A Chalice of Champagne, by Ivor Steven

A Chalice of Champagne
by Ivor Steven

Once upon a time
In the days of rhyme
When learning to climb
I saw my neon sign
Slowly die by design

An angel’s teardrop fell
Ringing the church bell
And filling my empty well
From the tower of song, I wanted to yell
But life doesn’t let you dwell

During the monsoon rains
I trekked over flooded plains
Avoiding delta swamps of pain
Scaling the same old mountain again
Searching for that chalice of champagne

Ivor Steven was formerly an Industrial Chemist, then a Plumber, and has been writing poetry for 19 years. He has had numerous poems published in on-line magazines. He is an active member of the Geelong Writers Inc.(Australia), and is a team member/barista with the on-line magazine Go Dog Go Cafe (America).

Travel, by Alan Cohen

Travel
by Alan Cohen

This early morning
When things were not yet quite themselves
Some fuzz of the infinite still on them
Birds threw themselves from cliffs like lovers
And found themselves flying
Cows paced their yards like troubled princes
Churches and watchtowers halted and stared
Bakery doors opened, releasing a night’s accumulated pheromones
And a flock of dogs, barking, bounded along a cactus fence
Then started up the hill toward breakfast

But once the gray fields had turned yellow or red or brown
And the last city light faded on the horizon
Sun climbing out of its nightdress of clouds
The cows were back to huddling again
Bending together, chewing
Birds once more perched on eaves, rooftops, churchtowers
Making short purposeful flights
The dog pack broke up to prowl the narrow streets
And a few rocks on the hillside, sheep moments ago
Relapsed into stone.
Spain, despite the commanding view
Just a familiar place
Like home

Alan Cohen, poet first, then PCMD, teacher, manager, wrote an average of three poems a month for 60 years, and is beginning now to share some of his poems. He’s married to Anita and lives in Eugene, Oregon.

The Sun Arose Again, by Ivor Steven

The Sun Arose Again
by Ivor Steven

There must be a number of silent masks around
Yesterday an old mask flew away at the speed of sound
From behind, the real pieces of what we perceive
Are leftover bones, bleached by sky and sea
Where the worn pebbles lingering in the hand
Fall gently upon lines drawn in the sand
And these new beginnings could be a heavenly gift
As white doves soar above the mourning cliffs

Perhaps the next awakening will be a peaceful one
Full of friendly compassion and wisdom
I’m lucky today, the sun arose again
To light up the hallway, despite the rain
I’ll be the first one to walk out the door
And the only one left here, to see her valour

Ivor Steven was formerly an Industrial Chemist, then a Plumber, and has been writing poetry for 19 years. He has had numerous poems published in on-line magazines. He is an active member of the Geelong Writers Inc.(Australia), and is a team member/barista with the on-line magazine Go Dog Go Cafe (America).

The Universe and My Backyard, by Ivor Steven

The Universe and My Backyard
by Ivor Steven

Outside alone, stoically I stand
Old toes gripping into cold sand
Here my lawn cover is sparse
But I see the universe in a blade of grass

Under my feet I feel our planet’s ground
Above I see a grey sky swirling around
As the sun hides behind trees and clouds
And my backyard garden grows lush and proud

Inside, I’m surrounded by a world of sound
Old fingers typing a rhyme of words yet to be found
As the studio rhythm inspires my pen to speak
And my writers haven is where dreams flow vivid and sweet

Ivor Steven was formerly an Industrial Chemist, then a Plumber, and has been writing poetry for 19 years. He has had numerous poems published in on-line magazines. He is an active member of the Geelong Writers Inc.(Australia), and is a team member/barista with the on-line magazine Go Dog Go Cafe (America).

Life Is A Journey, by Debi Swim

Life Is A Journey
by Debi Swim

I can make it sound redundant
cause it has been done before.
I can make it sound necessary
cause people must be born.
I can make it sound inadequate
cause humanity doesn’t change.
I guess I could call it lots of things
but it’s been going on so long…

Adam, look around you
and help me understand
the expedience of life.
I heard it’s all about the journey
and a destination at the end.
But, the question still remains
is this journey only labor pains?

Debi Swim is a persistent West Virginia poet.

There’s No Time, by Emil Sinclair

There’s No Time
by Emil Sinclair

There’s no time
like the present
to make amends
for the past;
to stop lying
to the face
in the mirror.
I no longer shave
my beard each day,
but I still shave
so much truth,
to keep myself
hidden from me.

If character is
really destiny,
then I wish
I were a bullfrog,
singing harmony
in the rushes
by the pond.
Or a robin,
digging worms
in soft, dark earth
moistened by a
light spring rain.

Their beauty
is their nature;
feathers and
frog skin,
their poetry.
Even chameleons
cannot help
but change
their colors.
There is no
subterfuge,
no lie
in the soul—
the root of all
evil, said Plato.

If I could only be
like them,
I would fly, swim,
or crawl
to you,
through the rubble
of now,
without delay.
I would find you
in no time,
wherever you are,
to beg your
forgiveness,
and the gentle
mercy of one
sweet kiss,
to turn me
into a fat,
happy frog,
now and
forever.

Emil Sinclair is the pseudonym of a sometime poet and longtime philosophy professor in New York City.

There Is A River, by Emil Sinclair

There Is A River
by Emil Sinclair

There is a river
by the river
you can’t step in twice.
A place where time
must have a stop,
and the hooded monks
in sackcloth robes
the color of
pomegranates
chant these words;
“Holy, Holy, Holy.”
The air is electric
there; it crackles
and sings with life
in all its colors.

I have been there twice:
once, by accident,
by myself entranced;
and once, by design,
just to gaze at you,
from the yonder side
of the riverbank.
It took me eight years
to make that journey,
across blazing deserts
and the perilous seas
of my moth-eaten soul.

Our eyes met,
and you smiled at me,
knowing that, at last,
I’d found the courage
to make the trip.
Much was given up,
and even more
forgiven.
The air buzzed
with aquamarine,
and tasted of late
Beethoven quartets,
as the monks chanted
in synchronous rounds:
“Holy, Holy, Holy.”
And I knew then,
in that timeless now,
that we would never
be parted again.

Emil Sinclair is the pseudonym of a sometime poet and longtime philosophy professor in New York City.

No Heroics, Please, by Emil Sinclair

No Heroics, Please
by Emil Sinclair

No heroics, please.
I do not yearn
to go on a quest
to save the world,
a people, an idea,
or even myself.
I have no desire
to fight battles,
slay dragons,
have visions,
or return from
an adventure
with boons
to bestow.

I have no wish
to conquer anyone
or anything;
to venture forth
into mysteries,
merely in order
to solve them.
I refuse to steal
the ambrosia
of immortality
from arrogant gods
or lethargic giants,
too lazy or foolish
to guard their own
dearest treasure.
Pass the holy grail
to someone else,
and let them take
the hero’s journey.

No, I would rather
invite the dragon
to my house
for high tea,
served in the parlor.
We will share
the Victorian loveseat,
sip Earl Grey from
fine bone china cups,
and feast on hot
buttered scones
and watercress
finger sandwiches.
We will discuss
my looming death,
and how she might
incinerate the cancer
of my self-regard,
with but a single blast
of her fiery breath,
in due preparation
for my final
metamorphosis.

If she should reciprocate
and invite me to her lair,
I will go down
into the darkness,
where the shadow lives
in ashes, dust, and grief.
I will go as a suppliant,
bearing gifts of fine wines—
sauternes and tawny ports—
smoked meats and fishes,
dried fruits and baguettes.
I will bring with me
no torch to light the way;
only a single candle,
so easily extinguished.

Process notes: When the first line came to me, I recognized it as the title of a poem by Raymond Carver, which appeared in a collection of his posthuma, also titled, No Heroics, Please. My other chief inspiration is Joseph Campbell, especially his seminal work, The Hero With a Thousand Faces.

Emil Sinclair is the pseudonym of a sometime poet and a longtime philosophy professor in New York City.

If Only, by Emil Sinclair

If Only
by Emil Sinclair

If only I’d known
I was living
at the end
of the world
I would have been
so very careful
to be careless
of the edge.
I refused the call
of friendship
and love
far too often,
and took so much
for granted
in my timid reserve.
There would always be
more time, I thought;
more chances,
to find courage
and verve.

I would have written
more poems
learned ancient Greek,
taken up oil painting,
gone to the opera
and the symphony,
drunk more wine
(certainly not less),
and made caprice
my ever-present
companion.

If only I’d known
I was living
at the end
of the world
I would have danced
that one slow dance
with you,
and never
let you go.
I would have lived
my life
to the end.
If only,
I’d known.

Emil Sinclair is the pseudonym of a sometime poet and longtime philosophy professor in New York City.