poem by Tada Chimako

Mirrors
by Tada Chimako translated by Jeffrey Angles
The mirror is always slightly taller than I It laughs a moment after I laugh Turning red as a boiled crab I cut myself from the mirror with shears * When my lips draw close, the mirror clouds over And I vanish behind my own sighs Like an aristocrat hiding behind his crest Or a gangster behind his tattoos * Oh traveler, go to Lacedaemon and say that in the mirror, Graveyard of smiles, there is a single gravestone Painted white, thick with makeup Where the wind blows alone

poem by Tada Chimako

A Spray of Water: Tanka [the hot water in]
by Tada Chimako translated by Jeffrey Angles
the hot water in the abandoned kettle slowly cools still carrying the resentment of colder water

Poem by Yusef Komunyakaa

Jasmine
by Yusef Komunyakaa
I sit beside two women, kitty-corner to the stage, as Elvin's sticks blur the club into a blue fantasia. I thought my body had forgotten the Deep South, how I'd cross the street if a woman like these two walked towards me, as if a cat traversed my path beneath the evening star. Which one is wearing jasmine? If my grandmothers saw me now they'd say, Boy, the devil never sleeps. My mind is lost among November cotton flowers, a soft rain on my face as Richard Davis plucks the fat notes of chance on his upright leaning into the future. The blonde, the brunette— which one is scented with jasmine? I can hear Duke in the right hand & Basie in the left as the young piano player nudges us into the past. The trumpet's almost kissed by enough pain. Give him a few more years, a few more ghosts to embrace—Clifford's shadow on the edge of the stage. The sign says, No Talking. Elvin's guardian angel lingers at the top of the stairs, counting each drop of sweat paid in tribute. The blonde has her eyes closed, & the brunette is looking at me. Our bodies sway to each riff, the jasmine rising from a valley somewhere in Egypt, a white moon opening countless false mouths of laughter. The midnight gatherers are boys & girls with the headlights of trucks aimed at their backs, because their small hands refuse to wound the knowing scent hidden in each bloom.

my favorite time of year

Foto by Dascha Freidlova

Fall Moves In by Brent Durken

Fall Moves In.

Brent

random

night rain

Night rain
washing the blurred scenery down
a muddy river with
somber beats
of drops dripping
monotonously
seeping into
a groundswell of a dark damp
hollow brain
filling with watery
deception devoid
of all reason.

By Lucya Kotelewec Lebid

Wanderlust...can't wait to hit the road again....

flowers