(untitled) by Christopher King

sad mother sea turtle
trapped in the mud
treading her flippers to no avail

she has seen the watchful lunar eye open and close for aeons
generations of her life etched like scarred patterns into her shell
she has seen the sun burn and the stars cry

she has watched generations of her young
swallowed alive and squeaking tears of panic
as their infantile faces pressed into the sand by claws and teeth
by those who would walk on them to consume their innards
felt the indifferent caress of the waves over her face as
she watches the heavens cook them alive
watches them drown in lungfulls of
inexperience

her love long passed
he was hauled from the ocean
decades ago
and roasted by men
who greedily devoured his rich green flesh
she watched his struggles
his mouth silently gaping for life as they
ran their blades the marathon length of his neck
creating a crimson grin in his proud skin

she wept for this

she knows the cool calm of the rain against the surface of her body
rolling off her back and pooling in the sand
so that she might drink

she watched the hurricanes and the floods wash her body along the shores
she remembers burying deep into the sand to escape
the oppressive radiation of
the omnipresent sun gods
the cool earthen embrace soothing her cheeks

she can recall the taste of seaweed
the smell of rain
the sight of the night stars
the shrill cries of the aboriginal peoples as they gutted her loved ones
and
then went on to make jewelry from shell and skin
for good luck
she can remember the acrid smoke that comes from
her babies tossed into the fire on their shells
alive and frantically kicking their feet
cooking alive at the watchful gaze of men

sad momma sea turtle
trapped in the mud
generations of struggle do her no good
her body is tired
succumbing to the elements
the sick and fetid stench of inevitability filling her mouth

her mind can trace the black-and-white outline of
being young
and being able to race the beaches with relative wings
the taste of fresh berries torn from flowers
the delicate nuzzle of her lost love against her leathery neck

sad mother sea turtle waits
for something bigger than her
"greater" than her
to lift her by the sides
and turn her on her back so that she might not escape
her soft belly
exposed to the knife
the teeth
the bullet
the world
waiting to die
having no sword, no claws

sad mother sea turtle
those slow brown eyes hold a plethora of secrets
a lifetime of solitude and mystery
what whispered truths does your tiny brain contain
that the rest of the universe might never be able to understand?

there in the mud lies
beauty
your tragedy is one that knows no great story, no song
no protest

Song of the Church Bells by Pier Paolo Pasolini

When evening dips inside water fountains
my town disappears among muted hues.


From far away I remember frogs croaking,
the moonlight, the cricket's sad cries.


The fields devour the Vespers' church bells
but I am dead to the sound of those bells.


Stranger, don't fear my tender return
across mountains, I am the spirit of love


coming back home from faraway shores.

Danse Russe by William Carlos Williams

If when my wife is sleeping

and the baby and Kathleen

are sleeping

and the sun is a flame-white disc

in silken mists

above shining trees,-

if I in my north room

dance naked, grotesquely

before my mirror

waving my shirt round my head

and singing softly to myself:

"I am lonely, lonely,

I was born to be lonely,

I am best so!"

If I admire my arms, my face,

my shoulders, flanks, buttocks

against the yellow drawn shades,-



Who shall say I am not

the happy genius of my household?

NC, May 14, 12 Miles by M. Roberts

A silent flutter:
wings of orange, black, and white
sail by on the breeze.

A Line-storm Song by Robert Frost

The line-storm clouds fly tattered and swift,
The road is forlorn all day,
Where a myriad snowy quartz stones lift,
And the hoof-prints vanish away.
The roadside flowers, too wet for the bee,
Expend their bloom in vain.
Come over the hills and far with me,
And be my love in the rain.

The birds have less to say for themselves
In the wood-world’s torn despair
Than now these numberless years the elves,
Although they are no less there:
All song of the woods is crushed like some
Wild, easily shattered rose.
Come, be my love in the wet woods; come,
Where the boughs rain when it blows.

There is the gale to urge behind
And bruit our singing down,
And the shallow waters aflutter with wind
From which to gather your gown.
What matter if we go clear to the west,
And come not through dry-shod?
For wilding brooch shall wet your breast
The rain-fresh goldenrod.

Oh, never this whelming east wind swells
But it seems like the sea’s return
To the ancient lands where it left the shells
Before the age of the fern;
And it seems like the time when after doubt
Our love came back amain.
Oh, come forth into the storm and rout
And be my love in the rain.

Witness by Liz Waldner

I saw that a star had broken its rope

in the stables of heaven--



This homeless one will find her home

in the foothills of a green century.



Who sleeps beside still waters, wakes.

The terrestrial hands of the heaven clock



comb out the comet's tangled mane

and twelve strands float free.



In the absence of light and gravity,

slowly as dust, or the continents' drift,



sinuous, they twine a text,

one letter to an eon:



I am the dawn horse.

Ride me.

A Blessing by James Wright

Just off the highway to Rochester, Minnesota,
Twilight bounds softly forth on the grass.
And the eyes of those two Indian ponies
Darken with kindness.
They have come gladly out of the willows
To welcome my friend and me.
We step over the barbed wire into the pasture
Where they have been grazing all day, alone.
They ripple tensely, they can hardly contain their happiness
That we have come.
They bow shyly as wet swans. They love each other.
There is no loneliness like theirs.
At home once more,
They begin munching the young tufts of spring in the darkness.
I would like to hold the slenderer one in my arms,
For she has walked over to me
And nuzzled my left hand.
She is black and white,
Her mane falls wild on her forehead,
And the light breeze moves me to caress her long ear
That is delicate as the skin over a girl's wrist.
Suddenly I realize
That if I stepped out of my body I would break
Into blossom.