Poetry

No Roads

With the roads blocked How will I work? With knocking and searching How will I sing? With a house with no walls, How can I cook Tonight and tomorrow, In a windowless cell , How will I play the violin? And with a wall encircling My land Can my thoughts Fly like birds Over the barbed wire? I did nothing, How can I work? How can I sing?

Alice E Rogoff

San Francisco CA

Alien

How did this world get cut so far adrift across shimmering surfaces alive with spirit?
Lost from love we drift into wars and isolation as though some alien wandering in has scribbled instructions upside-down into our hearts.
Love could not create like this. An alien consciousness has enticed and bound us in flesh with apertures of perception that obfuscate vision.
Love creates only what is indestructable. In his image as spirit only were we made.

Indigo Hotchkiss

San Francisco CA

Spring Fling

Spring nights, sleep is hard. Earth breathes through her mouth, snags me from rest. In my yard, moist coils unfurl from tiny moons, slurp at my dreams. Seeds brought by wind and cats take hold in this local place of worship. God, I can't sleep! I like to think the cuttings need me, restless in their cardboard huts. Colorpacks of annuals, delicious floral cupcakes: my fingers itch to scruffle soft white roots, adjust the fit to a sweet dirt home.
I toss and turn on percale with pansies in my fertilizing dream. I drag volumes of barnyard zest across clumps of iris, lilies, baby hydrangeas and early bloom roses. Never enough, I can't feed them what they need.
In the dark I think I hear slugs, possums, bulbs comingle in cross-species love and death. By sunrise, I am exhausted. The earth, however, looks refreshed.

Lisa Krueger

Pasadena CA

The Field Behind The Tracks

The wind settles loosely in the trees Bringing along the thick night, Men talk low from the deep grass, Pass the bottle around. In sleep old loves stir, Dance softly and sleep again Heavy as a rock from which nothing Could rise. The air of their breathing unraveling To the dust and stones. They open their coats and out fall stars, They live in this world but do not belong. Superman lies helpless in the plush grass, The smell of Kryptonite on his rumpled clothes, With only the darkness to lean on.

David Beard

Wichita KS

For Gina Arline Berriault

In the California Gardens evening primrose, wand flowers, red angel trumpets and poppies abound in an extravagance of beauty that leads inward where silence itself is beauty and in that interior altar is the recognition of joined minds.
A sculptor of words dwells there, her presence is clarity, musical and precise with a quality of friendship that blesses us all.
This is the privilege of life itself and however far we fall short in our friendship the lines that stretch between us are all there is
God is what we have between each other and is never lost
I walked up her steps, knocked on the door and the door would open into her rare air
A tea table perched in space above sailing boats, her head tilted or held in her hands a salad and cheese and the spring light of her live spirit carried me into higher currents.
We don't know what we are or where, or how to look upon ourselves or the world.
But in a dark place this week, I turned and there at eye level was an orchid of such translucent radiance, it's her! I thought with a jolt of recognition And it is. Thats how I remember her.

Indigo Hotchkiss

San Francisco CA

These Poems are from the Haight Ashbury Literary Journal

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