The Eyes
February 2019
#122
The Eyes
The eyes have it!
They always do
They raise their brows
and take their bows
then shake away the strand of hair
that gets itself to into the air
in front of you
obscuring the view
They set that pose
Look down their nose
which detects the smell
of something not well.
It's the open maw
that gapes in awe
then down further south
below that mouth
there is the chin
Awful horrid holding in
and sticking out
when the lout
tries to hide the scrawny neck
or - - what the heck
Is that the real reason why
blokes must always wear a tie?
Dave Chambers
Newham Writers Workshop
The Eyes
The eyes, what do I see in them? Those windows to the soul? I see the lights of the brightest stars, shining away and they make me so happy, I feel like crying. I see two bright, sparkling jewels, be they emerald, sapphire or amber and it pains me to turn away. Those eyes, they are like two bright sparks, two shiny gateways to the potential that lies within. When I look into those eyes, I can hear a little voice from within, the voice of emotion. It is like the weather, unpredictable, ever-changing and I can see all of these things in those eyes. I don't want to turn away but inevitably, I shall have to and right away, I see a river about to burst its banks and hear that little voice pleading me not to go. Not to worry, I will be back soon to see the little rays of sunshine in those eyes, some day.....
Michael Bungay
Stevenage Survivors
Mi Canto Pa’ Cordell
Mi poema es pa’ un viejo compañero Cordell Reagon
Nuestra cultura, nuestro espíritu colectivo
Y las semillas de SNCC Freedom Singers
Que cantó para el derecho de votar
Y la miseria y la injusticia
En el Sur y en el Norte
A los que hablan siempre sin practicar democracia
Hoy como ayer la lucha dura en los 60 hasta los 90
Un tiempo pa’ ser libre
Sobre derecho humano
El hermano Cordell era un bebé en el movimiento de SNCC
Era mi hermano
Con una gran estrella en frente del monstruo
Que luchó cada día por los obreros y los sindicatos
Todas las frutas de la vida, una gran esperanza
Y canto, el que cree en libertad no puede a descansar
La Guerra es cada minute contra el pueblo
Como una timba yo amo las hojas sagradas en la tierra
El que lucha a un nuevo camino pa’l mundo
Cordell Reagon está presente, la Voz del Pueblo
P’alante
My Song For Cordell
My poem is for an old partner Cordell Reagon
Our culture, our collective spirit
And the seeds of SNCC Freedom Singers
Who sang for the right to vote
And misery and injustice
In the South and in the North
To those who always speak without practicing democracy
Today as yesterday the fight lasts in the 60s to the 90s
A time to be free
About human rights
Brother Cordell was a baby in the movement of SNCC
He was my brother
With a big star in front of the monster
That he fought every day for the workers and the unions
All the fruits of life, a great hope
And singing, the one who believes in freedom cannot rest
The War is every minute against the people
Like a timba I love the sacred leaves on earth
He who struggles to a new path for the world
Cordell Reagon, presente, the voice of the people
P'alante
© Carlos Raúl Dufflar 2/22/19
The Bread is Rising Poetry Collective
In The Eyes Of Memory
Sepia-toned photographs
Arranged card-sized
one large, two smaller
pick any
Memories not ready to fade of
Myself or Mamy
ambling down the block
Remnants of long-gone architecture
I hold on to them in boxes and books
Some recuerdos have perforated edges
The housing project and the
shell of the old medicine factory
are all that remains of this
corner of the four streets
I remember
The old buildings looked forlorn
Better that than the forlorn reality
of who is no longer there
(c) 23 February 2019 Ángel L. Martínez
The Bread is Rising Poetry Collective
The Merman And The Lady
A merman looked up from the depths of the ocean.
His weary green eyes rested upon
The winking slipper of a lady.
A merman looked up from his game of chess with Triton,
Listening to the jarring twang of the foreign
Lady’s laughter.
The tavern was shadowed and smelled of cockles
And stolen Japanese harpoons.
The whalers drank ale with trepidation,
For the morning would take them out into the ocean.
A lady glanced from her balcony
At the merman leaving the water.
She looked again through her father’s monocle.
A lady hurried towards the shore,
Wishing to protect the merman from the villagers.
Her kimono caught on a gnarled tree root and she fell.
The tavern was closing
And the moon was descending over the golden mountain,
The whalers stumbled home to bed.
A merman followed the whaling vessel,
Hoping to find the foreign lady.
A merman was seen by the village elder’s daughter
As he stumbled out of the surf.
The whaling vessel hit the kraken
That had risen to view the sunrise.
Harpoons rained down on the giant creature,
Alerting the mermen by the crimson blood
That spilled and coagulated in the icy waters.
A Siberian trawler also ran aground.
The foreign lady was flung into the ocean.
Instead of finding the foreign lady,
The merman decided to stay in the village.
With some dry blankets and a good night’s rest,
His tail disappeared.
© Gail Campbell
The Eyes
Light bulb - the old ones
A halo, rainbow colour
Circled in circumference
I laughed, I thought funny
I asked others if they saw it,
They thought me mad,
They couldn’t see it.
All evening, my head was tilted,
So much pain, headaches.
The next day, the GP I went to see -
He sent me to the hospital-
Glaucoma he thought, he was right,
I became scared, the eye pressures
Were up, I was diagnosed-
Operations needed, if not,
Blind in 6 months.
This was the beginning of my eye fear.
I never laughed at the halo again, but
I did write about it in the form of a poem -
It was published in the States -
It sits in an anthology, in the library
Of Congress.
That was in the early 1990s.
I have my moments, The senses,
The sight problems -
The moments of sight,
Of blindness, the pain - redness -
Light sensitivity- many problems -
But -
Thinking - eyes are the windows of my life -
They see - sometimes little -
They work with my brain - the words of truth,
The sketches they try to draw -
Eyes they sometimes have tears -
Without them - even if I only sometimes see
Shades - shadows -
I would be blind -
I am blind in my right eye,
My left eye seems to be following -
I don’t want to totally go blind -
But if I do -
I must delegate-
I must stay positive -
And do my best -
(C) Josie Lawson 6/02/2019 All Rights Reserved
GROW
Smoke Rings In Jersey
The soldier
stubbed out the cigarette
with the heel of his face
reflecting boots and quietly
watched the boy; shoulders hunched,
holes in the elbows of his jumper,
a cane fishing rod in his hand and
eyes fixated on the water
just occasionally the eyes focused
on a single piece of flotsam, but not
once did the boy turn his head and
meet the eyes of the soldier; who
by now had moved to within six feet
of his side. “Are they biting today?”
The boy
remained silent. “ I have a boy back home,
he likes fishing too. We used to go together,
but now he also fishes alone.
May I sit?” The boy shifted slightly,
appearing a little uneasy
“I’m supposed to hate you.”
The soldier
remained impassive except
for a sharpness of pain in his
blue eyes and an escaping
sadness of a drawn out sigh.
But it didn’t escape the boy,
who raised his head a little.
“What’s your boy’s name?”
“Gunter,
his name is Gunter, after my father.
And your name?” The boy lowered
his head again. “Do you miss him?
My father is away; he can’t come back
to the island, because you are here.
That is why I am supposed to hate you.”
The soldier
sat down beside the boy,
his long legs reaching down
the harbour wall. Heedfully he lit
a cigarette and with practised ease
blew smoke rings into the air
between them. “Yes I miss him.
It is hard no, to be separated.”
The boy
followed the smoke rings
with eyes as grey as the sea;
till they disappeared into a nothingness.
Is that what hate is; a nothingness?
“It’s Alan”
the boy responded,
slipping the fishing rod
into the soldiers free hand.
Not a fish was caught; in
that tangible afternoon,
when son and father
sat on the quayside, eyes
levelled on the horizon,
sharing the loneliness
and distance of war.
Jan Hedger
WOW
Keys On The Hall Table
Mirror, mirror on the wall
Do you reflect the real me?
Mirror, mirror on the wall
Or is it I reflecting you?
Glass, silver painted
Whole and ornate
China doll; cracked,
In mind and body
Eyes that never close,
But do not see
Rivulets of red
Tracking my cheeks
A cosmetic face
Blue eyes smudged
Dashed with black
Painted; with,
False impressionism
Plumped up lips
Fresh from the fist.
Mirror, mirror on the wall
Hold a broken reflection
For this image is fading
The stronger woman
Is whole.
Jan Hedger
WOW
The Arrangement
His fingers caught in the tresses of her hair,
As he whirled her - high in the dance.
His dark, deep set eyes held possessiveness.
The intensity of her eyes flashed defiance.
He would not be denied;
She would not be promised.
As the music lifted, his arm
Tightened around her belted waist,
Slender - against the breadth of him.
The light from the all-consuming fire
Reflected lambent upon her wilful face,
But it did not diffuse the anger there.
Dust swirled in the charged air as the beat
Intensified its pace; the notes hypnotic
The deftness of their feet tracing a path
Of pre-determined destiny.
Palm to palm, the onlookers encircled the pair,
Knowledge and tradition uniting their eyes,
In the taming of the child.
The strings of the fiddle pulsated
In response to the travelling bow
Enrapturing, capturing the girl with its spell.
As the sweat emerged in silver beads,
Upon his brow, he pulled her in
To the aroma of his manly scent.
Intoxicating her senses, quickening the blood
That flowed through the chambers of her heart;
Infusing her cheeks with a blush of softness.
His rough hands – instinctual - felt the burning passion,
That mirrored his bodies own needs and desires.
Detecting the change, he halted in his step,
And met the full force of a woman’s eyes.
Coquettish - she loosened the red cotton twill
He wore knotted about his neck - tantalisingly,
Feeling its coarseness - running through her,
Soft velvety fingertips. She was his.
The music slowed - became still - as the evening’s breath.
In one body, the onlookers retreated to their beds;
Consigning the embers to shift and settle within the dying fire.
Jan Hedger
WOW
In Side Sights
Bloodshot vision blinking lights flashing
Twofaced speed faster roller cast
Kung Fu moved dangerous grounds
Beacon star behind scenes insight
Coastal scents scenery breath gaps
Third eye grounds pepper shakers mirror
Shadows lens scopic detection shock
Blindfolded instincts direction
On spot colour flame sparks fly back
Clothes shunned on seeing
Eat what was seen by attractions
Sights sounds 3rd ear drum drums beat
Produced insight predilections
John Joseph Sheehy