Ark of Loneliness
New York
by Peter Marin
Filing in, one by one,
as if into an ark
of loneliness, out of the rain
the shelter, its gray
emptiness anchored
at the bottom by green cots
arranged in rows, boots
tucked under, men asleep,
rocked on the surface
of watery dreams by a
great storm never to end.
Gentler Universes
by Peter Marin
Wife’s dead of cancer,
years ago. I do
whatever a man does,
construction, paint, break stones,
rake leaves — muscle and sweat,
thirty bucks a day. Hate shelters,
live in a cave, dug it myself above
the beach, on the cliffs, timbers
for shoring, candles inside,
dry as a bone even in rain,
reading sci-fi until midnight, then
dreaming, stoned, curled like a baby,
of alien planets, gentler universes,
empty skies stretched
beyond all believing.
Bits of Heaven
by Peter Marin
Ride the buses all night
rolling one end of town to the other,
up Santa Monica, down Hollywood,
turn around at the depot, back again.
Sometimes they don’t pick me up,
doors kept shut, wait
an hour for another, passes me
by again. Fog drifts in, cold, sea-mist,
buses, lit bright, rolling by,
warm bits of heaven won’t let me in.
Mornings, done, get my tea at six,
kill time till the library opens,
read until closing, midnight
again on the benches in the dark,
the night an ocean closing around me,
the wheeled blue whales of light
my answered or unanswered prayers.
THE GIFT
by Peter Marin
Inside,
the world deepens
into whatever remains,
filled with light. The garden
is almost still, gently
moved by a breeze
from the past. The leaves
tremble, waver, become
the faces of gone friends.
I have grown old at this desk,
writing poems no-one
will read. What of it?
The gifts we are given
are no more and no less
than flowers they spread
at the feet of a Buddha. Petals
dry into dust. The green stalks
turn brown. Plenitude is
still the word I would use,
here at this happy ending.
THE DAWN
by Peter Marin
The wind
comes up, the frame
of the day is set to trembling,
bits of the garden appear,
behind them, a darkness,
below them, an abyss.
Slowly, the light in its circuit
emerges from the trees, the leaves,
the buds out of emptiness
becoming the world. I
watch as always, astonished,
thinking my thoughts, in
the kitchen, at my desk, drinking
my coffee, beginning
another day. Is there
a greater gift? What is it
fills my flesh? My wife
is sleeping upstairs. So
many years! And the light,
brighter now, opens
into all that remains.
HERE
by Peter Marin
We are here
at the end, riding the last
wave of Creation. Write it on a sign
and I will carry it through
the boulevards, wild-eyed
but clear-headed, remembering
these things: deserts, the edges
of jungles, the high Peruvian
plateau where I sat, waiting
with rebels for whatever
would come. There is no
way to wake and find
the garden intact, the oaks
re-greened, the pines free
of beetles and disease. Everything
I love is slowly fading away
into the haze of a future
I will not be in. The blue
of the sky fills me with sorrow
and the seas in my dreams
break on deserted shores. I
watch from the late stages
of my life, building a ship
out of words — to what end?
Now for the street, to carry
my sign, crying out the end
is nigh! Not what I imagined,
a boy in Brooklyn, thinking
the world would be mine.
Reflecting Pool
by Adam Allen
Reflecting on the past cannot show the future.
The image is a false god revealing nothing new.
Fragments of a life once lived cast a long shadow.
But that black specter seemingly ahead
is as thin as snow hiding the surface of a long road.
The past is compacted and resorted in memory
like compost that once comprised the dazzling shades of autumn.
To worship at this altar is to fall into the reflecting pool.
And the hazard of drowning within an inch of water
is a danger as pervasive as has confronted man from his beginning.
The light glimmering on the surface of the pool is really the vital now.
The bridge between its shimmers and the future lives only in the mind of man.
The conjuring of the beholder will bestow no truth not immediately at hand.
Revelation only occurs when the onlooker ceases in his reserve
and reaches out his hand to touch the shining surface of what is.
The Coming of Winter
by Adam Allen
People are looking over their shoulders
as fall comes nearer its dry end.
What comes has little to recommend
itself to those who wish to grow no colder.
The earth glides off along the ecliptic
caring not for things left undone.
She has no thoughts of replenishing the fund
of hope to fulfill mortal longings that still itch.
Yet still her children plod along
into the bleak of the approaching season.
They, like their mother, offer up no reason,
but their blood pumps to face the coming throng.
Innocent But Guilty
by Claire J. Baker
Let’s face it, love,
now we’re homeless!
Our debts from illness
took us down — way down!
No time to call for help.
We’re less than a speck
from the moon or anywhere.
People don’t care, they stare
at us in our chosen spot
for today. It’s best, love,
that we move on, roam.
Yet always remember
that when both of us could
work, we had a HOME.
Driving in the Country
by Claire J. Baker
If we spot road-kill
we want to move
the injured creature
onto a softer bed —
pine needles or leaves,
provide a gentler
recovery, or passing;
make a small shrine,
circled pebbles,
a flower marker.
On the flip side,
what can we do when
we see an injured, ill,
or dying homeless person
on a tough city street?
Down to the Bones
by Carol Denney
it’s hard to believe in the daytime
there where the brother was hit
shot like a dog by the dumpster
this was some serious shit
kissed by some fool with a shotgun
arguing over some buy
people just act like it’s natural
everyone wants to get high
chorus: everyone wants to get high
everyone wants to get high
people just act like it’s natural
everyone wants to get high
right near the dollar store entrance
right behind Everett and Jones
eaten alive by the hunger
neighborhood down to the bones
everyone hopes they’ll get lucky
the next score might be the one
death doesn’t wait ’til you’re ready
just for some fool with a gun
chorus: everyone wants to get high
everyone wants to get high
people just act like it’s natural
everyone wants to get high
bouquets of needles and empties
halos of gulls in the sky
three murders ring Forty Acres
people have stopped asking why
three murders ring Forty Acres
nobody’s dropping a dime
three murders ring Forty Acres
four’s just a matter of time
down here the dreams look like ashes
there ain’t no dog in this fight
it doesn’t end like a movie
nobody’s making this right
nobody knows when it’s over
they don’t know when it began
they’ll think they finally got steady
then they’ll be back here again
chorus: everyone wants to get high
everyone wants to get high
people just act like it’s natural
everyone wants to get high
The author writes: “I wrote these verses after the murder right across the street from me. It’s very dark but it’s real.”
Tenderloin
by Jan Steckel
You savor T-bone. Poodle wolfs ground kidneys.
Panting muzzle, lolling tongue longer
than life. Hunger’s hot breath.
You can hardly bear the dog’s eyes.
How will you carry your rare steak past
the woman who sleeps under the overpass?
Reflecting Pool
by Adam Allen
Reflecting on the past cannot show the future.
The image is a false god revealing nothing new.
Fragments of a life once lived cast a long shadow.
But that black specter seemingly ahead
is as thin as snow hiding the surface of a long road.
The past is compacted and resorted in memory
like compost that once comprised the dazzling shades of autumn.
To worship at this altar is to fall into the reflecting pool.
And the hazard of drowning within an inch of water
is a danger as pervasive as has confronted man from his beginning.
The light glimmering on the surface of the pool is really the vital now.
The bridge between its shimmers and the future lives only in the mind of man.
The conjuring of the beholder will bestow no truth not immediately at hand.
Revelation only occurs when the onlooker ceases in his reserve
and reaches out his hand to touch the shining surface of what is.
The Coming of Winter
by Adam Allen
People are looking over their shoulders
as fall comes nearer its dry end.
What comes has little to recommend
itself to those who wish to grow no colder.
The earth glides off along the ecliptic
caring not for things left undone.
She has no thoughts of replenishing the fund
of hope to fulfill mortal longings that still itch.
Yet still her children plod along
into the bleak of the approaching season.
They, like their mother, offer up no reason,
but their blood pumps to face the coming throng.
Down And Out San Francisco Teens
by George Wynn
Along the Embarcadero
tourists turn away
their eyes from outcast
sons and daughters
with outstretched hands
as if they were unclean.
Another day of
waiting and waiting
and bending their
heavy heads
as if in mourning.
“The locals are
not as mean”
two or three
tell me.
January Nights
by George Wynn
Way past my bedtime
I feel old and cozy
in my blue slippers
by the reading lamp
unable to take my
face out of another
exotic Somerset Maugham
story with an ending
that stuns and open
to interpretation
and a cure for
my loneliness (at
least for this night).
In Spite of the Differences
by George Wynn
A blue mood
consumes me
whenever
I eye his shoes
In the corner
of the garage
rest proud
a pair of wine
colored size seven
dress shoes
the ones
he stomped
his feet with
the last time
I saw him
and snapped
“You’re a lousy son”
I could have
retorted
“You’re a lousy father”
Long ago
I learned
to walk away
and I did
for twenty years
In the Fall
I removed
the wooden
shoe tree
from each
slightly
scuffed shoe
I thought
it best
to donate
put the shoes
in a bag
placed them
outside my door
When the truck came
I tore open the bag
removed the shoes
There they still rest
in the corner
so calm, so unlike him.
Family
by George Wynn
She has a long day
at the nursing home
for low pay.
She comes home
late at night
her father sleeps
on her couch.
She scolds him
for poor decisions.
Tomorrow
she will come
home and her
brother will
be sleeping
on her couch.
She will scold
him for poor
decisions.
The next
night she
will come home
and her sister
will be sleeping
on her couch.
She will scold
her for poor
decisions.
“My door
will always be
open to them,”
she cries.
“After all we’re
family.”
Hungry Pen
by George Wynn
Pen races across page
fills up empty space
when pen slows down
sometimes it happens
The Mind’s Current
by George Wynn
So much is unfolding in the mind’s
current, who knows how
images will flow
in a poem?
or what directions
the lives of
characters will go
in a story?
Take a step
back in silence
observe how
a poem or story
is shaping itself
There often seems
to be at least
one surprise
and yet
one final obstacle
and after the
strain hopefully
a smile signifying
your vivid imagination
did it!
No Home to Return to
by George Wynn
San Francisco days
with alleyway flavors
hidden rats
and empty cigarette packs
trash eaters
and a 60-year-old
bare chested
bare footed
panhandler
with pockets and clothes
turned inside out
with pus infected feet
grabbing my spare
quarters screaming
“Look. I’m not
a monster!”
baby bros gone
by Judy Joy Jones
sippin’ my morn brew
when
medical examiner
gave me a ring
we have your
baby bros remains
and callin’ to inform you
my blood curdling screams
opened heaven’s doors
sendin’ healing angels
to my side
may my
weary soul’s tears
open hardened hearts
to feel
wallow in life
hug until you
can hug no mo
give like
you never did before
make each soul
you meet
believe they are
god’s finest masterpiece
luv like each second’s
your last
morrows not promised
you know
and only our love remains
only our love remains
only our luv remains
little bro
i luv you