CYLINDRICAL SEA

 

I washed your coffee cup this evening

on Tuesday after work it waited

appropriately on our coffee table

a black heavy china inscrutable job,

oval grip thoughtlessly blending an

invitation to heft into shadow.

 

Cream and bean juice and sugar skinned

over a sand colored pond on the bottom

willing for new life to grow green,

filmy arcs staining your steel spoon.

My kitchen faucet’s surge swirled

this morning’s mix to a foaming

cylindrical sea, full of leftover life

diluting puddlelike in April

sloshed down the drain

whose catch catches

nothing from rain.

 

Rinsed of such inklings, dripping on our rack,

waiting till tomorrow that cup denies my touch

as a resisting toddler gripes so smooth

a skin needs no scrubbing

by rough hands.

 

I dry ten fingers.

A sunrise drop at your train,

a peck of a kiss goodbye

cools on my cheek

as I grip the wheel

beginning Wednesday.

 

Geoff Kubilus

printer, formalist poet, dramatic performance poet

All rights revert to the individuals published. These works may not be reproduced without permission of the author. These pages may not be reproduced without the express written permission of PPA, and may not be stored in any electronic data retrieval system.

THE GRIST MILL

 

It is November

             I am in the park facing

the colonial grist mill that Papa loved

The sun hangs boldly in the hard blue sky

 

Papa’s dead,       Mama’s dead

            Some gold

still stubbornly hangs on to the trees

as they expose their twisted bark to

           the prying eye of the sun

But most of the autumn glorious

           color is over

 

           I passively watch as

seagulls snatch, steal and hunker down

huge globs of bread through their gullets

While geese honk       rhythmically

           following in flocks,

Marathon eating as they

            ready themselves for

their long trek south

 

I remember other autumns

            younger autumns

when I stood right here with my father

            feeding the bread

when I stood right here with my daughter

            feeding the bread

The golden memory still stubbornly hangs on

           to my exposed twisted bark

as I ready myself for

                                      the long trek south

 

Shannah Levi

 

Performance Poets Association®

ATOM

 

Someday they’ll find me as a little wire ball

my limbs extended thin as one breadth of thread

wrapped tightly as grudged round a teensy

germlike nucleus

 

pinballing curb to granite curb down my favorite

hill off the sharp right turn from our busy street

where my parents’ house burned while I trampled

neighbors’ yellow lawns chasing swallowtails,

verging on ejaculation and fear of fire.

 

An unround youngster still,

a metal marble made of rusting coils

scooting riskily downhill on pitted asphalt,

my central seed dense and gravely hankering

to dent or bust those coils from within on any

given bounce down a fathomless smokey street

 

I go on riding quiet inside, offering grim

gravity through occasional nudges from the heart,

an atomlike emotion sporting flameproof shells of wire.

Galvanized electron orbits seal out curbside sand

abd withered condoms and God knows what trash

abandoned in my gutter.

 

Someday I’ll hit bottom and split,

or be crushed by a passing truck,

or snuff the match and unwind.

 

Geoff Kubilus

POLITICS

 

A rickety bedroom set

            of 1940s vintage

lodges in my mother’s house

            in shambles

Scared, and broken blonde wood

            dresser drawers speak of

a young woman dreaming of finer things

            but settling for bargain basement

because her older sister knows someone

            in the wholesale furniture business

So she obediently buys from Sol

            Sylvia’s very good political friend

Sol gets a sale and owes Sylvia some

            favor to be paid at a later date

Sylvia gets to be a big sister, mover and

            shaker, who always know how

                        to get things done

            And my mother gets a bedroom set

that she will hate for

                        the next 60 years

 

Shannah Levi

poetry therapy group facilitator, co-founder of The Live

Poets Society, TV cable show co-host, publishing credits