A Life of Love: An Autobiography in Poetry.”
Mary Shelley Beside her Mother’s Grave
By Carole Stone
Beside your headstone
I read your Rights of Women,
your ideas my flesh, my blood.
Strengthen the female mind
and there will be an end to obedience.
Like you, I abandoned myself to a writer,
my dear Shelley with his images
of light and freedom.
In my novel I create a creature,
unnatural, wild and dark.
They say a woman could not have written
such a tale, that it is a ghost story
I overheard the men telling
the stormy night we matched wits –
Percy and Lord Byron, and Coleridge --
three geniuses and me.
Here is my book, the monster
with the dull yellow eye, the yellow skin
that hardly covers his muscles and arteries;
my shriveled, nameless, infant child.
On This Sad Island
By Laura Freedgood
(After the painting En Estos Tropicos Tristes by Jose Camacho)
Only words cover
the canvas,
tell us a woman waits
for her lover
in the sighs of
a tropical island.
We can imagine how
her head would bend,
the way her dark hair
might flow onto
the hyacinth shawl
draping her breast,
a shadow
of calm
combing her skin.
Etched letters suggest
the hours pressed
to her body,
the heat of the island
she holds
in her hands.
Author Bio:
Laura Freedgood has three chapbooks published: What I Would Paint If I Could (2012), Slant of the Heart (2010), and Weather Report (2007). Her poems appear in numerous journals and anthologies. She has been nominated twice for a Pushcart Prize, received an Honorable Mention in The 2013 Allen Ginsberg Poetry Awards, and won a 3-year poetry grant from the City University of New York where she taught as an Assistant Professor until 2010. She is currently a co-guest editor of a special edition of Adanna Literary Journal.
Palabras
By Marco Emiliano Navarro
words complete me. they offer
windows of understanding into a
new world, be it fantasy or reality.
they assist in meshing both so that
we may all just feel a little more sane,
slightly more normal. when those
thoughts allow us to memorialize them
in a manner that unlocks the puzzle of
joint universes, the feeling of joy and
intensity of love is euphoric. a high
beyond orgasmic, the experience
craves to be shared in perpetuity.
Author Bio:
Marco Navarro has been a fan of poetry featuring wordsmithing, urban landscapes, wit, and sarcasm. His works have been published online as well as in print via journals, magazines, and newsletters. His book, Alliterary Sancocho, may be purchase online via Amazon and Barnes & Noble.
The Election Olympics
By Paula R. Zacone
An expiring term of office is approaching, yes this is evident,
As candidates dominate the media in the election of President
During debates and interviews viewers hope
Instead they are dominated by a tug-of-war with a verbal rope.
The threats to national security scare us immensely,
While candidates for President battle intensely.
Hear their exchanges of accusations and verbal abuse
What’s the purpose of such slander? What’s the use?
With tongues as weapons, the candidates compete
Desperately seeking the opponents’ defeat.
Each charges another with distrust and deceit
Insults prevail targeted at the opponents they hope to beat.
Members of both political parties condemn their own members
Reversing earlier praise and hoping no one remembers.
Voters hope to hear how things will improve,
But there appears to be no such emergence from such a disgraceful groove.
We await hearing how to curtail the violence that threatens everyday life.
And how will candidates will reverse the troubles for those who live in strife.
Who has a plan for the preservation of our environment
And has more to offer the office than one’s personal financial attainment?
Voters yearn to hear more details of opportunity
And how to bring our nation together in peaceful unity.
Needless are the orations of political propaganda
And the futile war-like spurs that mottle the campaign agenda.
Candidates are convincingly outspoken and bold,
Lacking are messages as polished and profound as many of old.
There is a need for a national leader to solve problems and be admired
But these are hardly the attributes suggested by the accusations that transpired.
T
ell less of the rich roads on which you’ve tread;
Show us your leadership skills instead.
There is no value to us of your plentiful stores in the bank
Who undoes the national debt will become our hero to thank.
Candidates, please take note-
Try poise and diplomacy to win a vote
Address foreign relations, economics, and tax
With less of the bullying stick to the facts.
The campaigns have become a war of body parts.
Hear of the size of hands and ears – but none of hearts.
The quality of hair and lips make news -
Hardly relevant to the criteria by which voters need to choose.
We hear of make-up and painted sun-tans.
So irrelevant to matters of borders and foreign lands.
“He’s a con artist” is conveyed in a loud voice
“Never the less, I must support my party’s choice”.
Voters question and wonder why the mockery
Surrounding Trump, Cruz, Rubio, Sanders, and Hillary.
Being sought are strategies for peace, security, and freedom from crime
Instead of the euphemistic promises heard time after time.
Arising in New Jersey is its biggest mystery…
That is…. where is Governor Chris Christie?
So noticeable is his absence from the Garden State
Admittedly, with aims for his future pockets and plate.
While the victims of Sandy seem to be forgotten,
The Governor dwells on what is democratically rotten.
When questioned about his own ambitions,
He responds with his usual derision
Well, that’s water under the bridge, he’s likely to iterate
Undoubtedly, not the same bridge uncrossed to retaliate.
Did the candidates ever learn or did they forget….
The role of the United States President?
Each candidate seems to be blind as to what it takes to lead
As impulsive insults displace attention to the national need.
We voters worry for the future of the executive branch
When a popular political warrior gets elected by chance.
Author Bio:
Paula R. Zaccone is a Professor of Education, Health Education Specialist at Seton Hall University, South Orange, NJ Zaccone is the author of numerous rhyming works and specializes in using rhyme with puppets in her creative programs of children’s health education. In addition to numerous journal articles, Paula is the author of a health education text for educators.
Eternal Sleep
By Mirela Trofin
I’d like to store sleep
the way I store fat,
on my hips
inner thighs
middle of my back
where my purple bra
digs in.
When my reserves
overflow,
I could barter with others
trading my sleep
for food or love
blue eyes on Wednesdays
theater tickets every other Saturday
rose petal jam on rice pudding
like grandma used to make
on summer holidays.
If ever, my storage places empty
I’d ask God
to trade with me against
my cache of eternal sleep.
What would he ask for?
What could I give?
the 1 that feels like a 0
by Niraj Shah
I remember using
strings and simple tins,
now simpletons
and smart-phones
are wrinkled in.
Moore’s law
foresaw
the driving change,
what of forethought
of the dying brain?
More useless
as its used less.
And who would’ve thought
of virtual exchange?
soon, the age that says,
‘remember when’,
will refer to the days
where human touch wasn’t
a planned event.
Days of the Glass Nylon Saris
Francesca Dharmakan Bremner
(First published in Red Wheelbarrow #8, 2015)
Monsoon drenched
The red earth
Reflects
The moon
Catches
On the spun glass
Of my
Orange sari
Setting it alight.
A moth on a flame.
Sienna, burnt orange ,
parchment white.
Moonriver.
The color of your hunger
On these lazy days
Of scones, clotted cream
Tolstoy and Tagore
On endless verendahs.
Talking of a revolution.
Of a revolution
That came all too soon.
Instagram Photos
by e.b. littlehill
Instagram photos of meals that you ate
I’m the piece of fried chicken you left on your plate
You said you liked breasts but I think that’s a lie
Cause I remember you licking the inside of my thigh
You talked a sweet line, got into my soul
Made me believe that our twin flames were whole
I know it’s no fantasy I dreamed in my head
I’ve got screen shots of texts that you sent where you said:
You invade my dreams and Good morning sweet ass
Romantic, yet edgy, just my kind of class
You teased me in sexts, made my body explode
Then left me to wander a cold, empty road
Confusion and doubt were my traveling friends
We lit out together; we started to mend
And then you returned, tempting me with your charms
“Come sit in my lap.” You held out your arms
I remembered their strength, how your touch made me feel
So I gave in, once again, to a pleasure surreal
I was destined for heartache; all knew it but me
I trusted your higher self, a self you won’t see
I believed in your goodness, I went with my heart
Your kiss made a promise: We never will part
We know how that ended. You finally came clean
“I played with your emotions.” A bittersweet scene
It took a long while for that to sink in
I believed in the magic of what might have been
I believe in it still, despite the depiction
That my love can’t compete with a plate of fried chicken
Magician
By Leonie Lewis
Stopping colossal damage to my mind
Opening the door before, before I arrive
Whipping out the silk cloth
Covering the pain from a word shot at my heart
Like a bullet from a revolver.
Putting in the fix
So that the sawn off half of my body
Bearing my heart
Will once again rejoin the rest of me
Standing me upright when
The need to lie down is so great.
Bursting that brown paper bag
Filled with the hurt
Revealing it empty of sorrow
Top hat goes on.
Rabbits freed.
Boxed doves flee.
Smile painted on
A face surprised to meet
The magician within me.
Double Exposure
By Raymond Sathyan Dharmakan Bremner
(Ekphrastic poem for the painting "Double Exposure of Trees and Wood", Ananda Lim, artist. From the Write Group 2015 Ekphrasis)
The trees collapse upon my eye
And the sky begins to grey
The hangman behind
me utters his cry
And begins the work of the day
As they measure the rope and check its length
As the crowd lets out a roar
I petition my God to give me strength
To fall quietly through the door
Raymond Sathyan Dharmakan Bremner
A Morning Commute
By Thomas D. Praino
The sun glares off dusty windows
as the crowded train sweeps
us in a hypnotic rumble. Outside
the car houses seem to vanish.
Only a coffee ago we awakened to sip
our dissolving lives and slip on
polyester pants or cotton suites.
This morning, some prayers sweeten my trip
Dear Lord serve us croissants to pass the miles.
Trees pass us too, scantly dressed
for the weather. An Oak,
at the second station, nuzzles the edge
of the culvert, atop the iron underpass.
A six-foot jagged crack bolts
the stonewall below it. Slowly—the oak
drifts past us too. A fellow passenger,
peers at market finance and current events
in two-dimensional yesterdays. Buried in the back—
unread—the section that tells of a Larry
now Lawrence, and a shy Larissa, now lark.
I probe through the industrial silence
the conversation-less rattle,
the space incandescent and fluorescent.
I ponder over his printed pages—
tiny constellations set before our rising.
We sit squeezed between leather bag boundaries,
tight-lipped. His wristwatch counts
counter-tempo with the click-clack of the tracks.
On his left hand, a wedding band,
on his right, a college ring.
Outside the window, the world, ritardando
for arrival into the bowels of the station,
performs a coda to cacophony.
An egret on pipe-cleaner legs
spears her reflection in a murky estuary.
She whisper-walks a few steps
then stands in snow-white stillness.
Our train crunches with a spasm. Stops.
Our commute ends. Compressed.
Another Monday.
Passengers pack, bottleneck, we exit.
I stop and turn at the top of the platform.
Travelers slip through open doors
dropping their yesterdays in the trash.
Humanity schools past me
like minnows in a mirror estuary.
I linger and stand like the oak.