The Blighted Pip
 
the grail roosts centre stage
ogling the viewer, hollow empty,
the object, the subject, contains
the other, nesting like faceless
matryoshka dolls hiding a secret 
 
half tones of blue
cozied up to shadow
wasp waisted prostitutes wallow
skinned in fish tones
 
confront the despair
drink in desire
twist the frame
 
shoulder life
gaze reflected
 
rise

Deborah Guzzi

This poem was written for the 20 Poem Challenge.

Deborah Guzzi's poetry appears in Magazines: Existere - Journal of Arts and Literature in Canada, Tincture in Australia, Cha: Asian Literary Review, Hong Kong, China, Eunoia in Singapore, Latchkey Tales in New Zealand, Vine Leaves Literary Journal in Greece, mgv2>publishing in France, RedLeaf Poetry, India and Travel by the Book, Ribbons: Tanka Society of America Journal, Sounding Review, Kyso Flash, The Aurorean, Crack the Spine Literary Magazine, Liquid Imagination, Poetry Quarterly, Page & Spine, Ekphrastic: Writing and Art on Art and Writing and others in the USA. Her new book The Hurricane is available now through Prolific Press.

Rivers

I love rivers.
Bluewater.
Seguin
Little White.
Swannee
Mississippi.
Jordan.
Jabbok.
I love rivers.
Even two that almost swept me away.
The Niagara and
Humber.
I love rivers.
Fast.
Noisy.
Furious.
Slow.
Quiet.
Wide.
Narrow.
Rivers excite me.
Challenge me.
Calm me.
Teach me, and
Inspire me.

And I wondered, does God love rivers?
Here are a few words of what He said.
And the LORD God planted a garden in Eden.
A river flowed out of Eden to water the garden.
The LORD God took the man and put him in the garden

Jacob rose up and passed over the river.
She came down to wash herself in the river.
You give them drink from the river.
By the rivers of Babylon, there we sat down and wept.
There is a river whose streams make glad the city of God.
The river of God is full of water.
Then your peace would have been like a river.
My river is mine own, and I have made it for myself.
Baptized of him in the river Jordan.
Out of his heart will flow rivers of living water.
The angel showed me the river of the water of life,
bright as crystal, flowing from the throne of God.

I love rivers.

Robert Thiessen

This was written for the 20 Poem Challenge.

The Subject and the Stranger

Six men of the west walk away from us.
As far as I can tell,
there’s no invitation to follow.
They walk in mute colours
with mute backs
telling no difference
of temper or humour or mood.
Moods are for clouds,
like the ones beyond
buoyant and rumpled blue
and white blended.
Men are for fishing,
for working.
They walk to their work
fit with one rope and three pairs
of folded hands
across a widepuddled beach
to a small blue boat
beside rocks as mute as the men’s backs
as rumpled as the clouds
as still and stubborn as only rocks
and occasionally men, seas
skies, tides
fish and thoughts can be.
The men know we watch them,
know we wonder about them,
but our wonder is not returned.
All thoughts are on the work ahead
the small blue boat
the long white lip of surf
the sum of the catch, the shift in the clouds.
We must not take our strangeness here
so personal.

René Ostberg

René Ostberg is a native of Chicago who still resided in Illinois. Her writing and photography have been featured at Literary Orphans, Drunk Monkeys, Eunoia Review, Booma: The Bookmapping Project, Rockwell's Camera Phone, and The Writing Disorder, among other places. Her website is reneostberg.wordpress.com.

Lessons, Interrupted

Disquieting, the face
of a three hundred year old
virgin, a woman at thirteen.
Those who view it become riveted
by dimensions: height of brow,
breadth of gaze, depth of disdain
for lechery. Seated, an ingénue,
blushing, parental property reared
to marry, to breed, to forgo
dreams of that starry Romeo.
Standing, the husband-
to-be who will soon prick
her hard-earned hymen, grunt
at his reward of shock, dutiful panic.
He will teach her more than cittern
or how to take the head, just so.
Move closer, pilgrim. Closer.
See her relief, the frigid smile.
This is a welcome interruption.
The girl child is no fool.
Believe it. She knows the score.
The torrid instruction of wifery
merits all or any reprieve.

Cyndi MacMillan

This poem was written as part of the 20 Poem Challenge.

Cyndi MacMillan poetry has recently appeared in Grain Magazine and the Fieldstone Review.  Her verse, short fiction and novel-in-progress resentfully compete for her attention.  She lives in New Hamburg, Ontario, home to North America’s largest working water wheel. Coffee and family allow ideas to percolate.

Bathsheba
 
A cornucopia of soft skinned delight                                     
who would not pose beneath tangerine sky,                          
stands in dreamt abandon, unscreened, on high,                   
raped in daylight, by King, or fancy’s flight.                         
Ah, the conquest, not to be denied, the might,                      
as chattel mourn, each she conforms once born;                   
her path forsworn, say those who judge and scorn,   
raped in daylight, by King, or fancy’s flight.                         
Each voyeur must own their lust, the deer’s plight              
hunted from on high, spied on by unknown shamed
outside the window or frame, it is the same                          
raped in daylight, by King, or fancy’s flight.                                     
A cornucopia of soft skinned delight
raped in daylight, by King, or fancy’s flight.

Deborah Guzzi

Deborah Guzzi's poetry appears in Magazines: Existere - Journal of Arts and Literature in Canada, Tincture in Australia, Cha: Asian Literary Review, Hong Kong, China, Eunoia in Singapore, Latchkey Tales in New Zealand, Vine Leaves Literary Journal in Greece, mgv2>publishing in France, RedLeaf Poetry, India and Travel by the Book, Ribbons: Tanka Society of America Journal, Sounding Review, Kyso Flash, The Aurorean, Crack the Spine Literary Magazine, Liquid Imagination, Poetry Quarterly, Page & Spine, Ekpjrastic: Writing & Art on Writing and others in the USA. Her new book The Hurricane is available now through Prolific Press.

The Mayfly’s Plight
 
Ephemeral as a mayfly’s plight, joy rends,
memorable for the rarity of its existence.
Sadness, and death feast on our meager frames;
madness picks its rancid teeth with our bones.
 
Fire kissed child, sister mine don’t go, I know you
tire, but I can’t let you leave. I claw the canvas
plane of virgin white, recall your shadowed stare,
feign gifted artistry to immortalize your soul.
 
What do you see beyond the vale where color bleeds?
Cut lilies now lay round you in the winter’s snow.
How erect you sat, how comforting your given hand
endow within each thought of you forgiveness, grace.
I could not save you, he could not save you, God on
high would not save you and it was not my place.

A Swallow’s Tears
 
Held inside, my third eye flies through the bars
of this cage. On wing am I, mated I fly,
my spirit undaunted by this earthly stage.
Hollow bones and hallowed heart in play,
I find repast within the air though bars
contain this sage. With tearful eyes, I fly.
With brazen line, I seek to find a stage,
to portray the core of me, swallows play.
A soul who seeks cannot be stayed by bars.
Great Spirit gifts each man a way to fly,
a bridge between his eyes onto the stage
the road open, to the place where God’s play.
Mother, mother dear I can't live this way
I drown in dreams and drink, I cannot stay.

Deborah Guzzi

This poem was written as part of the 20 Poem Challenge.

Deborah Guzzi's poetry appears in Magazines: Existere - Journal of Arts and Literature in Canada, Tincture in Australia, Cha: Asian Literary Review, Hong Kong, China, Eunoia in Singapore, Latchkey Tales in New Zealand, Vine Leaves Literary Journal in Greece, mgv2>publishing in France, RedLeaf Poetry, India and Travel by the Book, Ribbons: Tanka Society of America Journal, Sounding Review, Kyso Flash, The Aurorean, Crack the Spine Literary Magazine, Liquid Imagination, Poetry Quarterly, Page & Spine, Ekpjrastic: Writing & Art on Writing and others in the USA. Her new book The Hurricane is available now through Prolific Press.