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2004

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Waterways: Poetry in the Mainstream, Volume 25, #4

The little one sleeps in its cradle,I lift the gauze and look a long time, and silently brush away flie

with my hand.

Walt Whitman

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WATERWAYS: Poetry in the MainstreamVolume 25 Number 4 *April, 2004Designed, Edited and Published by Richard Spiegel & Barbara FisherThomas Perry, Admirable Factotum

c o n t e n t s

Waterways is published 11 times a year. Subscriptions -- $33 for 11 issues.Sample issues $3.50 (includes postage).

Submissions will be returned only if accompanied by a stamped, self addressed envelopeWaterways, 393 St. Pauls Avenue, Staten Island, New York 10304-2127

2005 Ten Penny Players Inc. *(This magazine is published 1/05)

http://www.tenpennyplayers.org

Richard Kostelanetz 4James Penha 5Ida Fasel 6Patricia Wellingham-Jones 7-8Susanne Olson 9-10Herman Slotkin 11

Geoff Stevens 12Charles Pierre 13Kaye Bache-Snyder 14-15Robert Collet Tricaro 16-17David Michael Nixon 18Lyn Lifshin 19-20

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Richard Kostelanetz

ImpArt

GrandFatHerAdAge

GeneRations

BraIn

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Three Blue Flies James Penha

Your breathing blows the blue fly

away, little one.I hear the thunder in you rumbleseconds before a second flashand burp blows a blue flythis way. While I may gigglein the ripple of your flurryI wail with worryinside. Funny how yourlaughter blows the blue flymy way.

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At First Sight Ida Fasel

All that was said

when we were introducedwas only How do you do?

But after that, I hada hard time keeping my eyeson those I was talking to

when all I wantedwas to look at you.

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Sea Creatures Patricia Wellingham-Jonesfor Marty

Sturdy as a bollard, she crouchesbeside a tide pool. Lug soles grip rockslippery with braided ribbonsand air-puffed bulbs of just-flung seaweed.With the gentle stroke of a mothers fingeron baby skin, she stirs the cupful of life

caught in the salt crusted rock bowl.Raises eyes brimming Pacific green.On her back, snug in the rising wind,her first-born, late-born daughter sleeps.

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Only days from her swim in motherfluid, the infant cells fill with fresh sea air.

For this pair the swirl of the tideis hardly distinguished from their heartbeats,skin drenched with ocean spray, rinsed in falling rain,as natural to them as tea by a landlubbers fire.

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Child Lost Susanne Olson

Grief

heavier than deathfear darker than nights veilfate beyond despaireradication

Black grips the heartvain quest for diamondssolitary cavegrave unknown

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Lifes marrow robbed despoiled

in pains unfathomable depthyields ransom of own blood

Lifes artery pierced by mea culpas purple arrowmind lost

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Grandchild Herman Slotkin

You are an infusion in the blood,

an insinuation in the muscles and bones,the knowing, growing steadfast look of love,the strobe-wink of flashing future.

You are chips off many an old block,building your block-chip rocket,

making your own fuel and additivesto soar to your singular space.

Published in Villages News MNovembe

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Geoff Stevens

Should they share the cost

those outsidethat are behind the curtains tooand get free privacyfrom your eyesthat could otherwise pryon their homelessness?

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Conklins Mill Charles Pierre

At a barren time in midlife, blind to the seasons wheelof transforming vistas, when the year lay stripped

like a wasted field, devoid of color, climate and shape,I walked to the farthest edge of our village, where vineshad claimed an abandoned mill, and climbed the stairsto a room with windows all around, the highest vantageon this swath of Atlantic coast. And with an arc of eyethat clocked the horizon, I looked out at the landscape

to foliage, snow, buds and flowers, in a tumble of months,in a sweep of seasons, that gave the stark terrainof my fifty years its portion on the varied wheel of time,and with a surge of late emotion, accepted the mild,frigid and torrid days of my life without regret, the weatherturning before me in a cycle as full and fresh as earths first.

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Outsiders Kaye Bache-Snyder

Ours are the only footprints in the virgin snow

this Christmas Eve: a childless couple, walkingdeserted streets from someone elses church.I huddle close to you against the bite of windand ponder how we celebrate The Nativity.There must be others outside like us tonight,glancing from sidewalks into picture-perfect

windows at these rituals of stuffing and stuff.

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Next year, lets not again seek this holidayas it ought or used to be. Lets not buy each other

gifts or even have a tree to remind of other treesextinguished down the tunnel of our years.Lets break trail to a frozen, alpine lake, comehome for steaming soup, warm bread and wine.On this Silent Night, lets burrow into bed andexchange the candles given us with each other.

Through such simplicity may we conceivea faith newborn on this loneliest of nights.

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Whiteness Becoming Robert Collet Tricaro

The room was almost white; no signOf sorrow. It seemed the suns incandescence

Dried the tears. Then an open windowBrought a voice to break the silence.

Only when the man wearing black left her bedside,Was there whiteness all around her,Even the pale yellow box with dim-sum

Her mother made and left for her.Breaking point white reflected fromThe sheet that covered her, from the foot ofThe bed, to justBeyond the crown of her head.

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Only a blush, on top of the night

Stand was noticedbeside a blood pressureGauge under a crucifix mounted on the wall.A pinkas though an enzyme was working

To wear the redness downTo make it part of the whiteness.

A tenacious red of a single roseI left for her, the night before.

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There was a tree

with its skirts brushingthe groundwillowbeside abright streamwith calls

of birdsfrom somewherehigher.

I sat inside

the swaying skirts,cool afternoontouchingmy faceand hands.

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Inside the Land of Sleep David Michael Nixon

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stacks in the

closets stackson a shelftall as a totempole youre notsure couldntfall on you while

sleeping. Lowell,North Boston,Rochester, RocklandCounty, Marsfield.

If you love

me youll bringa phone bookshed coo. NewBedford, Montreal,Rockville, Springfield, Rutland.

When I threw thetorn Albanyphone book outshe was as hurt

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My Mother and the Phone Books Lyn Lifshin

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as if Id tossedher and I had

to order a newcrisp one, herefor me nowclearing outthe apartment.Portsmouth, Exeter,

Syracuse, Manhattan,as if she couldjust reach outand touch what

she hadnt. Or maybeshe felt with so

many names squashedin a barricadebetween her and theoutside, so manypeople on theline, with

their numbers baredfor her, there waitingfor a ring she couldnever be lonely

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