S A N D R I V E R J O U R N A L Issue 6, Friday Aug 13 1993 * * * Sand River Journal is a collection of poems gathered from the newsgroup rec.arts.poems; it is posted monthly in \TeX\ and PostScript formats. Poems appear by authors' permission and constitute copyrighted material. Free transmission of this document (electronic or otherwise) is permitted only in its entire and unaltered form; to inquire about individual poems contact the authors by their email addresses. The editor takes no responsibility for the fate of this document, nor does he claim ownership to any of the contents herein. Many of the poems appearing in this issue were collected and forwarded to me by zita marie evensen while I was away in Michigan. Send comments and contributions (please reference SRJ) to asphaug@lpl.arizona.edu. Enjoy! Erik Asphaug, Editor * * * little clouds with arms and legs little clouds with arms and legs sometimes a single diaphanous souffle nimbi florid with the golden flesh of sun how to measure perfect blueness there is a land, there is a land hardly anything grows there but wildflowers shrubs and rocks these rocks have been growing old for ages petroglyphs are dimly flowering yon and dave loves kim across the coyote and mary loves sam across the anasazi warrior and the crushed aluminum can loves no one here they come, here they come Marek Lugowski marek@casbah.acns.nwu.edu * Troth Nothing that you loved could make me hate you. Nothing you believed could shake my trust. Nothing that you are could push me from you very far. I will not go unless you say I must. Even so, I'd linger on the outskirts around the long-lost realm of love and light, haunted, ever haunting your horizon, just visible to telescopic sight. Jennifer Merri Parker jmparker@isis.msstate.edu * ash swamp road an oblique cut. a stop sign. a lilac or two. ash swamp road opens up and beckons you. in the green shade as the dark trees kiss over the road you hear whispered the stories of a time ago when the land was free of scars and the pinpricks of telephone poles when the people who lived here lived simply lived in harmony i have yet to listen to the ash swamp road. Marek Lugowski marek@casbah.acns.nwu.edu * blue with brass quartet it might be midnight winter solstice and it might be cold, a blue that burns on cheekbones and the stars flare bright and fiery and all the gin in me is warm. i am singing in the street, i am light, empty, and the wind slips through me. i slide away, turn liquid, float into the darkness. i am everywhere and my arms embrace all the invisible people that i love because i cannot see them. every clear warm drop of me is falling into the sky. or it might be the middle of an april afternoon and i am sober as a rock polished smooth by an overflowing stream people are everywhere thick on the ground it makes them less lovable and now the air is blue as the sound of trumpets once more triumphant as winter yields spring. i want to lie down and drink in this day, or paint my bedroom ceiling in this resounding hue. it pulls me up until i sing again. and it might be that across the bridge, bare bushes with green laquer creeping on the bark, are moving to the silent beat. are singing too. Marie Coffin mcoffin@iastate.edu * II. It seems that I prefer what you prefer It seems that I prefer what you prefer and love the things you love, as tenderly. So, since your heart has settled so on her and called her dear, so she must be to me. It never has been difficult before, but now I see my own unworthiness in failing to consider your joy more and my own greedy hopes and feelings less. So, though it put my friendship to the test, I shall hope for the best in your affairs, and dearly love your love at your request, and set her name among my evening prayers. But do not introduce us for a while, Till I require less fortitude to smile. V. Grande-dame, will you please show me what you clutch Grande-dame, will you please show me what you clutch so firmly in your ice-arthritic hold? I lately feel as if I'd aged as much, my heartbeat slowing, surface growing cold. What desiccated flowers have you kept in secret books of dreams, with caution pressed between the pages, broken petals swept into the drawers and cupboards of your breast? I know you are not mindless, as they think. I could be your contemporary, wise because of my own pain. Teach me to sink into that secret place behind the eyes. And all who look will see an awkward pair, but we will be consoled and never care. Jennifer Merri Parker jmparker@Isis.msstate.edu * Gift it is the rain of a hundred years pummeling my umbrella like a wet banner in the wind lashing my psyche to bleeding ribbons cold. wet. empty. till i opened the mail full of fireflies from a summer night! * zita maria evensen bu016@cleveland.freenet.edu * License to Kill Eat worms and die, I think to myself; as the red&white bobber slaps the surface and the poor worm with a #4 hook shoved up his ass till it pokes out his face splashes down with a satisfying splunk. A dozen took the proffered annelidans; At home I heat the oil in black cast iron, after washing guts from hands that learned this ichthycidal game quite young. Cecil Williams cecilw@access.isc-br.com * Goedel So rich was logic's formal soil that the sturdy arithmetic groves (old stoic atheistic Russell's harvest) produced such a preposterous fruit: noumenal seed of which, though it might be named, shall not be reaped or sewn. Ronald Bloom rbloom@netcom.com * eyes child. you see no color now. skin a darker shade of pale slant eyes ... high cheeks can i float with multi-colored wings into your garden no. am i a victim of my eyes zita marie evensen bu016@cleveland.freenet.edu * MES COPAINS J'en ai marre parce que mes copains sont tres bizzare Je suis triste parce qu'ils sont completment materaliste Je les deteste parce qu'ils sont toujours me protestent Mes copains sont tres riches mais Je m'en fiche ils ecrievent des lyriques et Je les trouve tres comique M.Murat ildan ildam@essex.ac.uk * BALANCE words are cubes of ice "that which is" a golden ball that hides in circles of careening seasons slowly snuffs the sputtering spark this self fanning it to flame incense of its consumption spiraling prayers into heaven it isn't *words* that reach God's ear only poets suffer the utter madness of trying to balance one upon the other Jody Upshaw jupshaw@ai.uga.edu * what what is the matter what put that smile on your face what is it with you zita marie evensen bu016@cleveland.freenet.edu * two crows mean joy sitting on the grass a smooth, green slate that tickles my behind birds. i feel their anxious glances toward winter as they hunt and peck across the wide summer lawn near the trash can by the path perches the pair in question: preening plumange and postulating i watch the crows-- do they feel joy? looking for something i may have missed, they clumsily take to the air fly crows, fly fly to your joy i will try to fly to mine. Tom Witherspoon 78witherspoo@cna.edu * Dump Him Ditty My girlfriends think he's sweet as cane, my Marky, Marky Maypo. We wonder why she humped him, dumped him, chucked him out the door. She stacks her lawyers for the fray, alack, alack a day. Oh, why'd she have to love him, leave him, silly, chilly bro. Karen Tellefsen kt1@cc.bellcore.com * Cheater we three laughed like lovers devouring one another with wayward glances an island within a rose hue circle scented in rain I loved her for loving you my friend, but even then her eyes were constricting pits focused in the distance she peered outside seeking a beast riding drum beats through the heart of the jungle her plane ascended in gray bound for the black soil of Costa Rica gold band sliding out of sight at night she played the taught streched skins of indian men sweat swirled into her navel drowning memories of you Jody Upshaw jupshaw@ai.uga.edu * Tiny fish Not something you can grasp I will stay with you a little while like the tiny fish near shore which flash silver and are gone. Ralph Cherubini ralph@wixer.bga.com * Bluebells There are no bluebells where you are so I send you memory of them see they are growing right over there no...to the left of the door quietly hidden in shyness. Ralph Cherubini ralph@wixer.bga.com * Dona Juliana Striding downtown in her red and gold knickers With black boots that clomp to the trucks and the traffic Dona Juliana sports no smile and her tousseled hair bounds to the four winds. But then a cloudy man crosses her reverie And a she pulls a smile from her back pocket. She dusts off the memories and the dull spots, Garnishes with spots of scattered scrapbook innocence. And she keeps the child's voice And she pops open the wild wide eyes. A third-rate man? A first-class gent? It makes no difference. Dona Juliana sees only this: Little boys and their big toys Looking for a playmate. Once rough players only she used to find. Now she can see the Don Juan signs Of too much familar eagerness Like great dane puppies who don't know their own strength, And maul with great oral fixations. Through many playmates and many checkmates Advice is bound to come: `Look only for the cloudy weathered ones. They need a burst of the sun.' Annette Young ayoung@seattleu.edu * clean i sink myself- mascara rag, beneath the eyelashes of the shower. swamp the salty dandruff of fish tails and hairclip scales from my head. wax fancy fragrances of surgeons and dreamy diners from my eyes. i floss the freishas from my teeth, scrape your face from my back - control my damaged ends with conditioner. no conditions. no control to damage. helen walne g93w5635@warthog.ru.ac.za * Fundamentalist It is hard to think there is no hand behind it all, chess-piecing us through versatile maneuvers. Here I thought that I would never see your face again in life, and here you are, just when your presence is a necessary move. There must be someone to be grateful to, but in His structured absence, I will beam on you, you curly-headed queen's knight calling out, Can that be you? Jennifer M. Parker jmparker@Isis.msstate.edu * propagation of error sandstone gargoyle perched on a cathedral's spire winged three-toed monster medieval gothic art cracked by catapult rock restored improved by master guildsmen limestone gargoyle leaning against a cathedral's spire winged four-toed monster ravaged by time and acid rain rebuilt meticulously repeatedly polished by men of craft plastic gargoyle hanging from a cathedral's spire winged five-toed monster copied by craftiest of men computer enhanced mass produced polyethylene gargoyle with long neon hair multi-toed monster swinging from the rear-view mirror of a totally rad Edsel zita marie evensen bu016@cleveland.freenet.edu * amaranths you melt-my-heart kick-ass bitchin' you coming here where i kneel weeding i smudged-face mud-caked hands unkempt hair i embrace hide among between green leaves you kiss me and whisper the amaranths are on fire zita marie evensen bu016@cleveland.freenet.edu