Poetry Prose Our Writers #2
OUR 2ND ISSUE STARTS HERE:
By Michael O'Connor
Tears filled the old German’s eyes
When he saw the black and white
Photo of himself, a frightened
Teenager, plucked from the Bay
Of Biscay by a neutral Irish ship,
And remembered that time, the smell
Of explosives and burning oil,
His ship destroyed, his comrades
Floundering in a sea of
Hopelessness, and somewhere,
Seabirds calling, as if there were
A world apart from this one:
A gentler place where seagulls
Screamed and dived and bobbed
Upon the waves and people
Leaned on railings, watching them.
Bio: Michael O’Connor is 54, and has won a few poetry competitions, and had a poem published in The Irish Times, so let’s assume he is from Ireland! He is a teacher in a Montessori teacher training college. He has 4 children, a huge handful of responsibility.
Editorial Comments: The Kerlogue was an Irish ship that picked up survivors from a sunken German warship in the Bay of Biscay. Years later an old German gentleman was in the Maritime Museum in Dun Laoghaire. There was a feature about the Kerlogue and when he saw the newspaper cuttings and photos, the German burst into tears. He recognized himself in the photos. Don’t you think history is worth a poem?
Through Victor's Eyes
By Steven Pasfield
He sits there reading a book
Just looking at the book
Not reading the page
The same page for a long time
Now he stares over the page
Through his glasses
Wondering about the day ahead
What to do how quick can it go
When will all this misery end?
His soul mate Maureen
The woman he loved
Six months since
A life time he thinks
Has passed away
Gone from his life!
The house so empty and cold
The dinner table so bare
Tears well up in his eyes
Of all the lost memories
No-one to share his thoughts with
He just sits there day after day
Looking at the same page
The same book.
Bio: I’m 44, and have been writing poetry for five years now. I am a member of the poetry society in London, England. I am also dyslexic which makes it hard to write to the standard that I would like.
Editorial Comment: Steven Pasfield should be an inspiration for all of us with handicaps, whether it be dyslexic, depression, or crippled-we all need hope, we all struggle. I hope his wonderful poem above is an inspiration to all:
Snapshots of a World at War
By Juliet Wilson
Spring in our city
brings a clarity to the air
that cannot be found in dust storms
in the Middle East.
Fatima has worn the headscarf
since 11 September 2001,
still feels stronger for it
despite the scars on her face.
From a bunker of tinned foods
Ken watches war 24 hours on TV,
sleeps with a gas mask by the bed,
doesn't answer his door any more.
TVs switch between live from the frontline
and war-game diagrams,
where victory like death is virtual
and military hardware wins points.
Union flags burn in angry cities,
as precision is redefined.
The promise of freedom seems hollow.
Staring at each passing rucksack,
you nervously finger
the cyanide pill in your pocket
and pray before boarding the plane.
Reflections on Leaving
By Juliet Wilson
She keeps her eyeon the rear view mirror
he could easily hide among so many cars
but as the road behind her empties
bright as the red glow of sunset
she feels her heart begin to lighten
as the road ahead defines the future.
Author Bio: Juliet Wilson blogs as Crafty Green Poet at
widely published, most recently in Orbis and Haiku Scotland. She is the
editor of the poetry blogmag Bolts of Silk.
Editorial Comment: I love Juliet Wilson's simple, clean, clear use of concrete images. Her poems are very readable, very real to life events. She is also one of my favorite human beings human beings for her concern about the world environment. No Americans, I know you are thinking that word "neighbourhoods" is mispelled in the first poem-not if you live in Wales, England, and Scotland.
In the Twilight of Pigs
By Ray Succre
Severed from damp bread, we crusts
on the plate's latest rim have adopted breath.
How fearful a mouth is to droop at our taste,
to worry our brown bits are the curls
of some more vehement feed!
Do you remember, fellow curl,
the twilight of pigs, when ships taught the sea
to part, and even our fulsome bread
smelled of iron?
Who sailed those ships were solid whos;
they vanished riding the wooden bits
to sea-specks at day's last arch.
Those composed pigs, rigid still and amid
the hurry, they forgot the ships and ate the bread,
caught in the era, scrolling belch to grunt
and belonging to the sea.
Those sated pigs are gone into the tracts
of new ships now.
They are still devoured in the twilight,
their stomachs burst on bread.
We crusts atop the plate have learned to breathe,
and we remain, but the uncomposed last mouth
that awaits us, it knows no hesitation,
and will take us for feed as we curl.
Author Bio: Ray Succre currently lives on the southern Oregon coast with his wife and baby son. He has been published in Aesthetica, Small Spiral Notebook, and Coconut, as well as in numerous others across as many countries. He tries hard.
Editorial Comment: Images can start concrete and end abstract; or images can start abstract and end concrete-often it is a matter of style. But, be honest, isn’t that part of the fun part?
Over & Over Again
I could just lie down
and let you walk across me,
like a canvas
where You leave
streaks of Your unique purpose
on the lines and fissures
of my trusting flesh.
creating Your passions,
dipping Your brushes and flinging
Your mad mixes of colors wildly.
You are creating me aren’t You?
Over and over again,
You are creating Me.
Author's Bio: My Name is Pamela Lawrence, I'm a poet and a dreamer. Having lived for 61 years in the suburbs of Los Angeles, my husband and I retired to the country in Ohio in 2006. I'm a mother, a Grandmother of 10 and a Great Grandmother of one. I've been writing poetry for a lifetime, letting it fly off my fingertips landing where it will. I sold quotes to a greeting card company in the 70's, and have been published in various magazines thru the years.
Editorial Comment: Pamela has a simple, direct, magic of imagery that carries through her poetic tales.
goodbye, Anne Sexton,
By David McLean
goodbye, Anne Sexton,
though i never knew you
i heard the weeping
of the penned-in children, too,
and saw their flesh flake away
as you left their tiny suicides
behind you for your night.
your faith you wrapped
into a book in your marked
arms, remarkable seeing your
appendages to your death,
from how very far you came
and left us to this injury, your brutal
lesion that obsesses me,
the need to leave our enowned
possession, His Ereignis and this
exorcist, the demons that feed
on me in our need. i could almost
wish to believe you reached his shore
and beached there, forgiven whore
in God's demanding ecstasy,
the learned lore of damage
and bleeding veins fruitful
as trees in spring's reluctant greening
leaves you tore from heaven's ledger
and the forgotten shoals of piscine
pains you dredged there, careless,
like us and all the drugs we forget to take
today, painful Nirvana for the feckless
rats we are - fuck their sucker's heaven,
it's not on your star.
so goodbye, Anne Sexton, i never
knew you, but nor
Editorial Comments: David McLean. was born in Wales in 1960 though he lived in Sweden since 1987. A chapbook “a hunger for mourning” with 52 poems is available from Erbacce-press and Lulu at http://stores........lulu.com/store.php?fAcctID=1277957. More information at http://www.myspace.com/david_mclean and http://mourningabortion.blogspot.com/. David has great potential, but has a tendency to force me to the dictionary more than I care to visit it; and his illiteration is a bite overdone-but, this potenital is truly unlimited.
"You're Eyes Only" by Nicole Zajon
My dreams are being tampered with
Whims taking their stance along the pillowcase
Timidly tiptoeing towards my two lips
Kissing me so sweet with such a sincere taste
Taking my breathe away
And placing it inside of your lungs
This cannot be true
I couldn't possibly be breathing
As the darkness hides your face
I wonder how many times I will come to this place
How many times will I let myself be fooled by this
Of the passionate artistry that makes up this tender
game of discovery
How many times will I let you capture me in this
Tie me up and hold me down with spider spun vision
While lucidly loving me--you leave me doubting and
Craving your mystery I cannot stop dreaming
"Call It What You Want" by Nicole Zajon
This secret is sour in my mouth
I have not acquired the taste it takes to swallow
And cannot find the strength to spit it out
Instead I follow a luminous path
Hoping this mistake will be my last
My past is overbearing
While you look into my eyes
Starry and glorified
Just like my sweet enterprise
Holding it's ground
Never willing to capsize
Not even with the weight of my own lies
And their reverberating sound
Only tightening the ties to which I am bound
Why is it that as the dandelion dies...wishes are born
How many sacrifices must be made before I finally
That the moon and sun take turns
They both take time
I fell the sky's pulsing from a distant airline
And I wonder how much easier it should be
To stop the passion voluntarily bleeding from my heart
It would all be fine--if it weren't comepletely
tearing me apart
How hard can it be to wisp away on a wind
Being kissed softly by endearing lips
king my way to a promising freedom
Bio/Editorial Comments: Nicole Zajon, 21 years old, from Maine, previously published, Mastondon Denist, online Journal, now opens her world to Poetic Legacy readers. Nicole has a self image nearly as bright and large as her imagery. She is talented, “If it sounds like Nicole’s writing about you, she probably is.” Look for many more fine pieces of poetry from this young, emerging writer.