Featured Poet: Eric Alder, winner of humorous poetry contest

One Stop Spotlights Eric "Bubba" Alder
 

Welcome to One Stop Poetry. Dustus here to introduce today's guest, Michigan blogger Eric Alder—winner of our Humorous Poetry Competition!

As you may recall back to when I hosted Week 22 of One Shot Wednesday, I introduced a Humorous Poetry Contest. Many brave poets submitted poems to be read on a future episode of The Arts Web Show —written, filmed, and edited by artistic blogger Richard North (aka Kseverny). Unfortunately, there can only be one winner, and for this contest Richard chose Eric Alder's narrative poem entitled A Fine Kettle of Fish. As a result, and in addition to providing the link to the video clip presenting a reading of A Fine Kettle of Fish by Eric Alder, I am pleased to both feature Eric and spotlight three of his excellent poems.

Eric "Bubba" Alder

About Eric (in his words)....

"I got started writing in a college Creative Writing class. I had to keep a daily journal and write something (anything) every day. I did the 'dear diary' thing at first, then started writing funny stories. As I learned more about them, I began trying other types of writing.  (I got an "A" in the class) ...I've always been a reader.  I first got into science-fiction—still my favorite genre. About ten years ago I decided I wanted to read more of the 'great books' of literature. Then, five years later I got into poetry, which opened up new creative vistas for me.... I started blogging in November 2007, on my now defunct Windows Live Space, which has since been migrated to WordPress."

Eric's Sense of Humor...

There have been many instances where I have visited someone's site during One Shot Wednesday to read a comment by Eric that is both timely and extremely witty. And when it comes to his poetry, whether it shines through his words overtly, or lingers subtly between his lines; his sense of humor is ever present. However, as you are about to discover, Eric's attention to precise writing implements humor as just one aspect of many quality features that comprise his work.

Following my favorite poem of his that was dedicated to his wife (Perfect Enough), Eric shares with us both his personal favorite (Earth Mother's Song) & his poem that received the most comments (Curse You, Sylvia Plath).

**********

Perfect Enough
(for my wife Tammy)

You wonder why I love you so
You just can’t understand
My love for you just seems to grow
Each time I hold your hand

When you look in the mirror
You don’t like what you see
I can’t make it much clearer
You’re beautiful to me

You note each imperfection
And notice every flaw
I tell you with affection
Those things I never saw

I look a little deeper
And see the good inside
I know that you’re a keeper
That cannot be denied

You think your hair is just plain brown
And sometimes out of place
I like the way that it hangs down
When you’re kissing my face

The prettiest eyes I’ve ever see
They look so blue they twinkle
But then again sometimes they’re green
Perhaps it’s some new wrinkle?

But most of all I love the way
You always show you care
Even on the roughest day
I know that you’ll be there

The truth is plain to see indeed
It shouldn’t be too tough
Our love is everything we need
And that’s perfect enough

**********

Earth Mother's Song
 
I’ve seen a broad field awash in fog,
gray-blanketed like a misplaced pond.
That same field, one dark summer morn,
lay a-twinkle, festooned with bright fireflies.

I’ve seen a great horned owl appear,
alighting atop a tall pine, majestic and wise.
Resting briefly, then silently swooping down
to disappear into the dark woods.

I’ve seen a pine martin stealing along,
dipping between the fallen birch and cedar,
popping up unexpectedly in a new spot,
red eyes glowing in my flashlight beam.

I’ve heard a tom turkey’s questioning call,
seeking to uncover this brash imposter.
A slow, hidden funeral procession
bursting forth to claim their roost.

I’ve heard lake echoes of spring frogs peeping
seeking mates among the green reeds,
the surrounding din of a million crickets creeping
on a hot August night, throbbing with life.

I’ve heard thunder roll along for miles
'til a blinding white flash strobed silhouettes
of stark, stiletto tree shadows all around
and the deafening clap froze me in place.

I’ve smelled the sweet, pine-scented winds
that blow through the north woods, thick
with undertones of green moss carpets
and ferns inexplicably bright in the shade.

I’ve smelled the musty down of a grouse
that loudly took flight at my approach,
unseen through the yellow aspen boughs,
revealing this visitor clumsy in his ream.

I’ve smelled an oncoming storm
blowing in from the west,
deepening the sense of isolation,
submersion in a still-wild place.

As a child I learned Earth Mother’s song
and it still sings deep within my heart.
I learn a new verse each time I venture
into those places where she yet dwells.

****************

Curse You, Sylvia Plath

Curse you, Sylvia Plath
For making me care
To love your words
Words that nail and rail

Tearing up-down walls

Curse you, for your daddy
No one else could have been
Lady Lazarus in a bell jar
Life, a lie, alive

Hiding behind perfect Arian features

With clean, fashion-sensible shoes
You walked on big city streets
Wet and dirty and litter-strewn
Sweater warm against the cold wind

You would have blown away like a bright kite

I want to fill you on your hospital bed
Watch your cheeks flushing red
With blood the ghouls will later drain
Blood you’ve already tried to let flow

Flowers wither and wilt, unwanted

Why wasn’t I a tulip
Born that much sooner
Just to be yours for awhile
Another unloved lover

Sacrifice sung, then eaten

But you moved in other circles
Traveling about your world
A cold world I can never know
Except from what you tell me

Inscribed in indelible black

Feeling the world too deeply
Drowning in too many seas
While the desert inside
Left your soul arid as

Your words seeped out

Could I had saved you
From yourself, the world
To just be a ragdoll, limp
Would I even care then?

Or do I care because I did not?

Curse you, Sylvia, my dearest
For drawing-out knives
Sharp-tongued words
That break and cut skin

Bleeding as real as now

 ****************

Check Out Eric Alder's main blog: Bubba's Place

Eric also maintains 2 other separate blogs on Blogger:
Haiku blog: http://haiku-koo-koo.blogspot.com/
Photo blog: http://bifocalunivision.blogspot.com/

*Come watch the Video Clip of Eric's winning poem, as performed by the various characters of Richard North over at The Arts Web Show

Cheers,
dustus

One Stop Spotlight - Gerald Barret aka Jerry

Your sure would agree that there are many interesting, talented and highly likable people around in the blogworld. "Very likable" was the first thought that jumped to my mind when I met Jerry through One Shot Wednesday a few weeks ago.
I would describe his poetry as fresh and unconventional and you can clearly hear his heart beat when reading his words.

He approaches everyday happenings with a twinkling eye and in a healthy down to earth style.
Jerry is a people person - you can sense this in his writing and commenting - he easily connects to others and I'm sure many of you, who have met him somewhere on the One Stop trail will agree.

Jerry blogs at "Under the doorframe" and today he allows us a glimpse into his busy life, tells us about his big family, how he came to write poetry and what inspires him - enjoy

~ Claudia


Fall

The other night the wind and the rain
slapped a lot of beauty out of their canopies.
The rain fell on the leaves,
the leaves fell like rain.
The colors lay dead.
I tried to rally my kids to pick them up.
I gave them Elmer’s glue and a stapler.
I had a few ladders too.
The suns out now and how much
I wanted to see the colors against
a cool blue sky instead of faded green
and asphalt and gravel.
I almost prayed for the resurrection
of these expired tree totalers.
But then my kids dropped the glue
and staples and the disbelief
their faces were showing me.
They ran for rakes.
Their faces flush with autumn air
they piled up the colors on the runway.
They carelessly overlaid color on color,
like when they were much younger with crayons.
Their excitement rose as did the pile.
Then I saw the clear blue sky in their eyes
as they lay laughing in the colors.
I smiled as their redemptive act
fell on me like cool rain in the night.

(copyright gerald barret 2011)

A little background:

I grew up in Michigan as number 8 out of 10 children. My mom pretty much raised us on her own, which is a long story worth writing about sometime. I'll be married to my wife 25 years February 16th.  She also hails from a large family.  If memory serves me she is number 10 out of 12 children. We have 4 biological children and 8 adopted (2 sibling groups of 4). I am a UPS delivery driver of almost 25 years. No need to say my writing is in the cracks of audible words and busy real life experiences.

Sometimes I'll say to people that I have been in a mid-life crisis for 30 years...and writing became a cathartic resting place between depressive dips and turns. When I came to faith the particular vein of the Christian church I was a part of thought of art and creativity as non essential.  If it wasn't utilitarian I set it aside. So most of my writing was journaling in the beginning...a private affair.

Then about 15 years ago a music minister in the church I was attending intergrated a Luci Shaw poem into the worship service. It about sliced my heart in two. It was as if I was given permission, freedom to create and drop the utility knife that kept shaving off a good portion of who I was. (The poem, by the way, is Spring Song, Very Early Morning which is found in her book The Green Earth)

Then I started writing and sharing with family occasionally (The most gracious audience. :)) Then after attending 3 Festival of Faith and Writing conferences at Calvin College in Grand Rapids, Michigan I was informed I needed a platform for my writing.  I didn't know what a platform was and I thought maybe it was nessessary in case I needed to jump.  Anyway I started a blog last spring and started a new one (underthedoorframe.blogspot.com) when I read L.L.Barket's interview in Christianity Today.

I like writing in other genres like memoir and essay and am chipping away at a short story. But poetry is my first love. I think maybe because I can finish poems within those cracks in my life. I used to think of it as the lazy writer's "out" because of its commitment level.  What a self deception. It is a craft that is intense, all consuming at times especially when a word or a line or an image pops up and the knee jerk reaction is to drop everything and find a keyboard or a pen and napkin.  Sometimes I drive and deliver with a sentence in my head and I repeat it aloud throughout my work day so I can deliver it to the keyboard that evening or next early morning. Early morning is the largest crack in which I write before the first child stands next to me with a "good morning" or a request.    

You will find that much of my poetry is about people. Of late a few more have risen about my mother who is getting on in years. I love to write about overt and covert spiritual experience. Sometimes I think maybe I should start another blog with a mainly overt Christian experience. Yet for now this network provides a wide range of personal and spiritual experience which I feel better represents the world out there...don't you think?

I chose to share the poem "Fall" because it is layered with depth and humor and transcendence which I feel is representitive of the spectrum of my poetry. Some of the influences of poetry have been of course Luci Shaw, Wendell Berry, and a dash of Billy Collins and now many One Stop additions.

Around our house humor is very needful. You know, as they say if you don't laugh you cry. Having adopted children really made the pain of our world more poingnant and sensory. We heard stories but until the stories came to stay in our home they were just stories. My brother once told me that proximity is everything. There are plenty of sad stories from which to harvest poems.
I am a little leary of writing about my children, especially the adopted ones and their fractured souls. I think in time more of these will surface on my blog as wisdom serves. 

Entering this network through High Calling Blogs and One Stop has been a stretching experience and it is fantastic to listen with those who share this passion, and sometimes compulsion, to mess with words.  I used to think that there was no point to write...there were already enough pages to turn, turn, turn and yet... We all have something to offer through our individual filters with which we see the world and if our calling is to write then write we must, and somewhere down the line there are people whose filters allow our words to penetrate their souls, sometimes right down to their very spirit where words dissolve to graft into their being.
I bet you the core of any poet's desire is to have their words settle into places such as these. I know mine is, why just today my wife told me that my poem today is her favorite...she has said that before and I hope she will say those words again.

One Stop Spotlight - George Pappas aka GPWriter

George Pappas is a poet, novelist and a life long resident of Southern California. He blogs at Backyard Poetry and can also be found on Twitter @gpwriter. I have met him through One Shot Wednesday. What I like is his honesty and the courage to touch "hot potatoes" with his poems.

George often chooses social, critical or political themes for his poetry and always provides an introduction about how he came to write these. I asked him about this and he answered that he doesn't try to explain the poem in a literal sense. He prefers to explain his motivations for the poem, giving the reader more insight into his creative process. He views the intro as a part of the poem in a sense.

George thinks that Blog Poems should be a multi media experience for the reader and his certainly are! I can highly recommend paying him a visit over at Backyard Poetry

So please sit back and enjoy what George has to share about himself and his motivation, which led to writing this excellent poem he has chosen for One Stop Poetry today

~ Claudia

Since I started writing poetry while a student at California State Long Beach in the 1980s, I strived to create poems that were provocative, and challenge the statusquo in society, politics and life. I feel it is the role of a poet to cover all aspects of living, including writing about controversial ,political ,and religious themes; issues that,unfortunately, many poets avoid. I strive to do this in different and unique ways.  It could be imagining a tourist ad for a tour of Guantanamo Bay detention camp as in my poem “Guantanamo Bay Tour,” or as in my poem “Ethnic Cleansing” musing about an ad campaign for such practices with the tagline: “Bought and sold wherever intolerance is found.”

One poetry class I took in college, which was taught by noted poet Elliot Fried, really had a lasting impact on me. Professor Fried encouraged us to look for poetry everywhere and in everything around us and to think differently about what could be a subject for a poem. He would give us an assignments where we would have to create poems off the page using video, pictures or images.

My following poem “Would the Crucifixion Have Been Televised?” is one such example of  looking for an off beat way to address the troubling state of the TV news business.

I was frustrated and tired with weeks of coverage about the death of JFK Jr.  Each year, it seems, the national press, especially the cable and TV networks, become increasingly myopic in their coverage. This is truly reflected during major news events.  They feature 24/7 coverage of one event or controversy relentlessly covering every angle. Sometimes that is justified as with 9/11, the Iraq war, or JFK’s assassination other times it is questionable as following the death of Pope John Paul and other overblown stories. It is overkill to say the least.

It got me to thinking about how other  historic events such as the Crucifixion might be covered by our modern news industry.

That led to this poem

GP

***

WOULD THE CRUCIFIXION HAVE BEEN TELEVISED?

I wonder if the crucifixion
took place today
would it be televised
non-stop?

Would the plethora of TV cable channels
cover every aspect
of the death
of Christ
on the cross?

Imagine
a press briefing
with Roman officials
explaining their actions.

Think of
profiles on the apostles,
in-depth interviews
with Jesus’ followers
and an exclusive interview
with Judas entitled:
“Why he betrayed Christ: Judas defends himself.”

Ponder the exclusive reports
with those who claim to have witnessed God’s miracles,
including a shocking profile on the blind man
who claims Christ restored his sight.

Or a story on a follower who says to have heard Jesus’ last words
or yet another who saw Jesus walk on water
or still another who witnessed Christ’s resurrection.

That would be followed by
an exclusive feature
on Mary discussing the Immaculate Conception.

This tabloid TV culture
without a doubt would turn the
the Crucifixion
into huge ratings.

All meaning ultimately
lost in the torrent of coverage
nailed relentlessly into
our empty souls and lurid imaginations.

George Pappas
Copyright 2010

One Stop Spotlight - Joy Ann Jones aka hedgewitch

It is my pleasure to introduce a poet I've come to appreciate during the last weeks for her writing and also her eloquent and sensitive commenting on other people's work.

Joy Ann blogs as Hedgewitch at Verse escape and her poems often have an epic and a bit of a "Lord of the Rings" feeling clinging to them, mingled with a dash of ancient mysteries. You may discover some of this in Joy Ann's poem "My New Dragon" below.

Enjoy the reading and make sure to pay her a visit over at Verse escape..

~ Claudia


My New Dragon

Flies above the forest
His spine a swift reticulated run
Of cloud croquet hoops,
His breath the flinty white
Of ashen cinders in the grate,
Flaring back behind him like a banner
Of all that overcomes.

                                             My New Dragon

Fought the old all summer long,
All winter in a haze of snow and fire,
Til victory was made in blurry battles
High where eyes of mortal could not peer
And now he mounts his watch above
In case his rival someday
Comes back home.

His head is turned to follow
The disappearing backside of his foe.
His three-horned crest stands tall
And watchful, full
Of secret raptor pleasures
Bone bred in dragonkind.
Though rain patters grey
turning blue as it falls
like steel on the scales of

                                            My New Dragon’s  

skin, his heart is light
And on his broad back of clouds and vapor
I go riding.

© Joy Ann Jones, November 2010

Mirror

The soul within / smooth, reflective curve
Glossy with the sheen of old smokes
Something about the light, he said
There is a wild piece of it in the dark.
It winks in the corner of the mirror,
An absent flame / the memory of a flame
Whiskered by the haze,
Reaching out to touch it you feel
First the illusion, then the fingertips finally
The smooth cold feel of the mirror
Asking which is real.

Perhaps it’s over, the light show,
The flowers powerless against the machine.
Only a curve reflecting forward
Some piece of light
To kindle the back ward glancing eye

© Joy Ann Jones, January 1988

I asked Joy Ann to share a bit about herself and her writing...

First of all, I’m very flattered to be here at One Stop Poetry, a place I consider one of the best networking sites for poets and writers on the web. The talent on display here from week to week is astonishing, and it’s a pleasure and honor to be a part of it even in a small way.

I first came to love poetry at the age of eight when I found a volume of classic poetry included in my Childcraft encyclopedia set. In a turbulent childhood, that volume was my refuge, and I read and reread poems like The Highwayman, and La Belle Dame Sans Merci til I knew them by heart. That’s when I discovered that mere words expressed in certain ways were able to create a living world of the imagination that is far more attractive and often seems more real than the mundane one we inhabit. That empowering and intoxicating combination of control and creation is what continues to make me write poetry.

In high school, I was fortunate to have a great Creative Writing teacher who took a personal interest in motivating young writers, and as her student I even won fourth place in a national competition (Atlantic Monthly) which at the time was quite heady stuff. After that, however, life intervened, and my poetry was strictly something that came pouring out when it had to, and the rest of the time was pushed aside. It’s only recently that I’ve had the resources and leisure to get back to writing. Always, though, at the hardest crossroads and in the most painful situations of my life, it was there for me, and is still the way I work through all the inarticulate forces that challenge us to the max, and of which life never seems to run out.

The writing process itself for me starts with an emotion, or a tag line in my mind that has to be written down. I jot sentences, phrases and paragraphs down as they come to me, and occasionally I get a whole poem that way. Usually, though, the lines have to be worked with, written, paired with others, and rewritten. Then I often let the poem ‘steep,’ and come back for a final microscopic go at it word for word and line by line. I often enjoy the process as much as I do the end product.

...and I was curious about how Joy Ann reads other people's works and if there is a structure when she comments, how she looks at a poem from different angles or compares with something she knows or has learned...

One of the best things about blogging poetry is that you get to see so much creativity and so many different ways of writing. When I comment at a poet’s site, I feel there are two things that are important, respect and connection. It takes courage to post your work out where everyone can see it and leave yourself open to the reactions of total strangers. Also, fundamentally all art is, at its most basic level, a giving back. I feel you have to respect that. Then, I think if someone’s work has said something to you, made you think, provoked an emotional response, or engaged you at all, it’s important to try to show the poet how s/he did that, just why that piece worked. So I try to do that when I comment, sometimes through drawing in a personal reference, or by comparison. Mostly, I want to pass on some of that encouragement I got as an adolescent when it meant so much, and share the enjoyment that poetry gives me with everyone who experiences it.

One Stop Spotlight - Giovanni Cucullo

Giovanni is a New York Chef and a Writer - what a talented mixture!
I've never tasted one of his meals but I've tasted and enjoyed lots of his fantastic poetry and have to say - it's delicious.
First time I came upon Giovanni's blog the "jazz section" caught my eye, and being a saxophone player myself, his music poems touched my heart, my soul, my senses, my "everything."
And for today's spotlight, the poem on my wish list was this Jazz poem - I just love it!

Take a deep breath, enjoy and maybe you'll start to hear the seducing sound of mesmerizing saxophone tunes...(A shame we can't read with closed eyes.)
~ Claudia

Poem: aka Dig!

The earth grows out of an upright bass

and spins a walking love luster under its leg.

Dueling saxophones

throw down their bronze swords and

fly by the night

into the moaning mixture,

the howling moon;

the ferocious murmur of black and white,

the tender growl of an eighty-eight.

I travel

forever west

following incantations of a ghost drummer,

hypnotic sea-body rhythms

lure my soul

to the symbol of cymbals and crashing rhinoceri,

and the snap crackle staccato

of cool blue gurus doin’ a doobee doo doo with you know who.

The music soarrrs

through the weight of smoke

and bumps a ceiling fan.

Beebop! …and riddle-le-dee-bop!

What do you say when you wake up to a quintet of angels?

The space of music

and the piece on earth.

Knowing when to be silent

and allowing the secrets of another cadence to fall into your hands,

like the virgin rain,

like a tom tom boom,

like a good fresh funk.

Slippin’ and sliding and searchin’ and sometimes nailing the note…

as if the note was really looking for us the whole time.

Like sculpture in stone.

 

© Giovanni Cucullo

And here's some background information about Giovanni:

"Sometimes I search and scratch my way to the end of a sentence.
 I will chew on my pencil until the words write themselves on my teeth and the lines speak to me in tongues.
Sometimes, words rock and swing, floating gently down to me, like autumnal leaves marking a vibrant poet’s path; a scribe’s journey.

In Letters to a Young Poet, Rainer Maria Rilke begs the aspiring poet to “…describe your sorrows and desires, passing thoughts and the belief in some sort of beauty.” I have always looked to the world for inspiration and have happily discovered that every time I open my heart and my mind, beauty and clarity find their way home.

For as long as I can remember, I have had this urge for printed permanence. This journey of mine will continue and I have committed myself to nurturing and feeding my thoughts, my character and my relationships with beautiful things. I will continue to seek out fellow poets who shower the world with a reservoir of sacred gifts that inspire heart and mind to dance and to share it always and ever outward."

I live in Westchester County, NY.
Pursued music for many years studying Jazz at SUNY Purchase.
Got a B.S. in Business from Iona College.
Currently a chef, restaurateur and consultant.
Recently published a cookbook dedicated to my mother called:
Ricette di Maria - Maria’s Recipes.

My Blogs:
www.giovannicucullo.wordpress.com
www.goldentable.wordpress.com
www.growthideas.wordpress.com
www.restaurantchaser.wordpress.com

I have asked Gio if he'd also share one of his recipes with us, and here it is:

Recipe: Oven Roasted Tomatoes

If you like sun-dried tomatoes, you will love these.

Halve some plum tomatoes lengthwise & remove seeds (not the core).
Place the tomatoes, cut side up, on a baking pan and season with salt, pepper, olive oil, garlic and fresh herbs.
Slow roast in the oven for 2 hours at 300 degrees.
Remove, cool and store in mason jars, layered with fresh herbs and covered with more olive oil.
Covered in oil, they will keep in the refrigerator for 6 months and will come quite handy paired with fresh mozzarella and basil when you crave a fancier version of Caprese salad or any time you want to jazz up your favorite sandwich.

Recipe link here

Friday -One Stop Poetry Featuring Poet Jessica Kristie

With the holidays in the States our schedule is a bit askew. Adam Dustus is off shooting ducks or something so I'm (Moondustwriter) standing in with some fabulous poetry by Jessica Kristie
Just wanted to point out that Jessica is another talented lady who I met on - Twitter. If you aren't there, you should be.

Can you briefly tell me when you first started writing?
I began writing when I was about ten years old.  I was always a very emotionally in-tune little girl, and at an early age searched for some sort of outlet.  I believe I found this venue from a school exercise, then realized immediately it was freeing and very healing.  I wish I could say I have written continuously since then, but it has been off and on with a more consistent run the last five years or so.

What inspires you to write?
I have many inspirations and “processes” for writing.  There is certain music that rings to me as poetry. I play those songs to get me in the mood, and the place I need to be to write. Being a stream of conscious and emotional writer, the flow often needs to be stirred.  I have learned through the years to capture it better and even trigger it more than I was able to in the past.  I also find great inspiration in others writing and will often become inspired by even just a word.  Those moments I love the most and always hope I have a pen and paper close at hand.

What are your hopes and dreams with your poetry?
I just finished putting together my first collection of poetry.  It contains 50 poems and 5 prose poetry works.  I am submitting it to publishers along with a children’s book I wrote, that is currently being illustrated.  I also have a very exciting collaboration I am doing with a photographer. We are collaborating to bring to life a poem I wrote in 11 parts that tells a story.  It is more than just doing a photo to match the words; it is bringing the words out in a unique way. We hope to find a great venue to make it available to the public once it is complete. I am already working on a second manuscript of all prose poetry with hopes to also have it published in the future. 

What is your favorite genre?
Classics always seem to catch my eye from Frost to Neruda, but also find myself attracted to such wonderful poets as Maya Angelou. I continue to find that it is always the romance that pulls me in the deepest. Often it is darker, but romance just the same.  I do hold a place in my heart for the more humorous side of things. It always does me good to laugh and I try to - at least ten times a day.


While e-mailing Jessica,we discovered that we grew up relatively close to each other. My father lived in her home town until his death. We may just have to do a road trip to my favorite city (well one of them) San Francisco. Please enjoy Jessica's fine writing.

Tragedy’s Room

Today I want to put skin around my words

Turn sentences into limbs

And reach across the seas

Finding my way to your door

My blankets of consoling will never do this moment justice

History has been broken

A tear in life’s time table

“Why” lingers at the footsteps you watched from birth

Hands by your side that can’t seem to bring enough healing

This time

Trouble feels so beyond

What you can mend

Warmth can roam

Beyond our flesh

Far past aching bone

It will make its way back

Where darkness looms

Where loss and heartbreak

Now claim this room

Bows break future moments

Pausing time

Covering moons

Lingering in our present

Floating in the in-between

But hands do breathe volumes

When crashing into tragedies door

Look now and know

What strength they hold

Your grip

Your reach

Barriers breaking as we speak

This next poem is inserted into prose that Jessica posted. If you want to read the entire piece, please enjoy it on her blog.

~Nothing~

What poetic justice I weep from my pages

Yet I feel no sense of peace

Painting clouds with my finger tips across
an empty palette

A canvas that mimics hope yet whispers
only dreams

You can’t speak of change

When I Look at you and see the same

You can’t speak of love

When I can’t feel you break through me

I remember when

You speak of nothing

No words

No hope

No difference from one day to the next

Mediocre in this questionable decision

Maybe the hope is within a dream

Or maybe the needle has passed through

Now seamless

The two pieces have become

I remember when you told me

You would not give me up without a fight

When I walked away

You laid down so easy

And still you speak

Of nothing

You can contact jessica @jesskristie

Her blog http://jessicakristie.wordpress.com/

Photography:

Derek Tyson

http://www.flickr.com/photos/derricksphotos/189815067/

Ian Munroe

photograph//www.flickr.com/photos/ian_munroe/4059831412/sizes/m/in/photostream/

One Stop Poetry: A Poetic Monday!

Hello everyone!

Today's Monday finds us with a slight change of pace. This week I'm your host - Chris Galford - so Brian Miller, who usually handles our Monday Spotlights, can have a little time with the family. He deserves it, work-a-holic that he is!

I know you're used to seeing a spotlight here at the start of your week, but to open the Thanksgiving week, which is a major holiday celebration in America, I would like to share with you a picture and a poem of the season. I hope you enjoy, and happy holiday to all those celebrating Thanksgiving!

"The First Thanksgiving," by Jean Leon Gerome Ferris (1863–1930)

Of Turkeys and Bounty
(By Chris Galford)

A cornucopia, all for me,

how thankful is the blind man

to the fruits of his fair nothing—

the greenery, grown, beneath the

scarlet massacre-flood

through the sky, the day

the men in their wide-brimmed hats

forgot the sea, learned the barrel

no one ever looks the same

behind the sights.

A turkey stuffed

with all the hands, the hammers,

unsung ringings in the deep

lightly smelling of the smoke,

the factories that brimmed with weary souls,

to bring the table to the meal,

to bring the car that brought the people—

smoking still the stilling rifle,

that bought and held and earned

the right to live, to dine,

the right to never know the pain

of making—foundations

in a crowded horn, this overflowing

but the end, not the means.

No oven fire burns so hot

could give the soul,

we dine upon tonight.

Not the usual fare for the Thanksgiving season, but I hope you enjoyed it all the same?

For those among the rest of our global audience, a word on Thanksgiving:

Thanksgiving is an annual tradition in the United States, tracing itself as far back as 1863. The basis for the event occurred even further back, though, in 1621, when the Pilgrims of the Plymouth Colony held a three day celebration - including a harvest feast - to give thanks for food given to them by local Native American tribes, which enabled them to survive the harshness of their first winter ashore in America.

Though the celebration originally began with more religious overtones, the day has since grown into a secular, national holiday largely based around the concept of spending time with one’s family, and giving thanks for all that has come to you in the past year. The government, as well as most businesses, close down in honor of the day, and the Thanksgiving weekend is one of the busiest travel periods of the year. Turkey is a staple of the day itself, while stuffing, mashed potatoes, pumpkin pie, and a host of fall vegetables are also commonly associated with most Thanksgiving dinners.

Thanksgiving is also traditionally a time of great care in local communities, many of which (as well as churches, businesses, and charity organizations) set up annual food drives for the occasion, to provide a Thanksgiving meal to the less fortunate.

Now a question for my fellow Americans among our audience today: what is your favorite part of Thanksgiving - your favorite memory?

Moondustwriter's Thursday - guest featuring Matt Zaretsky

Welcome to another MDW Thursday.

Today I am honored to feature another star 

Matt Zaretsky

I met Matt a few months on Twitter. What a great place for introductions. I asked Matt how he got introduced. He told me the generic way "studying poetry and writing in class." Then something happened he started keeping a personal journal where poems came to life. His creative expression has grown from there.

"I like poetry as a form of art in that I can express myself freely. The only rule is that there are none. If I am going through rough times Or a bad day, poetry helps me get things off my chest when talking to someone simply doesnt cut it. The pen and paper are always loyal No matter what which is why I love go write because I always can. I applied early decision to sarah Lawrence college where I hope to get accepted and get an MFA degree in creative writing. The. I want to Get accepted into NYU Grad school and major in creative writing and take master classes taught by one of my favorite authors Susan Orlean."

Heart grinning

In the shower singing

Starts in my toes

Then the feeling goes.

Through my back

Tickles my ears

When I’m with you I have no fears

A walk with you

I wouldn’t miss for a thing.

I’m starting to think this is a really weird fling.

Cause we’ve been at this point before

At least a few times.

I’ve tried hard against it but this I am sure..

You are the girl I care for and adore.

I’m not saying I want you to be mine and me yours.

But lets take a chance, a drive, and explore.

Lets take a walk we’ve got plenty time to spare.

When you fall I’ll catch you ‘cause I’ve already been there.

We can take a trip to the beach or the shore.

And talk about school, the bitches and whores.

Its up to you

No stress.

We all have days when we are a mess.

If you were to know one thing please know that…

I’ll always be able to cheer you up..

With Harley, Boey, Casey, and Max the cat.

Next week we will celebrate Thanksgiving in the United States. Here is a Thanksgiving Acrostic by Matt.

To whom it may concern,

His name must not be said.

At the family thanksgiving feast

Nobody mentions him but we all

Know the gorilla in the room all too well.

You are not here with us

On this day we give our regards. For

Until you bring yourself together you don't belong.

The Real Me

The real me wouldn't take the easy way out.

But he did.

The real me wouldn't yell at his father and mother.

But he did.

The real me wouldn't have got in that car.

But he did.

The real me wouldn't have been arrested.

But I did.

You may have noticed we have done several poetry features of young people aka teens. We believe that creative writing is a great expression. As our illustrious friend David Wilkins said last MDW Thursday, writing is one good way to express anger, fear etc rather than internalizing that emotion and self-destructing. If you know youth who are exploring creative writing , please send them our way.
Places you can find Matt:

http://matty5z.livejournal.com/
http://www.helium.com/users/592236/show_articles
Twitter @matty5z

Just so you know: Next Thursday in the US is Thanksgiving. Our favorite day (along with Super Bowl) to sit and eat alot. The part I have loved, since I was a child, was being together as a family (well the home baked pies were a winner too). Next Thursday I would like to put up a montage of Thanksgiving Poetry.  (that includes anyone writing about what they are thankful for.) If you want to either link a poem in or send to our email: oneshotpoetry@gmail.com we can have a day to reflect on what we have (jobs, family, another day of life.) I am thankful for each of you and the outpouring of support.

One Stop Spotlight - Terresa Wellborn & her Poetry

Each time, I visit Terresa at "The Chocolate Chip Waffle", I'm spellbound by the way she weaves words into poetry. I told her that sometimes I picture her as the "Queen of words", wielding a magic wand, the words tumbling across the page, willingly submitting to what flows out of her pen with tremendous ease and obediently falling into their perfect places. She seems to write effortlessly - lightweight - naturally and to read her works often feels like bathing in moonlight to me. I asked her to not only share one of her poems, but also to tell us a bit of the writing process and of what writing means to her.
~ Claudia 


Enjoy what she's written for us...

Ideas reach my shore and I write. I consider the place I draw my inspiration from an ocean, ebbing, flowing, unfathomable, refracting light while containing great depths. I dive for words, draw them out and set them into the landscape of my writing, float them across a page.

In a New York Times essay, Maryanne Wolf, in an attempt to answer the question, “Why read books if we can’t remember what’s in them?” responded, “You are the sum of it all.” I approach writing that way: everything I read, see, doubt, and dream feeds into it. My writing, in a way, is the sum of my experience.

Quoting Thoreau, “I make it my business to extract from Nature whatever nutriment she can furnish me, though at the risk of endless iteration. I milk the sky and the earth.” This is how I write, taking from nature and life, wrenching sky and earth and everything in between. It is exhausting, it is work, it is play.  I also like to make up words when I write, and as Baudelaire said, "If the word doesn't exist, invent it."  And I do.
I appreciate the creativity poetry allows me. I would forfeit everything I have in order to write, to stay constantly in that creative zone, but it's not possible. Instead, I rise with so much to love, to read, to share, and as ideas reach my shore in waves, I write.



The Guests

I drove, a solitary sail into the mouth of the night,
to the Wasatch edge where I saw her, a deer,
head bent to a pool of green,
and you, a flung star.
How we wanted her, like a hooked dream, awash
in our own brine. We poured,
paired cups of disbelief and tremulous now,
gathered guests at a table only she knew how to give.
We took her in, a blur of tan and heaving life,
her heart written out in hoof and tail twitch,
and us, captured on the deck of that dark night,
fish, even,
swallowed.

--Terresa Wellborn

© 2010 by Terresa Wellborn. All rights reserved.


Terresa Wellborn has a BA in English Literature from Brigham Young University, an MLIS from San Jose State University. Her poem, “A Different Leaving,” was recently highlighted on Nic Sebastian's Whale Sound, and her essay, “Seeing” will be published in the journal, Segullah, spring 2011. She blogs at "The Chocolate Chip Waffle"

One Stop Spotlight - Steven Marty Grant

Strong, honest, touching, sometimes harsh and disaffected, sometimes very gentle but always to the point and passionate. These are some words, I would describe Steven's poetry with. Unblurred, evocative and with an eye for what's going on inside and around him. It's never shallow and never soft-focused - but very real and heartfelt  - it touches - and that's why I love to read Steven's poetry!

Make sure to check out his poetry blog "Urbanality" to read more of his fantastic work
..and here's what he has written for us...enjoy..

~ Claudia


"Manhattan Progression"

Quiescence:

Silence and darkness
never take Manhattan
but at 3:30 Monday
morning they stake
a claim on the island
and brace for attack.

Portland, fly ash, slag
and aggregate groan
and weep in the shadows
above carbon arc
and incandescence.

The wounds inflicted
by decades of Checker
and Crown Vic abuse
have a moment to heal
and sometimes
in those lonely hours
you can even dream.

Crescendo:

The tenuous stillness
of fragile dawn is eroded
by the tin horns of steel cattle
as they herd through the tunnels.

The Midtown, Battery
Holland and Lincoln
belch rubber and chrome,
and foul the unruffled
air of daybreak.

The city’s veins
course, and crisscross
with Pullman cars
and the pressures rise
along with the sun.

Hundred year old bridges
sag under the weight
of Detroit and Tokyo wheels
and disillusion
takes the place of dreams. 

Chaos:

Subway steps erupt
with molten commuters

that bubble up
and out across the city.

The irresistible flow
washes over the cars
and buses locked
in their cross town crawl.

Soft associations
form and disband
at every intersection
then resume
their persistent crush.

A symphony of whistles,
horns and profanity
shakes the air and
reverberates off
the canyon walls.

Motion accelerates
and overwhelms
the asphalt maze,
an indistinguishable
blur of primary colors,
‘til all that remains
are the agile nightmares
of midday Manhattan.

© Steven Marty Grant 


I asked Steven to tell us a bit about his background, why he writes, when he started writing, what he hates and loves about it - and he tells us quite a bit. Didn't want to edit it down though because I think it's great to read someone's poems and know something about the man behind the pen...


I started writing about three decades ago when I was heavily involved in music. I was a touring sound technician and I started to work with some of the band members writing song lyrics. Eventually I began to perform both as a drummer and a singer and I continued to compose lyrics. When I realized that I was never going to make a living wearing spandex, I switched over to designing, selling and installing custom high-end audio systems. It was a great job and it took most of my time so writing took a back seat for the next few years until at the ripe old age of 27 I decided to attend college. It was in school that my addiction began to take its current form.

In college I was exposed to new and exciting forms of poetry and wonderful books that had a profound impact on me. I took my first creative writing class as a sophomore and my professor was very encouraging. She suggested that I should submit some of my work to various publications and, surprisingly, I got accepted and published several times early on. Bukowski said that “an early taste of death is not necessarily a bad thing” but I found that an early taste of success was a very bad thing for me. I began to have serious doubts about my ability as a poet and assumed my early acceptance was just luck. Not wanting to have that fear confirmed I quit submitting and finally quit writing.

It was not until I divorced in the late nineties that I began to write again. The confusion and sadness that accompanied that event in my life forced me back to the pen (it was actually a pen). I found that emotions that were difficult to express to friends and family could be written about metaphorically and processed. My first book (Another Hotel Room) contains a sampling of things I wrote during this period. It is not my best work but it is the most real and heartfelt.

• I write because I have to write, it is how I interact with my emotions. I love music and I am trying to make my readers feel like I do when I listen to Springsteen, STP, REM or Simon and Garfunkel.

• I really hate editing what I have written, I am a little bit of a perfectionist and I have a very hard time saying “okay this one is finished”

• I love to find the perfect words, the ideal metaphor; I love it when I can capture the emotion I am feeling in a few lines.

• My new book is about 2/3’s done and publisher is pushing me hard. I have not settled on a title at this time but I am leaning towards “An Unfair Wind”. and it should be ready by early next year.

• My work has been published in: The Writer, Spring Harvest, Notes Magazine, The Ampersand (&) Review, The Melancholy Dane, The VVC Drama & English Journal. I have also been published online at: Vivid, Sleep Snort Fuck, Drink This Cola and of course my poetry blog Urbanality.