POETRY 101 (A Cento)
by Jeanine Stevens
I am writing this poem on the back
of a grocery list. In the opening words this:
"Too many stars for our own good."
Empty places of the poem:
arms lopped, something dragged away:
the odor of the poem.
This is what I see in my dreams about final exams,
a bulletin from the poetry factory:
We like our images stuck on with morticians wax.
(You can't repeat this class in summer:
the course is only offered once.)
The truth is none of my relatives writes poems.
A little poem, a sigh, at the cost
of indescribable losses:
fingerprints of the universe, maps you cannot read.
STARS by Allyson Seconds
by Robert Lee Haycock
These orchards are beautiful
But the dogs are running loose.
I've traveled many nights with
My eyes closed to stand here.
The Sun takes our measure at
A cloudy day's end although he
Knows and has always known.
VISUAL DICTION by Allyson Seconds/center>
1525 STONEBRIAR RD.
by Jason Dean Arnold
Next door, there is an old man measuring every piece of his yard:
trees, hedges, grass, porch, & all of the spaces between.
Nothing escapes his long, yellow tape & steadfast stare
as he watches for hours his inanimate kingdom, transfixed.
What appear to be empty tasks are the actions of an accounting
of the unobservable presence of something more, something
that exists beyond time's movement,
where memories repeat endlessly as the present moment,
where he may find evidence in the measurement
of trees, hedges, grass, porch, and all of the spaces between.