#7

Waterways: Poetry in the Mainstream, Volume 25, #7

My tread scares the wood-drake and wood-duck on my distant and daylong ramble,They rise together, they slowly circle around.

Walt Whitman

WATERWAYS: Poetry in the MainstreamVolume 25 Number 7*Designed, Edited and Published by Richard Spiegel & Barbara FisherThomas Perry, Admirable Factotum

c o n t e n t s

Waterways is published 11 times a year. Subscriptions -- $33 for 11 issues. Sample issues — $3.50 (includes postage).

Submissions will be returned only if accompanied by a stamped, self addressed envelope. Waterways, 393 St. Pauls Avenue, Staten Island, New York 10304-2127

©2005 Ten Penny Players Inc. *(This magazine is published 4/05)http://www.tenpennyplayers.org

James Penha 4-5M.M. Nichols 6-7Geoff Stevens 8John R. Cannon 9-11Joan Payne Kincaid 12-13David Rogers 14-15

Ida Fasel 16-17Bill Roberts 18Fredrick Zydek 19-20Robert Cooperman 21-22John Grey 23-24

photograph by Barbara Fisher

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Pachyjazz — James Penhaelephantrefuses to die

despite slaughterand starvationpaleonecrologyand diaspora

theelephantrises to all occasions in silence and majesty

to improvisea solo

trumpet

elephant

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Koan — James Penha

Upon the belly of the Buddhain the ruined jungle templesnores jelly-soft a monkeyabout to reawakenas the tigerwho now drooling by the lotuswill taste nirvana.

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Birds! swoopingblack-winged upwardthrough twilight

undeterred bysmoke’s tour ofdaylong dusk

Two by two theymake flightsI fancy, drawing

my two by twobreath in rib-cagedballoons

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Smog Days — M. M. Nichols

Wings and lungspropel timeinto spaces

we are moving toward, soonto arrive

See where the birdsburst upwardpast twilight

An air raidon downdriftsof the dark

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Geoff Stevens

If we merely circle arounduntil they’ve gonethey will steal our eggstrash our nest

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Floating Grace — John R. Cannon

The field sparrow’s buoyant songfloats like a gentle breezeup the hill from the field below.

Not powerful like the wren,or raucous like the jay;but delicate, soft and sweet;

Nearly ephemeral,you’re not quite sure you heard it,

until it comes againand lifts your headwith a warm smileon your face.

Lovers at Dusk — John R. Cannon

He swoops in from downriverand perches near the nest;

She is upstreamscanning the shallows.

He settles, preens, and when he sees her,he tips his head way back and gives the long eerie contact call.

A thousand ring-necked ducksflutter and move nervously,all attuned to the white-headed eagle.

But she doesn’t even turn her head,supper is her priority.

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Later, she glides in slowand perches in the nest tree;

He comes to her, they move in close,they touch beaks.

Dusk falls and the two dark silhouetteswith still-white headsfade into one dark mass;

Geese land,ducks settle,herons squawk.

Soon only gentle sounds pervade;

Then,a soul-piercing unison call,as the eagles bless the night.

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Joan Payne Kincaid

silver lights drip on the birchin a gray drizzle of fallfinches have grown subduedcold wet feathersamong final yellow leaves

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Who Else — Joan Payne Kincaid

Supposedly health conscious runs to a donut shop fresh out of the dentist’s You’re all set for six monthsfor a strawberry jelly and coffee down- at- the- harbor- escapefrom tooth scaling to a familiar comforting flavorobserving geese form a v in water and sky

A fisherman passes recalling one at the ocean last weekusing a rod and reel not to catch fish rather to fly kites this day an eagle was cast in the sky over dunes and waves with migrating raptorshe adjusts for the wind, and the unexpected...a wife’s recent death the reason he beganthis partially detached hobby.

paper eagle high in the windtethered to a fishing polenearly free

Late October, Near Dusk — David Rogers

I felt like a tree, walking,and then a rockand knew at lastto stand still

and listen for the other footsteps:deer, bird, snake, ant, squirrelwalk their paths, let feetspell out their names

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in a languagenot even poets have fully decoded:its alphabet has no symbols,does not communicate in runes.

Its only meaning is itself,its only record the wind,but I am learning slowlyto speak it.

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Coming Home — Ida Fasel

The island is hidden in morning hazebut the ferry docks in clearas I am clear of wandering the world,the best of it, returns.

Through bare trees the sky showsautumn blue with a gold tint in it.A partridge sights me,keeps distance close.I am aware of others unseen —squirrel, fox want to know about me.

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Where the old house wasthe give and takeof curtain in the wind.I used to go in by the window,calling Anybody home?

No clock on the shelf, no shelfyet time rights itself, given time.I’m a boomerang made to returnat the precise moment they do,welcoming me in a rustle of leaves,marveling how I too have changed.

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Fascination — Bill Roberts

With tears rolling copiously down my cheeksI watch with horrified fascination

As the row house two doors from oursIs consumed by hungry flames

And choking smoke while firemenSend urgent streams of pressurized water

Through gapping windows and the roofCausing a boy younger even than me

Held in his mother’s protective armsTo become utterly mesmerized

With satisfaction by the destructive blazeHe has just moments ago purposely started.

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Drummer — Fredrick Zydek

It began with a ticking roll,an isolated storm of hailpelting its wayfrom the stretched skinuntil there was nothingin the noise but the clicking of heels and the steady beat of blood and heart.

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The drummer’s face grewpursed as stone, eyes fixedon some polar wisdomas if the mind’s first dreamhad just rattled throughhis head leaving himin the ragged stance of saints.

Each rap snapped into the airbrittle as ice, deep as bone.Some hit like buckshoton a tin roof. Others, crispas slivers of broken glass,quick as things that glisten,cut through the air like knives.

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Revenge — Robert Cooperman

He believed revenge was easy;the two bastards in his palmand Tom needing only to squeezeto hear them howl: for the liesthey’d spread about his wife,the cliché true about academia:battles rapidly lethal for rewards meager as meat on a starving monkey.

After Andrea trudged home one night,miserable from their pincer attacksand the dean’s dithering,Tom phoned a childhood friend,“Don’t worry about a thing,”Curtis assured, an expert at terror.

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“Just don’t kill them,”But that night Tom couldn’t sleep,the mattress conscience-thorny.In the morning, he phoned again.“Do they deserve it?” Curtis demanded,an attack dog unwilling to be called off,

Tom remembering Curtis as a child,a teen: ferocious as a wolf with its cubs,ever since Tom’s small favorthat Curtis believed had saved his life.

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No ComfortJohn Grey

I know the lightis as fragileas old bones.I have picked itup in the cupof my eyes,seen it witherto dustin the secondsit takes for darkness toswallow me.

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When you tell methere is enough sunleft to guide usthrough the bewildering corridorsof this ancient house,I nod in agreement,though my tremblingfingers tella different story.My thoughts turnto so-called friendswho deserted mein times of great need.

Their faces glowin the last of the lightas it’s swallowed bythe walls and windows.

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