Montclair Write Group Sampler 2016

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Montclair Write Group Sampler 2016 Page 9

by Hank Quense


  if we try.

  What if we try?

  What if

  we never had to know of greed,

  if

  we never knew the feeling, hate,

  if

  we never knew the vice of lies,

  if

  we never knew the vice of waste?

  Could

  we finally know to cherish life,

  could

  we really know how to love,

  could

  we only know to speak the truth,

  could

  we only know to care for us?

  If

  we thought it was important enough,

  if

  we dared to have it our own way,

  if

  we wanted to, I'm sure we could,

  if

  we wanted to, I'm sure we could,

  if we try.

  What if we try?

  What if

  we finally had had enough,

  if

  we felt the weight of the last straw,

  would

  we finally stand up for our rights

  and

  say, "we're not taking anymore"?

  could

  we make our leaders do our will,

  could

  we put an end to all this strife,

  make

  a world that lives in peace,

  make

  a world that has respect for life?

  If

  we thought it was important enough,

  if

  we dared to have it our own way,

  if

  we wanted to, I'm sure we could,

  if

  we wanted to, I'm sure we could,

  if we try.

  What if we try?

  What if we try?

  Author Bio:

  Ronald Douglas Bascombe is a poet/writer who has been writing and performing his poetry for almost 50 years. Born in Harlem, New York, Bascombe developed early efforts at writing when sending letters and poetry home from the Air Force. Once home, he joined a writer’s workshop led by Sonia Sanchez at the Countee Cullen Library in Harlem. He performed with the Cosmos Nucleus poetry group and was a contributing writer/journalist for Expansion magazine and Sunday Morning newspaper. He won first prize in poetry in the 1976 National Ossie Davis/Ruby Dee “Write-On” contest sponsored by the National Black Network and performed his children’s poetry in the New York Metropolitan area. He has been published under his own name as well as Jayne Lyn Smythe and Oronde Lasana and recently published his first book, “A Life of Love: An Autobiography in Poetry.”

  Mary Shelley Beside her Mother’s Grave

  By Carole Stone

  Beside your headstone

  I read your Rights of Women,

  your ideas my flesh, my blood.

  Strengthen the female mind

  and there will be an end to obedience.

  Like you, I abandoned myself to a writer,

  my dear Shelley with his images

  of light and freedom.

  In my novel I create a creature,

  unnatural, wild and dark.

  They say a woman could not have written

  such a tale, that it is a ghost story

  I overheard the men telling

  the stormy night we matched wits –

  Percy and Lord Byron, and Coleridge --

  three geniuses and me.

  Here is my book, the monster

  with the dull yellow eye, the yellow skin

  that hardly covers his muscles and arteries;

  my shriveled, nameless, infant child.

  On This Sad Island

  By Laura Freedgood

  (After the painting En Estos Tropicos Tristes by Jose Camacho)

  Only words cover

  the canvas,

  tell us a woman waits

  for her lover

  in the sighs of

  a tropical island.

  We can imagine how

  her head would bend,

  the way her dark hair

 

  might flow onto

  the hyacinth shawl

  draping her breast,

  a shadow

  of calm

  combing her skin.

  Etched letters suggest

  the hours pressed

  to her body,

  the heat of the island

  she holds

  in her hands.

  Author Bio:

  Laura Freedgood has three chapbooks published: What I Would Paint If I Could (2012), Slant of the Heart (2010), and Weather Report (2007). Her poems appear in numerous journals and anthologies. She has been nominated twice for a Pushcart Prize, received an Honorable Mention in The 2013 Allen Ginsberg Poetry Awards, and won a 3-year poetry grant from the City University of New York where she taught as an Assistant Professor until 2010. She is currently a co-guest editor of a special edition of Adanna Literary Journal.

  Palabras

  By Marco Emiliano Navarro

  words complete me. they offer

  windows of understanding into a

  new world, be it fantasy or reality.

  they assist in meshing both so that

  we may all just feel a little more sane,

  slightly more normal. when those

  thoughts allow us to memorialize them

  in a manner that unlocks the puzzle of

  joint universes, the feeling of joy and

  intensity of love is euphoric. a high

  beyond orgasmic, the experience

  craves to be shared in perpetuity.

  Author Bio:

  Marco Navarro has been a fan of poetry featuring wordsmithing, urban landscapes, wit, and sarcasm. His works have been published online as well as in print via journals, magazines, and newsletters. His book, Alliterary Sancocho, may be purchase online via Amazon and Barnes & Noble.

  The Election Olympics

  By Paula R. Zacone

  An expiring term of office is approaching, yes this is evident,

  As candidates dominate the media in the election of President

  During debates and interviews viewers hope

  Instead they are dominated by a tug-of-war with a verbal rope.

  The threats to national security scare us immensely,

  While candidates for President battle intensely.

  Hear their exchanges of accusations and verbal abuse

  What’s the purpose of such slander? What’s the use?

  With tongues as weapons, the candidates compete

  Desperately seeking the opponents’ defeat.

  Each charges another with distrust and deceit

  Insults prevail targeted at the opponents they hope to beat.

  Members of both political parties condemn their own members

  Reversing earlier praise and hoping no one remembers.

  Voters hope to hear how things will improve,

  But there appears to be no such emergence from such a disgraceful groove.

  We await hearing how to curtail the violence that threatens everyday life.

  And how will candidates will reverse the troubles for those who live in strife.

  Who has a plan for the preservation of our environment

  And has more to offer the office than one’s personal financial attainment?

  Voters yearn to hear more details of opportunity

  And how to bring our nation together in peaceful unity.

  Needless are the orations of political propaganda

  And the futile war-like spurs that mottle the campaign agenda.

  Candidates are convincingly outspoken and bold,

  Lacking are messages as polished and profound as many of old.

  There is a need for a national leader to solve problems and be admired

  But these are hardly the attributes suggested by the accusations that transpired.

  T
ell less of the rich roads on which you’ve tread;

  Show us your leadership skills instead.

  There is no value to us of your plentiful stores in the bank

  Who undoes the national debt will become our hero to thank.

  Candidates, please take note-

  Try poise and diplomacy to win a vote

  Address foreign relations, economics, and tax

  With less of the bullying stick to the facts.

  The campaigns have become a war of body parts.

  Hear of the size of hands and ears – but none of hearts.

  The quality of hair and lips make news -

  Hardly relevant to the criteria by which voters need to choose.

  We hear of make-up and painted sun-tans.

  So irrelevant to matters of borders and foreign lands.

  “He’s a con artist” is conveyed in a loud voice

  “Never the less, I must support my party’s choice”.

  Voters question and wonder why the mockery

  Surrounding Trump, Cruz, Rubio, Sanders, and Hillary.

  Being sought are strategies for peace, security, and freedom from crime

  Instead of the euphemistic promises heard time after time.

  Arising in New Jersey is its biggest mystery…

  That is…. where is Governor Chris Christie?

  So noticeable is his absence from the Garden State

  Admittedly, with aims for his future pockets and plate.

  While the victims of Sandy seem to be forgotten,

  The Governor dwells on what is democratically rotten.

  When questioned about his own ambitions,

  He responds with his usual derision

  Well, that’s water under the bridge, he’s likely to iterate

  Undoubtedly, not the same bridge uncrossed to retaliate.

  Did the candidates ever learn or did they forget….

  The role of the United States President?

  Each candidate seems to be blind as to what it takes to lead

  As impulsive insults displace attention to the national need.

  We voters worry for the future of the executive branch

  When a popular political warrior gets elected by chance.

  Author Bio:

  Paula R. Zaccone is a Professor of Education, Health Education Specialist at Seton Hall University, South Orange, NJ Zaccone is the author of numerous rhyming works and specializes in using rhyme with puppets in her creative programs of children’s health education. In addition to numerous journal articles, Paula is the author of a health education text for educators.

  Eternal Sleep

  By Mirela Trofin

  I’d like to store sleep

  the way I store fat,

  on my hips

  inner thighs

  middle of my back

  where my purple bra

  digs in.

  When my reserves

  overflow,

  I could barter with others

  trading my sleep

  for food or love

  blue eyes on Wednesdays

  theater tickets every other Saturday

  rose petal jam on rice pudding

  like grandma used to make

  on summer holidays.

  If ever, my storage places empty

  I’d ask God

  to trade with me against

  my cache of eternal sleep.

  What would he ask for?

  What could I give?

  the 1 that feels like a 0

  by Niraj Shah

  I remember using

  strings and simple tins,

  now simpletons

  and smart-phones

  are wrinkled in.

  Moore’s law

  foresaw

  the driving change,

  what of forethought

  of the dying brain?

  More useless

  as its used less.

  And who would’ve thought

  of virtual exchange?

  soon, the age that says,

  ‘remember when’,

  will refer to the days

  where human touch wasn’t

  a planned event.

  Days of the Glass Nylon Saris

  Francesca Dharmakan Bremner

  (First published in Red Wheelbarrow #8, 2015)

  Monsoon drenched

  The red earth

  Reflects

  The moon

  Catches

  On the spun glass

  Of my

  Orange sari

  Setting it alight.

  A moth on a flame.

  Sienna, burnt orange ,

   parchment white.

  Moonriver.

  The color of your hunger

  On these lazy days

  Of scones, clotted cream

  Tolstoy and Tagore

  On endless verendahs.

  Talking of a revolution.

  Of a revolution

  That came all too soon.

  Instagram Photos

  by e.b. littlehill

  Instagram photos of meals that you ate

  I’m the piece of fried chicken you left on your plate

  You said you liked breasts but I think that’s a lie

  Cause I remember you licking the inside of my thigh

  You talked a sweet line, got into my soul

  Made me believe that our twin flames were whole

  I know it’s no fantasy I dreamed in my head

  I’ve got screen shots of texts that you sent where you said:

  You invade my dreams and Good morning sweet ass

  Romantic, yet edgy, just my kind of class

  You teased me in sexts, made my body explode

  Then left me to wander a cold, empty road

  Confusion and doubt were my traveling friends

  We lit out together; we started to mend

  And then you returned, tempting me with your charms

  “Come sit in my lap.” You held out your arms

  I remembered their strength, how your touch made me feel

  So I gave in, once again, to a pleasure surreal

  I was destined for heartache; all knew it but me

  I trusted your higher self, a self you won’t see

  I believed in your goodness, I went with my heart

  Your kiss made a promise: We never will part

  We know how that ended. You finally came clean

  “I played with your emotions.” A bittersweet scene

  It took a long while for that to sink in

  I believed in the magic of what might have been

  I believe in it still, despite the depiction

  That my love can’t compete with a plate of fried chicken

  Magician

  By Leonie Lewis

  Stopping colossal damage to my mind

  Opening the door before, before I arrive

  Whipping out the silk cloth

  Covering the pain from a word shot at my heart

  Like a bullet from a revolver.

  Putting in the fix

  So that the sawn off half of my body

  Bearing my heart

  Will once again rejoin the rest of me

  Standing me upright when

  The need to lie down is so great.

  Bursting that brown paper bag

  Filled with the hurt

  Revealing it empty of sorrow

  Top hat goes on.

  Rabbits freed.

  Boxed doves flee.

  Smile painted on

  A face surprised to meet

  The magician within me.

  Double Exposure

  By Raymond Sathyan Dharmakan Bremner

  (Ekphrastic poem for the painting "Double Exposure of Trees and Wood", Ananda Lim, artist. From the Write Group 2015 Ekphrasis)

  The trees collapse upon my eye

  And the sky begins to grey

  The hangman behind
me utters his cry

  And begins the work of the day

  As they measure the rope and check its length

  As the crowd lets out a roar

  I petition my God to give me strength

  To fall quietly through the door

  Raymond Sathyan Dharmakan Bremner

  A Morning Commute

  By Thomas D. Praino

  The sun glares off dusty windows

  as the crowded train sweeps

  us in a hypnotic rumble. Outside

  the car houses seem to vanish.

  Only a coffee ago we awakened to sip

  our dissolving lives and slip on

  polyester pants or cotton suites.

  This morning, some prayers sweeten my trip

  Dear Lord serve us croissants to pass the miles.

  Trees pass us too, scantly dressed

  for the weather. An Oak,

  at the second station, nuzzles the edge

  of the culvert, atop the iron underpass.

  A six-foot jagged crack bolts

  the stonewall below it. Slowly—the oak

  drifts past us too. A fellow passenger,

  peers at market finance and current events

  in two-dimensional yesterdays. Buried in the back—

  unread—the section that tells of a Larry

  now Lawrence, and a shy Larissa, now lark.

  I probe through the industrial silence

  the conversation-less rattle,

  the space incandescent and fluorescent.

  I ponder over his printed pages—

  tiny constellations set before our rising.

  We sit squeezed between leather bag boundaries,

  tight-lipped. His wristwatch counts

  counter-tempo with the click-clack of the tracks.

  On his left hand, a wedding band,

  on his right, a college ring.

  Outside the window, the world, ritardando

  for arrival into the bowels of the station,

  performs a coda to cacophony.

  An egret on pipe-cleaner legs

  spears her reflection in a murky estuary.

  She whisper-walks a few steps

  then stands in snow-white stillness.

  Our train crunches with a spasm. Stops.

  Our commute ends. Compressed.

  Another Monday.

  Passengers pack, bottleneck, we exit.

  I stop and turn at the top of the platform.

  Travelers slip through open doors

  dropping their yesterdays in the trash.

  Humanity schools past me

  like minnows in a mirror estuary.

  I linger and stand like the oak.

 

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