ē† Annual Literary Reviews† ē
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Iíll burrow through the mud
outside his window
arc through the air
inside his room
shudder in the folds of his bed
that warmest womb (or tomb)
Iíll explode, unceasing
stick fast to the wall
scatter like dust
spray like aerosol
Iíll blend him through my body
take him in and out and in
make him my ambassador
Shining blue and long
Unroll at the sound
Of a drum-driven song
Iíll eat last nightís dreams
And a fantasy at noon
I wonít need much for dinner
(Iíll be full as the waxen moon.)
Two books published, many publishing credits, included in four anthologies
On a slow, sunlit
leaf-burning day in October
at the annual Danbury Fair,
I hear the electronic beat
and slip away from my parents,
past poultry cages,
stalls of sleepy cows and sheep,
long table of squash, beans, cauliflower.
Through the dust and smoke
of the merry-go-round,
the Caterpillar, the bumper cars,
I see three fourtyish blondes
on a wooden platform
in silver sequin bathing suits
grinding to the sizzling guitar
of Booker Tís ďGreen Onions.Ē
The woman in the middle
has dark flabs of flesh
hanging under her arms.
Below the stomach pouches
of the others, stray pubic hairs
jut out like black beetle legs.
ďStep right up and get a gander
of the Strip Tease Queens of the East,Ē
Two pimply men,
smelling of whiskey,
fumble in their pockets,
follow the barker into the tent.
Sixteen, I put my head down
and hurry out of there,
guitar licks lashing me
like a cat-oí-nine-tails.
Translator, essayist and short story writer. Two chapbooks published, Social Worker by profession.
The moon moves over the hill
like an upland hunter
its light infiltrates the hedgerow
and the bunker.
It comes to a point
tremoring at the scent of game.
Below a huddle of men
helmeted and steeled
press hard into the earth
silently cursing the light.
Further up the hill
the husk of a man
abruptly shucked by a sniperís shot
belies the stillness of the Mid-Eastern night.
Quick no more
his tongue†† his touch†† his tread
are recollections now.
A pencil line red†† oh !
an inch above the eye
bears witness to his sudden faith
in startled death.
Peter C. Leverich
Many publishing credits, graduate of Colgate University and the University of Missouri, founder of a L.I.-based software company
I, your yearned-for firstborn
the perfect fit
for your cupped hand
and your nurturing heart
happy little legs
running up the driveway
to greet your outstretched arms
wrapping me safely with love
silly rhymes, games, stories
and gentle intelligence
ran alongside and then in back
teaching me to keep my balance
over the bumps of lifeís cycles
my exceptional schooling
generous pathmaker for others, too
in need of sustenance
held your head up high
knowing it was our final goodbye
the ravages of your illness had run their course
I witnessed the pride and the pain
stole your heart in my cradle days
broke mine the day you died.
Taproot writing workshop member, foreign language teacher, book in progress
Burpee Big Boys
The words didnít really matter then.
Well, maybe just a little.
You were always there for me,
like my allowance, folded
on the edge of my dresser every Friday.
Even after I got my first job, it was always there,
your solid unspoken covenant
to another time, another place in our lives
when two dollars was too much to give.
Lately, even after all these years,
the words have begun to matter.
I know you can never say them;
chunks of stale bread,
they would get stuck in your throat.
The last time I felt brave
and hugged you too long, you blushed.
My God, Daddy, eighty, and you still blush!
So I donít do it anymore and Iím learning
to find the words in the least likely places,
if not on the tip of your tongue.
Like last week when you arrived at the house,
your eyes shining with pride
as you offered the brown paper bag
of home grown tomatoes.
Burpee Big Boys was all you said.
But the words were there, sweet and ripe,
and I paraphrased the spaces of your silence.
Joan Vullo Obergh
Short story writer and contest winner, many publishing credits, L.I. Writers Guild member, novel in progress
Reflections on a Swamp Maple in Early October
Could it be I never noticed
how her early blush is rose
shot through with ochre,
of tangerine, vermillion, scarlet
and how each serrated leaf
trembles before the winds of September
how that tight August connection
letting go in a flurry of color?
Is it possible that I never
sat at this window gazing
across porch and lawn, ferns and ivy
to observe the twist and spin, the float and flutter
of each leaf setting sail into the blue sky?
Did I never pray at this altar
where summerís curtains close
where autumnís slant light pleats
inwards as if folding a fan?
Now I wonder if our every move
toward darkness is as if
for the first time
driven by the need to blaze, to burn;
each motion quick
and fleeting as any gesture
made by desire.
Poetry teacher, member of many poetry groups, poetry conference participant, two chapbooks published
Performance Poets Associationģ