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Seekers of Gems

 

Clever huntsmen

who have trained their hounds

to savor the flavor of words —

linguistic emeralds, rubies, topaz.

Together, they roam hidden landscapes,

subterranean caverns of the mind;

searching for deep dwelling burrows,

where gnomes work the furnaces

of imagination, fabricate words —

necklaces that when discovered

in the dawn hours of magic days,

reflect the flash of inspiration.

And as royalty once valued

their brilliance, sought their possession,

so too do we seek to acquire

and display them proudly

in our poems.

 

Richard Bronson

Medical doctor, professor, LIPC board member, many publishing credits, PPA prize winner, one book published

On Charlene’s Eyes

 

A leftover cloud

Last night’s thirty-second hurricane

Faded into the northeast on silkworm wings

 

A perfect beach day

 

I left early

The parkway was a carpet ride

Then a helicopter appeared due south

A second audible in the north

The ocean traffic stopped

I turned inland

To the Hempstead Plains Restoration

 

Goldenrod

Switchgrass

Broomsedge

Speikelets of small yellow flowers

On the turkey claw racemes

Of big blue stem

 

On the linear leaves

Of endangered sandplain gerardia

A chrome raindrop

In its white walls a blue skyscraper

Blue granite

Bedrock

 

Andropogon gerardi/Big Bluestem/Turkey Foot

 

Edgar Carlson

Student of William Packard and John Ashberry, member of the Farmingdale writer’s group

SHORT POEMS

 

GATED COMMUNITIES

A SAFE PLACE

TO HIDE

 

 

GOOD

AT MORE THAN ONE THING

PUNISHED

 

 

TIDY FEELINGS

NEAT MANICURED LAWNS

VERY SCARED

 

 

DIDN’T MAKE A MISTAKE

I AM A MISTKE

QUIET DESPERATION

 

 

INTOXICATING BEAUTY

A SIX PACK

IS THE FOOT IN THE DOOR

 

 

KNOWING THE SCRIPT

I DIDN’T ASK

TO BE BORN AT THE END

 

 

LITTLE BAGS OF SKIN

DRAG AROUND

DREARY LITTLE EGOS

 

 

RESEARCH

ABSORB WHAT IS USEFUL

ADD WHAT IS YOURS

 

TONY BELLIZZI (AKA ZERO GRAVITY)

performance artist, workshop leader, founder of  “The Vault”, an underground performance project

October

 

I watch the young men

running through the woods

caught in the sunlight

between child and adult

and I think we forgive them so much

because we know they may die

as they follow our leaders

and I want time to stand still

until we can change it

stop the wars

save the world

and make it safe for them

so that this golden afternoon

can last — perhaps — forever

 

B. J. Cassidy

PPA award winner, one chapbook published “Cat City”, reads on the CD “Jack Celebrates Northport”

Performance Poets Association®

Fugue

 

 

My brother came to me in a dream

not long ago, walking amongst the rushes

by the river near our childhood home.

He introduced me to his dark wives

with whom I danced.

 

And they led me to a place

where my father was not declared essential to the community,

but remained in the Medical Corps during the War

and afterwards, became an orthopedic surgeon,

not a GP who would die

a premature death from overwork.

 

And my mother did not become pregnant

early in her marriage,

resign from New York Law

but became a prosecutor,

when women were housewives.

 

My sister-in-law did not win the election

that made her County Legislator,

but stayed home with her family;

and my brother not stray,

find solace in other women,

then divorce and die an angry death.

 

They showed me a world of possibility

one of many stretching before me

as when one gazes

between parallel mirrors and sees

oneself perpetuated again and again

to a distant vanishing point.

 

                                                                                                      Richard Bronson