Drawing by Sue Coe. Used with permission from Blue Collar Review which is a fine little digest of poetry with the working person in mind.
WOMEN IN BLACK: September 11, 2002
Alone on the north steps of the Capitol
in Sacramento a woman stands—a dark pool of quiet
in the sea of speeches and songs.
People gather on wide stairs,
in scattered dots on the broad green,
by a microphone installed for politicians
clearing their throats, eager to speak.
People light candles.
The woman stands in silence,
dressed in black, veil covering her face.
Another woman, also in black, mounts the steps,
sets down her purse.
She, too, drapes black over her head,
assumes a comfortable stance, folds her hands.
Their only greeting a small sad smile
one to the other.
Within minutes a dozen more Women in Black
cluster near the first one, each covered head
like the rest.
For some the silence comes easily,
they meditate in full public view.
Some twitch and wriggle, think of lists,
worry about who will take the kids to soccer.
One, giggly with nerves, whispers
to the large woman beside her,
is gently hushed by a head turned aside.
A small boy in a red 49ers shirt stops,
fetches his brother, stares at faces hidden behind silk.
A street musician strums a few chords, ambles
back to the sidewalk, singing.
Eyes wide and stricken, a man in a worn suit halts.
His companion stumbles on her platform heels,
mutters a curse, grabs his arm and yanks.
Policemen glance at the women, see no threat, look away.
For an hour in the noontime sun, in their black
clothes and silence, the women witness
for all mothers their sorrow at the death
of even one innocent out in the rain
of bullets and blood.
Published in Poets Against The War, 2003
Patricia Wellingham-Jones
Tehama, CA
POUR L'INSTANT
Pour l'instant
il n'en veut
qu'au pétrole.
Mais si chez vous
il y a du soleil,
si chez vous
il y a du vent,
ne le criez pas
sur tous les toits!
Ses petits-enfants
pourraient bien un jour
débarquer.
translation:
AT THE MOMENT
At the moment,
he just wants
OIL.
But
if you feel the sun
where you live,
if you feel the wind
where you live,
don't mention it!
EVER!
His grandchildren
shall come later
later later...
and steal
sun and wind.
Éric Dejaeger
Pont-à-Celles, Belgium
Call me
I wish you had called me today.
I would have asked you
if the gas was turned off
and the windows all shut.
I wanted to tell you
that I made it to work
despite the headache
and the long files of cars.
But this was not important.
What I wanted to know
was not about the day.
It was about the news
that we had on TV,
the people who do things
that aren’t right,
the lives that mean less
than a source of income,
and the star high above
that watches, sorry for us.
Farida Mahoub
Paris, France
& The Fucking Problem Is
...there are far more
bullets
than there are
writers
worth
reading,
more restless, unavenged
bones
buried deep in the earth
than there are
calla
lilies.
Hosho McCreesh
ABQ, NM
from the window...
i see two children
across
the road at
the refugee centre
darting in and out
of guillotined cars
i see them playing
good solider/bad soldier
a broken twig
cocked and loaded
in the hands of their
scrawny arms—
they are fair-haired
europeans
bootless men lifting
themselves
by their own bootstraps
Alex Migliore
London, England
Renting Storage Space
We are renting storage space
outside Racine
near the lighthouse at Wind-Point.
The storage space is where we hide
the things we're not suppose to have,
things they might take away
if they knew where we kept them.
(The cerebellum allows us
to go through motions
we've known since childhood)
In summer
we drive out to Wind-Point,
sit by the lighthouse,
feel the breeze off Lake Michigan
and no one questions our location.
We sit in the car,
all the windows wide,
and come to terms with the heat
and with the contents
of our storage space.
If the Virgin Mary sits still
long enough on our dashboard,
we can come to terms
with the cage we've built
and with the night moths
that come and go at will
and that, sometimes, compel
us to slap our own face.
Tonight planets line up
in the western sky.
The moon, only a toenail above the horizon,
Venus, Jupiter and Mars
stacked like atlas points
of fractured extremities.
The District Attorney
has a hard on for me
because
I live "like a prince",
working part time,
ponying contraband
through rural crossings,
remote and anonymous,
Emo, Rainy River, Fort Frances,
International Falls.
Because
while he burns midnight oil,
I am face down
in the sweet patch.
These planets will not
line up like this again
until 2040 and yet
we lay low, rent storage space,
sign false documents,
cover tracks,
look over our shoulder
and, finally, fix
on the wide and trusting eyes
of our sons
who, by the minute,
get better and better
at putting two and two together.
Our sons and daughters know
whether we've come to terms
or gone through motions.
Next week
we'll plant liquid amber
and flowering plum trees
that can survive on our desert.
Ederica pine is messy
but it, too, can make it
at the other end of this country.
Rick Smith
Alta Loma, CA
THE CHILD IN THE BURNT HOUSE
A child runs
through a burnt house.
He finds his father
charred, dead, incinerated
under some stairs.
He kisses the face.
His father's hand falls off.
With the hand
the child climbs to the burnt roof.
The stars come close.
They tell the child to sing.
But he can't do anything.
Robert Peters
Huntington Beach, CA
PICTURES FROM CHILDHOOD
LIFE magazine man inspects
Row of bodies kowtowed to heads
Righted beside them.
Blind Donald Pleasance rushes
Out of his great escape into Nazi fire.
Body winces as life escapes
Invisible smoke rings
From O, O, O of assassin's mouth.
Cameras pop. Slim-suited
Havoc of hotel kitchen.
Saigon monk bleeds robe
Crimson with fuel. White instant.
Lotus unfolds.
Jamie O’Halloran
Highland Park, CA
IRAQ
The clouds this morning
coming over Topanga Canyon
were a white cotton tablecloth
against big Jesus' pepper-blue work shirt
and
as I left the coast
driving into the hills
the fog lifted
and I gulped my coffee
a - for a change -
clicked off my radio (seems Dubya has decided enough-
is-enough and these heathen towel-heads will soon be a unilateral grease stain)
and
always proud to be an American
I said to myself
hey
I'm breathing in and out - right here
I'm free white and twenty-one
and my precious national security is being guarded
by a soft-spoken gent who's about to flame-out a few
hundred thousand babies
for the small price of a 58% approval rating
Well, hey - no pain gain, right?
So thanks mister Bush for your most singular vision
of
unbuffered
unimaginable
stupidity
And by the way - when you have a second from your
busy schedule -
BLOW ME!
Dan Fante
Los Angeles, CA
I Pledge Allegiance
A hundred times to L. A.
over fifteen years
And always
the feeling of foreign
Like I've jet lagged
through a throng of latitudes
Into a land
of encyclopedic disparity
Located somewhere
between National Geographic exotic
and National Enquirer grotesque
Homegrown tossed
into the Hollywood Bowl
of big time travel
Spun beside silicone breasts
bleached blondes and BMWs
in other-worldly wealth
on the West side
Garnished with conspicuous
consumption and grams
of high grade cocaine
Ingested in houses
that host guided group tours
Where my bottled water won't blend
with movie industry's oiled opulence
Congealed in its counterfeit
attempts at real existence
Found authentic on the East end
Where I can't mix
with multi-lingual incoherence
of a melting pot stew
Fear steaming from the sight
of street hustlers serving dirty-
needled dope to teenagers
And semi-automatics
to Hell's Angel types
Alongside houses the shape
of shopping carts
with addresses in alleys
Adjacent to an occasional artist
co-existing behind caged windows
and 2:00 a. m. clubs
Feral in a savage jungle
Where I'm a safari spectator
Subject to jeopardy in traffic jams
freeway shootings
and Rodney King scenes
An alien in my own country
Unconnected to anything outside
resident daughters and Disneyland
Until an American flag peeks
its post September 11 tribute
from under an oak tree
hovering over a crack house
Tiny stars and stripes on a six-inch
stem transplanted beside
empty beer cans and cigarette butts
Other flags flapping frequent
freeway fraternity between
the BMWs and dent fendered heaps
Horns blaring at Honk if you
love America bumper stickers
Slogans similar on flagged T shirts
slipcasing the fake breasts
Compatriot cats and dogs
dressed in red white and blue collars
I buy a flag-contoured cookie
from a street peddler
Without food poisoning worry
And I'm suddenly at home
Tierra natal, bayan ko, la patrie
(previously published in the San Gabriel Valley Poetry Quarterly)
Ellaraine Lockie
Sunnyvale, CA
Pouring Love on the Wound
Would you listen, my love, would you listen. -- Khalid al-Khazragi
I ask my country, has a shadow
Passed over your soil? What other
Darkness contains so much light?
Do trees dream of bread and water
When women hang laundry from limbs,
And children dream of blood washed from the sky?
Do your kisses become wounds, the earth a scab?
My country, what is it you fear
With your fallen trees counted coup
And the rush of anger in your wind?
I hear hatred come from every corner,
Every direction, except from those who listen
Closely to rock and other sentient things.
Do you kiss the soil to make it bleed?
I ask, what do you want, my country?
The oceans to boil, craters to burst,
For the moon to diminish, a total darkness?
Our cities are dying of thirst,
The rivers are drained. Our mountains
Are spoiled with slash and debris,
The desert is covered with trash.
My country, my mother— is this what you wished
From the beginning? For our roots to shrink
And founder, for our freedoms to fail?
My sweet land, could you listen to children?
To their father’s screams, their mother’s terrors?
I beg you to listen, to be quiet and listen
To birds that leave nests, shadows that darken
Leonard J. Cirino
Springfield, OR
We All Want to Be Heroes
At Rockaway Beach, I am four, pedaling
my little red fire engine
as fast as my imagination
rescuing residents,
faces petrified
framed in open windows…
At Rockaway Beach, I parade
down the boardwalk, breathe salt air
the city gives me its keys
—and today the sun is so distinct
I can see each ray—
I am 54 and still smell ocean air.
Lawrence Jaffe
Los Angeles, CA
The Last Days of Peace
It is too complex for a poem -
the last days of peace
and the wars to follow.
It is not the puff of cloud alone
in the blue sky like a lost lamb.
It is not the eyes of the beautiful woman
watching me as I read poems at the library.
It is not dinner with friends
or a walk on the beach
dogs running through the surf.
It is not even my fragile body
fighting for its life
with the dragon within.
It is not the taste of a crisp sweet apple
or a memory of childhood
popping into the mind with a smile.
Its not watching River being born
his head appearing in this world
cutting the cord and burying
the placenta beneath an apple tree.
It is not sitting in the Café Reggio
with Elmer for the first time in 35 years
and throwing snowballs
in the narrow streets of Greenwich Village.
It is not the sounds of a jazz band
with xylophone, sax and rhythm section
playing outside the Catalyst in Santa Cruz
on a spring day while having
breakfast with fellow poets.
It is not the first time
making love with Ann
looking at her blue eyes
and cascading blond silver hair
and feeling that I must have died
and gone to heaven
It is too complex for a poem -
the last days of peace
and the wars to follow
Allen Cohen
Oakland, CA
SANITIZED FOR YOUR PROTECTION
“War is hell.” - Bill Sherman
The government representative
In a rumpled suit
Angrily explains to us the nature of
Surgical bombing…
How the Tomahawk missile can hit
Its target with pinpoint accuracy.
And I wonder, if this is true, why
Not use Cruise missiles to perform
Appendectomies?
Then, of course I realize that
It is the aim of all ordinance
To perform a bloody surgery
In the field, severing limbs,
Decapitating heads and puncturing
Bodies with pin point accuracy.
The law of war says that
Non-combatants must be spared
These indiscretions but
Flying pieces of
Shrapnel know no flag.
They have no allegiance.
Shrapnel is an equal opportunity destroyer.
Indifferent to its surroundings, it
Will imbed itself in a truck,
Just as easily as it takes off the top of
A young boy’s head.
I don’t mean to sound glib.
Today I saw a picture of that boy.
Just a few photographs from different angles
With no quotation about who did this,
Or where or why.
No finger of blame pointing in any direction.
Just a child, at peace, perhaps,
After suffering through some bad times.
A child sleeping, maybe,
Nothing out of the ordinary…
Except for the missing part of his skull
Just above his eyebrows.
Who speaks for this child?
Who speaks for all those lacerated by
Mr. Shrapnel?
Who will bring this to the attention of
The angry man in the rumpled suit
The general in his snappy uniform or
The mustachioed dictator smug in his bunker?
Will the reporter imbedded with the
Marine unit plead his case?
Will it be the angry protester?
The TV anchor?
Who will it be?
You?
Me?
The man in the rumpled suit knows
That there are no guarantees
Of accuracy once the missile is launched
Or the bombs are dropped or
The weapon is fired
He knows that accidents happen all
The time on the battlefield.
Why can’t he just admit this
And go on to the next question.
RD Armstrong
Long Beach, CA
PLACE as locale
home
ABOUT THE GUY WHO MAKES THIS HAPPEN
Editor and poet,RD Armstrong writes poetry and fiction when he can find the time. Mostly, he's either working on his many Lummox projects (the Lummox Journal, a monthly magazine; the Little Red Book series which is published by the Lummox Press; the LSW Newsletter, a specialized "poets market" type of newsletter) or he's repairing / painting somebody's home. His most recent books are The San Pedro Poems; Paper Heart #4 and ROADKILL.
Special thanks to the Lummox Patrons: Georgia Cox, Greg Shield & Colleen Cunningham, Anonymous, Bonnie Bechtol, John Forsha, Back In The Saddle, Leslie Yeseta and Larry Jaffe. You can become a patron too. Contact RD at the email address below.
For more information please check the links listed below.
SUBMISSION GUIDELINES
To submit to DUFUS read on. Themes: there are no themes (or are there?). I'm looking for poetry that is well-written. Deadlines: There are no deadlines. Isn't that convenient? Just email three poems, of 40 lines or less to lumoxraindog@earthlink.net and please no attachments. Also include a brief bio.
The Little Red Book poetry series is published by Lummox Press in the handy, pocket-sized format (48 - 56 pages) for reading on the go! Just $6 ppd (USA) or $8 ppd (Foreign) from LUMMOX (PO Box 5301, San Pedro, CA 90733-5301, USA).
On The Record is an expanding library of Poets on CDs - buy a CD and get their book for FREE! CDs are $10 USD + $1.50 postage (US & Canada) or $10 USD + $2.50 postage (world). So far: Leonard J. Cirino reading Poems of The Royal Courtesan Li Xi; RD Armstrong reading from The San Pedro Poems and ROADKILL; Mark Weber's Bombed In New Mexico; Alan Catlin reading from Death and Transfiguration Cocktail and Rick Smith reading from Lost Highway and playing some kickass harmonica, too.
 Links To Some Of The Poets Published In Present And Past Issues Of DUFUS.
 Eskimo Pie Girl
Larry Jaffe
Gerry Locklin
Christopher Mulrooney
Scott Wannberg
other Lummox poets
Cesar Chavez Tribute
The San Pedro Poems
DUFUS #3
DUFUS #4
DUFUS #5
Comments welcome
This site updated March 27, 2003
© 1997-1998-1999-2000-2001-2002-2003
lumoxraindog@earthlink.net
This page hosted by 
Get your own Free Home Page
|
