These are a few poems that I dare put before your eyes. My name is James
Smith and I am a Colorado poet. I enjoy what I have read on your review. Thanks.

James Smith


Your Gaze

Time waits patiently for eyes to blink
pushes lines across skin
slow as sunrise to tombstones

The tree limbs spread
like Jesus crucified
living for forgiveness
from the sun

Your gaze leaves me like
I.V's being torn
from every inch of my skin



Direction

The beauty of a woman is the laughter of god's eyes
Time is the school of god's disease
The birds are the eyes of gods' creation

The sun says do what should be done
The moon says do what you will
Indecision is a comfortable decay of choices

To give birth is a short cut to purpose and self worth or
Humble patronage to a hollow religion
Death was born between a young woman's thighs
And buried deep in a young mans mind



Why did you die for me?

The ears of the sky
The eyes of the trees
The fingers of the breeze


All the years that I have made
Trying to be perfect

She said she could not love me
On Wednesday and Sunday
But who will remind me to breathe? I cried

Santa
The tooth fairy
You
God
I guess
I am next...

Dead

Picture yourself

Crucified

How many more limbs
Do I need to remove
Until the feeling is gone I am a open poet.


Poverty

Poverty has no good
Especially in the hood
A small problem can turn gigantic
When times get desperate
Poverty is a fortress
For a mind of stress
With our children there is a bond
From poverty too wrong
Their talents are drowning
Do too poor surroundings
Poverty is a disease
That will never leave
How can our children display
Talent poverty throws away
To them it is not fair
That the rich doesn't care
They are left unprotected
In a life they never selected
Many children are in agony
From their lives in poverty

Bothe poet@aol.com
Dario Alvarado


Silent Country

I’ve been living in a
Silent country, condemned,
In a never ending useless
September where all decisions
Have been made for me.
I spy on myself to
Make sure I don’t try
To escape.
But then where would I go?
I’ve spent all of my
Choices and no one buys
Consequences anymore.
I’ve already experienced
My downfall:
I’ve become an anonymous
Spectacle. I’m the 8th wonder of
A missing world.
I’m the reason children
Can’t sleep at night.
Yes!
All of my crimes have
Been committed.
There’s nothing left to
Do now but wait in
My room for
Another disadvantaged night:
The desperate things in life
Are exhausted.
So, it’s come down to this?
Being forced to wait
In a place where even
The nothing between us
Is over.

Dario Alvarado


The Age of Animosity

It begins with an unusually expensive
Morning and a barking street that makes
Its way into my room through a screen
Door then sits there, and waits, without a
Word, without a sound.
If I look in the mirror I know it
Will be there, I’ve seen it there before
And I’ve seen it in the faces of
The shopping bag youth who take
A million regardless shoe steps into
The city of bottled loneliness, passing
From moment to moment (Now here,
Now there) with neon visions of
A disposable blinking night.
A night that flickers and fades
Just before it explodes with
All the fire flowers, in all the eyes in
The world.
A night where the best of the
Worst of us rejected, even,
By Death, and by the one’s we love or
Thought we loved, by the so indifferent
Many: laughter, children and holy
Heavy hands that covered a shame,
Too easily criticized to explain, in
A thin perfumed veil.
A night of seemingly ceaseless walking,
Clawing at the streets and every foot,
Foot, step leading me further into
The marketable night.
And there is, ultimately, only fucking
In this misfortunate concrete
City, where I’m no one’s
Anything.
And my struggle with
This thing that sits in my room, is
The rumors that my bedroom was
Made for, when I am drunk or
Smoking cigarettes to pass
The time.
And if there was anything left to
Say I’ve been told there’s no
More time to say it because this
World has no time for visionary poets
Because this squeaky life belongs
To unnecessary arguments that only end
When they are argued for again.
Even after all of this
And the breathing that seems so
Damn useless, I will sit here
And wait, while somewhere the
Voice of a ladybug is being drowned out
By the sound of jets.


Dario Alvarado


Train Song

This is one more day and one more train_In the Dead smell of perfume and winter.
There isn’t enough of a reason_To be out in the rain.
It must be the rain that’s brought out_All of the ugly people.
There isn’t a single beautiful face or Japanese girl
Wearing a mini-skirt and platform shoes.

Instead, I only see truncated faces,
Faces that look like they’ve been in hamper
For 3 days.
Faces filled with disgust._Impotent, limp faces
With crooked smiles and tortured grimaces.
Faces made of crocodile skin, Styrofoam,_Imitation leather and Velcro.
These faces stick to my clothes - their eyes
Are sealed behind zippers and cellophane.

These faces are dilapidated ruins,
They are black holes in the middle of the afternoon.
Each of them hiding a thousand sore tongues
Within a thousand sour mouths;
Built to out last the rain, the cold, the trains,_The cities, the temples, shrines,_Cathedrals, mosques, the yesterdays, todays,_And tomorrows;
From Time Square to Shinjuku.
They come from nowhere and go back to it
Under the disguise of wives, husbands, salary men,
Old women, daughters and sons.
Their motives are unclear and melt in the
In sun while crows bathe in alleyways and
While a bullfighter and his bull
stare each other down…
Who will go down this time?

All of this in one yawn.
All of this under the rain; under the sun.
All of this in some late, nameless, afternoon.
All of this happening in kitchens
All of this happening in museum gift shops
At cocktail parties and dance halls.

All of this happening before the next stop.

Greetings.
Enclosed are three poems for your consideration at the
Geronimo Review: "", "", and "". These poems are
unpublished, and this is not a simultaneous
submission.

This is my first submission to your website. However,
my poetry has appeared in other magazines, including
the "Curbside Review", "Children, Churches and
Daddies", "Ink" and the defunct Barrington Hall
"Bull". I was also editor of this last publication
for two years, the literary journal of the oldest
student cooperative in the US, until we contributed to
its untimely demise. While I devote a great deal of
time to poetry (both reading and writing), I&Mac226;m
employed as a librarian.
Thank you for the opportunity to submit my work. Your
time and attention are appreciated, and I look forward
to hearing from you.

Joel Rane


THE AMARGOSA DESERT

The old man of my past is still laughing, still
casting clouds of gray sand down around my head.
Death Valley, 7000 on one side, 12000 on the other, a
stinking hole with campers racing across it. The
mountains just glare, the sun, only sage and creosote
know home. I am home. Los Angeles is a desert still.
The planet in silence grows lips. I understand. You
DO NOT fuck with the desert. All else is open game.
(Open game of Highway 93, 28 Sept. 85&Mac247;Whomp that
sucker!)
A cinderblock with cop lights flashing at the corners
reads SHAMROCK BROTHEL. I am reassured. I remember
waiting for the bus at Hollywood and Vine on humid
nights. In Berkeley trapped, in Nevada abused, in
California set free. My pretty state, I never should
have forgotten the American Dream. America lies all
to the east, all mystery, but I have met her people&Mac247;no
mystery there. Atomic bombs melt it to glass, the
Amargosa is as far as I go east. (Nevada sucks&Mac247;take
the kids.)


APPLE OF HIS EYE

She comes and goes redly, yellowly,
prancing the halls like the great drunken Queen of
Babylon
and all the while the Sun drags the Earth round
trees drink from the mossy banks of the Santa Ynez
the Mokelumne, and she mustn&Mac226;t flush the toilet
or disturb their equilibrium
just because
a certain shade of light green hangs low in the sky.
A certain neon sign over Broadway is flashing flashing
flashing
Everyone has given up hope of ever being.
There she is again, laughing and laughing, with some
other hippie,
proving all hippies look alike to some people.
Driving screaming laughing,
the apple of his eye, the apple of my eye, the apple
that spins on the Beatles album as crinkled foil
drifts
drops drops drops sparkling, burnt
measuring time and silencing mouths, making payback
screaming driving laughing
somewhere (maybe Hawai&Mac226;i?) palms are gently swaying
Las Vegas billboard charm on the Highway to Heaven
Happiness
looking at the trees and saying, you you you, me me
me, nothing
can stay
but everything else must disappear. Go
like the apple itself, oblivion, whole, smooth,
encapsulation
rotting
and then, you know, she will, grow anew.


SUV
(for all my neighbors on the Westside)

SUV, SUV,
One slowing down in front
and one coming up fast
behind me.

Sport Utility Vehicle:
One side of my brain asks,
What&Mac226;s the sport?
Is it intimidating your neighbors
or propping up an ancient monarchy?

The other side of my brain just says,
FUCK YOU.





__________________________________
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Hello,

I've sent three of my best poems for consideration for geronimo review. I'm an amateur poet trying to get my stuff out there. I live in Miami, FL and am an undergrad at University of Miami.

Thanks a lot for you time and attention!

Sincerely,

Lauren Clark


"Sniper"

Save yourself, you always do
Worry not about icy shards of lies
Melting, dropping from your mouth
Uttered deliberately with conviction
Certain to sway any who listen
Yours the only truth worth knowing
Martyr is your middle name
You who take your mark with care
Ready, aim, fire! There!
Sniper that you are, you fire
No possible defense against
An unseen, unknown enemy
The gunman crouches quietly
Loading shells, lining up crosshairs
The target now in plain sight
What everyone else anticipates
Except the one who has been shot
She falls prostrate, dying,
Blood like wine spilled blossoms
No defense, no recovery
From a stealthy mortal wound,
Worry not about the hot tears cried
Confusion in moments of self-doubt
Worry not about what was felt
In moments of abject adoration
Or in concern for your feelings
During hours of silent offerings
There was never any question
The only one you love is you


"Just Because"

You told me you tried to kill yourself,
You almost succeeded, you said,
Save for your mother finding you,
Barely breathing, you would be gone.
How I cried that day, as you softly
Whispered this story of your near death,
How the one you loved so much
Took your heart and tore it apart
As you travelled to his island
Over the holidays, with your mother,
And after he touched your body,
You were told he did not care for you.
Such sadness I felt for you, I mourned
Your loss of him, for I know how much
How deep was that care, that hope
Held close to you for months, as you
Needed and loved this one so cold.
Yes, the shock of your almost suicide
Caused my own bout of grief, I cried,
Worried for you daily, did what I could,
At a distance to show my love for you.
Since that mournful dialogue, the one
You cared for, my friend also, no longer
Of my acquaintance, off my buddy list,
I no longer cared for him, because.
Of you. Because of what he did.
Because.
Then, of course I had my own journey,
A dream spinning loudly in me,
I did not want to burden you with whom,
Or the details, because. Yes, because.
You tend to talk too much, to gossip.
So I refused you these facts. Because.
Not only to protect myself, but you.
Because. If I did not tell you, then
You could not know. Because.
You have this tendency to say things.
To show your coolness. Because?
I see what happened now, I see,
Because. I would not tell you,
Because. Another one needed to know.
There was an easy series of
Connect.the.dots. Then, eh voila,
You betrayed me in your heart, although
I never told you, never gave you facts.
You just talked. Because. That's all.
So when you say you will call, I know
You're not going to call. Because.
You don't want to hear my voice.
Because. You know what you've said,
Done, spun, on and on and on. Because.
You aren't a friend to anyone. Not to me.
Not to her, to them, to any. Because.
You don't love yourself. You can't.
You know you aren't trustworthy.
You know of your damage, you're lost.
Because.

"Modern Witch"

In another day would one of this ilk
Have been burned at the stake or
Dunked until drowned in nearby pond
As a witch,
As an evil one who stirs a cauldron
Supped upon by a familiar cat or other
At a third nipple
Known in the town as one who
Casts a dark glance on children
Throws a bleak mood with her setting
Gives others a chill up the spine
Paints her house gray
Drives a straw broom
This one drains, takes life from surrounds
Though not in eating children,
Not Hansel and Gretel,
But in a sense of energetic vampirism
A mind distinctly ill
Who sees the glass empty
A smile with a sense of foreboding
Teeth a slight oily yellow
Wraithlike in appearance
Drawing the energy of those healthy
Like a kind of human black hole
This one communes with her own kind
Or none at all
Summoning unfriendly shades
As house guests
Known for disturbed sleep patterns
Removing others from their rest
Beware such a creature as this
Who may hang from a perch at night
Rolling her eyes into the head
Skin a pale sickly phosphorescent white
She lives to bring others death
Take care to avoid her touch
Like Circe she will call and torment
A sense of fatal magnetism
Avoid her if you seek happiness
Run from her if you would live

Hi, I'm sending you 4 poems for your consideration. I think my poems speak for themselves, but you never know. If there's anything else you need to know about me, well, good luck!

Larry

LET’S NOT TALK ABOUT IT



Let’s not talk about sex

Let’s just have all the people

whose fantasies are different from ours

gassed

Let’s not talk about drugs

Let’s just pack as many poor people as we can

into the penitentiary

Let’s not talk about child abuse

Let’s just put everyone on

medication and surveillance

It’s good for the economy

Let’s not talk about the criminals

in the government and the boardrooms

Let’s just pretend we live in a dollhouse

and keep chugging down the light

television beer

and hugging our rubberized marriages

Let’s not rock the sinking boat

or we’ll lose our meaningless jobs

Let’s not talk about education

It’s easier to keep people

on the welfare system of grades

Let’s not talk about the past

or how other cultures function

It’ll only confuse us with the facts

Let’s keep stroking our neutered pets

Eating our minimum requirements

Keeping our pianos muzzled and leashed

Smothering flames

Paying the Internal Reaming Service

And wondering which brand of sky to buy

Let’s not talk about the first 3 letters

of con-venience

Let’s just suffix ourselves

to the first freight train out of reality

and wrap our dead fish heads in front page news

Let’s not talk about the stench anymore

Let’s just purchase the right cologne

and find the cure for moonlight

Mirrors be damned

Let’s not look the problem in the eye





9/11



See the bodies and the pieces of the bodies

falling out of the American sky

like confetti on an impromptu Palestinian parade.

Let’s celebrate death.

Let’s celebrate an afterlife in a foodless, sexless, songless, bodiless heaven.

Let’s celebrate all the religions

that in the name of peace, love and surrender

rain down war, hatred and notions of superiority on the earth.

Let’s celebrate Satan

wearing the robe, beard and piercing eyes of a saint.

Let’s celebrate righteousness no matter how wrong it is.

Let’s celebrate a world that is not big enough for four simple colors.

Let’s celebrate a colorless, black and white world of slavish obedience.

Let’s celebrate the death of all poetry that is not pure propaganda.

Let’s sing the murder of language.

Let’s celebrate the fervent pout that kills thousands of people.

Let’s say either you do it my way or KABOOM!

Let’s celebrate the caging of the goddesses.

Let’s rip out their clits before they become a temptation.

Let’s choose an eternity of nothing over a few years of pleasure.

Let’s not sit in the sun

when we can be out slaughtering our own kind.

Let’s celebrate insanity

and worship its practitioners as our priests.

Let’s cut off the hands of the poor who simply want to eat.

If somebody makes a mistake, let’s slit his throat.

The law is the law; the human heart has no voice.

Let’s wear bombs instead of jewelry.

Burn off all the meat from around the bones.

Let’s get even with the bastards;

let’s level the slaying field.

Let’s place the seat of every government in a puddle of revenge.

Let’s quench our thirst with the blood of our fellow man.

Let’s eat his ears because he heard a different drum.

There is only one God and his name is eternal death.





HOW I BECAME A HERO



I went straight from Valley High right into the pros

I went from pimples and pinups and gin n platonic

to riding around town in the dump bed

of the Sutton & Son landscaping truck

with high school dropouts and ingrown men

whose English was a foreign language



I went for the money

that would buy me the beers on an empty stomach after work

that would send me into a drunken babeless stupor called

night of the living dead after night of the living dead

a pair of killer pit bulls a.k.a. the Vietnam War

growling in a troubled sleep at the foot of my gurney



ten feet tall

genitals all over my body

and wearing a bright green second-hand soul on my snotty sleeve

I got traded away by my parents for a used El Dorado

and went looking for love

among some neglected bushes in the public park



where I amassed a case of empties

and wound up on the bucking psychedelic streets

minus five years old

my scars n stripes Uncle Scam offering me a lift:

"Listen, the life of the mind is highly overrated

as is the use of both legs;



what matters is brandy not Gandhi,

what matters is unlimited access to foreign whorehouses

and an equal opportunity to win a cheesy M.B.A.

Hey, Corporal Punishment, hows about

doin’ the laydown pushup uniform well-armed crawl

toward a hospital corner



so’s you can get a nice pair of wheels

and a nurse to shove you around?

This is your chance, my son,

to bleed all that you can bleed," says he

through the uplifted double barrel

of his middle fingers



but I already knew the difference

between right and wrong

between poontang pie and pork chop hill

and I said to the recruiter:

My only regret is that I have

but one life to give to my cunt!"





OPEN AND SHUT



Your Honors, J. P. Giddy here, representing the interests of a No Trespassing sign who has had a rather imposing maple tree nailed to it. I have pictures of the dastardly deed, prosecution exhibits A and B, in which the head of the defendant, a rusty old nail, is clearly visible. Besides the obvious loss of freedom, my client has suffered a severe loss of memory as a result of this forced perforation and is now able to speak only two words. Surgery will be necessary to remove the perp. from the victim and clean up the sap, and a prolonged period of physical rehabilitation and speech therapy is indicated in order to fully restore my client to the status of an autonomous member of the community. My partner, James B. Frivolous, will be handling the maple tree’s suit. We argue that you ignore defense counsel’s underhanded allegations that a hammer was behind this crime, a hammer that I remind your honors was never found at the scene, and we ask that you award my client a settlement that will provide generous compensation for the sign’s pain, suffering and mental anguish and enable my two nubile daughters to enjoy an Ivy League education and secure new meal tickets.


Hi, I'm sending you 4 poems for your consideration. I think my poems speak for themselves, but you never know. If there's anything else you need to know about me, well, good luck!

Larry

LET’S NOT TALK ABOUT IT



Let’s not talk about sex

Let’s just have all the people

whose fantasies are different from ours

gassed

Let’s not talk about drugs

Let’s just pack as many poor people as we can

into the penitentiary

Let’s not talk about child abuse

Let’s just put everyone on

medication and surveillance

It’s good for the economy

Let’s not talk about the criminals

in the government and the boardrooms

Let’s just pretend we live in a dollhouse

and keep chugging down the light

television beer

and hugging our rubberized marriages

Let’s not rock the sinking boat

or we’ll lose our meaningless jobs

Let’s not talk about education

It’s easier to keep people

on the welfare system of grades

Let’s not talk about the past

or how other cultures function

It’ll only confuse us with the facts

Let’s keep stroking our neutered pets

Eating our minimum requirements

Keeping our pianos muzzled and leashed

Smothering flames

Paying the Internal Reaming Service

And wondering which brand of sky to buy

Let’s not talk about the first 3 letters

of con-venience

Let’s just suffix ourselves

to the first freight train out of reality

and wrap our dead fish heads in front page news

Let’s not talk about the stench anymore

Let’s just purchase the right cologne

and find the cure for moonlight

Mirrors be damned

Let’s not look the problem in the eye





9/11



See the bodies and the pieces of the bodies

falling out of the American sky

like confetti on an impromptu Palestinian parade.

Let’s celebrate death.

Let’s celebrate an afterlife in a foodless, sexless, songless, bodiless heaven.

Let’s celebrate all the religions

that in the name of peace, love and surrender

rain down war, hatred and notions of superiority on the earth.

Let’s celebrate Satan

wearing the robe, beard and piercing eyes of a saint.

Let’s celebrate righteousness no matter how wrong it is.

Let’s celebrate a world that is not big enough for four simple colors.

Let’s celebrate a colorless, black and white world of slavish obedience.

Let’s celebrate the death of all poetry that is not pure propaganda.

Let’s sing the murder of language.

Let’s celebrate the fervent pout that kills thousands of people.

Let’s say either you do it my way or KABOOM!

Let’s celebrate the caging of the goddesses.

Let’s rip out their clits before they become a temptation.

Let’s choose an eternity of nothing over a few years of pleasure.

Let’s not sit in the sun

when we can be out slaughtering our own kind.

Let’s celebrate insanity

and worship its practitioners as our priests.

Let’s cut off the hands of the poor who simply want to eat.

If somebody makes a mistake, let’s slit his throat.

The law is the law; the human heart has no voice.

Let’s wear bombs instead of jewelry.

Burn off all the meat from around the bones.

Let’s get even with the bastards;

let’s level the slaying field.

Let’s place the seat of every government in a puddle of revenge.

Let’s quench our thirst with the blood of our fellow man.

Let’s eat his ears because he heard a different drum.

There is only one God and his name is eternal death.





HOW I BECAME A HERO



I went straight from Valley High right into the pros

I went from pimples and pinups and gin n platonic

to riding around town in the dump bed

of the Sutton & Son landscaping truck

with high school dropouts and ingrown men

whose English was a foreign language



I went for the money

that would buy me the beers on an empty stomach after work

that would send me into a drunken babeless stupor called

night of the living dead after night of the living dead

a pair of killer pit bulls a.k.a. the Vietnam War

growling in a troubled sleep at the foot of my gurney



ten feet tall

genitals all over my body

and wearing a bright green second-hand soul on my snotty sleeve

I got traded away by my parents for a used El Dorado

and went looking for love

among some neglected bushes in the public park



where I amassed a case of empties

and wound up on the bucking psychedelic streets

minus five years old

my scars n stripes Uncle Scam offering me a lift:

"Listen, the life of the mind is highly overrated

as is the use of both legs;



what matters is brandy not Gandhi,

what matters is unlimited access to foreign whorehouses

and an equal opportunity to win a cheesy M.B.A.

Hey, Corporal Punishment, hows about

doin’ the laydown pushup uniform well-armed crawl

toward a hospital corner



so’s you can get a nice pair of wheels

and a nurse to shove you around?

This is your chance, my son,

to bleed all that you can bleed," says he

through the uplifted double barrel

of his middle fingers



but I already knew the difference

between right and wrong

between poontang pie and pork chop hill

and I said to the recruiter:

My only regret is that I have

but one life to give to my cunt!"





OPEN AND SHUT



Your Honors, J. P. Giddy here, representing the interests of a No Trespassing sign who has had a rather imposing maple tree nailed to it. I have pictures of the dastardly deed, prosecution exhibits A and B, in which the head of the defendant, a rusty old nail, is clearly visible. Besides the obvious loss of freedom, my client has suffered a severe loss of memory as a result of this forced perforation and is now able to speak only two words. Surgery will be necessary to remove the perp. from the victim and clean up the sap, and a prolonged period of physical rehabilitation and speech therapy is indicated in order to fully restore my client to the status of an autonomous member of the community. My partner, James B. Frivolous, will be handling the maple tree’s suit. We argue that you ignore defense counsel’s underhanded allegations that a hammer was behind this crime, a hammer that I remind your honors was never found at the scene, and we ask that you award my client a settlement that will provide generous compensation for the sign’s pain, suffering and mental anguish and enable my two nubile daughters to enjoy an Ivy League education and secure new meal tickets.

Katerina

cooing eyes
radiating knowledge of every trick
beckoning them with silky promises
bright green, slightly marred by drugs
shot red
red like the sweet tenderness
intruded on by her many encounters
early for dinner, but proceed in anyway
because her honey smile drives them crazy
draws them to her and makes her feel loved
with all her perfections,
is what her sculpted self craves
With raven wing hair she flies in
because she is never not noticed
daughters,
stay away from the experienced beauty
who oozes sex and leaves a trail of it in her wake
like an after thought,
a question,
can you get me?
her olive skin, she slathers up every night
and lotions, before leaving the hellhole house
so she can sit in the cafe
and let her skin invite everyone to join
sucking in her cheeks when she drags on her cigarette
sensually dangling in-between her long fingers
She looks through the smoke and reassures them,
they are the only one she sees.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Adolescent Insecurities

Hand smooth on my knee,
near my thigh I hate.
Halt before the marks and scars,
scared to scare away.

Gently guide his hand to mine,
message my untouched chest.
Cheating time of all its worth,
worried shape of breast.

First one let under layers,
lies of size revealed.
Revels in uncharted play,
praying its not weird.

Then to him, the switch is made,
marking pleasure tall and hard.
Halting hand hopes to find,
feelings not in heart.

But not in heart, sorrow brings,
bearing down smothering like.
Leaving wake of loss and hurt,
hurry to make it right.


~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Vauge

My cousin cried last night
howeled into the cold grey phone
choked on her sour milk memories

No one ever held her hand
her forlorne hand with pearl fingers
and petal palms
soft like a candle flame and lonely.

Lonely like the vast ocean
stretching over gaping land's mouth
silencing it with dark fear
deep like my cousin's core.

Scabs picked off in therapy
itchy healing skin torn away
like pictures of guys in magazines
pasted on her wall.

And Mr. Therapy,
who no one can ever really talk to
awakens the waterfall behind her eye
and she stands alone
surrounded by not there people.

People,
you dont understand
you dont get my cousin,
my cousine with the whipcream skin
and sunken eyes.

Whose sobs tear away from her
and dissinegrate into the pillow
the dial tone,
pounding in her heart.



Christa Etnyre
age: 15 years old

There were a couple things that confused me a little. In your section of graded poetry, I only saw evidence that one poem was graded and not in the way your other page said, i.e. A, B, etc., but with red written comments. The concept of comments was more interesting to me than your other system woulda been anyhow, so this isn't a complaint, but in view of your "ruthlessness" :) to this one poet, it would have been interesting for us readers to read your grading of the other poems. If the grading is too "ruthless," do you just mail it to them privately or something? Part of the attraction for me of your system is this grading thing. Seems fun.



I'm sending you one, OK? Please put it into the category of the most ruthless grading; I believe that is what you call your "open" section. I noticed your contributors sent you little bios although I don't see a request for one in the Poet's Market where I hooked up with your site. The poem I'm sending is "Dingdong the wicked." It's certainly never been printed before, nor am I sending it elsewhere. If you want a little bio like for the others, you can use the below or not, whatever, I don't care. I don't imagine I'm in any danger of being stalked or injured or even flamed by the likes of those who click on to you although I don't generally put my personal information on-line.



Nancy Bolle

27626 26th Avenue Court E

Spanaway, WA 98387

1-253-846-7717

JJY_BEE_MAC@msn.com



My publishing credits do not impress ME, so I see no point in trying to impress you; my publications are a long time ago anyway ever since I got involved working at a real job. I teach, and at some point decided that teaching is art enough for one life. My first career was in the home raising children, and it was then I did writing. Lately I have begun writing again since it's real fakey for me to push students to write when all I write are syllabi and assignment guidelines. Writing teachers probably ought to be writers themselves. Or at least not be afraid to try.



Dingdong the wicked



My mother liked ice

in her drink

to tinkle.



Swiveling merry charms of tinkle

bewitched her drink,

be-spelled the ice

around her eyes, a crystal blessing.



Her one and shrimp-eyed blessing

shrank the room, hushed the tinkle,

made water of her limpid drink,

bedeviled ice,

melting my dingdong



mother.

No more blessing,

a teeny, mushy, muted tinkle,

a jinxed drink,

staked-through-the-heart ice.



The witchery is tinkle:

liking drinking,

my ice mother too.