November-December 2014 … The Global Online Magazine of Arts, Information & Entertainment … Volume 10, Number 6
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Union City Poems

OASIS: Music & Poetry

at  William V. Musto Cultural Center 

Union City, NJ 

The following poems were read by the poets at the recent exhibition in Union City organized by LaRuche Art Contemporary Consortium’s director, Roberto Rosado.


 PAUL SOHAR 

paulsoharmug

Two-Minute Salvation

Although life exhales but one poetic line,
the market place is crowded and the stands are sagging with words
syllables go tumbling over unrhymed syllables,
verse climbs over verse
and you get but 2 thin minutes or less to unpack and sell your wares;

2 thin minutes to diagnose and cure the ills of the universe plus dissect
your soul and hang it out for everyone to see the bloody mess,

2 minutes to lie on the altar where your heart is torn out and tossed
into the shredding machine for the lack of sacrificial fire
on the cool foreheads fencing you in

2 minutes to shove your metaphor into the mouth gaping at you
and reach all the way down into the stomach to turn it inside out

2 minutes to strip off the clown costume and play a naked violin
standing on the ceiling
2 minutes to get your s.o.s across an ocean of suffocating clichés
2 minutes to douse yourself with rhymes and look for matches
2 minutes to give away eternity wrapped inside a hyperbole
2 minutes to steal a pearl into the eyes before you
2 minutes on the judge’s bench
2 minutes in the dock
2 minutes on the butcher block
2 minutes on the rack
2 minutes on the soapbox
2 minutes on the cross

but 2 minutes can also be the age of the universe if you have
a well-honed secret tucked away in a pocket of your verse
and if your frantic meter doesn’t cause it to sink before
you reach a sunny shore of applause
hanging on to the 2 minutes refrain
just 2 more minutes please
and then you can shoo me off into nevermore.

 

 ALAN BRITT

Capture

 

DOOMSDAY: 12/21/12

Bleached blonde, black eyebrows —

In case of fire break glass —

Emergency flashers —

Recessed lights inside skull —

Bullfrog cello with sore throat —

Knocks at the door —

Paper gown removed, vitals checked —

Verbs & adverbs braided like scorpions —

Cellphone in wheelchair —

Lies about love↔angry love —

Christmas tree with red gauze, golden cones
& white blinking lights, hisses like a possum
in darkest corner of coffin —

Small white dog with pink skin, cataract
about to bloom —

Detroit gangs fake each other’s deaths —

Greektown serves shell casings
& steamed mussels for lunch —

Clouds of magnesium —

Helium kisses —

Sunglasses the size of sunflowers —

Roman numeral X on wall clock leaps
to its death —

Raining mercury in Estonia —

Raining ashes in Cincinnati —

Raining bicycles in Berlin —

Raining gramophones in Bangladesh —

Raining mustaches in Pittsburgh —

Raining reindeer in Iraq —

Plastic roses at Italian bistros die
of liver cancer —

Snow plow scrapes electrons into wall of cocaine
in suburban mall parking lot —

Drones in your shower, drones in your
underwear, drones in your anus —

Just saying —

 

(First published in Skidrow Penthouse)

 

 

MIKE FOLDES

MikeF

 

Madrigal

Cool dew on grey-green grass.
A painted warrior waits,
excitement wells within,
adrenaline erupting, as
expectations of survival wither.

A shiver undulates through the wood,
returns a shot on leaden wing;
now there is no bad or good,
now there is no hesitation,
the time to strike is here.

Neither victory nor defeat
will shed a tear, a coin can tell
as well whose body will resign,
add compost by its posture
to the land. No failure this,

but simply chance, and grace,
as foul scent escapes a bloody shell.
Would they have done as well
to not be born than duly waste,
forgot by name, uniformly

borne to rest on guilt or fame,
a tragedy or wonder one
can only know by what awaits
beyond the tethered tides
dreamless sleep capitulates.

 

SAL TAGLIARINO

sal headshot

Icon

 The floating Earth in space is a living

Icon for our presence here.

And we, like vermin, are busy eating

Holes and tunnels inside the very wood

That holds the divine image present.

Suffering is a mystery of human existence

Death is a mystery of life

But self-inlicted suffering and death

Rape, murder, pillage, theft, wars, and

Terrorism are no mystery.

Sunrise

I have seen the sunrise again.

The arcs of my spirit’s space, vault.

Inside my cheeks, I smile.

In the east churns a universe of foam

Over the green waters, waiting the next tide

White sea birds feed on fish

As man eats time.

The gray clay beach lights the broken stones

In morning light, the gauge of time’s clock.

The mind turns and sets my hour on the earth

Holding all things together

As I sit in fear of immense life.

Holding me once in its womb, it

sends me now to sit inside a greater self

That holds unseen stars as its limits

And the smallest cells as its base.

So must I not necessarily breathe?

For breath is drawn from me

But then, I draw breath as air breathes wind.

Since my part is a prelude for the fugue

Completed in every sound.

Prologue

The earth spits up again

A soul.

Spewing up sands

Uncounted polyphony of

Colliding boulders,

Microscopic collisions

Well within their universe

Of small space.

The sand grains infinite distance

Between each member,

Uncounted souls hold individual

Volume within a infinite distance.

A sun moves on

A star in space.

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For more information about the event, see: http://old.ragazine.cc/news-haps-snaps/
(You may have to scroll down!)

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