Five Poems by Daniel P. Stokes

 

     

THROUGH A WINDOW

A ship on the horizon

moves to Malaga

or Marabella

or some such place

upon a mission.

Each day brings changes:

loading, sailing, berthing,

swell or calm.

It has direction,

serves a purpose,

proves its worth.

 

But come the day it’s

deemed unfit for sea

and everything of use

is stripped for salvage

will it also be off-loaded

at an empty dock

and left to rot.             

 

 

NIGHT CHOICE

 

The apple boughs were shaded,

      yard debris fed the roots,

she found on Thursday morning

       a single blighted fruit 

 

dangling in the dawn haze,

        impassive.  Time on time

will failed his aspirations

        till he wouldn't strive again. 

 

and aimless, weary waiting for

        the peace when fruit is picked,

he helped a zephyr swing him

         and stretch his manic neck. 

 

THIS   MORNING 

 

The suspicion you intuit

what I’m thinking

may be whimsy,

but this morning

when I muttered  

flesh was covered bone

without a purpose,

you didn't start

or smile. 

 

 

The Sugar Mill

 

The ruins you can’t help notice as you pass,

the mill perching on a hill half-way to Maro,

today’s our target. It’s not, mind you,

a spot you’d travel far to photo.

The dirt-track, pocked with puddles                                            

after last night’s thunder,

skirts scrub that harbours (hides?)                            

amorphous workshops.

We hug the hedge to let a van wedge by

and, no surprise, we get our feet mucked.

But who’d suppose up here they’d hang                              

a gate upon a crumbling wall 

then lock it. Not curious                                                                             

enough to climb, we concede                                                                                                                                

scanning from the ditch fulfils our quest.

                                  

Presuming that the path will horseshoe         

we swing downwards. A pepper poking.                               

from a canvas greenhouse -                                                

no one’s looking – finds your bag.                                    

Road reached, relieved, we’re on another mission -                    

hotfoot home before the rain resumes.                                             

“Lárgate, chucho!” A dog, tail under,                                   

scuttles from a drive in our direction,                                 

skulks onto the road as we approach                               

and arcs behind us. You take a biscuit                          

from your bag and proffer. She shies                         

as from a stone. Overtly,                                                

you place it on the pavement

and retreat. Hunger drags her slouching                                           

almost half-way. She sniffs apart                                

and, slightly limping, cringes back.                          

We move on with the notion                                

she might follow, but when I turn again                                                 

she’s nowhere to be seen.

                                                              

Though we maintain the pace,                                                       

the rain outruns us.  Grabbling                                         

with your hood, you murmur,                                                                        

“That creature, more than likely,                                    

has no shelter.”  I shrug,

“Millions suffer worse,”                                          

and quicken stride but can’t escape                                   

the scene reruns in sepia

nor the suspicion had I allayed it                            

I’d have no need                                                          

to ply it into verse.

Separate Dreams 

 

A kiss upon the cheek. I hear the door close.                                 

Footsteps crunch the gravel to the gate.                 

I hang my apron on the door hook                                                        

and bring a glass of Chablis to the couch.              

 

Knowing, as a girl, I had potential                                      

sufficed me. To pursue the perks                              

it promised, too much bother.                                            

Yet waited, as of right, for them to show.                            

Dreams, unlike goals, are fate’s                                                                     

to fashion. And, if they’re not,                                                                                      

we’re spared the effort to employ them,                            

free, when fancy takes us,                                                

to envision them fulfilled.                                           

                 

                         **

                                                                                         

Tonight’s contentious twaddle

is gay marriage. Queried,       

I shrug, as if it’s beyond me, unfold

a borrowed Herald and reorder.                                          

When I go home at half past nine                               

I’ll boil the kettle and watch                                           

whatever she is watching on the box.                                

Then go to bed together and,                                                        ,  

back to back, dream separate dreams                               

that neither needs to share.                                           

 

                                                                

                                                                

 

Daniel P. Stokes has published poetry widely in literary magazines in Ireland, Britain, the U.S.A, Canada and Asia, and has won several poetry prizes. He has written three stage plays which have been professionally produced in Dublin, London and at the Edinburgh Festival.

 

 

 

 

Two Poems by Chris Bunton

 

The Dungeons of King Ropert

Cells in the dank dark deep,
under the castle walls.
Where the enemies of
Ropert weep and spew hate.

Villainous men of rape.
Murderers of the night.
Rangers betrayed by friends,
Soldiers who fled the fight.

Monsters of twisted guise.
A centaur with goat eyes,
chained by his horse’s hooves,
product of evil spells.

The satyr bleats for food,
wine and maiden’s soft.
Locked up for freedom
and political talk.

The giant in the stocks,
stole Ropert’s private flock
to feed his growing kids.
Children of the fallen.

The Dwarf named Ichabod,
refused to pay his tax.
His swords can cut through steel.
He’s stubborn as a mule.

The magi Lord Melbourne.
Creating twisted forms,
mixed with animals wild,
at his hospital lab.

In King Ropert’s dungeons,
rot the worst of the realm.
Mixed with those of his pride,
tortured at the king’s whim.

This wicked fallen world,
cranking out twisted spawn.
From the vilest sewers,
to the shiniest throne. 

 

 

Dragon-Slayer: A Villanelle

In the beautiful forest, of golden glowing light.
The Knight Cade in armor bright, drove his steed,
to slay the dragon feasting on cattle.

To the hills of Vandar’s crystalline lake.
Where the reptilian beast has its lair,
In the beautiful forest, of golden glowing light.

Many had come to make a name of fame,
and died horrible deaths torn limb from limb,
to slay the dragon feasting on cattle.

Princess Adeline blew kisses to Cade,
to embolden him on his fearful quest,
in the beautiful forest, of golden glowing light.

The battle raged with clash of steel and claw,
Cade’s steed fell fighting, faithful to the end,
to slay the dragon feasting on cattle.

Cade stabbed the huge worm, who bit him in half,
Princess kisses useless to dying men,
in the beautiful forest, of golden glowing light;
to slay the dragon feasting on cattle.

Chris Bunton is an artist, poet, writer and blogger from Southern Illinois.

 

Two Poems & Two Haiku by Steve Deutsch

 

Bedding

 

It is long past time

to put my garden to bed.

 

Even plants that have

survived two hard frosts

 

look like patients 

on life support. 

 

Each year in the first flush

of spring—when I’m digging

 

in the just thawed earth

wearing a ski coat

 

and last year’s gloves,

I promise myself

 

that I will put this garden

to bed properly —

 

trimming here and there

and yanking dead stuff 

 

out by their roots

in the dimming daylight

 

of an icy November.

I never do.

 

It’s hard to believe

that there is just

 

one of me,

springing from bed

 

early each April morning

to plant little green nubs

 

in the clay soil

with so much

 

unsupported optimism.

To someone

 

who can hardly

look out the window

 

at the limp sadsacks

of the garden remains.

 

Ah, only six months

till spring.

 

 

The Arts

 

And, over time

I began to think

of the bench

 

as mine.

It sits grey-green

at the edge

 

of Spring Creek,

in a small park

rarely peopled during the week.

 

Weeping Willows

temper the sun

and tame the winds.

 

Last night

the temperature dropped

thirty degrees

 

and in the early morning

my bench sparkles

with hoar frost.

 

The park —

my poetry,

The creek —

 

my music,

and the willows—

my art.

 

Two Haiku

Last day of Autumn

our path strewn with oak leaves

are you coming home?

 

 

early morning snow

deer tracks through the apple grove

my fireplace crackles

Steve Deutsch is poetry editor of Centered Magazine and was the first poet in residence at the Bellefonte Art Museum. He has been nominated for the Pushcart and Best of the Net Prizes multiple times. He has six volumes of Poetry. One, Brooklyn won the Sinclair Poetry Prize.