Who Knows?

by Gail White

They say my cat, less wise than I,
is not aware that she must die,

but watching her grow old and fat,
I give more credit to my cat.

Mature and saner than I am,
she knows, but doesn’t give a damn.

Leaf Fall

by Michael R. Burch

Whatever winds encountered soon resolved
to swirling fragments, till chaotic heaps
of leaves lay pulsing by the backyard wall.
In lieu of rakes, our fingers sorted each
dry leaf into its place and built a high,
soft bastion against earth’s gravitron —
a patchwork quilt, a trampoline, a bright
impediment to fling ourselves upon.

And nothing in our laughter as we fell
into those leaves was like the autumn’s cry
of also falling. Nothing meant to die
could be so bright as we, so colorful —
clad in our plaids, oblivious to pain
we’d feel today, should we leaf-fall again.

Another Country

by Steven Edgar

She said she loved being a woman.
Her skin pressed mine, my face her hair.
And I a man? Just being human
Can sometimes seem too much to bear:

The hands remember what they held,
The tongue recalls the salt-sweet skin.
Who was it said that “her hair smelled
Like a country I could be happy in?”

It’s not in human form that I
Have leave to stray in that domain
But only now as the swept sky
Or a thin fall of cold sweet rain.

Your Rejection Slip, Annotated

by Melissa Balmain

Dear Writer [who’s not dear and cannot write],
Thank you for showing us your [so-called] work.
[It’s obvious that you’re a clueless jerk
and typed the thing while higher than a kite.]
Although we read [three words of] it with care,
we’ll have to pass [a kidney stone or two —
or so it seemed when we were reading you.
We also felt like tearing out our hair].
Unfortunately [fortunately] we
get many [better] manuscripts each week
[spam, takeout menus, notes from creditors],
so [if we want to keep our sanity]
we can’t give [drunks like you] a full critique.
Good luck [at Betty Ford],
                                          The Editors

The Amanuensis

by Michael Cantor

A shadow-poet must accompany
each one of us, a wit, a twit, a bit
of what it takes to make an awkward fit:
this amanuensis dogs us, painfully.

Somewhere, out there, out in eternity,
a moving cursor writes, and having writ
a sentimental, tender piece of shit,
reveals itself to be the real me.

Biffo Days

by Bill Greenwell

[ This poem is an anagram of “Invictus” by W. E. Henley.
Yes really. Check it out.   — JW ]

Not, I cannot, cannot do a single thing;
I’m happy as can be.
The thought of heaven often makes men sing
My goodness! Lucky me!
 
The Lord protects me all the while.
Tho’ He cuddles me if I doubt — and you.
Oft, He causes me to crow, chortle, titter, smile —
Do accept it: He is a wish come true.
 
How much we do both (both!) have fun (fun!)               
After one (hard, hard, hard, hard) prays:
Not difficult, not to me: a v. fit, country ray of sun —
Hic, Lord, what biffo days!
 

Last Call

by James Feichthaler

Like wind-blown trees, their shaky hands seem stayed,
Relaxed and grounded, wrapped around shot-glasses.
No drunken demons able to persuade
Age-frozen bones into persuasive passes,
They stare into oblivia of space,
Recalling stalled oblivia of time;
Old memories, old lovers, every face
A vantage point of grief that leads them home.
Nobody bothers them and no one cares —
Those grey-haired fathers may as well be dead;
Death’s poster-boys, the Reaper’s hairless heirs,
All past their primes, all readying for bed:
They might as well be dead, as drinks come round,
For no one moves, and no one makes a sound.

If Shakespeare Were Amish

by Patti McCarty

So many things by reason reason’d are
It wonders me. If hurrieder I go,
Behinder I end up! Ya, I grow far
Too soon old und too late schmart! I throw
The milking cows over the fence some hay
Then stare into their liquid eyes that kind
Of look like yours do on a summer’s day;
It’s raining, but it makes no nevermind.
I git some mortal longings when it’s time
For dinner, so I go inside to et
Some chow-chow und some rivel soup. Soon I’m
Asleep onct, though the shoofly pie is yet.
But all the world’s a farm und there are chores;
I reckon you’ll find meaning in my snores.

Moneysong

by Gail White

Money won’t buy you the moon and stars,
But diamond rings and enormous cars
And fancy drinks in exclusive bars,
Can all be purchased with money.

The dog and the cat that you adore —
Money won’t make them love you more,
But it keeps the wolf away from the door,
Which is why I wish I had money.

I’d have a fabulous London flat,
A house in Provence and a Persian cat,
And I’d give up being a Democrat,
If only I had enough money.

When all the sins of excessive wealth
Had left me ruined, by speed or stealth,
I’d still have memories of my health,
And the fun I had with my money.

Letter to Santa Claus

by Margaret Menamin

I warn you, Santa, don’t bring me a thing!
My house already bulges at the seams
with nauseating peanut butter creams,
stale fruitcakes and hard cookies. If you bring
another reeking sampler of bad cheese
or chintzy vinegars that masquerade
as vintage Cabernets, then I’m afraid
I’ll use a crowbar on your jolly knees.

Forget the tasteless doodads for the tree:
they’ll only go to Goodwill one week hence.
And no more candles with those cloying scents
that have me sneezing through Epiphany.

I’ll tell you what: Just come and bring your pack
with nothing in it. Take this garbage back.

No Medals for the Subaltern

by Martin Parker

I’m Joan Hunter Dunn, Miss Joan Hunter Dunn,
Hunting a husband in Aldershot sun.
I’ve the pick of the barracks; but all that I’ve found
Is this limp little poet who just hangs around.

He’s useless at tennis and very poor too
At seduction and such. If the best he can do
Is to sit in the car park till twenty to one
He’ll not get engaged to this Joan Hunter Dunn.

So please, Mr. Betjeman, let me escape
To a poem containing some pillage and rape
Where men are hot blooded — say, maybe, a piece
Like Eskimo Nell or The Rape of Lucrece.

Thing

by Tony Barnstone

There was nonbeing before being. Before
nonbeing, there was no firmament, no air.
So what thing breathed? And where? From what strange core
came all this water stretching everywhere?
So dark that darkness hid inside the dark,
nothing to show the deep, everywhere sea,
no death, no immortality, no spark
of birth, and yet the thing breathed windlessly.
Maybe it’s in us at the nucleus
and all our thoughts are molecules awhirl
about unknowing force. Maybe for men
this being is God. Or maybe not. The world
prays to this nullity, Amen, Amen
(as if a thing like that would care for us).

Happy Hour

by Leslie Monsour

 Now is the night one blue dew, my father has drained, he has coiled the hose.
 — James Agee, A Death in the Family

My father, if my memory serves me well,
never contended with a hose at dusk,
but chilled Beefeaters as his ritual,
then swirled the pitcher with a marble whisk.

My mother sat across from him, and crossed
her dancer’s legs, while Perry Como sang
about a falling star. Lamplight caressed
their faces as if nothing could go wrong.

Whether a father drains and coils the hose,
or sips a dry martini with his wife
while crooners from the hi-fi bend a note,
the ease of custom moors him to his days,
holds fast against the ebb and flow of life.
He’ll switch to bourbon when his luck runs out.

[ Originally published in Cadenza ]

Silent Ischemia

by David Phillips

An unexpected death that doesn’t hurt —
cheers! — make mine a quiet heart attack,
cessation of a vital artery’s spurt,
no time to think or fear, no time to blurt

those final banal words, no glancing back;
a gentle bow to boozers in “The Star”,
their chatter dies, a rapid fade to black,
cheerio! — a glass left standing on the bar.

Mount So-and-So

by Barry Spacks

New here, I still don’t know this mountain’s name,
the tallest of the ones that ring us round
with their fine flow that lifts the sight to pleasure.

How can I speak of the mountain, then?
I could point, I guess, say: “That one,
snow on its crest in sun-shimmer.”

At first I thought I’d ask a neighbor,
maybe find a map, so I could tell you
“We live near famous Mount So-and-So”...

yet when has concept-knowledge felt this sweet?
Now each day’s still the first day of the world,
before the shadow of the knowing.

(This poem is in the current issue of The Chimaera.)