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POETSWEST ONLINE
Volume XIV, No. 1

Poems by J. Glenn Evans, Keenan Cheney, Charles Portolano, Saktheee S Ravichandran, RaynRoberts, Carl Sloan, Christine Swanberg, Len Tews.

And a special message from John Peterson of Poetic Matrix Press http://www.poeticmatrixpress.com/.

If poets and lovers of poetry don't write, publish,
read, and purchase poetry books then we will have
no say in the quality of our contemporary culture
and no excuse for the abuses of language, ideas,
truth, beauty, and love in our cultural life.

CHILDREN OF THE STONES
―With an acknowledgment to the Syrian poet Nizar Qabbani (1923-1998)

You throw stones against steel.
You throw stones. The others shoot bullets.
Your mothers shed golden tears in sunlight.
Your fathers shed silver tears in moonlight.

Your parents helpless and weakened
Your homes bulldozed. Their olive trees swept away.
You return at night to mounds of broken bricks
and concrete. The roads are only for the others.

Those soldiers not much older than you.
You mock the authority of their steel.
They are secure in their tanks and towers
You of the stones have a different destiny

O Children of Ramallah!
O Children of Rafah!
You who mock the authority of steel
lost in the rubble of your homes

O Children of Jerusalem!
O Children of Jenin!
You who mock the authority of steel
You who rebel against your fathers

Who will grieve for you?

J. Glenn Evans
J. Glenn Evans is founder and managing director of PoetsWest. Has written three books of poetry Window In The Sky, Buffalo Tracks and Seattle Poems and a novel, Broker Jim. Has written several local histories under the name Jack R. Evans, and two local biographies. A former stockbroker-investment banker, he has engaged in mining and co-produced a movie, Christmas Mountain, featuring Slim Pickens. Widely published in magazines and anthologies. Awarded the 1999 Faith Beamer Cooke Award by Washington Poets Association in recognition of service to the poetry community of Washington State. Listed in Who’s Who in America and Who’s Who in the World. Past president of Seattle Free Lances, Academy of American Poets. On the advisory board for the University of Washington Extension Writing Program. Producer and host of weekly radio program on KSER 90.7 FM.

A Poet and Musician

A poet and musician
not a rare find entwined
if these two be found in one
for the same self breathes
the notes in which they please
together as they spin
notes driving right through them

© 2009 Keenan Cheney

******************************
Music and Time Glow

Nothing can possibly compare
to Music and Time in their dance together
Time's face can only be adored,
just as Music is made
and in the aftermath glow
of mingling travels

Even making love possible,
for some who really hear them, entwined and sounding
so pure and enlivening
Time hidden in and painting each note
felt within each turn and tide
we glide into timeless suspension
the listeners, we who hear them

As a whole song, complete
in its painting of dreams and hearts leapt
and leaping, into their arms of notes and pulsings
unable to resist the pulse of All that Is
Music and Time, you define me in my ecstasy
and I fall into you, complete

Emerging from strokes and ascensions of notes
playing games with one another
teasing tones from the other,
beating life support, of starry night tempos
and ocean-lit serpents swaying heads up,
in this shy poet, so head over heels
in love with your mysterious curls

Please make my hair your staff
and my limbs your musical notations
song my only garment needed, your offspring,
these notes linger here rooted, and
I can't comb them out of me alone, they
must be played to pour forth

I'll never forget their ecstasy, unique,
humming me to sleep, waking me to singing
yes, I dream of you together
asleep or in waking I walk within your eyes

Just plop me into the middle
how I love to be in your mix, my bliss
as the sounds swirl all around
in between the seen and unseen
I'll be hidden, just to hear and feel
this eternity turning, veiled from prying eyes
that only Music and Time can brew up
together, and intoxicate

Yes, in even one song
you two make me even possible
stemming in all sound, so infinite,
yet we still know not all that you two
shall inspire us to do

When you create life,
together this world is in a Muse

© 2009 Keenan Cheney

******************************
Following My Lead

Would you take me back
if I asked you to
to when I didn't have to
question
everyone
and where they came from
just to keep my head on straight
to know my allies in this game

Will you take me now
into your arms,
I know they're waiting to wrap
themselves around me

Would you take me forward
with your sweet hands following
my lead
so that I don't have to
question
where I came from

© 2004 Keenan Cheney
Keenan A. Cheney
An Oregon native, she has lived and studied abroad in Peru, India, Thailand, Italy and other countries. A photographer/printmaker, former concert violinist and folk rock musician, she's preparing her own music production while getting ready to publish at least 3 books of poetry and much more. She has written poetry, been a visual artist and musician continuously for most of her life, with over 500 poems, various logos and visual art contributions, and numerous songs composed. She now resides in Portland, Oregon. Her main web site is coming soon, with others to follow: www.keenancheney.com

Freedom Is Not Free

I am the resistance
as unarmed as I am.
I watched their tanks
roll into our small town
and mow down our home
of ten happy years
in a matter of minutes.
My tears flowed
that endless night
searching to find a place
for my wife and children
to rest their heads.
We live as refugees
in our own homeland.
Yesterday, their soldiers
bombed our camp,
killing my whole family
in a matter of seconds.
The world stands aside,
not taking sides
to stop the slaughter.
How could this race
of people do onto us
what was done to them?
They kill innocent
women and children.
They call me a terrorist,
but I, like the French
who fought the Nazis,
like the Americans
who fought the English
for their freedom,
will do whatever it takes
to take back our land;
today I throw rocks,
tomorrow a sling-shot,
someday a rifle and
hand grenades to take
back what is ours.
I am a Palestinian,
I will die this day,
then live another day
under their ruthless rule.

Charles Portolano

******************************

News of the Day

Like any other day,
then evil reigned,
four policemen
gunned down
while finishing reports,
drinking coffee,
at the local coffee shop.
The four of them
together for years,
grown to trust having
faced death together.
Through the front door
blasting a handgun,
a black, masked man,
using surprise
to his advantage.
Shooting the two officers
sitting in the booth,
working on computers.
The third man cut down
confronting the shooter.
The fourth grabs him,
gets two shots off,
wounding the killer,
but takes two bullets,
flops to the floor,
then the man is gone.
No one else targeted,
no other customers
or the three employees.
Someone gunned down
four uniform policemen,
their cruisers in full view,
in broad daylight
down on Main Street.
The witnesses traumatized.

******************************
Long Lines

By day, I sell my blood
to make ends meet
to keep from being
thrown out onto the street
with my two kids,
Johnny, seven, and Sue, two.
Long lines, today.
Nights, I work the late shift
at the Greek Diner,
close to home and
people pretty much
leave me alone.
Lucky to have the job,
a lot less people eating out,
Now my Mom
plays Grandmother,
“Keeps me young,”
she claims.
Couldn’t survive without
her helping hand,
living in her house,
the house I grew up in.
I remember the day
I got married to Barry,
boy, what a jerk,
thought he would change.
When he lost his last
“good” job  at the plant,
he gave up all hope,
acted like a child, again.
Now, gone, long gone,
no child support.
It’s tough, but better
without him around,
better for the kids.
My last good job was
as head billing clerk
at the corner music store.
One day, I went to work
and was told to go home,
store closed, no warning.
Sad, but now I feel
just plain tired all day.
It must be that they
took my blood today.

******************************
The Battleground

Sarah sits in her dark room,
her Obama poster proudly
placed on her window,
writing in her diary,
reliving the pain that
once again, her father
and her were at war
over each other’s views,
a civil war within
the walls of “his” house,
with no winner,
for her heart hurts
that her father won’t
even listen to her,
hates her way
of thinking.
“Stinking thinking!
he claims.
“All men created equal?”
he sneers as he laughs.
“In God’s eyes they are.”
she answers.
“They don’t deserve
a slice of the pie.
Let them work
as hard as I do!”
“They would if they could
find work that paid
them a fair wage.”
He throws down his issue
of Guns and Ammo
and storms out
to hide in his garage,
as she rushes to her room.
“How could I have
ever come from him?”

Charles Portolano
Charles Portolano started writing poetry 13 years ago to celebrate the birth of his daring, darling daughter Valerie. “I wanted to preserve all the memories of the first time she walked, talked. Valerie was born with many obstacles to overcome giving me much to write about. Writing soon became my way of saving my sanity. Valerie is doing great now; she is quite the young writer.”
His collections of poetry include:
Storytelling, 2009
All Eyes on Us, Rockford Writers Guild, 2007 (trilogy of three chapbooks: The Devil’s Advocate, Into the Wild, The Triad)
Inspired by Their Spirits, Wyndham Hall Press
The Nature of Darkness, Wyndham Hall Press
The Soul Decision, Wyndham Hall Press, 2003
Firsts (written with Valerie Portolano).

There Is My Lollypop

There is my lollypop calling me
to taste and enjoy in eating
It is colourful and attractive to my eyes
it gives me a feel of sweetness
Though it is not from a hygienic place
it may be from the hands of a sick
My mind and tongue call it to have to taste
It may be my ignorance of six years but
what sixties are doing
Their lollypops may differ
their taste may differ
Can they exclude them from their desires
Though they know that their desires are not good
Desires and passions are ruling us from that day
to this hour
Layman or Prince
Whoever may be he was a doll in the hands of his desires
Monk or a family man,
His vanishing desires are their masters in this world
Up to His last call
We will move to his desires

Saktheee S Ravichandran
Saktheee Ravichandran, aged 46 and living in Kanchipuram, India. MA in English, M.Phil in Economics, PGD in Comp Applns, 'B' CIEFL. Works as a Lecturer in English. Has written about 150 poems, 50 hubs and 20 stories. Has been published by various leading poetry sites and Ejournals.

A forever ago, drifting in a day dream
He dropped time on a heavenly sidewalk

Like a hairpin,

Searched himself, the whole realm
But couldn't find it
And so He said to no one

“What is time?
An angel button,
A demon penny
A useless thing to me.”

But kept looking

Creating universe after universe to look in
He forgot what he’d lost
And doesn't know today, but goes on creating

RaynRoberts

******************************

Waking in Hell

Hell is an I-land
In an endless sea,

The sea is my self,
The I-land is me.

RaynRoberts
Rayn Roberts recently moved to the Pacific Northwest from Asia where he lived in Japan and Korea for 15 years. He appears in print and online in Rattle, Rattapallax,The Sow's Ear Review, Voices in Wartime, PoetsWest, The Pedestal Magazine and four anthologies with poets Lawrence Ferlinghetti, Rita Dove, Sam Hamill, Marilyn Chin and The Dalai Lama. His poems are available on CD and heard on radio shows from PoetsWest here in Washington. In 2006, Evolving Editions Press New York included him in their series, "Illuminations" on Interfaith Understanding. His newest book, Of One and Many Worlds from Poetic Matrix Press came out in 2006. He toured The U.S. in 2003 to promote his second book, Jazz Cocktails & Soapbox Songs and is also author of The Fires of Spring, a collection of Buddhist poems written in South Korea. Poetic Matrix Press: http://www.poeticmatrix.com/Press/Rayn.html.

Alert Alive

My first glimpses
beneath the mist
laying warmly
over this Haitian city
Sensual at every turn
balanced chaos
how easily I learn
to love anarchy
A fluid humanity
when eyes are open
to be alive
to worship the feeling
A ragged people
of soft edges
and latest fashion
filled with lingering action
Lovers stroke smiles
man lays rhum laden
kids make games
of bright colors everywhere
I learn to sweat
the cheer of life
and touch folk
be held in friendship
A black man welcomed
somewhere on earth
with doors open
no backward glance

Disqualified

A poet cannot run
for political office.
He writes too much
truth which can be
quoted back at him.

Carl Sloan, 2010
Carl Sloan and his wife, Lida, are Seattle digital artists and photographers who also write poetry. Electric Voodoo www.electricvoodoo-art.com.

2009

Just when you thought things couldn’t get worse,
the newly elected President, our Great Hope,
began an odyssey with perils lurking in every harbor,
and seas so stormy, no one could catch his breath.

Suppose you were the captain of a great sinking ship,
an economy not unlike the whirlpool of Charybdis,
with tentacles tangling your best intentions like Scylla’s,
your greatest ally, Ted, sent to the Land of the Dead.

Suppose every move you made seemed wrong,
and even your own men turned against you.
Your greatest desire, health care reform, morphed into Cyclopes,
and your only choice to wound it.

Suppose that one by one, all you counted on, drifted away,
and even your prizes and honors aroused suspicion,
your every attempt to restore dignity thwarted by unexpected guests,
and there you were shaking their hands.

Would you begin to dance with Calypso or retreat to the Lotus Eaters?
Would you stuff your ears with wax when some vague Siren song
tinkled and twittered on airwaves and cell phones?
Could you steer your great ship back to home?

Christine Swanberg
Christine Swanberg has been writing and publishing her poetry for two decades. She has chosen the path of poetry because it is a contemplative, musical, sensual, and intellectual art that never ceases to challenge her. Her newest collection is Who Walks Among the Trees With Charity (Wind Publications, 2005). Her other books include Tonight On This Late Road (Erie Street Press, 1948); Bread Upon the Waters (Windfall Prophets Press; University of Wisconsin, 1990); Invisible String (Erie Street Press, 1990); Slow Miracle (Lake Shore Publishing, 1992); and The Tenderness of Memory (Plainview Press, 1994). She is a frequent participant in the Centrum Residency programs at Port Townsend and she also earned a C.A.S. with distinction in Writing from Northern Illinois University.

Monarchs

Yelling,
my son tore around the house
where I was puttering in the garden.
Breathless and jumping up and down,
he pointed to the Russian olive
growing beside our driveway.
The tree was cluttered
with Monarch butterflies –
black-and-orange tatters really –
fluttering on black-wire feet
from the twigs and silvery leaves.

They were resting for a time
before proceeding
on a heroic voyage to Mexico.
Several generations have passed
since they dipsy-doodled south,
braving storms and predators,
unbelievably fragile
over cattle in the Midwest and Texas
to the Sierra Madres and forests
of the Mariposa Mountains,
a sunny haven they’d never been.

More spirit than substance,
hard-wired with hope
they possess a precise instinct
of navigation that sites father-sun
and mother-earth’s magnetic fields.
Their heritable map passes repressed
through egg, and munching larva,
develops in the quiet chrysalis,
and is realized, finally, in the mature stage.
It directs them, at last, to an eden
only their ancestors could have known.

Len Tews
Len Tews retired in 1996 after teaching biology for thirty-two years at The University of Wisconsin. He moved to Seattle where he took up the writing of poetry, first as a genealogical pursuit, believing the most important memories of people are their stories, then moved on to other subjects -- Buddhism and nature particularly.
He became active in the Seattle poetry scene reading at open mikes and publishing. Some of his poetry has been collected into four chapbooks: Family Poems, Dance Steps in Brass, The Moon Is Not Yet and Frayed Ends. His work has also been published in Bellowing Ark, Mid-America Poetry Review, The Wisconsin Review, Fox Cry, HA, Writer's Haven Press's Moons Upside Down, Stars in Rows, Cascade, and other places. His poetry has won prizes from Peninsula Pulse and The National League of Pen Women. He was nominated, but did not win, Seattle’s Poet Populist. He recently moved back to Oshkosh, Wisconsin where he raised a family.

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