Fostering
appreciation of the written word, supporting and educating its
creators.
Out Loud
Poems of the Month
Congratulations to Mike Bayles and John McBride for having
their poems selected as the Out
Loud Poems of the year!!
February 2010
The Dunk Tank Barker
by
Bill LaFrenz
Walking the fairgrounds
carnival midway
it started in, " Hey old
gray-haired man!
Betcha you can't even lift a
baseball...you
know they have Grecian Formula
for that
hair you got going?" "Ha ha!
Ha ha ha!"
blared from a speaker in nasal
tones.
My brother and teenage nephews
paused momentarily;
it came again, "You hiding
behind your grandbabies?
You little guys push grandpa
around in his wheel chair?
You'll probably look just like
him when you grow up!
My nephews were hooked..."Ha
ha! Ha ha ha!"
We stopped and bought 15 balls
for ten dollars.
With a target on each side of
him, a skinny kid
sat perched above the dunk
tank, shifting his attention
to more customers, "Hey Harley
guys...or is it hardly guys?
You probably can't even get up
on a Harley...you
probably can't even get it up
at all! Ha ha! Ha ha ha!"
My nephew wound back to throw,
"STOP!"
My nephew stopped and lowered
the ball,
"You are so stupid, ha ha, ha
ha ha!" the skinny
kid in a devil mask, perched
above the dunk tank,
roared out at us. "Stupid and
Gray, what a team!"
Both nephews' anger rose, and
they began a fierce
throwing, and even hit the
target once, but not hard enough.
The skinny kid in the devil
mask still sat strong,
behind metal bars, above the
dunk tank,
and pitched again into the
midway, "Is that your
girlfriend, or did you just
draw a face on a balloon?"
Another 15 balls for the other
target, another ten dollars.
But this new customer knew how
to reach back and throw hard.
"Wait a minute!" the skinny
kid, behind the bars,
between the targets, above the
dunk tank, yelled
at my nephew, who stopped in
mid throw. "I can't
believe you are so stupid!
You must be the dumbest
person alive." My nephew
threw and missed and
flipped me his last ball in
anger. It hit my chest.
Another 15 balls for ten
dollars on our side,
but the new customer hit the
target hard, and
down went the devil into the
tank, "Hi and dry!
Hi and dry!" he popped back up
to his perch.
I threw. Not at the target,
but at his head, behind bars.
And "tong" my ball hit at
eye-level startled him.
The ball bounced around and
into the netting,
and the devil had nothing to
say.
For a moment, the man taking
the money
looked as if he had just heard
a lone rooster
crow at dusk and was saddened
in his heart.
And then the new customer hit
the target hard, again.
"Hi and dry! Hi and dry!"
the wet devil shouted back.
January 2010
Michael Kelly
Elegy for the Pope,
Feb. "05
(Jan-Feb '05 & the
pope's on a ventilator)
For the first time since parochial,
grammar school,
I am even thinking
about the Pope. I f he dies
it conflicts with
my travel plans to be a tourist in Rome.
The white-smoke
seekers will fill
St. Peter's Square
and I may never see the ceiling
of the Cistine
Chapel of Michaelangelo.
And all the good
coffee, wine & food will be taken
by entourages of the
world's Cardinals.
The prices will
skyrocket and soldiers will be
armed to the teeth
with terror threats.
And I shall be in
rags, penniless and deported
because I love Jews
more than Jesus.
My paranoia is
escalating but my survival skills
tingle with the
sensations of healthy fear of a senile,
patriachial,
homophobe of international status
who once instilled
terror into the groveling Galileo
whose life hanged by
a thread and house arrest
was the best plea
he could bargain. The burning at
the stake stuff just
doesn't seem that appealing,
especially, when you
are right and Truth and
Beauty have raptured
you. But ashes, sack cloth,
mercy begging are
not my stock and trade.
How high can
hippocracy ride when two out of three,
four out of five
priets are gay and 10-20%, the remaining
disengaging their
sexuality yet deny their authenticity
while inflicting
suffering; allowing suffering to continue
to happen or even
encouraging some to suffer.
Don't die Pope
because there are a hundred,
a thousand just like
you waiting to take your place.
Dry, old men with
closets full of sexuality & fantasy
tell the other half
of the world,
about which they
know nothing, how to live.
The arrogance and
hippocracy rain down on us
who seek shelter and
sanctuary from the maddness.
Someone who doesn't
even know the daily weather
because of all the
security, isolation and`privilege;
" Are you talkin to
Me...are You talking to me?"
I just want you to
prattle on acting like
what you have to say
is something important.
I'll even humor you,
act like i'm listening or
even care about what
have to say or think.
Just don't die
before Easter and I'm back
to my Holy Seat in
San Leandro, California.
*****
July 2009
Catie Osborn
Awhile ago somebody
came and done scorched the earth
but instead of killing what they wished was dead
they went and killed our hope– instead
oh but don’t despair
see hope is real hard to irradicate
what i’m trying to say
is that it’s still there
you can feel it under the surface
on the nights when you hold real still and
squinch your eyes shut at the brightness of the stars
and you can hear it pressed against the concrete
sidewalks
trying to find a weak spot
to sneak on through into the world
oh hope is there alright, just biding its time
its in everything we do if you know how to look
but what what they don’t say
is that a little bit of hope is stuck in you
you gotta dig real deep to find it but I promise you
it’s there
planted in the furrows of our brow,
in the crooks and crannies of broken hearts
its in that bed of promise and ambition deep down in
your soul
that hope takes root
where it’s fertilized with fears and reservations and a
sprinkling of doubt
because that stuff is crap
water it with sweat and tears
it’ll be plowed, don’t worry about that
plowed down and over and around by those who don’t
believe
you gotta get used to that
but hope is resilient
mostly you just sit back and watch it and every so often
loosen up the weeds
and given time and the proper douse of daily dreams and
visions
it’ll grow and unfurl and become one giant hope tree
which we can all eat the fruits of
pass it on down the line
have a hope eating contest with hope berry pie
and homemade hope cobbler and rhubarb hope which no one
but your grandpa likes
and it will keep on growing until everything we do is
made from hope
we’ll gas our cars and weave our clothes and clean my
glasses with it
until there’s so much hope they’re giving it away at low
low prices even after Christmas sales
and there will be hope ad campaigns cause hope’s the
perfect gift
it comes in all colors and sizes and can be tailored to
fit your needs
and goes really well with wine
and CNN will comment on the hope surplus for this month
while they stockpile it in
great warehouses to give to the less fortunate
so go on.
have the audacity to believe in something
believe that you will change the world. somehow.
believe in the power of your thoughts against the silver
domed heavens
shake the very roots from which you spring
dare disturb the universe
all will tremble before your grand thoughts and great
ideas
which may be too large for just one small person
because your ideals are mighty
so like Johnny Idealistic Appleseed keep
on spreading those little seeds of hope
put them everywhere you go and dont forget to smile
keep on moving and shaking and keep on keeping on
and in 20 years or maybe 40 when I’m as old as the hills
I will still stand behind these convictions and ideals
because i’ve chosen wisely and I can get get behind
the message I convey
cause you can hear it
hope keeps echoing back clear as a bell loud as a
whistle
shooting up one frail tendril that will break up the
grey concrete and
turn this city green with hope.
Out Loud Poem of the Month for May 2009
What Helen Heard
(Dedicated to Jordan)
By Catie OSborn
It's true (she said)
How can she understand
words
like "I" and "me" and "you" and "we"
and ad infinitum.
Only--she didn't say ad infinitum.
No, words like ad infinitum aren't used
by bleach blonde brown rooted
fake-nailed captains of cheerleading teams
they're used by people like Helen Keller
who work and strive and seek and explore--
something I'd like
to aspire to
someday
to break free of this monofiliament cage
to sing
sweetly
to speak my secrets into the darkness
murmur my fears and caress
my longings all falling on
deaf ears and dumb tongues
so its like I never said anything
at all
except--
I did
you just missed it,
unlike the whole rest of the cosmos
who now echo back
my words
ad infinitum.
March 2009
At the Helm
The barge pilot watches
nuances of the Mississippi
from his vantage.
He uses radars and intuition
to stay true to the channel
and guide the load at his helm.
He watches for fluctuations in current
for indications of sandbars
in the ever-changing stream.
Every bend surprises
and offers new visions
of the timeless flow.
His steady grasp guides
the convoy of a tug and barges
and repeats the journey of legends
along Mark Twain's way.
by Mike Bayles
The Life of Death
I didn't realize
I was an orphan
until my parents died.
My husband died,
unannounced, but he didn't
leave as expected.
If my kids die - CALL THE POLICE!
Cause I will definitely
kill them for it.
As for me,
party with me now
Not after my body is unavailable...
by Juli Rydzewski
February 2009
I've become Pavlov's dog,
conditioned to flinch and run
with my tail between my legs;
wanting to head for the fields.
But I yield to insecurities.
Someone needs to clean
the pipe of resin choking me
coax me slowly, to hit
from blades of wheat grass;
cleanse the toxins from my past.
My heart is not obedient
yet I sit and stay and beg.
Residual negativity paralyzed
my individuality.
I'm not a canine champion
I'm meant to be a mix;
a creation of my own,
under the influence of me.
I learned to speak
but my barking ceased.
Only when I hit the grass
can I roll and play and revel,
chasing tails, pleasing no one,
wagging freely.
By Elizabeth Anne Hall
November 2008
For a Young Athenian Soldier Killed in the Peloponnesian
War from a description by the historian Thucydides
They dug a trench and threw him in a grave
Shallow as youth, and poured the wine out
Soaking his tunic, and the dry Attic air.
They covered him lightly, and left him there.
When music fills the air of spring,
Faith rises in the blood, and every harmony
The mind can find it seeks to bring
To make melancholy seem less predatory.
The light contains every treachery,
The light preserves the Parthenon,
The light is lost from that young eye,
hearing music I speak, les he wholly die.
by John McBride
October 2008
To the South
A Lament of the Emerald Isle
I was a lad from near Belfast, that grand old town,
and made my way as best I could
in poverty, having nothing to call my own.
My father they hauled off for good,
leaving the family destitute, and all alone
we were - and I knew where I stood.
Rebellion was strong in my blood, so fell the day
they came for me, and it took five
to lay me low - but down I went, borne swift away
with many stripes, barely alive,
'round the storm-tossed Horn to the sunny, sparkling Bay;
in '48 we did arrive.
To the South I did go, under burden sore to bear,
a sentence of natural life;
the Crown was rid of me, and little did it care
for my children, or for my wife.
I never saw dear home again - instead, my fare
was constant misery and strife.
By '49 I'd had my fill of shame and pain,
and wished to feel the lash no more;
I longed to smell the soft green of Ulster again,
but I was cursed, condemned, and bore
that which could not be expungedt, the Convict Stain,
legacy of the Fatal Shore.
And so I killed a Redcoat guard one moonless night,
and made straight for the coast. They found
me in the swelling surf, and took me without fight,
for by that time I was half-drowned.
Resigned to my bitter fate, in my wretched plight,
now for the gibbet was I bound.
To the South
I came before the Magistrate, shriven and shorn;
of me he made wondrous short work.
The good Irishman's lot, as sure as he was born,
if from sworn from duty he'll not shirk,
is to climb the gallows tall, upon some fine morn,
and leave this sad life with a jerk.
I was a lad from old Belfast, that troubled place,
and now my tale is told complete;
I went from bad to worse, but did not fall from Grace,
My honor upheld in defeat.
A patriot's heart will prove him, and he'll see God's face
and smile as the Harp plays e'er sweet.
D. W. McMillen
August 2008
Empire
Short
swords flash, the eagle soars;
dust
chokes out Mediterranean sun as
blood
and sweat form the grim mortar
that
joins the cold stones of Empire.
The
crescent slashes across the East,
consuming even fabled Byzantium;
the
sins of the fathers are visited on the sons,
and
green is the insistent color of Empire.
Broad
sails unfurl, heralding a new age
of
conquering hatred, arrogance, and greed;
jungles resound with the myriad hapless cries
that
sing the strident anthem of Empire.
The
tricolor hoists to a quick martial tune
as
heads roll through the streets of the City of Lights;
the
continent reels before the pitiless onslaught
of the
self-aggrandizing juggernaut of Empire.
Redcoats march, cruciform Jack never struck;
nine
centuries perfecting their bloody craft of State,
‘til
scarce a race has been graciously spared
the
grand, romantic notion of Empire.
A
torrent of blue darkens the Great Plains;
nobility falters, goes under the crushing wave
as
betrayal, futility, and rivers of bitter tears
mark
the well-worn trail of Empire.
The
Axis rolls on, inexorable in its grim resolve
to
forge a New Order by terror and naked might;
night
falls for a long season, and millions succumb
to the
spreading pestilence of Empire.
A new
millennium now, but same old Crusade;
the
business of glory, the scoundrel’s refuge.
We
have met the enemy, face-to-face, in the
stark,
unsparing mirror of Empire.
D. W.
McMillen
August
24, 2008
Pachoulli
Dreams
you know she's a
very strange cat
One year of maddness
in the mountains
Her father's death
and now she's off
her schizoid meds
Now she has glued
empty boxes of coco puffs
on her living room walls
She has this theory of living
which compelled her
to write confessional poetry
on her bedroom windowsills
She is an ecstatic version of
Sylvia Plath
She has big dreams
One day Davenport
will be like Paris
and her house shall reside
on the Boulevard St. Germain
One day she will have
a plaque bearing her name
in the madhouse hall of fame
Pachoulli Blaze is her name
Lips painted a morose
shade of red
Eyes glowing amber
in the existential
rain
Tiger's eye.
Pachoulli dives headlong
into the night
where the lost gather
between cracks of pavement
littered by the broken hearted
angels of the go go civilization
Where the man made sun
sings in neon rhyme
the songs of bright wildflowers
that wilted beneath the dawn
Pachoulli is no exception
Her sun is so bright
that someday it will fade
a somber blue
Soon she shall swim
with her impossible visions
on the waves of an ocean
filled with eternity's tears
Jason Cant
July 2008
The Sun is a Greater Destiny
I
I could have chosen
Not to be free
I could have chosen
To be a machine
This would not be so
For the sun whispered
To me what would
Become a greater destiny
I refused to shut up
When told to
You know the boy
Must be anti-social
I kept singing my song
Long after the boys
Grew into men
I chose to be free
Shouting deliriously
In the chill November rain
The song of nightingales
Who lost their
Wings in flight
I chose to be free
A bright wildflower
Blowing
haphazardly
In fields of droll conformity
II
The road to freedom
Wasn't easy
It took a lot of work.
Painstaking dedication
Every syllable had to
Sound right
On my road to liberation
Was all the work worth it?
I can barely survive
I absorb pain like a sponge
And spit it out
Beneath the shadows of
The woeful abyss
I skate figure 8's
Across doubts'
Frozen tundra
And speak to the dead
In pale soliloquies
III
The pain
The suffering
The slit wrists
The extended visits to
The madhouse, are all
Part of the routine
All part of the sucker's game
Otherwise known as
Immortality
I draw deep from a
Lonely well
I hold my freedom
Close to my chest
So its better angels
Can hear the beating
Of my heart
I will not go down so easy.
The storm is brisk
And full of fright
But a calm
Will eventually prevail
And silence will light candles
Guiding my eyes through
The night
You have made it Jason
And the sun now
Welcomes you
With open arms
Jason Cant
May 2008
Questions hold more than
answers
With the audacity to haunt dreams
Ensuing my raw postures
You brought me to ascension
With the audacity to haunt dreams
The next chapter is invoked
You brought me to ascension
Voice the summit into release
The next chapter was invoked
Lush lazy lexicon
Voice the summit into release
Secretly strip preconception
Lush lazy lexicon
Requiem for a muse
Secretly strip preconception
You're the language that leaps
Requiem for a muse
Ensuing my raw postures
You're the language that leaps
Questions hold more than answers.
