Poetry


	Beginnings and Endings Poetry Theme - Page 1 Over 30 poets contributed to this project. Read their varied interpretations and expressions on the theme of beginnings and endings below: On this page: poems by Helen Bar-Lev, Tracee Coleman, Alex Cigale, Mindy Aber Barad, Deborah Ramos, George Shorten, Peter Austin, Hugh Fox, Rena Lee, Sara Avital, D.I. Telbat, Thilde Fox, Ruth Sabath Rosenthal Go to Beginnings and Endings Page 2 Go to Beginnings and Endings Page 3 The following works are copyright © 2009. All rights reserved. No distribution or reprinting in any form whatsoever without written permission from the authors. Helen Bar-Lev Helen Bar-Lev was born in New York City in 1942. She has lived in Israel for 36 years. Since 1976 Helen has devoted herself to art: painting, teaching and writing poetry. From 1989 - 2001 she was a member of the Safad Artists’ Colony where she had her own gallery. To date Bar-Lev has had 80 exhibitions, including 30 one-person shows. Her poems and paintings have appeared in numerous online journals and print anthologies. ‘Cyclamens and Swords’ with poems of Israel by Helen and Johnmichael Simon and Helen’s paintings has been published by Ibbetson Press, Boston, Mass. Helen is Editor-in-Chief of the Voices Israel annual Anthology. Another September What I know is that it’s September and a new year what I don’t know is how it passed so quickly from September last when the willow fell when we planted a pear tree when we buried the old cat a heap of leaves a snowfall a thousand flowers a land thirsty to September present now early rains bring green and cool and the roots of the pear tree reach deep beneath the soil, as the tree grows taller, its leaves yellow and fall and we reabsorb into the essence of ourselves compost all Tracee Coleman Tracee Coleman, American poet, is a graduate of The University of Texas at San Antonio where she studied English and Psychology. Since 1996, she has spent much of her free time editing and maintaining alittlepoetry.com, an online poetry e-zine. Her work has appeared internationally, or is forthcoming, in various journals and online venues such as Other Voices International, The Argotist Online, Contemporary American Voices, Great Works, and Ken Again, among others. A Big Bang Theory About being in arms He whispered her name She said "yes" He said "God" Hot, heterogeneous, accretion She whispered his name He said "yes" She said "God" So much time on two hands It follows naturally eyes capturing us on this bank soaking up the river and stars with all the DNA of so many cells strung out so silvery in moonlight eight thousand trips to the rock and back threading over sky lost in a kiss drenched, tremulous, universe streaming into those dark blues Conundrum It’s no picnic at Yellowstone Old Faithful grumbles and burps and isn’t saying “excuse me” Just laughing at the mountains wanting to inch their way over spewing wayward thermophiles Evergreens, all fed up and staring let off wonderful eye rolling yawns of “oh brother, what’s eating him?” He boils. “Mind your own manners you nosey little toothpicks” The sky, amused, playing catch Raven Song Speak up blue not daring to understand magnets or days pulling hands or hearts through sand for sifting paper moon or loon not caring where you go scratching or for your rap tap tapping there upon some ancient shore just explain the rain and I might listen for a while to the falling of your smile into a kiss or first breath Alex Cigale Alex Cigale's poems have recently appeared in The Cafe, Colorado, Global City and Green Mountains reviews and are forthcoming in Many Mountains Moving, North American Review and Zoland Poetry. Stranger at Home; American Poetry with an Accent is just out with four of his poems as is a chapbook of "found poems," Chronicle of Calamities. He was born in Chernovtsy, Ukraine and lived in K'far Saba, Israel from 1972 through 1974 and in New York City since 1975. His translations of contemporary Russian poetry can be found in the anthology Crossing Centuries: The New Generation in Russian Poetry. Attention to Details "What was your relationship to the child's father at the time of conception?" the form read. Mrs. Hart thought for a minute then wrote: "Widow." The law does not recognize three-year-old Judith to be her father's "natural daughter" as she was conceived three months after Mr. Hart's demise through artificial insemination. It was not an easy pregnancy. Twice she almost lost the baby and because her husband donated just enough sperm for one attempt there would be no second. But Judith was born healthy, the image of her father. "She's not one bit like me." Callers to a conservative talk show criticized Mrs. Hart comparing her to welfare mothers who have a child just so that they can get a government check. "I see his expressions in her," she said. "She seems to have his attention to detail." Evensong; In the Garden of Eden In the garden, apples dangle from pines, turgid taste buds tingle like gravid goose bumps on the flesh of skinned nectarines, bananas grease the palms of underbellies, lemons transmutate into mangoes with a roll of the tongue; if you lick a fruit your mind will grow to contain it. The harem heat drives male baboons crazy. Angel fish spear and dominate their mates. But men know the body springs from the earth, decay of wood is principal, that fire transfigures pain and pleasure into birth. Witness the wonder of erectile tissue, distinct on the scrotum a line of symmetry, the brown scar where parted the Red Sea, the serpent stick, the Sinai burning bush. The Boy Who Burst Forth Out of his Bubble After Sheldon Bach He became the thing his mother beheld – a body formed of electrical wires. He is a machine about to explode, a light bulb having a temper tantrum. Not enough power in the anodyne; He must blow off steam in a mad rumpus. Then he is Valvus, "A boy just like me who can turn himself on and off." ON/OFF. Making contact he runs to the farthest corner of the room while shouting wildly. Reaching out for touch is that exciting. Suddenly, one day, he crawls under a table, gives birth to an egg out of which he pecks his way, a newborn, into the wide world. "I laid 'n hatched myself and gave birth to me." No mechanical contraption, umbilical electrodes attached, but a human child. Mindy Aber Barad Ms. Barad moved to Israel in 1977, has a BA from Washington University (St. Louis), and an LLB from Hebrew University. She practiced law, but writing is her first career choice. In 1997 Ms. Barad won second prize in the Jewish Librarians' Choice competition, for a children's story, Hannah's Succah (published in a Pitspopany anthology: Jewish Humor Stories for Kids). Her poetry, stories, book reviews and essays have been published in Wild Plum, Current Accounts, the Jerusalem Post, the Jewish Press and other publications both on and off line. Refugees We were refugees when we arrived I had almost been widowed So many times We needed to be de-briefed To be told that we could Return to normalcy That outside the front door Just moments away Was all the love and support we could ever need Never mind the drawers of pills Medical supplies Piles of prescriptions Lists and schedules We finally came home Those Women those women a little stooped line up for coffee in their slippers while the doctors examine their husbands each woman examines her coffee cup carefully stirs her spoon. most have brought a mug from home – some comfort. so much is in the Hands of Someone Else at least each woman can control the sweetness and warmth of what she holds, right now. Sinister Shapes The trees were benign But their shapes were sinister The huge pine tree We called “big-foot” It loomed over our 5th floor home With its huge head and shoulders The skeleton was a poplar Neglected and starved. Its neighbor, with outstretched arm And knotty finger Pointed the way To where? Deborah Ramos Deborah grew up in Ocean Beach, a small beach community in San Diego, California. She is a published children’s writer and poet, artist, teacher, lover, mother, grandmother, and recycler. Ms. Ramos is a graduate of San Diego State University where she studied art, textiles, costume design and history of theatre. Currently she works as a Special Education Instructional Assistant with high school students. Deborah’s astrological sign is Cancer and she was born in the year of the Tiger, an interesting combination of forces. When she’s not teaching, Ms. Ramos enjoys writing, painting, camping in the meadow, celebrating winter and summer solstice and saving the world with her Mongolian Warrior. You can visit Deborah at: www.aarmoryofaardvarks.com www.stormymoon.wordpress.com Book of Pain Tears. The glorious moment happens at the beach. Cramps. Hot water bottle puts out the fire. Pads thick as diapers cradle sacred space. Conceal. Can’t swim or wear white clothes. Shame. Brown bag full of secret blue box. Boys never curl up in a fetal position. Growth. The journey is just beginning. Steps to a Fabulous Farewell… Invite a few friends. Have a potluck, bring a gun, bring something to end it all. Bring a suicide note… tell the world about your pain. Children cry, but tears soon turn to laughter. The pool muddies to swampy green, but it will clear once more. The cat begs and circles for food, but she will be fed. The garage collects musty dirt, ancient rats frozen in their traps, and parched squirrels thirsty for the outside. Sticky heat rises to the beams and the old boxes. It all continues, with or without me. You don’t need me to clean up the mess. You don’t need me to pitch a tent, or move the dresser, or empty the lint trap. The sun rises. Mars travels its ecliptic orbit. The minutia of life continues, whether I am here or not. Just say my name when it comes to you. Say my name and I will hear it. Goodbyes Sunlight fades and shadows creep behind sterile hospital shades. Tears fall from his unshaven chin. He whispers, “I’m not coming home.” Aged hands caress, her eyes meet his. “You go… I’ll follow you soon.” Shifting Reality “Let go, and I will sing you over.” I loved my mother’s hands. They were soft and giving, like the Earth Mother. “Let go and don’t be afraid.” Her thin body was lost in the bed, slipping into the Great Silence. Whose daughter will I be now? “Let go, and look for the light.” She could see the connecting dark. Her journey began. Turn gently Earth, while the spirit is new. George Shorten Formerly Assistant Professor at Harvard Medical School USA, George Shorten is Professor of Anaesthesia at University College Cork, Ireland. He has authored 150 medical articles and edited three medical textbooks. Since 2001, he has published poems widely in magazines including the SHOp, Southword, the Stony Thursday Book, Crannog and the Irish American Post. In 2006, he was awarded an Irish Arts Council travel grant to study Hellenistic poetry in the Netherlands. His first collection “Low Bed of a Faller” (Lapwing Press, Belfast) was published earlier this year.He lives with his wife Bronagh near Mallow, Co Cork. A Departure It will come back to her bicycle When I am old. For mass days and shopping She placed herself up on it And springing, worked pedals And elbows. She was all craft In her departure – coat, basket gone, Crucially no look back. Down the rails and back door Latches of the Mardyke. Beyond the breathless ear - Better than any beating. Dawn, Lavitt’s Quay Up sailing concubine and at ‘em. Lever the good shoulder on cold flag. Men are bulling the neck Of the food sack. “Is that beneath you, Woman?” or worse threatening “What is that beneath you?” Wind shorn of conversation The red nester eyes sandwich packets Through the crow pack. Larkspur There you are, trembling by the water Sainted flute note, ponying In the earth wind. Scaling Ages in the corner of our eyes Re-risen out of our memory Tiny all conqueror, balancing Just. Peter Austin Peter Austin lives with his wife and three daughters in Toronto, Canada, where he teaches English Literature at Seneca college. Over 90 of his poems have been published, in magazines/anthologies in Canada, the USA, the UK, Israel and several other countries. He also writes plays, and his musical adaptation of The Wind in the Willows has received 4 productions, most recently in Worcester, Massachusetts. At Peace A veterinarian’s, far from home; A back room, antiseptic, white; A table, stainless steel and chrome, Beneath a blazing light. The stranger verifies my fear. Above your breathing’s rasp and hiss, “Lymphoma, in her lungs,” I hear. Why must it end like this? At home, upon a patchwork bed Familiar both of feel and smell, With tears and kisses overspread You should have bid farewell. A foreleg shaved … a needle’s prick; My fingers buried in your fleece; A final breath, a feeble kick, And one of us at peace. Happy Ever Since Cinderella snagged the prince; She’s been happy, ever since, Though her dimpled innocence Has lost a little lustre…. Take the prince: in bed, of yore, He was a conquistador; Now, an inharmonic snore Is all that he can muster. Do her children bring her joy? Yes, although the older boy Simpers like Lord Fauntleroy, Despite her best endeavour, While his brother, round the clock, Fiddles with his tiny cock, Flouting his patrician stock With no shame whatsoever. Then, there are the ugly sibs – Causing trouble, telling fibs, Paying nothing for their cribs And cramming down the tucker. Why did Cinders take them in? Out of kilter yang and yin? They were orphaned; she’s their kin, But mostly, she’s a sucker. Servants weren’t so silly-sweet: They protested with their feet; Now she makes the cream of wheat And dusts the bloody sashes, Polishes the silver plate, Beats the carpets, sweeps the grate, Thinks of her diminished mate And weeps among the ashes. Nincompoops Twins (unidentical), Colin and Clyde, Ripened together, in mommy’s inside (Though they weren’t born, yet, she knew they were boys, Ordered blue blankets and suitable toys). Then, though, an ultrasound ruined her day. “Ma’am, said the doctor, “I’m sorry to say “One of your twins is afflicted with Down’s.” “Why,” spluttered mommy: “they’re nincompoops – clowns! “Can’t you – remove it?” – “Well, yes,” he began, “If you’re quite …” – “Do so, as soon as you can.” Later, by days, in a sterilized room, Clyde (she decided) was cleft from her womb. Then, a post-mortem revealed the snafu. “Sorry,” the doc said, “but what could I do?” After the ultrasound, so he implied, Colin had traded positions with Clyde! Grief turned to spite, in the toss of a head; Clyde, she got rid of, like yesterday’s bread; Then (well, what else was there left her to do?) Summoned her lawyer and told him to sue. [Based on events that unfolded in Milan, in June 2007] The OtherOne [in memory of Chantel Dunn] Both were bright, attractive teens, With joie-de-vivre aglow; One, a sister left behind, The other one, a beau. Both were killed by bullets carved With someone else’s name; One was soon forgotten, but The other’s sudden fame Sent the cops stampeding, on The evildoer’s track. Why? She was a blue-eyed blonde; The other one was black. [In 2005, Jane Creba and Chantel Dunn were both gunned down on the streets of Toronto] Solace Liney’s dying, at eleven; Mommy, voice a soulful skirl, Prays, her eyes upraised to heaven: “Jesu: heal my little girl!” “Call a doctor!” cry the neighbours, Haunted by the rawboned wraith; They’re disparaged, for their labours, Shown the door for lack of faith. Through the Acherontic portal Slips her unresisting soul; Treatment (this revealed post mortal) Would, in days, have made her whole. Mommy swears that her behavior Was as spotless as a swan That, with solace from the Savior, She will strive to carry on. [Based on the story of Madeline Neumann, who died of a treatable form of diabetes when her mother rejected medical intervention in favour of prayer] Hugh Fox Hugh Fox just hit 76, has 105 books published, mostly poetry. His most recent poetry book is The Collected Poetry of Hugh Fox, 540 pages, just out from World Audience. The next one to appear in La Paix/Peace from Higganum Hill Press. Born in Chicago, B.A. and M.A. from Loyola U., Ph.D. in American Lit from U. of Illinois in Urbana-Champaign. Has taught for years in Venezuela, Mexico, Brazil, etc., married to Peruvian Lucia Ungaro de Sevallos for years, now married to Brazilian Maria Bernadete Costa. Territory The few moments in history when the river was just river and the hills just hills, “Oooo, that chill,” but then the (at least for now) inevitable thaw, grass, river-run returns, we’re still divine procreating animals with kiddies all over the banks and hills, before electricity and cars when it was all horses and goats, cows, chickens and always a cathedral/temple/ mosque in the distance preaching THIS IS THE WAY IT’S DONE, still time for skirts and bonnets, fish and boats, rain-time and sleep-time, worn out, fighting to just BE Out Look The green tile backroom (3) walls, and then the fourth all now-ing out on the frozen, thawing, cattail lagoon, join me languageless, sectless, ambitionless, un-serbianing, ukraining, un-mosesing/ koraning into a strawberry- Lilacs nothing-else NOW Eliminating Eliminating Hitler, Stalin, Genghis Khan, Julius (and all the other Caesars) Caesar, Napoleon, Felipe II, the Crusades, the tossing of the Sephardics out of Spain, the crucifixion of Jesus...and all the rest of blood-history, turn up the charcoal and beans, potatoes, hello to the (vegetarian) birds and deer...chickens and cow pets, pig pals, and how about a lonnnnng walk through the endless village paysage of an-earth man. Spraying * Spraying acid into schoolgirls’ faces becuse they are schoolgirls, or sixty dead on the streets again because they’re Group B instead of Group A, while the tambourines tambourine on and the kettledrums cook their booms, vesperine formations of marimbas giving flight to the otherwise-between-storm staticness of the night, waterless, foodless Congo murder-by-absenteeism versus the drum roll summoning us to a no space for anything else militaristic- pacifistic listening NOW * Written during a concert of the MSU Percussion Ensemble.”Vespertine Formations” is the name of a marimba-group work by Christopher Deane. Rena Lee Rena Lee is a poet and writer, the author of eleven books in Hebrew as well as a retired Professor of Hebrew from the City University of New York. Her poetry, short stories and literary studies have been published (in both Hebrew and English) in many magazines, literary supplements, anthologies, and scholarly journals. For more details, please visit her Internet site: www.renalee.net Metamorphosis, Or, Songs of a Worm I. Curled up in his cocoon feeling out of this world for a change, the worm is, at last, the apple of his pupa's eye. "Time to sleep now," he mutters to himself, safe, more or less, in his silky house, for there's only so much one can do to protect oneself, as we (who've seen the transparent transience of stone and iron) must know. "A worm is a worm is a worm..." he whispers, dreaming of a rose. So weary is he of turning and returning like a sort of living screw, wriggling his way through blades of grass, pulling strings from himself, for himself, treating his own body as if it were an important document that ought to be sealed and concealed, and kept intact for some future act - "Sleep...sleep..." he mumbles drowsy and drained, his last energy spent, his thread of larval-life at its end - "A worm is a worm is a worm…" he tries to stick to what he knows , to what he is, has been, was. II. Strange sensations, "Oh!" The pain, the ecstasy, the creepy motion from behind - "Oh!" When was it that he felt so happily singled out? "Out!" He cries out, aching, already forgetting that this enclosure is of his own making. (After all how long can be a puny worm's memory?) He is almost at the tail of his old self, perhaps he is already the wiggly tail itself, of some unborn butterfly? Is he about to die? "Oh! Who? I?” III. When did his custom-made home turn into this prison ? Surely all is not well. Not well at all. Much too small. He can take no more the hurt, the sting, the pressure on every wing. He can't wreathe, can't breathe, there's absolutely no room. A break is all he needs and from pupa to popularity he'll zoom - Oh! Another chance. A chance to be another. A slight change of role to get him out of this hole. He can take no more this squeeze. Who is he? Is he? But to be or not to be is hardly the question when one is neither here nor there. Even a worm has his own crossing to bear. IV. There's only so much one can do! First you crawl. Then, recoil. Then, feeding on deathlike sleep and crumbs of a dream, you seek to redeem yourself, to grow, perhaps draw a bright circle from the pit of despair, to mark your existence sometime, somewhere, between eternity and nowhere. First you crawl. Then, if lucky, if against all odds, you indeed proceed, and succeed, and prove to be good - at least not worse than others - you fly for a while. Never as long as wished for, never as high, not nearly as the singing-bird at the top of the tree. Maybe, she too is sick with envy at the sight of eagle's flight? (As we, who heard that note of sadness in her song have suspected all along.) Low and little you fly. Perhaps the flimsy wings are not enough to lift one above his earthy, wormy past? Low and little you fly, close to the grass, the thorns, the shrubs at most, a host for the moment like a drop of dew, taking a bow on a perfumed flower - Alas! You cannot stretch the hour, cannot shake the awesome power of infinitesimal particles of dust conspiring to let you down once and for all. Alas! You know one must fall at last, back to the ground as decreed - or else, on what will the worm feed? Sara Avital Sara Avital was born in London, England. She always dreamed of writing and publishing, but became a lawyer and "life" got in the way of her poetry writing. After 22 years of legal practice, at the start of 2008, she started writing poetry and has not looked back since. Her work has been published in "Voices", Israel. She describes writing poetry and her family as the two great loves of her life. Writer soft breathing, eyes sealed she dives d e e p into herself through pulsing passages of air and blood past soft pink muscle and deadwhite bone d o w n to that silent place where half-forgotten part-remembered memories and yearnings, bits & pieces of her rawreal self, bob and float in liquid shadow some mute others clamoring to be chosen and choose she does perhaps a blazing rage a sweetsad memory or aching yearn and cupping her choice in chaliced hands bears it to the surface Voice Gaoler Who are you to have an opinion! they mocked sending my voice scrambling for underground caverns frantically excavated. Decades later it lumbers still through dankdark sliding hairy-backed, Hobbit-like along slimy rock, melting at the sound of its own thoughts & mutterings. Hush, Voice, hush your echo will be heard and you will be mocked again. Don't think. Your thoughts reverberate and might be sensed and you will be crushed again. Scurry, Voice, scurry mute about your business while I dance fabulously in swirling skirts of wine-reds in the masked-ball of life, mindless of you, my best-kept secret, kept-best from myself. No habeus corpus for you, my dear. I am my own willing gaoler. One Rainy Morning One rainy morning, over breakfast, he said to me "I woke up this morning and didn't love you any more." i went out into the garden and stood there in the rain i will stand here until i die, i thought But after a while, it got too cold and i came inside D.I. Telbat David I. Telbat has been writing novels, short stories, and poetry since a young teen. As a young man, Telbat found himself in serious trouble with the law, which changed his life forever. God got hold of him and he now desires to honor the Lord with his life and his writing. D.I. Telbat's stories can be read in The Storyteller, online at Haruah.com, Sunpenny.com, Storiesthatlift.com, Suspensemagazine.com, and in the forthcoming issue of Dreams and Visions by Skysong Press. Telbat has won several writing awards and hopes to soon publish his action/adventure novel, Dark Liaison. Death of the Song There was a man next door; we rarely spoke, But when he left, I nearly broke. I never saw his face, but I could hear him sing. Against my walls, his notes would ring. Now I feel lonely, now that he’s gone. I never knew why, or what he did wrong. All I know, is that the halls are now silent, And no sound is heard, but my sobs gone violent. The people come and go, but our words are very few. Even they seem somber; maybe they miss him too. I knew he was dying, but his laugh was still clear, And sometimes late at night, I could hear him shed a tear. He had a year to live; I didn’t know what to say. So, I remember him here, and also when I pray. Sometimes I would ask him to sing “Blueberry Hill.” He would jump at the occasion, even though he was ill. “Just Walking in the Rain,” was another song he’d sing. And no matter what I was doing-- it was the strangest thing-- I would set it all aside, and listen to his tune; I would stare afar off, and could picture the moon. I would tremble at his low notes, and shiver at his highs. Maybe he never knew it, but my spirit would always rise. Yet, now he is gone; I don’t even know where. And though we barely spoke, he gave me something rare. Thilde Fox Thilde Fox was born in Vienna in 1930, came to England in 1938 on the Kindertransport, then to Israel in 1953. Most of her years she lived in Haifa, but is now in Tel Aviv. She began writing poetry when she joined Voices Israel, Haifa group, about 15 years ago, has won some prizes in the Annual Reuben Rose Competitions and has had poems published in various venues. Besides her six grandchildren, Poetry and Trollope are her main interests. Ending When they had gone she slipped out and counted the stones on the mound she searched for tears but found only relief clutching the flowers she saw that her good deeds had crumbled and her little crimes her long neglects had fallen into the dust of the world as she looked back the colours of her life faded the faces in her life melted till she knew that it had been a little noise no more it could be forgotten so she shrugged herself away. Ruth Sabath Rosenthal Ruth Sabath Rosenthal is a poet residing in NYC and Long Island, NY with her husband of over 30 years. Having started writing poetry in 1999, she continuously enjoys the poetry workshops, readings and events NYC offers non-stop. Ruth has been published in various journals, including: Birmingham Poetry Review, Connecticut Review, Creations Magazine, Ibbetson Street, Jabberwock Review, Mobius-The Poetry Magazine, Pacific Review and Poetica. She's also published in a number of anthologies, including: "Home"- Eden Waters Press, "primal sanities! a Tribute to Walt Whitman" - Allbook Books, "Songs of Seasoned Women" - Quadrasoul Inc., "Voices Israel 2007, 2008" and "Writing Outside the Lines"- Long Island Sound Press. On October 15th (Ruth's birthday) 2006, her poem "on yet another birthday" was nominated for a Pushcart prize by Ibbetson Street. For more about Ruth, visit her website: www.ruthsabathrosenthal.moonfruit.com No Ordinary Concretion I bid you farewell, my dear “Rock of Gibraltar.” The prewar parquet in my new digs up north won’t support your 60” girth, 200 lbs. and custom Lucite base. I leave you to gaze upon the likes of those waters from whence you came, 3 muscle-bound men having hauled you 11 floors to my condo kitchen with its million-dollar view. You, for the past 10 years, my ultimate platform for the freshest flowers, best food and drink, the dinner parties, bridge and chess games, bank- statement reconciliation, income-tax computation. I’m far better for having known you and what it took to get you to me: the mining, transporting, slicing, grinding, polishing, perfection, then sold. To think that for eons an ocean had held you, buried, within a growing mound of pulverized limestone crystallizing and slowly rising out of the depths, sea life trapped within, petrifying; while, not far away, ocean-dwelling kin to your shell-housed organisms were caught by a flock of early birds pecking their way to pulsating flesh, pulling the slippery catch out of hiding, gobbling those tasty morsels down like there was no tomorrow; inland, a clan of gnawing Neanderthals straddled tree stumps and boulders dragged round a pile of rocks, the likes of you in the raw atop that—likely the earliest tabletop, your genealogical, geological predecessor. Gibraltar, I do hope someone lets you keep your view of sand and sea, on you enjoyed the very best of nature’s bounty. And if, in some fierce hurricane, gulf waters should rise to you, and through that force of nature, you sink into the Atlantic, crushed in a great mound of mineral and fossil, one day you rise up a monarch among concretions, that once mined, renders you someone’s gem of a tabletop, as once you’d been mine. not what she’d pictured for her son frame by gilt frame filled with snapshots of her son run the length of her mantel his starched smiles tarnish a frame of reference she holds most dear — flashbacks — that same boy a toddler hamming in polaroids — golden smiles so alien to those above her hearth where grimace after grimace etches the face unmasking a split mind darkening hope locked in a place bolted from the outside beyond the pale beyond grim a place where this day that son’s grin stretches to breaking her heart hard hearts & iron will erode hope tarnish ideals twist ideas of noble hateful tolerance blame and solidify the stance to take to attain the state of peace here & now & what state of grace hereafter Tender an Apology I Say If ruminating heifers gathered they might not be sold as prime, rather, they’d end up mad as hatters & burned, or quite sound, cooked to shreds, then canned, would they, then, lean toward the side of caution & post- pone slaughter by starving, in lieu of grazing? Cow in shame you diehard beefeaters snubbing your noses at canned beef, yet relishing every bite of, say, the pricey porterhouse or nitrate-free frank; surely you must know the price some poor cow had to pay.