YGDRASIL: A Journal of the Poetic Arts

September 2007

VOL XV, Issue 9, Number 173

Editor: Klaus J. Gerken

Production Editor: Heather Ferguson

European Editor: Mois Benarroch

Contributing Editors: Michael Collings; Jack R. Wesdorp; Oswald Le Winter

Previous Associate Editors: Igal Koshevoy; Evan Light; Pedro Sena

ISSN 1480-6401



   subramanian subramanian
      1. Tributes to an Industrialist-friend
      2. Recast the Web


   Michael Lee Johnson				                	
      Bread Crumbs for Starving Birds
      Now That I Desire
      Catch On The Fly
      Coffee Time, Fuller's Restaurant
      Silent Moonlight
      Cicada Bugs & Carol
      Dove Poem
      My Lady, Maria
      Pickle Juiced
      Gotham, Oil On Canvas
      Blind Man In Café
      Wind Chimes
   Christopher Mulrooney
      a sorry sight
      the price of admission
      Goliath (the wit of the Philistines)
      to the well again
      the arts writer
      to Stanton Macdonald-Wright
      1. Taxi Stand
      2. How the Dragon Changed
      3. A Step-Ladder
      4. Hog's Head
      5. Durtlang Boy
      6. At Chandmari Square
      7. Bamboos
   Phillip A. Ellis
      The Fall from Heaven
      Dawn and Dusk
      I Melt
      Poet in Exile
   Joshua Walker
      Atomic Age
   Felino Soriano
      Vagabond's Vision #74
      Vagabond's Vision #75
      Vagabond's Vision #79
      Vagabond's Vision #107
      Vagabond's Vision #108
      Vagabond's Vision #109


   Del Corey
      The Black Pool


subramanian subramanian

1. Tributes to an Industrialist-friend

A long tiring journey; lids close
for the night, not for sleep;
Memories, some warm, some blase,
crowd in leaving no moss;
Under the blazing Sun, I take a peep
at one to let spirits rise;
He, on odd mix of mind and brain,
dallied with the wisdom of the Muse;
Self-made, well-travelled but withdrawn
he let his self warm into pen;
A student of Muse, not of its school.
Death nipped buds springing late;
A particle of faith, deathless in my file,
is his testimony to me, fellow poet.

2. Recast the Web I slip into the nest, and await the harvest; The spider eyes its catch, with no toil to match; It's born with nature's boon, For me no easy way to moon. The harvest is no fairy to shower its manna on me. Awed by blue hilly terrain, rhythmic sway of the train, steep recline of the vale, soft hum of birds in the dale, frolicked with mates in the alley, picked rubies of love with glee; Child is the mother of Man, buoys him up for the next span. Youth furrowed in toil, seeking light in midnight oil, darkness encasing the Crescent, sparks in the hearth of the Present. I remember it was then the web of dreams was spun. But the coveted harvest was lost, the web in pieces, to be recast. My web is no seer to say, life will shape like the Milky Way; I may tend my park fair, but keep weeds off its lair? Days are beads of sweat, no crown, I hear its echo every morn, I need to weave my web, 'cause it mothers a radiant cub.

Michael Lee Johnson				                	

Bread Crumbs for Starving Birds

Smiling across the ravine,
snow cloaked footbridge.
Prickly ropes slick with ice,
snow clad boards pepper sprinkled
with raccoon tracks, virgin markers,
a fresh first trail.

Across and safe,
I toss yellow bread crumbs
onto white snow, for starving birds.

Now That I Desire ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Now that I desire to be close to you like two occupants sharing a twin bed sensing the warmth of sweating shoulders, hungering for your flesh like wild wolf leaning over empty carcass, you're off searching unexplored cliffs & climbing dangerous mountain tops, capturing bumblebees in broken beer bottles for biology class, pleasing plants & parachuting from clouds for fun. In clouds you're closer to life & nonsense, a princess of absurdity, collector of dreams & silent sounds. In clouds you build your own fantasy, share it with select celebrities. But till this captive discovers a cure for caring, a way of rescuing insatiable insanity, or lives long enough to be patient in longing for you- you must be vigilant, for with time snow will surely blanket over this warm desire.
Catch On The Fly ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Full barrel up 53 north, heading to Lake Zurich, IL, Christian talk radio 1660 on the radio dial, crisp winter day sunbeams dancing down on the pavement like midgets. 85 mph in a 65 mph zone, just to aggravate the police, black Chevy S10 pick up, shows what a deviant I am in dark colors. Running late for a client appointment, creating poems on a small hand held recorder knowing there is not payment for this madness in this little captured taped area of words. Headlights down the highway for a legacy into the future, day dreaming like a fool obsessed. Working out the layout of this poem or getting my ego in place, I will catch up with the imagery when I get back home. This is my life, a poem in the middle of the highway. Scampering, no one catches me when I'm speeding like this.
Coffee Time, Fuller's Restaurant ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ (Edmonton Alberta Canada) June 29th, 1980 3 a.m. & I'm getting older by the minute. Thinking about it makes me tired. Outside traffic crawls slowly over slippery pavement like inebriated turtles. Inside, at the coffee counter, I flirt with a waitress- fresh young fruit from Montreal. She insists on calling me Vincent Price & speaking French in Alberta. I'm trying to read Periods Of The Moon, By Irving Layton, selecting the human Condition, repetition, & insomnia as My main themes. Next to me, a street gypsy drooping over the counter beside me, pulling scraps of dog-eared aged newsprint From a doggie bag. She stares squint eyed at a picture of John F Kennedy for 2 hours, manages to laugh an incredible 29 times, Sorry, 30 times, 31. Counting makes me tired, makes me take notice of the gypsy & disapprove.
Silent Moonlight ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Love lost in silent moonlight tortures heart with rising sun. Silence snores. Sunlight scatters shadows in spotty rain.
Cicada Bugs & Carol ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ I walk this pain & joy like a deity with you 4 life it seems inhabits us like a run on sentence 4 no assumed reason. 17 years together since the last calling of the cicadas- nothingness but for their noise, loud buzzing wings, no reason to stay no reason to part. We smell Lilacs bushes together briefly- take down an apple or 2- ride rusty old bicycles together to a destination neither of us have been to before. Nymphs drop to the ground & burrow the wood, again. Will I see you in 2024?
Dove Poem ~~~~~~~~~ I hear scratch of little dove feet I hear peck of little dove bill in bird seed basket on my balcony- in near silence on rain filled afternoon- thunderstorm, lightening overhead dark, cramped up with rage, holds off a minute so I may hear these sounds.
My Lady, Maria ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Like a good Rembrandt, or a unique bar of soap carefully handcrafted, shaped into a delicious figure with hot butter knife, you are natural, beautiful, proficient, honest as opposed to fake.
Pickle Juiced ~~~~~~~~~~~~~ My skeleton is in a large glass jar- x-rayed for dental remains, half dead, detained & vibrating in nerves endings. I walk through this night pickled juiced, caged in. I know who I am by the words I type, the fonts I chose, the poems that didn't nurture in my brain, aborted. Behind my shack a trailer park playground of juvenile tormentors shove basketballs through netted rims. A skinny redhead named Randy urinates then hammers his basketball against the side of my bathroom wall for practice- shatters glass, the scent of ice blue Aqua Velva permeates shaky shadows on the wall. But these pesky human insects are gone my midnight. The displeasure of the laundry mat doors slamming relentless against my living room wall lock down at 1 am. Cordless, powered by inebriation I toss this fried skeleton box into a cheap twin bed, wrestle with the quiet for 3 hours. April 15th, taxes are due. Poverty is a pair of scissors cutting dull across the foreskin.
Gotham, Oil On Canvas ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~` Chatty women at the dining table in 19th century garb- red hats & hair pins caked with rubies, ghostly faces acutely obscured, hue blue matted hair stretching down like dripping wax. Menus open out white as bleached sheets with no black typeface. Wine glasses filled with white Clouds, no red juice- begging in silence to be lifted up, to be touched by the missing lips of strangers.. 3 mirrors hanging from frozen air behind the bar away from the dining area- circular globs of white reflecting nothing but moon shapes. At the dining table ladies pointing fingers at each other, ears filled with gobs of paint. Dull lights in the corners depicting form, faint in near darkness. Their pictured world, frozen in time, is slapped on canvas. As the evening wears toward midnight the painting disappears, emerging silent characters into madness.
Blind Man In Café ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Blind man fingertips dancing across table tops crooked smile on his face, searching for a seat in a crowded corner.
Wind Chimes ~~~~~~~~~~~ The wind chimes on the balcony today, different sounds in all different directions- my thoughts follow them.
Bipolar ~~~~~~~ Awake night light jungle twisted branches of thought. One character linked to the insane personality of the other. Bipolar in a universe of singles. The fear of aloneness hearing cracks in your walls; the joy jumbling into the municipal pool in Hillside, Illinois at 3 am. Bipolar, bewitched, and alone. Late to work staring at your employer dart split eyes. Tattered with memories dancing on the tablecloth with glee slapped on the face with a teaspoon just to feel the sadness leave. Bipolar, bewitched, and alone. Seldom ever hear happiness that doesn't sound like a fire siren camping in your eardrums. Meds crank up & crank down; moods follow the meds or do meds follow the moods? Personal wars echo words in my ears. Even during silent times the night roars like street jungles. Bipolar, bewitched, and alone. Michael Lee Johnson's first chapbook of poems and prose is available for preview and download at: http://www.lulu.com/ http://www.lulu.com/content/936633 "The Lost American: A Tender Touch & A Shade Of Blue"
Christopher Mulrooney a sorry sight ~~~~~~~~~~~~~ a discreet point I should insist on this really I should at all events in every respect not for a minute now do you believe me not for a few seconds no now frightened to the limits of our experience which you have all behind me now the plain matter is scarce to be discerned that is the whole of the problem my version is not like the pages of history with doodling at the last
gryphon ~~~~~~~ bonerattling unto the junkyard at the request of the same scuttling boneyard merchants who wheeled demolition refuse into the park to exalt the valley into a dripping heap of gas to make electricity with all under the guise of recreation to help stop the cruisers furiously circumambulating and clogging the roads and trails with happy crumbums half the roads were closed fountains and springs turned off the plantations were by the board gleaning the last sheaves of the nostalgic past as tourism by the cartload in the cultural center great shopping arcades were built to fend off the city no new roads were built the vomitoria choked whatever the wastrels lingered in my city remained the piebald angler gives me the fisheye
the price of admission ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ you kick the sign in your forehead with your own left foot it isn't a guarantee by any means something about your grace when doing so must win the heart of the machine
Goliath (the wit of the Philistines) ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ his god tells him all things he knows his is the kingdom of light in the upper reaches the fault still lies with his adversaries he would have an Israelite to his bitch
to the well again ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ barbel the knight in his grand effigy tirelai tirelai be his dirge he has any tales to tell ark! my toes goes in my stirrups so's the wars the bloody awful any warres an' if the blandishment were thin we broke bread holy the thanks we met tirelai tirelai and the scroungers we gave ground to never you may see the like of them again
the arts writer ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ balked of her very easy prey she complains of abstractions in modern verse she for whom Byron Haskin and Moliere are abstractions
to Stanton Macdonald-Wright ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ here are the children late from the school where they're brought whistle-sky-eyeing from the day they're born it seems like cicadas fly the caps dark unwelcome world where it has no moon black night naught wholesome daylight we give the clapper water as it goes by for the birds here's a mistake scribe why and here's another clerk to run up totals gadzooks is the warcry now and fudge all our reckoning the light of smudge pots scored the television screen that frost night of old what there was was oranges and oranges made the news old woman the sheaf you carry upon your back it must have the breeze and sunlight bouncing from it and your kimono as well
ARUN GAUR 1. Taxi Stand At the Dawrpui Taxi Stand a big clock is locked in a wooden box just above the reach of man. A bird would fly out of gabled-aviary now and then. Where would you like to go on a bright Sunday morning like this? —Chawlhmun, Bethlehem, Tanhril, Thakthing, Zemabawk, Phunchawng, Dinthar, Kulikawn, Durtlang Hospital, T.B. Hospital— Where to? A white-haired man, fresh from the church, twirled his torso in infinite pain to drag a woollen cap from his side. He stretched it across an infinite distance, between his finger-tips and finally managed to put it on a small head. He went arching to the clock to have a look at the time. It was too steep to notice that seconds were rushing through just rushing through small infinities. Out of man’s reach. A bird may fly out of gabled-aviary to tell of the ticking time. Beyond a green banner across the road reminded that it was the World Food Day.
2. How the Dragon Changed My God. How the dragon changed. From shape to shape. It was hidden somewhere somewhere in the spread of fire or somewhere in the black ominous clouds. All fire in the center. Turner's colors. Lost, hidden, in Turner's colors of the sinking ships or ships all afire on the luminous ocean flamboyant ocean. A bird has thrown its golden feather or shed by chance and it scintillates it scintillates unwittingly. Or a phoenix about to die in the last of the luminous fire the last conflagration to be born again. In the last and the greatest splendor of dying fire of the dying bird. Or the golden cosmic egg. Or a fight between the two dragons black and the gold. Gold dimmed with splinters of the black with puffs of the black puffed across the golden splendor. Gold becoming more gorgeous with splinters of the dark. Then in seconds dissolving, frustrated, decorated, and fumigated, only a subduing sheen in the middle of the dark touched with soothing peach. Dark frustration in the center. Then orange grew and expired and the pale golden silver linings grew sinuous on the edges of clouds turned gray. And in between only dark and dark. Dark and dark. Then suspired the little cotton fluffs suddenly turned golden. Ginning ginning from the darkened overpowered to spread elsewhere the seeds of the dying plant or dying something. Suspired the puffs of the spinning geny light crimson, light orange, peach not dark not light. Sohrab's last blood dimmed and thinned into last peaches peaches in the lap of his dark brooding father. Last peach taking the shape of a crab with pincers stumped or a frog upside down turned turtle pinned to the board for dissection. Then Sohrab died and the seed and the frog and the crab and the turtle. Then only distant but well formed little billows on the vast black arcs and arcs. As if a last nuclear explosion of Hiroshima. As if many little Hiroshimas. As if the last of the luminous child of the vasty deep of the vasty dark of the black dragon. Golden Phoenix. Golden Oriole. Golden cosmic egg. All suspired. Then the rearing face of the dragon, proud, invincible, laughing a little tilted. Rough paws pummel vasty warted chest silently. And last remnant of the sheen on the horizon. The black dragon and the light gray sky.
3. A Step-Ladder That log with notches cut into a step-ladder, coated rough white, gives the idea of immensity as it slants up through snatches of shades and light and by-passes many crosses and half-crosses to propose perforated ideas, gaps and empty spaces and reaches the closed door with squares and squares of glasses —pointed arches trisect glasses into a three-petaled rose— to climb to the double-storey bell-tower’s white shimmering cross pitched into the navy of sky. I think that these are the green Kelsih chilies and rice spread to dry in the sun on big mats. A cock wanders about.
4. Hog's Head Fixed to the handle-bar of the gate the hog's head is a big prize. Scrubbing of its skin cannot conceal the fact that it has come direct from a coal-pit or a wagon-car. While its ear-edges curl smartly through 360 degrees, a little eye-slit opens sideways always catching you. With a broad grin, a moist nostril, it understands well the power of the Mizo youth that chant loudly the Christian chants in the gymnasium hall. All are seated in red plastic chairs on badminton court amid wood-planks. Some light falls through the vents; one strums guitar without a sound and is back-lit in grays.
5. Durtlang Boy Durtlang boy was a Bad Boy. How bad? Under the rim of his cotton-cap his eyes were white as those of an arctic owl. So innocuous white in the depth of shadow. His cigarette smoke went curling up his nose and eyes to nurses' bodice, apron. socks, colored bed-sheets spread on a line; then it climbed up further to meet the blur of belfries, clocks, inscriptions of the sacred words and down to the old woman bringing up a swath of broad green leaves for dinner on a bridle-path. Finally it went into the eyes of a Micky Mouse.
6. At Chandmari Square Everyday of my existence at Aizawl I used to come to Chandmari on one-rupee-ticket. April showers were quick and short. Wind was great coming straight at the breast. Girls and boys latched on high college balconies watched in glee tight huddled groups under church shades and shops or gamesome passers-by. When in the Christian book-shop, Francis from Imphal and his big brother came to know that I was leaving without saving my soul they gave me a cassette of long drawn Lalpa songs and hoped that grace would fall from somewhere somehow wherever I am and since then I am singing Hosana O Hosana with strings of guitar. There is the brother and sister pair at Glenary. Generally that shop-girl in corduroys with little gold ring in her ear laughed excessively when I thundered: Where is my brown bread? As if it were a Shakespearean drama and I a Falstaffian man. And it were a serious or sacred play buying and selling of the brown bread in which she had a burden of laughing role. Thari of the narrow street how stylishly she returned my good morning every time with the little jerk of her masculine head as if much hinged on that style and when she found that I had stopped going to Denikons (or what was that called?) for egg-noodles because they twisted hens there and that I was living now solely on banana crop and lay custard she haggled for every piece she sold. But my goodness! I don’t know the name of the lady of the computer shop that hush of a woman gently skilled in sweet ceremonies who gave me a Mizo shawl when parting. I had liked the touch of her hand too much. I have always liked.
7. Bamboos Every door is ajar- bamboo barricades unattended. Over the Bachelors' Hut two or three shirt-like things hang high in the air on a bamboo-bar in the still blazing sun. Still higher on the woven platform of broad bamboo strips stocked fodder dries in the sun. Something like a four-rayed black-star, or a manta-ray, is stiffly attached to a pointed bamboo end. Or is it some huge black bat —spread and stiff in the air- fossilized?
Phillip A. Ellis The Fall from Heaven ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ I heard the break of trees, the roaring sky that bellowed in blind pain, and battered ears, that broke upon the world like sightless waves which rule and tear the town upon a cliff and cast it deep beneath the ocean's veil, that blinded the day's dreams with fulgent flash brighter than suns, fiercer than Hell's own heart. I felt the fire unleash a flood of dust that broke upon the hills with a threshing roar, that smote the limbs from trees, with a burning laugh, that tore the trees from earth with a harsh howl, that rent the world with wild electric screams. I choked upon the bitter, acrid dust that lay upon my eyes like cast-off shrouds flung with the rise of corpses torn from graves, and animate with ceaseless, unquenched thirst. I saw, with eyes that ruptured, spilling tears untamed and unfurled clouds that writhed in pain across the sky, and smothered the high sun like slaves dismembered by crowd's cries for death, or flies and crows that rise to feed on flesh that hangs within the gibbet's metal fist. I swear I smelt the choking death and ash from fires that birthed in darkness--a damned night that fell upon the unsuspecting day, shrouding the world with wings of cloying shadow like some dark heaven-demon dark and malice that keeps destruction warm in an ebon heart. The earth had writhed and quaked as a wounded beast, with screams become as winds that burn and rend. In a dark moment, something fell and flailed-- as drowning men may clutch in frenzied fear and break apart the wrack that saves their lives-- that clutched at trees, breaking as brittle grass feeling the fall of wolf-dismembered kine. Was fire its form or pain, or death a part of train that followed, spreading dark and deep across the land, a coldness-quenching light? But did then the earth knap at a god's passage, or angel fall in fire and caustic trains? Did bitter star, unloosed, and torn from spheres, fall on the sweet and softly sleeping earth to swell and bust in clouds of fire and ash? What weird decreed I live whilst earth was slain?
Dawn and Dusk ~~~~~~~~~~~~~ I know the tales oft told in the dark to me, I know the tales oft told in the day to you, but both the tales of the night and day seem wrong in the dawn and dusk we both love. The dawn is slow to rise for the both of us, the dusk is quick to fall for the both of us, but both the dawn and dusk are twin hours set in their beauty and full of glory. The magpies sing at dawn for you, sing for me; the flying foxes fly in the dusk for us: come, see the flying foxes fly past, come and be moved by the songs the birds sing. I know the tales oft told in the dark to me, you know the tales oft told in the day to you, but both the dawn and dusk have tales too, tales that we'll love for all life, like sweet dreams.
I Melt ~~~~~~ I melt into something incomprehensible, a small, broken dumb thing, foolish, fractured numb thing something, something stupid, dumbed down, smeared brown, something, something other than the 'I' I was.
Poet in Exile ~~~~~~~~~~~~~ I remain on this threshold of air, a solitary god, staying still, fresh of face and lairy of an ill-seeming nature, dreamings of word, world, the Lord's will burning, as Swedenborg's love, burning. And I free just a dream from boredom from below, from beneath, from above, and none know my name and nature, none who have heard me praise.
Beggary ~~~~~~~ I shall make my way, a spiritual beggar, bearing my load of childish dreams, for, when I appear before the court of reason, I shall lower my load, unwrap them and watch them fade into puffs of grey smoke.
Joshua Walker Atomic Age ~~~~~~~~~~ Scene: Student Apartment [enter, MOTHER, FATHER, SON] MOTHER: I still say you're being awful quiet today. SON: Yeah, well, I'm still feeling sick. FATHER: That was an awful game. Terrible. SON: They couldn't get anything going. FATHER: No, nothing. MOTHER: And the pass protection was terrible SON: The defense, too. They were moving the ball at will. MOTHER: That's what I meant, the defense. SON: Oh, you mean 'pass defense' then FATHER: You have some wine around here? SON: Sure, up in the cabinet. [pause] MOTHER: I sure do like your new apartment Everything's so clean, especially the bathroom. FATHER: [laughs] Yeah, everything. This cabinet? SON: No, over one to the right. MOTHER: But you're really not feeling well? Still? SON: It's good to have a clean apartment, though. FATHER: Oh, Shiraz. MOTHER: What's a Shiras? SON: A red, Californian. FATHER: No, Australian. SON: I think it can be both. MOTHER: Now if only it wasn't raining so hard. SON: Yeah, but then we'd have to walk around campus even more. MOTHER: This is so nice, though, just us and our – Headache? SON: Could have been a better game. FATHER: We stuck it out well in the rain, though. SON: Here are the glasses. Look, real glass. MOTHER: Was that thunder? SON: No, I'm not sure what that was. Real glass. FATHER: Not thunder. [pause] [pouring] MOTHER: Ah! [Knocks chair into table. A loud sound] SON: Careful there, mom. FATHER: Yeah, the neighbors downstairs will call the police. SON: Again. MOTHER: What? Son: Joke. FATHER: Here's your glass. MOTHER: Okay, I'll be more careful with this! FATHER: Nice view. Do they play soccer out there? SON: When it's not raining. FATHER: That should be most of the winter, right? MOTHER: How are classes? SON: Hold that thought, I'll be right back [exit]. FATHER: Good wine. MOTHER: Shiraz? FATHER: Yes. [pause] [turns on computer] MOTHER: What do you think this is on the wall? The crumbled paint? Everything's so new. [pause]. We'll have to ask him. Bill? FATHER: This computer is Stone Age slow. MOTHER: We'll have to ask him. [pause] [buttons] FATHER: Make sure that's all the way plugged in? MOTHER: I think it is. [pause] [enters] SON: I even have toilet paper. MOTHER: And pillows for the couch. FATHER: Nope, more rain for tomorrow. SON: And the next day. And the day after that. MOTHER: I think it's nice. Nothing like in Arizona. SON: How's the Shiraz? FATHER: Good. MOTHER: Great. SON: I tried an experiment with that stuff last semester. MOTHER: Oh? SON: Yeah. You would have been real proud of me, dad, real scientific. turns out, the more wine I drink, the less time it takes for me to finish my lesson plans. Now try to explain that. MOTHER: I don't think that's very funny. SON: No, probably less brain power spent worrying, right, pop? FATHER: What is wrong with your computer? MOTHER: [stops drinking] SON: [nods] Glad you like the wine. [pause] MOTHER: So how have things been going? SON: Fine. Fine. FATHER: Oh, the Suns aren't on tonight. SON: I told you, Pop, I checked already. MOM: What this over here on the wall? It looks like crumbled something. SON: [leans it to the computer] They'll be on ESPN Monday, but I've got class then. FATHER: Monday night? MOTHER: Oh, Jacob, I really like this painting. FATHER: We never had physics classes that late. SON: Different species. MOTHER: I swear that was thunder. SON: That wasn't thunder, mom. It doesn't lightning here at all. FATHER: Ha ha ha, I'm sending you guys something. MOTHER: And classes? SON: What about classes? MOTHER: How are they? SON: Teaching's okay. MOTHER: And the classes you're not teaching? SON: Fine. They're fine. [pause] MOM: What should we for dinner? SON: What do you guys want? MOM: What do you want? SON: I don't care. MOM: Chinese sounds good. FATHER: Should I do a search? SON: No, dad, I know a few places. [pause] FATHER: Aaron's not sure the Dercell project will work out now. MOTHER: Oh. [pause] MOTHER: Did that ever work out, playing tennis with that girl? SON: What girl? MOTHER: That girl, you mentioned her on the phone. SON: Right. MOTHER: So? SON: Sort of. She's good. MOTHER: But you're good, too. SON: Not that good. You know? MOTHER: I still don't understand what's with this paint. SON: Did you hear that sound? FATHER: No. MOTHER: What? SON: [laughs] Now I'm the one hallucinating. [laughs] MOTHER: [laughs] this is good wine. SON: I'll be right back. FATHER: I'm next. [exits] MOTHER: He was going to ask that girl out. FATHER: What girl? MOTHER: That girl he went to play tennis with. FATHER: How do you know? Did he say something? MOTHER: No. FATHER: How do you know? It's about time. MOTHER: But he's never had problems. FATHER: Problems? No. MOTHER: What's the weather for tomorrow? FATHER: Rain. MOTHER: Right. MOTHER: What was that? FATHER: What? MOTHER: Jacob? FATHER: He's still in the bathroom. MOTHER: I know. Jacob? [goes to door] FATHER: Ask his if he's rather do Mexican. MOTHER: Jacob? [knocks] [pause] FATHER: So? MOTHER: He said Mexican's okay. FATHER: Or maybe we should try some fish. MOTHER: You know I only eat salmon. FATHER: Salmon's fish. MOTHER: How cold is it tomorrow? FATHER: I told you, raining. MOTHER: But lightning? [pause] [rushes to door] [opens door] Oh my God! Oh my God! [curtain]
Felino Soriano Vagabond's Vision #74 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Abstract preconception, lost otherwise to well known thinkers, set across teeming tables of desolation, heard by screams scraped off by the alone, a poet of himself scribbling metaphors of four vowels describing forests maintaining distance, never restoring a mother's melancholy root. Tears overcoming well advanced in advance trembled before landing, tricking minuscule eyes, trying to focus on unabridged deceptions without truncation. Poet's sadness was appropriate, genuine, for the poet's mother organically in original dance finale threw son from highest branch, and he balanced mid-toss, documenting morbid desolation in stanza sketches, landing allegedly away from preconceived sadness.
Vagabond's Vision #75 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ A free falling follower unafraid of being followed, followed drinking unobstructed many, steps toward forward destination. Follower fell, regained unbalanced balance, began again following hurried message within chemically conversing brain. Follower flew atop free flowing horizontal concrete, navigating flowers high above normal finger touching halt, dedicated to following with fingers petals of irreversible return.
Vagabond's Vision #79 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Weaponry lost in flaming miscalculations. Tongue-weapon, an of-course, teasing from miscreant toward intellectual obese awaiting. Tides of conversations teetered unevenly, smeared fog across malfunctioning seesaws nearer never than from close at hand had miniscule chance to compose simultaneous victor. Neither underwent prior nor post depression, miscreant leaped toward mischievous metaphor, delegating earnings, monetary delusions, escaping into bladed room of ambidextrous defeat.
Vagabond's Vision #107 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ The forgettable not exactly that, embraceable memories still linger, written around forehead of index card or finger of right hand, most dominant hand. Air crisp, breakable as burnt toast, serial spenders are covering spending unthinkable monetary amounts, buffoons, budgets circle outside windows impersonate unmatched serenading snowflakes.
Vagabond's Vision #108 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Callous crossways grass light low mostly crawling, grass brown dead in the idiom of gardening. Rain maintaining distance, far in the expanse terminology. Talking feet donate shedding skin atop barriers of browning topography, lengthening more into shoving pass forth language of travels even along paths of the interim living.
Vagabond's Vision #109 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ A leaf which fell, documenting alive-once, dying-now, so perfectly swaying percussionist's echoing vibration, one-handed solo yet slowly for which an encore not needed—might an apparition guide a branchless leaf with fading veins, bug-eaten circle-square shape across the body of its once silently perfect diamond appearance. Landed it did, faded by wind's organic huff away near a burgundy barn where disappearance shaved its last and thickest beard.


Del Corey

The Black Pool

       (To Nathaniel Hawthorne)

Such a black pool my poor soul
has had to swim in, in secret.
With each dream, I dip my memory
like a pen into the black well of evil,
and write again on the sheet of conscience,
the many past acts, hidden unforgiven,
that I have masked, to appear perfect
to my perfect neighbors.


All poems copyrighted by their respective authors. Any reproduction of
these poems, without the express written permission of the authors, is

YGDRASIL: A Journal of the Poetic Arts - Copyright (c) 1993 - 2006 by 
Klaus J. Gerken.

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