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Molly Peacock: Author of five volumes of poetry as well as other works, is
internationally renowned as one of the most outstanding of contemporary poets
who writes in forms. She is a member of the faculty of the Spalding University
MFA program and also works one on one by contract with poets and writers across
the continent. See her website at: http://www.mollypeacock.org/
The
To hook
a finger in a loop you’ve found
after clawing and clawing at the cloth
of the universe collapsing around you
like a parachute’s vast moth wings,
alive, alive, and smothering until
you drag and pull, thinking your fingerbones
will crack with the effort¾then to fill
your nostrils with air, as the nether zones
of your organs fill with air,
may mean you’ve gripped
the overwhelming¾ the huge, the
cloudy,
the suffocatingly monumental ¾
what you yourself may have blown up all
out of proportion and which now like whipped silk
spins at your feet until it vanishes,
leaving you upright, reborn.
You may
look the same, but inside, astonished
by what almost crushed you, you begin again.
With appreciation to Molly Peacock ÓMolly Peacock
This poem originally appeared in Boulevard
magazine.
Ascendant
poet Chrys Tobey has
been published in most recently
Praise Poem For What’s
Lost
Praise the blood stained toilet,
never quite ivory, nor white,
though never as tainted as the
day
my mother’s little boy
floated inside,
an empty red pouch,
sliding down,
the flush of what was.
Praise the gold earring
that shined up from the
brown floor.
Praise my mother’s paper thin body,
glued to her worn mattress
for two days,
while I finger-painted
rainbows,
colored lips red, cheeks pink,
laced ballet slippers around
tiny ankles,
and danced under stars and
silver moons
pinned to brown cork walls.
Praise the green and blue striped sock
that peeked out from floral
couch cushions.
Praise the father,
the clock a sun while he’s
gone,
laughing, jokes about hookers
and blondes, green bottles
of beer,
slices of lime, praise the
shots of tequila
sliding down throats.
Praise the key in the door.
The Closet
They put me in the Closet -
Because they liked me “still”-
-Emily Dickinson
A woman remodeled herself into a closet. She liked it this way. People could make good use
of her. They stored their
old golf clubs and hats inside of her.
She was rarely bothered, except
for the occasional
sweeping.
The woman paged through porn men hid from their
wives. The woman read love letters as
forgotten as old shoes. She looked at family photos: birthdays, vacations, first marriages,
second marriages, third marriages.
The woman thumbed through bank statements, credit card
bills, stock accounts each
night. This lulled her to sleep. The woman shut her door on husband’s
fingers & watched their
nails bruise black.
“Ah, this fuckin’
closet,” the husbands screamed and kicked the door. The woman smiled
and thought of moldy forks.
--End—
Alma Luz Villanueva though acclaimed as a
novelist and short story writer as well as for her poetry, states that
"Poetry for me is the source, the mother tongue...the sun, moon and
stars". She is an instructor in
the MFA in Creative Writing at Antioch University Los Angeles. A biography and
a comprehensive list of her works is available
at:
http://voices.cla.umn.edu/vg/Bios/entries/villanueva_alma_luz.html
Ms.
Villanueva holds writing workshops from time-to-time in the historic and
colorful town of San Miguel
Almaluz_villanueva@antiochla.edu
EAGLE DANCER
Indian Market,
early morning rain, still
damp, all the tribes
gather, clouds gather,
light gathers, thunder gathers-
in the plaza CLAN-destine
plays Native rock and roll-
an eagle dancer spreads his
wings, wide open, eyes closed,
sweating in the
he staggers- a 2 year old
dances with him, he sees the eagle
dancing dancing dancing flying-
he reaches out to a young Indian
woman, she sees the eagle dancer,
joins him, turning, twirling, holding
him up, the 2 year old boy
dances at their feet, gazing up
at eagles, gathering clouds-
not once do his protective sisters,
mother, fear he'll be harmed, letting
him dance with eagle dancer, young
eagle woman (his daughter, sister, lover,
mother)
until the cops come to take
him away, drunken Indian, they
didn't see the sacred Eagle Dancer
flying through his clouds, Eagle Woman
at his side. That night the streets in
rivers, lightning piercing sky,
over and over, how he danced
us, the world, new.
As
we enter the Fifth Hopi World,
the Sixth Mayan World, may we all
become eagle dancers, now...
Alma
Luz Villanueva
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