"FACINGFACES 2002 - 04" SELECTED POETRY

SIX POETS CONVERSE

Six Poets Converse is a USA based group of poets who live in different
cities and exchange their poetry on the internet in several 'Poetry Dialogues'.



ALICE PERO
Attention Deficit

“The kid’s impossible. He runs all around the room. There’s nothing we can do with him.” --Teacher of 3rd grade student

In the morning it’s TV and toothpaste,
colorful cereal, red white and blue, FDA sugar and chemical mix
Cartoons before breakfast, Mommy’s aspirin, Daddy’s booze,
Actors whining on the soap opera after the news
Man abuse, woman abuse, carefully scripted,
edgy voices to fill spaces between Mommy’s moods
Child immune to jitters on the tube, runs in circles, pretends he’s not here
does what Daddy does, copies TV actor’s sneer
Child has attention-deficit, it’s true
No one notices while he fiddles with his shoes
Mom brought him to the doctor on teacher’s advise
Ritalin will fix him, it’s not easy, it will have to do
Doc smiles blandly and shows them the door after minutes of talk,
insurance will cover it, just fill the papers and walk
No one sees the drug will make him an addict
Whose attention deficit is this?
Now he’s in the classroom, he must sit and stand
Pledge of Allegiance, words misunderstood he must chant on demand
What is “indivisible”? No one bothers to explain
Should he be invisible? a republic? justice?
He’s zoning out, no one sees him or cares,
he’s already labeled ADD, so why expect him to understand?
There’s one thing that’s sure, he won’t miss his medication
He needs pills to be here, to sit quiet and be still
He will get his prescription filled and refilled
He's got his whole life before him, does anyone know
what will happen when he’s 10 or 11 or 42?
Does anyone ever stop and ask him what he really
wants to do?
Whose attention deficit is this?
No one is calling this child abused
It’s 100 percent doctor approved.

********************



MARY HAZEN-STEARNS
My Father's Friend, Mr. Hardy

The birdhouse lies on its side
in young white snow
in Mr. Hardy's yard

The perch, broken off, protrudes
from a bulging drift - a dismembered finger
beckons little swallows

From my bedroom window
I detect dried twigs poking
from the dark hole - nest remnants

under a protective roof -
evidence of past habitation
I wonder why my father

let Mr. Hardy have it?
I remember handing dad the nails
my eyes squeezing shut

every time the hammer slammed
into the white pine, the way his fist
gripped the handle

round indentations appeared
on the smooth skin of the wood
like large thumb prints

My father didn't seem to notice
I didn't mention it
My father is dead

as well as Mr. Hardy
but the bird house survives
It hangs from a branch

over the fence
I see the nails have begun to pop
Dad should have used screws

********************



RYFKAH
Beyond Babi Yar

The blanched bones began to rise like leaves in an autumn wind
Some floated in space while others walked the ground
They danced before me to the sad song of memory
A sharp finger pointed to the dark abysmal pit filled with babies' shoes
golden rings and tattered rags next to fragile translucent skin
the skin already making shades to block out the light
I listened for their cries but only heard laughter's
crescendo under full moon's light
Is this the promised resurrection of the dead? And where is G-d?
The bones fell back quietly to their amaranthine bed
Tears like rain fell from the silver-studded sky
I saw a glow from a single match in the black hole below
I then knew the light had always been present
and I too laughed while whispering the familiar strains of Kaddish

********************



THOMAS FORTENBERRY
Pulling a Thread


Luis lost everything:
his respect, his honor, his manhood.
Dignity died with loving attention
at his callous hands: a self-inflicted dearth
of reasoning as sure as suicide.

This is not an easy thing to accomplish.
But he was victorious:
He destroyed his life
and mangled many others.

I won't speak of the shame
that kept his wife hidden for years,
the tears of his children,
the bruises of the screaming night
that held them all breathless.

A home became a prison
and its warden its torturer.
This alone is enough
to make God weep--
but be warned, there are tears
of sadness and tears of anger.

Luis, do you know which bitter rain
is falling in your name?

No, the most pathetic aspect of Luis
is too well known in the whispers
of red-faced, black-eyed tyranny
echoing forever through the alleys
of our secret little houses
with their lamb-blooded doors.

Be careful upon which door you knock,
Luis. Lazy temptation makes us
break every taboo given time.
And time is all we have
when knocking out the portals of choice:
Even the blood of the lamb bites
the knuckles of the fist which raps
upon the hardwood splinters
of hatred and misunderstanding.
Knock too loud and the answer will arrive
behind you, an angel of fire
redeeming a message you forgot
in the angry streets while loving
families cower inside, beyond the portal
protected by prayers of understanding, solidarity
of will and action called compassion.

I want to speak of the worst
side of the fist: the irreparable harm
it does to a person, a family, a culture.
You see Luis did not beat an individual.
He outright trampled
a culture into the dust, and then spat on it.
His mucous: The venom of shame
in a mold-dry tomb of a mouth.

You would kiss you mother
with that maggot-infested grave, Luis?
"I do," it cackled at your wife
and that tongue flicked, serpent-like, at your children,
licking their eyes like grapes
while you dreamed of the wine
you could bottle if only you could trample
their heads and squeeze out the right vintage.

An old, sour vintage of pain
so foul it guts the innocent
can be passed down generation to generation
and yet still intoxicate the stupid
before spilling out again
to do its true damage.

Their once were saints and knights
crusading across Aragon
and waving their long-sword honor above
their stallion-reared pride for all the world to see,
as unbending as Castile steel.

There once were explorers
unafraid of themselves reaching
the edges of the world, willing
to sail right off the maps
into the wet sphere of the unknown
and not only bring it back,
but colonize it, settle it, and love it.

There once were monks
who crossed the ocean
and crossed the found children
to teach them of love and charity--
though, it must be admitted, some fell down
upon meeting the same eternal fist
Luis also discovered. Hatred
crawls into people like demonic possession.

But stories and histories repeat
themselves like their madmen heirs.
However, a little awareness or a good library
as comfortable as the home of heritage
can make an exorcism of loss.

There once were tongues
babbling across the world
which turned quietly to mouth
the new vowels of the Iberian main
and teach and preach and reach
the mind, the heart, the soul.
It was a universal language
for a universal people: heart.

A knight, a captain, a father
cowled or uncowled, it is irrelevant:
they all tried to better the ground
upon which they stood, plow
the arid soil fallow, beget
a better tomorrow, uplift
the next generation with praise,
the open hands of a kiss, hugging
the future to the bosom of the past.

Si, you see,
there is wisdom in yesterday
as only father and mother can teach.
Yet there is also retreat
from the light, ignorance
of the heart, lack
of compassion, hate
of self, loathing
of others which translates universally
into an unraveling of skeins
and a destruction of tapestries
it took eternal generations to weave.
There is one vast loom
with an infinity of weavers
weaving rainbows of people.

Just think of the consequences,
Luis, before you act. It takes only one hand
to pull a thread out of the world
and unravel us all.

********************



GARY BLANKENSHIP
Sarah Jane Passed Through


When Sarah Jane was three,
she saw a camel in a cloud and a horse in a rock;
and when she told her mother, Mommy said
“Don’t be silly. Rocks are rocks and clouds are clouds.”
(and thinking of Emily, went back to feeding Baby Alice.)

When Sarah Jane was five,
she went to kindergarten dressed in her sister Dora’s dress
which had been preworn by her sister Clara
and Bobby Mills pinched her and made her cry,
calling her white trash and saying she smelled.
(Only Sarah’s socks and underwear were new.)

When sarah jane was nine,
Bobby offered her a quarter
to go under the bleachers and lift her dress;
when she said no, he told Tommy she wanted a dollar;
and when she told her mommy,
her daddy belted her for leading the boys on
(and saying he was sorry, comforted her later that night.)

when sarah jane was fourteen,
bobby asked her to the homecoming dance;
but her mother said she was too young
and her sisters wouldn’t let her wear their old dresses.
instead bobby took Mary Ann Witherspoon
from over at the trailer park.
(while sarah jane sat on her bed
and wrote in her special book.)

when sarah jane was eighteen,
she married bobby mills
and they moved in with his stepmother,
next to Mary Ann’s parents in the trailer park
(and her momma cried for her baby alice
and losing emily.

when sarah jane was nearly twenty
and expecting Little Donna’s sister
they buried her in a cardboard casket
bobby smashed her head for asking him
why he was out all night with mary ann nelson
(and alice’s mother buried the special book with her)

When Donna was three years old

********************



MARILYN INJEYAN
Honeysuckle Noire


Brass chords toll, percussion rings
More than hurled words branded
and seared by the savage messiah -
her father dressed in olive drab

His watercolors exude spring
She breathes in creamy gardenias
Skirt brushes wisteria spills
rustles and sways along garden path

Against the rage of broken bottles
and whisky sours, she cowers in a corner
tethered down by fear. Violet blooms
in white flesh are carefully concealed

Fireworks burst from cups of blossoms
Lemon verbena scrambles toward sun
Intrigued how light affects colors
she rubs a petal across her cheek

His scenes are collected around the world. Painted
warmth glows inside cottage windows. His nature
masked behind pastel strokes, robust hues fed
by sweet peas and a daughter bent to his will

Ebb of beating wings and buzz
Squirrels scurry beneath a grape arbor
In melanite shadows across drowsy dusk
she knows a different serenity, listens
to hyacinth blue

********************

Bios:

Alice Pero: A poet, dancer, musician and teacher of creative writing. Her poetry has been published in many small magazines and several anthologies,
including both Word Thursday anthologies, Trés di-verse-city, Albatross,
Lummox and The California Quarterly. Her work can be found on the word wide web on numerous sites, including incognitocafe.com and Jacket. She has been a featured performance poet on both east and west coasts, appearing at The Knitting Factory, Tribes, Barnes & Noble, Borders, Word Thursdays and Poetic License among others. She has performed at the Austin International Poetry Festival for the last three years. Her first book of poetry, Thawed Stars, illustrated by Bruce Silton, was published in the summer of 1999 by SunInk Publications. In 2001 her poetry received two awards from The National League of American Pen Women.
Alice has taught creative writing on both coasts and was a creative writing
workshop leader for the New York City Ballet Education Department's poetry project from 1991 through 1996, teaching in inner city school of the five boroughs of New York as well as being poet-in-residence at a private school in New Jersey. She moved to Los Angeles in 1996 and continued teaching at schools, under the auspices of The California Poets in the Schools and WORD Process. As a music and dance performer, Alice feels poetry is best understood by children as a 3-dimensional experience with
sound.

*

Ryfkah: Born in Chicago in January 1949, Ryfkah now resides in La Mirada, California with her three daughters. She is a sixth grade teacher at Los Alisos Middle School in Norwalk. She is an avid student of Kabbalah, Jewish mysticism, and of the teachings of Rebbe Nachman of Breslov. Ryfkah has been published in anthologies including a chapbook collection, If Venus Had Arms, by the North Orange County Poetry Continuum and various print and on-line magazines.

A founding member of a new performance troupe, WomanSong.

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Thomas Fortenberry: An American author, editor, and
publisher. Owner of Mind Fire Press, he has judged many literary contests,
including The Georgia Author of the Year Awards and The Robert Penn Warren Prize for Fiction. His work has appeared internationally in all media.

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Gary Blankenship: A retired financial manager whose avocation is writing poetry. His work has appeared in several zines in the USA and other countries. He edits the poetry pages of www.writershood.com, a zine . His home page is http://gardawg.homestead.com/gardawg.html. A chapbook, Autumn Reflections, has been published. He collaborating on other collections. He is the CEO and secretary for Santiam Publishing, which does limited edition chapbook runs. He wonders if he is an editor with a poet rattling around inside or a poet with an editor trying to get out. He has taught, moderated, judged and otherwise likely screwed up his brother and sister poets.

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Mary Hazen-Stearns: Wife, mom and author of poetry collection "Under
the Limbo Stick" (225 pgs) has poetry appearing in print publications
throughout the US as well as Canada, Switzerland, India, and the UK. She
teaches a course at Sullivan County Community College (NY) entitled
"Poetry In Progress." She is also an occasional Poetry Editor, Poetry
Competition Judge, and CMT. Mary is currently an active member of The
Alchemy Poetry Club, the Woodstock Poetry Society, and Poets & Writers.
Maryann has won numerous awards and competitions and has had poems appear in over 30 print publications, as well as 300+ electronic publications.

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Marilyn Injeyan: A member of a new performance troupe WomanSong, is a guest poet in the classroom, has taught workshops at Occidental and Pasadena City Colleges, has begun her fifth year of co-facilitating Poetry Group at Borders Brea, is the host at Regina's Coffee and Tea House, co-edits BorderLines, is a WordProcessPoet, volunteers every year at the L.A. Times Festival of Books, has recently retired from twenty seven years teaching English and Art in middle schools and highs schools and was the Impact coordinator for at-risk students.
After a nine-year hiatus, she resumed writing in '93, and has been published
in numerous literary journals since '96. Her work appeared in the Acorn,
Adult Story Corner, Avocet, the Aurorean, BorderLines, Eclectic Lyrics,
Epicenter, Fauquier Poetry Journal, Haiku Headlines, the Kern Valley Sun,
Lucidity, Luna Negra (Kent State University), Manna, Map of Austin Poetry, San Gabriel Valley Quarterly, Sensitive Poet of the Week, Ship of Fools, Poets for Peace, Reflections of the Kern, Tucumcari Literary Review, Way Station Magazine, White Shoe Irregular and Writer's Hood.