Friday, September 9, 2016

Timothy Pilgrim - Two Poems

My Last Professor
 (with a nod to Robert Browning)

There, see his portrait on the wall. 
I believe him to be the exception,   

not the rule. He lasted fall, winter, 
almost till spring -- persevered, gave,   

shall I say, not just light,  
but hope – inspired a bit of love  

to begin. Then new semester --  
classes in lit, stats, chem,

attraction ebbing, new interest,  
same pattern -- learning, powerful men.   

Notice this photo, though, coup d'etat,  
prize-winning biology prof   

making dissected frogs  
jump high again.


Light Found to Have Weight


Rod in hand, sun about to set,
I've found it heavier than flies --

even affects the cast, slows line
looping through red sky

toward foam on the dark, far side.
At times, light seems to force

a ribboned splash, scatter rainbow 
before my Black Ghost touches down.

At dawn, I have seen it rise groggy,
barely able to clear meadow grass, 

likely from carrying all that dew
layered on by summer night.

The dying know, too, full well
it's true, cease to resist,

succumb to light heaviness 
holding down gray eyelids. 

They willingly give up fishing,
having reached their limit. 



Timothy Pilgrim, a Pacific Northwest poet and emeritus associate professor of journalism at Western Washington University, has published over 300 poems -- with acceptances from journals like Seattle Review, Windfall, Cirque, San Pedro River Review, Third Wednesday and Carcinogenic Poetry. He is author of Mapping Water (Flying Trout Press, 2016). His work can be found at timothypilgrim.org.


Thursday, September 8, 2016

Charlotte Ozment - One Poem

Flood Waters

What’s that old saying?
water under the bridge....

It’s supposed to mean
what's in the past
is past
no problem
don't worry
it's gone, over,
forgotten....

But have you ever
looked under a bridge?
I mean, have you ever
taken the time
to jump over that railing,
slide down the embankment,
crawl under and around
those cement pillars?

Debris, flotsam,
logs, refrigerators,
dead animals....
....shit

Now you tell me,
how is that water
supposed to flow freely again
with all that crap
blocking its path?

Whoever wrote that adage
never experienced a flood....



Charlotte Ozment is a homesteading Texan on several acres full of devas, dogs and squirrels. She was a lifelong manual writer who is joyously devoting her retirement to right-brained pursuits.

Tuesday, September 6, 2016

Mark Niehus - Two Poems

Bluebird and the Cage

You measure yourself
against the world
during trips to the Laundromat.
You organise your words while
removing the stains on your shirt
and try to keep
the one thing you have in line.

And between
the beauty at parties
you see that there is something
sinister underlying
every social grace.

What a great power it must be
to suppress a spirit
that was once necessary
to invent,
explore
and love
and what do you do
when you sense
a flash of admiration
for its genius?

You refine your pleasure
for the drink.
You enjoy the movement it brings,
the action
and the chance.

And now somehow home
in pursuit of the poem
and in possession
of something good and rare,
something cracks open
that allocates meaning
and hope,
so you can sleep again balancing
the bluebird
and the cage.



Life Machine

The numbers turn
and the infinite mechanism
turns
and grows
and groans truths
and lies.

Such a beautiful machine
entrusting its success
to fulfil its design
on the emotional
unknowing
spirit of man.

And on us
the great weight rests.
It is that uneasy feeling
that comes some nights,
when left with our lives.

We are all working
to fuel
and to make up
the bony parts
of this mad living.

We turn
and burn
toward an outcome
unknown to us,
or this life machine.



Mark Niehus is a Poet and Artist who drives a cheese truck. He likes to get close to instinct and invention to create unique combinations of poetry, street art, music and performance.

Saturday, September 3, 2016

Liz Glodek - One Poem

It Is Nighttime

The stars wonder too, looking down at us,
where the dinosaurs have gone.
This lonely planet they see, a speck. But what
delight they get from all of our tumblings.
A scraped knee, the ant in the grass.
How the North Star lingers over these
moments. Quiet. To us, he is brilliantly alive
in gas and dust, through the vacuum
of darkness which is the solitude of space.
Come closer, we will tell them. More than
reason built this bridge, made this cathedral.
More than science loved this child. What they know
of us is less than what we know of them.
We shock them with our dreams.



Liz Glodek lives and works in the Midwest. Her work has appeared in several journals including The Greensboro Review, Lumina, North American Review (finalist for the James Hearst Poetry Prize), The North, and Janus Head. She received her MFA from Sarah Lawrence College where she also founded the SLC Poetry Festival. She works in management consulting and is an instructor at Simpson College.