the blind ghost

March 31, 2010

The hand of the sea-ape
is white
is cold
It blesses thieves
The fingers hold stones
The fingers touch fire
The fingers conceive the daughter
In the darkness
the sea-ape carries lamps
called moons
My heart stinks in its summer bandages
I follow
past the dog who guards
past the rat who gnaws
past the eunuch who kills
I open the herculean box
I set fire to the houses
I laugh at the king
I destroy the beds
I am the slave ship
I lie face down in the church
I sew with biblical needles
I grieve indifferently
glutted with stars
a black beginner

Penelope Shuttle


March 28, 2010

Silence is a darkened room, where tapes unravel
And life plays a rerun.

Silence stretches like white sand,
It goes on for miles.
Immaculate seagulls pick a salt edge
My eyes sting,
And I raise a question –
Is there really a place
To which you’ve gone?

Silence is a darkened room
Where tapes unravel,
And life plays a rerun.

I gave you chrysanthemums.
Their heads cushions around which
I placed my palms.

Touching them like your head
Fragile as a shell
In the hospital bed that night.

The flowers were a small fire,
Reminding me of your garden,
The rusted shed,
The sound of you snipping stems,
Rustling newspaper and chrysanthemums.
Their smell, occasions of life and death
And mixtures of both, potent
As the lozenges
Which you kept in your pocket
In a tin, its lid
Now closed.

Silence is a darkened room,
Tapes unravel.

Silence goes on.
It’s like a yawn, I cannot break,
Or a stone, I will to speak.
I thought it answered me.
I heard a burble,
A sound like words,
And looking up saw a dazzling surge –
Water like a white tongue,
Lick a slope.
Evening sun caught one drop

Splintered light into seven
Like the seven deadly sins
That once severed every nerve
Till I was piece packed,
Remembering only,
It was dark for some time after that.

Now thinking of that Eden,
And the half lit corner of the garden
Where I first saw you.
Damp as avocado flesh
Dark as its skin, waiting.
I remember how desire came to flower
And dances on hot coals
Later, celebrations tense
And silence.

Life plays a rerun.

I cup water from this fall.
In my hand, it is harmless and contained,
Becomes a mirror,
The eye of a god who is not cruel
Only truthful.
Imposing itself for a short time
Like the footprints of a sandpiper
That come, brief as a day
And are soon gone,
Leaving the mud, smooth as marble again.

Silence has walled me
And is the darkened room
Where tapes unravel and life plays a rerun.
But a sorting occurs,
And tomorrow, has words.

After Snowfall

March 27, 2010

In night’s stillness
snow falls on snow bright
and creaks underfoot.

Night dark of winter
sees light in splintered shards
falling from stars

Tonight the sky is heavy, snow-still
I will sleep once below a time
until embraced by dawn light.

Roost, raven, roost well.
Seek your dark sanctuary.
Then owl will seek mouse
in the worm-wood.
Hear the cry of the dog fox
as light shades over the pale horizon.
Birds will sing, striking eerie notes
in the pale shadows of morning.

My eyes crawl out of sleep
and outside the snow
rolls over hedges, rooftops.
I will rise to see the sky
above the wind-blown trees,
each crocus on the ground
staying firm
against the frosty blast.
The air is calmed by the scent of morning.

Time to think and time to be,
to make minor adjustments to my dress,
knot my tie firmly, wear my hat
slightly askew, as today
might be the day my life is flipped over
like a coin; heads today you will not lose.

Today, a precious gem held to the light.
Rhythms which dance like sunlight
on the window.
A tango by lovers on each pane.
Today the beginning of a thousand tomorrows.

Even as I write
noon steals upon me.
Interminable rain
will wash away the snow
not before it is a blackened sludge
pitted with puddles.
I venture out, my shoes soon fill,
watery landscape, roads and paths
covered in damp slurry.
I buy cigarettes, milk, bread,
return to a feast
of beans on toast and coffee,
the morning lost and gone
fumbling on my old typewriter.

I venture out
get as far as the bus stop
then change my mind.
The effort of plodding
through this wet snow
rain on my face
is too much.

Seagulls soar past my window
arching and gliding
ready to scavenge.
One perches, lone on a roof edge, alert,
glancing this way and that.

Half past three
seems later in the dullness
of mid afternoon.
Snow falls alternately with rain.
Slow comes the evening
with a promise of sleep
in which dreams are made
in gossamer tinselled webs.
Moving pictures
that tell our stories.

Kath Shaw

Thanks to a bizarre sexual phobia, sex in the great outdoors is the ONLY place Danielle can do it…

“It’s not like I haven’t tried. I just can’t do it indoors without freaking out. I feel like I’m being choked and about to pass out.

“But sex on the forest floor with the sweet smell of pine cones is a real buzz.

“Up against a tree is good too – but I’ve scratched my back on the bark a few times!”


“A US man tried to sell his son online for $5,000.

The unnamed man – who left an advert on Craigslist, a local classifieds website – said he was putting his four-year-old son up for sale because he had run out of child care options.

The Spokane County Sheriff Department in Washington believes the advertisement is real and are currently trying to track down the father who set an asking price of $5,000.



March 25, 2010

I ripped them off
one at a time,
layer after layer
of identities
woven into the fabric of my being
since birth.
And each time I thought
I had stripped to the core
there was always one more.
When will I be done?
I ache
to stand naked in the sun

Ilina Sen

Thought for us today…

March 25, 2010

The scientists of today think deeply instead of clearly. One must be sane to think clearly, but one can think deeply and be quite insane.”

Nikola Tesla


March 24, 2010

For the Publisher who liked my poetry but wouldn’t publish

They shoot
in Brazil

They mutilate
female genitalia
in Nigeria

Blue tongue
tropical virus
crosses the
But you
will not
could not

dare not


The Mushroom Woman

March 24, 2010

The Mushroom Woman drew a muscle from her own thigh
cream and brown
I remember seeing her as she walked the dew
her thighs cool, smelling of earth.
The Mushroom Woman drew a muscle from her thigh and made it
                                                                                 into flesh.
     She called it man.
When she saw what she had made, she wept
she shaped him with cool fingers

these she parted
     breathed him alive

Geraldine Green

Cold Coffee

March 23, 2010

He’d lived by night in bars, cafes
and on park benches,
slept his years away in
a rented storefront on The Bowery.
It’s her aquiline features
that he cannot forget.
But now it’s
cold coffee, rustic pretzels,
and a long wait between cigarettes.

Christine Despardes