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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.

Hope Spencer

 

 

 
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