Atmospheric Conditions
You wouldn’t think
a city this big
would ever be quiet,
but it can be
and is tonight–
because of the wind, I think.
The palm trees, their lion heads,
worry the atmosphere–
no sirens,
no shouting,
no shots fired,
no fireworks,
no bass(sans music)
thumping the asphalt.
Just
the far-away rustle
of those fronds
and the unease
the wind always brings–
the mind,
the fingertips,
the soles of the feet
whisper
Something is about to happen.
Hour of the Carnivores
Are you real?
he asked afterward.
Of course.
she lied.
I’m as real as you’d like me to be.
I am without rights,
he said
because you’re married.
To a behemoth
she said–a Mare of Diomedes–
Deimos the Terrible.
Who is that?
he asked.
Deimos the what?
A mythological man-eating horse
(or in this case a woman-eating horse)
she said.
Why do you stay?
he asked
Because what he’s killed
and consumed
she said.
can’t be brought back to life.
Does it bother you?
she asked
Not at all he said.
Let’s have lunch
he said
I’m starved
he said.
Joy
Heartsong says Not today
but I can still remember
every delicious mistake,
every misstep made in the dance.
The Failure of Summer to Last Forever
My bedroom window needs something
bright and pretty to look out on,
but the pretty things are all sleeping
or on vacation.
Summer has left a hole in the atmosphere.
Fall’s cold air fills it in.
All empty space are filled
with whatever is appropriate
or handy–mostly handy.
I’m not a patient person.
I fidget and fuss my days
through the other seasons.
I want summer to come back as soon as it’s gone.
I miss it even when it’s here.
I’ve been told I’m crazy and I say to that:
Only the sun and the Star Jasmine hedge
know what I mean.
Men With Character Flaws
I don’t remember any affectionate moments
or gentle touches
between my mother and her brother, Chester.
I recall the argument she had with my father
about Uncle Chet
coming to live with us.
Mother insisted that her brother
didn’t drink anymore;
all he needed was a job and a place to stay.
Dad, you got him a job where you worked
shovelling slag at the open hearth.
Mama, you cleaned his clothes, fed him at our table.
The day he got fired for drinking on the job,
he took money from Mother’s purse,
bought a bus ticket and went back to 7th street–
or was it Alameda–or 3rd–anyway, back
to Skid Row in Los Angeles.
The next time Mother saw him was on Mission Rd.
He was an Unclaimed Body
at the “Medical Examiner’s” building–
(that is to say the morgue) on Mission Rd. in Los Angeles.
I’ve never known if Mother “claimed” him or not.
She wouldn’t say.
I saw the plastic bag she was given
It held a cuff link and a broken watch,
a wire-thin gold ring and a Zippo lighter.
My father never spoke his name again.
Martina Reisz Newberry is the author of 8 books of poetry. Her most recent book is Beyond Temples (available now from Deerbrook Editions), She is also the author of Glyphs, (from Deerbrook Editions. Blues for French Roast with Chicory, available from Deerbrook Editions, the author of Never Completely Awake ( from Deerbrook Editions), Where It Goes (Deerbrook Editions), Learning by Rote (Deerbrook Editions), Running Like a Woman with Her Hair on Fire (Red Hen Press), and Take the Long Way Home (Unsolicited Press).
Newberry has been included in Lothlorien Poetry Journal, The High Window, Creation Magazine, Millennium Pulp, Quail Bell Magazine, Slipstream Press, many other literary magazines and several anthologies in the U.S. and abroad.
She has been awarded residencies at Yaddo Colony for the Arts, Djerassi Colony for the Arts, and Anderson Center for Disciplinary Arts.
Passionate in her love for Los Angeles, Martina currently lives there with her husband, Brian, a Media Creative. Her city often is a “player” in her poems.
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