Poetry Showers

Gambling With The Lumberjack
dust in the bean field
brains in a jar my boy johnny holds
a wild card & a pair of black aces
one in each hand—this thing’s looking
good says johnny i finally got
this thing figured out but right
about then a tattoo falls out of
johnny’s left sleeve—o lookout
boy hear the train comin’ it’s the
nine o five with your name written
all over it—low bridge! shouts
the conductor but too late johnny
forgets to duck & i step in too late—
johnny your momma didn’t tell us
anything like this i know i promised
her i’d take care of you my heart’s in
the right place but sometimes my head’s
in the attic with the devil’s little sister
& i get a little confused sometimes
i get a little blind it’s only human
i never saw it coming & anyhow
my legs do not always do
exactly like they used to

>>>by: George Wallace

Charcoal clouds march
Across threatening sky,
Shoot spears of rain
That pierce tree limbs
And drench olive drab battlefields,
Attack soldiers below
In thin cloth uniforms, unable
To withstand the relentless arrows
Of sorrow, unable to avoid
Nature’s superior strength

We surrender

>>>by: Gail Goldstein
GAIL GOLDSTEIN is a retired teacher who works with children who have autism. She is published in numerous poetry anthologies (Toward Forgiveness, Mobius, PPA Literary Review, Long Island Sounds, etc.) and has won various poetry awards (Mobius, Farmingdale, Princess Ronkonkoma). She is on the editorial staff of several poetry anthologies. Whispers and Shouts, an anthology of poetry written by women from Long Island, will be Gail’s first book. It is coming out later this year. Gail’s other passion is music. A percussionist, Gail is part of the drUUmatics, a West African drum ensemble performance group. Go to www.druumatics.org.

snail moving steadily
through the garden
a 99%-er

must be good friends,
three sparrows gathering
on a lilac branch

April morning
why turn on the radio . . .
mockingbird’s song

>>>by: Mankh (Walter E. Harris III)
Mankh (Walter E. Harris III) is a writer, small press publisher, and Turtle Islander. He is resident poet at www.axisoflogic.com and his literary website is: www.allbook-books.com

Owned onto each other
Slender folds
Placed one over one
Softly and tenderly
Fragrant and warm
Side by side
and closely snug
Sown onto our charmed hearts

Gentle fingers
Trace a single gold line
Lasting lingers
To fully embrace mine
Hearts face to face
Hands held in time
Worn onto her arm, when afar

Lasting feelings
Captured deeply
Strongly together
To only just one
Hearts held forever
Never releasing
Owned onto each other,
When else comes apart

>>>by: Bergés Alvarez

In the emptiness of space
an astronaut threw a boomerang
a continuing journey into the void
into the vastness
lost in time and space.

Into our emptiness
your words thrown out
into the void
of neverending

The boomerang came back.
No one knows why.

There is a point
where time and space

You stand at the door
hand on the knob
looking back.

>>>by: Barbara Novack

drawn together
in the barely-lit room
they give in to gray

dusk throws its cloak
over their bodies
one silhouette

>>>by: Patti Tana
Patti Tana is the 2009 Walt Whitman Birthplace Poet of the Year and Professor Emerita of English at Nassau Community College. She is editor of Songs of Seasoned Women and the author of eight collections of poems, most recently Any Given Day (Whittier Publications, Inc., 2011). To hear her read her poems, visit http://www.pattitana.com

Again the earth shakes,
and then, the water

Always the water

A tsunami ravaging
all memory,
youth with only
textbook tales,
second-hand stories,
new narratives of numbness

Always the water

They cry of thirst
in regions ruled
by despots

They run,
then vanish
in twisted

And sometimes
you can still
hear the water
in nervous laughter
on Bourbon Street

Images of eyes
awash in tears
flood humanity,
pull us to the vortex,
as we
swim towards salvation.

Always the water

>>>by: Sherri London Pastolove
Sherri is a Long Island writer and the author of “Love in D Major” who finds poetry in the nuance of daily life.

May it start like the first ever view,
the first morning, and then,
may it fill with light.

May the third tune in the curious
and the fourth hint like a surprise.
May the fifth linger

then fade but only suddenly.
May the sixth be in love
with contradiction.

May the ballad of the seventh
be the basket for the child
in you. May the balm

of the eighth heal the cut on the tongue
of your angst, be the pillow
for your fears.

May the secret codes of summer
still ring true in the chords
of the ninth. May they

whisper things one of us
could never say. And may
the promise of the last

help you be better for the next
and whatever follows when
the numbers run out.

>>>by: Alan Semerdjian
Alan Semerdjian is a writer, a musician, an educator and a sometime visual art maker who has been with LI Pulse since day one. He lives in NYC’s East Village.

This Morning Southampton Rolled Out of Its Sleep
But I’ve been waiting for you
all winter
in the upper room
of my mind
Our two faces
in the lost landscape
fused in my flesh
Let me be silent
as your voice warms
like honey
falling from a stranger’s lips
Your shadow
bent toward mine
hung to ripen
in a gesture of love
With no light
or pilot to guide us
by invisible birthmarks
we set off
a bonfire
of the heart

>>>by: Sasha Ettinger