week’s theme: Cartwheel-Challenged Poets: "Why I Wasn't A
Dallas Cheerleader or It's Hard to Write When Spinning". The
theme is universal. The contributors are global.
gratitude to all who support the MAP by submitting your poetry.
- Games People Play (Can include sports poems)
- The Working Stiff
- Poets Travel Advisory: When planning your Chinese holiday...
From Chuck Rice of Coral Gables, Florida:
the barren valleys
her tender carcass
the dogs of memory.
heads from minds,
souls of bodies,
seek to mount her breasts
the stone walls of their egos
in vain for love.
From Moshe Benarroch of Jerusalem, Israel:
MEMORIAM OF TOWNES VAN ZANDT
winter came early
the world is more orphan
for those who never heard of you.
web-published in Perihelion (issue no.2)
From Jean Russell of Virginia (her shortest poem)
of a man's face
buried among my daisies.
to the photograph
a man who said
From Agnes Meadows of London
want you to ring bells
cover the pavements in rose petals, frozen frangipani leaves
white lilac, and dandelion spears,
that wherever you walk it will be a celebration.
want you to play loud music.
the artist formerly known as Prince,
guitars deep on base-line
along with heavy dancing,
velcroe'd together, skin itching with effort,
that every time you feel the hungry chill across your shoulders that
comes with good sound,
think of me and smile.
want you to shoul up my friends,
them all up,
them drunk with memories and 50 year old Malt,
each one has to tell a story with me as the punch line, just like my
always easy on our lips
we lay on those Greek beaches, gilding our lucid fantasies,
sat in darkened theatres afraid to cry in case we'd never stop,
held each o ther as sisters, knowing that at least would never go
maybe my passion will still echo in your head.
want you to catch the rain from Spring mornings
blue glass bottles,
them up on a shelf somewhere very still
there'll gather no dust,
watch their shadows juggle on the waiting wall amidst the spiders.
whenever there's a storm,
the daytime quiet's riven by the sound of water running,
you see a waving webb,
remember the colour of my eyes.
want you to go shopping
time, big time,
3 of everything in different colours, none of them matching,
the plastic 'til you're all stored out,
attention driving salesgirls crazy, and pay for it all in pennies
they'll have to count each one at a time,
when anyone lays into chic speak,
you're lost amongst the mirrors and the silks,
still have my pleasure to trade in.
want you to watch every Star Trek movie ever made
that when you look up into that unused sky
at night when it's all stitched up with stars
the moon makes you shiver with cold, dead as old love,
all your time's your old,
know I'm buzzing round there, Worf-factor nine,
- making it so.
From David Barnes, Down Under (Australia)
is not paved gold