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Wild Poetry Anthology Reading
~M~ Steve Williams
D.J. Clowes Lois P. Jones
Gary Blankenship is a retired
financial manager whose avocation is writing poetry. His work has appeared in
several ezines and a few paper magazines in the USA and other countries. He
edited the poetry pages of Writer's Hood, an ezine, for three years, and is CEO
of Santiam Publishing, our partner in these ventures. He wonders if he is an
editor with a poet rattling around inside or a poet with an editor trying to get
out. He has taught, moderated, judged and otherwise likely screwed up his
brother and sister poets.
His book, A River Transformed: Wang Wei's River Wang Poems as Inspiration is
available from Lulu.com, as are others.
Li Po Came to Call
The willows are bare. Iris rots
under marsh weeds and empty nests.
The wine is finished. I sleep
among paper scraps and vacant thought.
Tomorrow I will start a fire
with old letters and new poems.
Today wind and rain shred the nests.
I sleep off sour wine and bitter words.
The ladder lies where it fell.
From A River Transformed: Wang Wei’s River Wang Poems as
is an Administrator for an online poetry site and labor of love called Wild
Poetry Forum (www.wildpoetryforum.com).
Her work has appeared in a variety of Internet e-zines -- Pedestal, Gumball
Poetry Journal, three candles, 3rd Muse Poetry Journal, Poems Niederngasse,
Eclectica Magazine, and others -- and has received a Pushcart nomination.
Her work is currently featured in
the Poets Gone Wild anthology, produced by Wild Poetry Press and
available at Lulu (www.lulu.com/content/147400).
She has also served as an Associate Editor for Stirring: A Literary Collection (www.sundress.net/stirring/)
for the past seven years.
When One Door Closes
The door is round and open. Don't go back to sleep.
You are naked when they storm the door;
I engage in some futile struggle to cover you,
a profane virgin in the temple
of Vesta. I needn't have bothered.
They brought the sheet - white cotton,
meager thread count, standard size for beds
and bodies. I make of that cloth
a sail, set you to sea like a lauded chieftain
on a Norse boat, but ships do not sink
in desert dunes. I give you to strangers
instead, transfixed until the van's metal aperture
slams shut on your story, my sagacity.
Failed provider, I have left you in the cold
with the thinnest of fabrics, no coin
in your mouth. The entry to our home remains
ajar for days, a broken yew strewn across
the threshold. When that passageway closes,
I am traitor, treasonist wife who deadbolts
the door against a husband unfaithful
enough to die. Harbored in my hand, your band
of gold, their archeological find. I swallow
the ring; it cuts through the larynx gone
tight in my throat, and in my stomach
it turns round, full, and open.
Steve Williams works and
lives in Portland, Oregon. His work has appeared in Stirring, Amaze,
Rattlesnake Review and others. His poems have placed in both the IBPC
(Internet Board Poetry Competition) and Berkley’s annual poetry contest. He
lives with a lovely woman who edits and writes much better than he but refuses
to admit it.
The Willamette is mud puddle brown,
logs meander under steel bridges,
their branches swim and stroke;
crooked fingers on black sax.
The evening news gives updates
on how many feet over the banks.
I steal some caution tape from an orange
cone to take home and frame.
We’ll hang it over the bed.
My daughter finds a penny, tosses it
over the wall, into the flood
of ragtime, never asks where
stray wood that dunks and dips will go,
never asks how trees become logs
the way people become homeless,
never asks about the blankets,
cardboard, or castaways
under the bridge.
D.J. (Debbie) Clowes is the
founder and co-creator of Wild Poetry Forum. A 46-years young mother of 3 and
grandmother of 3. She spends much of her off time writing bits and ideas on
paper floating around office, apartment and car while developing characters in
EverQuest 2, an idea of a fan fiction book for the game and genre. She
currently manages a 700 unit A-American Self Storage facility in Bakersfield,
Ca. with her beloved husband Ed.
He peaks about with the wonder of a child,
Resting on a mushroom pillow
Careful not to disturb his manner mild,
Dipping fingers in water with the willow,
And I believe...
Capturing visions from my fairy book
The brightness of laughter carried on the breeze,
Singing songs with the babbling brook
While wild honey drips from forest trees
And I believe ..
Gathering bits of fluff from breeze blown seedlings,
Managing a chorus of tinkling bells,
Tapping his tiny foot in time with my breathing,
Creating softness from hardened shells
And I believe...
I watch enraptured from fairy throne,
Joining hands with several others,
Dancing in a circle of fairy stone
Moonlight tastes like morning lovers,
And I believe...
Feasting on strawberries ripe and wild,
Drinking fairy tea from buttercups
A pristine table, undefiled,
No place here for modern grown-ups
Yet, I believe...
Nodding a thank you to my gracious host,
He gives me a wink, message understood.
Transported back to realities coast,
Never to forget my trip to Fairy Wood.
I will always believe.
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