Joe Hackworth
Bruce Stater
Rick Parsons
Jerry Hicks
Colin Van der Woude
Shaela Phillips
Martin Rutley
K. R. Copeland
Jack Cannon
Dave Ruslander
Monday, July 01, 2002
Issue 8
Joe Hackworth
Bruce Stater
Rick Parsons
Jerry Hicks
Colin Van der Woude
Shaela Phillips
Martin Rutley
K. R. Copeland
Jack Cannon
Dave Ruslander
Joe Hackworth
Chronic
You wait patiently for me to smile
you had no idea what you were
getting into years ago when you said
i do and if i'd known would i have tried
to change your mind i don't think so
because i'm trying to follow the doctors'
orders and look there's one now
working at the corners of my mouth
just for you.
Joe Hackworth: I live with depression and panic / anxiety disorders. Still working on the meds. My work has appeared online in Clean Sheets Magazine, Poems Niederngasse, Issue 6 of PoetrySz, and will be published in a future issue of Eclectica.
Joe Hackworth Bruce Stater Rick Parsons Jerry Hicks Colin Van der Woude Shaela Phillips Martin Rutley K. R. Copeland Jack Cannon Dave Ruslander
You wait patiently for me to smile
you had no idea what you were
getting into years ago when you said
i do and if i'd known would i have tried
to change your mind i don't think so
because i'm trying to follow the doctors'
orders and look there's one now
working at the corners of my mouth
just for you.
Joe Hackworth: I live with depression and panic / anxiety disorders. Still working on the meds. My work has appeared online in Clean Sheets Magazine, Poems Niederngasse, Issue 6 of PoetrySz, and will be published in a future issue of Eclectica.
Joe Hackworth Bruce Stater Rick Parsons Jerry Hicks Colin Van der Woude Shaela Phillips Martin Rutley K. R. Copeland Jack Cannon Dave Ruslander
Bruce Stater
Stones
I gather stones.
I am tired.
My mind is empty.
It is difficult to work.
I gather stones.
Some broken, some smooth.
Some heavy and too large for my hands.
Some that roll across my palms, light as a feather.
Some hard and sturdy, others brittle,
Eager to crumble into grains of sand, form clouds of dust.
Some warm, soft and smooth as clay,
Separate prayers created from flesh of living earth.
Some cold and gray and dead as ash.
I gather stones.
I put thought to thought
Pebble beside pebble
To shore up rent and void of no-thought.
Mingle clay with ash and draw earthworm from frozen tundra.
I scoop dried grass from cold ground up to my knuckles
And draw my nails across the hard skin of blocks of ice.
I cover my face with red, yellow, black, brown, and green dirt.
I boil roots and mud in stone soup.
I collect the shells of insects the bones of reptiles, birds and small
mammals
And plant seeds where some will grow and others won't.
I am tired.
It is difficult to work.
My mind is empty but my arms are full of stones.
I say each stone has a meaning and make it a phrase in a song.
I sing in the language of stones because I know no other language,
I have no other way of speaking.
My tongue is heavy in my mouth.
I never learned to speak with the words others use to speak and sing.
When they learned to sing I was busy gathering stones.
When they learned to write I was busy gathering stones.
When they learned to paint I was busy gathering stones.
When they learned to carve I was busy gathering stones.
When they learned to sculpt I was busy gathering stones.
When they learned to dance I was busy gathering stones.
When they played together I felt lost.
Between stone and stone I couldn't feel the distinction between work
and
play.
It was all work to me, a slow and difficult work
Built singly of stones.
I gather stones.
I learned to say that the skipping of a pebble across the surface of
the
stream
Was a butterfly in flight in the summer sky.
I learned to say that the sparks made from pounding two pieces of flint
Were the notes of the nightingale in the autumnal evening.
I learned to say the texture of a moss-covered rock
Was the felt on the neck of a doe.
That the dry astringency of lime
Was the collective memory of a burdened and oppressed people.
That the silt flowing between my fingers
Was the cry of a mother mourning the loss of her child.
That the light inside a crystal of quartz
Was the glow of a collective consciousness.
But my tongue was still heavy with the weight of stones
And where others could dance and sing lightly from thought to thought
I struggled to lift one thing to the next.
Stone would not adhere to stone.
The dust of the butterfly's wing would not color the neck of the fawn
Whether I mixed its paint with a mother's tears
Or the sweat which poured from my palms.
When the others could mingle dance with song and thing to action
I could not even affix stone to stone
But held them together in my tired arms.
I gather stones.
And because stone will not congeal to stone,
I learned to balance stone upon stone.
Sometimes a piece of chalk resting on a slate of granite,
Sometimes a bit of broken obsidian to support a column of marble.
And I learned to say that this flake of feldspar supporting an amethyst
geode
Was the work of a fractured mind sustaining the dream of utopia
That a piece of clay wrapped around a few grains of sand
Was the arm of a loved one embracing someone in pain.
I gather stones.
I am tired.
My mind is empty.
It is difficult to work.
Bruce Stater: A little more than three years ago I entered into a psychosis that lasted approximately nine months. During this time, I suffered from delusions, hallucinations, cognitive impairment, extreme fits of terror, bizarre patterns of behavior, occasional catatonia, and magical thinking. I was hospitalized twice and eventually received a diagnosis of schizophrenia, paranoid type. During the first hospitalization at Bellevue I had little insight concerning my condition, refused medication, and made no progress in my recovery. At Metropolitan Hospital, in part because I was treated with more respect and understanding than I had been at Bellevue, I began taking medication, and slowly began the long journey of recovery from schizophrenia.
I spent the next two years in a deep depression, unable to work, read, play, experience pleasure, or hold much of a conversation. Medication helped with the positive symptoms but the negative ones persisted. During this period I gave up hope of ever finishing the dissertation I had been working on, dropped out of a graduate program in Comparative Literature, and spent each day struggling to make it to the next.
Gradually, after a period of approximately two years, and with the support of my loving wife, Lori, I began to feel a bit more alive. I found myself living in a world with light once again. It became easier to hold a conversation, my mind no longer felt empty, and I could begin imagining the future once again. I began reading. I applied to Teacher¹s College, Columbia University where I am currently pursuing an M.A. degree in English Education. I hope to become a high school English teacher. I currently live in Astoria, New York with my wife, Lori, and our cat, Beans.
Joe Hackworth Bruce Stater Rick Parsons Jerry Hicks Colin Van der Woude Shaela Phillips Martin Rutley K. R. Copeland Jack Cannon Dave Ruslander
I gather stones.
I am tired.
My mind is empty.
It is difficult to work.
I gather stones.
Some broken, some smooth.
Some heavy and too large for my hands.
Some that roll across my palms, light as a feather.
Some hard and sturdy, others brittle,
Eager to crumble into grains of sand, form clouds of dust.
Some warm, soft and smooth as clay,
Separate prayers created from flesh of living earth.
Some cold and gray and dead as ash.
I gather stones.
I put thought to thought
Pebble beside pebble
To shore up rent and void of no-thought.
Mingle clay with ash and draw earthworm from frozen tundra.
I scoop dried grass from cold ground up to my knuckles
And draw my nails across the hard skin of blocks of ice.
I cover my face with red, yellow, black, brown, and green dirt.
I boil roots and mud in stone soup.
I collect the shells of insects the bones of reptiles, birds and small
mammals
And plant seeds where some will grow and others won't.
I am tired.
It is difficult to work.
My mind is empty but my arms are full of stones.
I say each stone has a meaning and make it a phrase in a song.
I sing in the language of stones because I know no other language,
I have no other way of speaking.
My tongue is heavy in my mouth.
I never learned to speak with the words others use to speak and sing.
When they learned to sing I was busy gathering stones.
When they learned to write I was busy gathering stones.
When they learned to paint I was busy gathering stones.
When they learned to carve I was busy gathering stones.
When they learned to sculpt I was busy gathering stones.
When they learned to dance I was busy gathering stones.
When they played together I felt lost.
Between stone and stone I couldn't feel the distinction between work
and
play.
It was all work to me, a slow and difficult work
Built singly of stones.
I gather stones.
I learned to say that the skipping of a pebble across the surface of
the
stream
Was a butterfly in flight in the summer sky.
I learned to say that the sparks made from pounding two pieces of flint
Were the notes of the nightingale in the autumnal evening.
I learned to say the texture of a moss-covered rock
Was the felt on the neck of a doe.
That the dry astringency of lime
Was the collective memory of a burdened and oppressed people.
That the silt flowing between my fingers
Was the cry of a mother mourning the loss of her child.
That the light inside a crystal of quartz
Was the glow of a collective consciousness.
But my tongue was still heavy with the weight of stones
And where others could dance and sing lightly from thought to thought
I struggled to lift one thing to the next.
Stone would not adhere to stone.
The dust of the butterfly's wing would not color the neck of the fawn
Whether I mixed its paint with a mother's tears
Or the sweat which poured from my palms.
When the others could mingle dance with song and thing to action
I could not even affix stone to stone
But held them together in my tired arms.
I gather stones.
And because stone will not congeal to stone,
I learned to balance stone upon stone.
Sometimes a piece of chalk resting on a slate of granite,
Sometimes a bit of broken obsidian to support a column of marble.
And I learned to say that this flake of feldspar supporting an amethyst
geode
Was the work of a fractured mind sustaining the dream of utopia
That a piece of clay wrapped around a few grains of sand
Was the arm of a loved one embracing someone in pain.
I gather stones.
I am tired.
My mind is empty.
It is difficult to work.
Bruce Stater: A little more than three years ago I entered into a psychosis that lasted approximately nine months. During this time, I suffered from delusions, hallucinations, cognitive impairment, extreme fits of terror, bizarre patterns of behavior, occasional catatonia, and magical thinking. I was hospitalized twice and eventually received a diagnosis of schizophrenia, paranoid type. During the first hospitalization at Bellevue I had little insight concerning my condition, refused medication, and made no progress in my recovery. At Metropolitan Hospital, in part because I was treated with more respect and understanding than I had been at Bellevue, I began taking medication, and slowly began the long journey of recovery from schizophrenia.
I spent the next two years in a deep depression, unable to work, read, play, experience pleasure, or hold much of a conversation. Medication helped with the positive symptoms but the negative ones persisted. During this period I gave up hope of ever finishing the dissertation I had been working on, dropped out of a graduate program in Comparative Literature, and spent each day struggling to make it to the next.
Gradually, after a period of approximately two years, and with the support of my loving wife, Lori, I began to feel a bit more alive. I found myself living in a world with light once again. It became easier to hold a conversation, my mind no longer felt empty, and I could begin imagining the future once again. I began reading. I applied to Teacher¹s College, Columbia University where I am currently pursuing an M.A. degree in English Education. I hope to become a high school English teacher. I currently live in Astoria, New York with my wife, Lori, and our cat, Beans.
Joe Hackworth Bruce Stater Rick Parsons Jerry Hicks Colin Van der Woude Shaela Phillips Martin Rutley K. R. Copeland Jack Cannon Dave Ruslander
Rick Parsons
Rituals of Death and Devotion
The Inca iced
their dead into mummies.
In India loved ones burned bodies
at a ghat, scattered ashes
into the sacred river.
On the Solomon Islands
they laid out their dead on reefs
for sharks to feast.
Mäoris wore wreathes of green leaves,
chanted, cried out and cut themselves,
covered bones in red earth.
In Mexico, families celebrated
dia de los muertos, sat at graves,
set an empty place at the table.
Within our home, I placed a kiss
on your forehead. My tears trickled
like a holy water baptism, lips
murmured words of mourning.
Two poems and a card,
laid under your arm,
embodied the spirit of my love
to mix and rise with yours
in smoke from the flame.
Today I hold your ashes,
touch the urn
the way I used to touch your face,
and believe like Buddhists
in the cycle of rebirth.
On Route 32, the Dance Floor Bus
Yesterday, he was the comb-over king,
a sad jazz ramble of jibber-jabber facts.
Tonight, he is hushed anticipation,
an unknown destination,
a step,
a dance,
a pirouette;
look at his eyes,
the way he jives when he moves.
Rick Parsons: I am a veterinary technician living in Phoenix, AZ. I have suffered from depression and anxiety/panic attacks, but control both fairly well with medication. My home is shared with six cats whose souls are to mine as child is to mother. For me, writing poetry is the "ow, what'd ya do that for?" that is blurted out after being smacked in the back of the head by my muse's hand.
Joe Hackworth Bruce Stater Rick Parsons Jerry Hicks Colin Van der Woude Shaela Phillips Martin Rutley K. R. Copeland Jack Cannon Dave Ruslander
The Inca iced
their dead into mummies.
In India loved ones burned bodies
at a ghat, scattered ashes
into the sacred river.
On the Solomon Islands
they laid out their dead on reefs
for sharks to feast.
Mäoris wore wreathes of green leaves,
chanted, cried out and cut themselves,
covered bones in red earth.
In Mexico, families celebrated
dia de los muertos, sat at graves,
set an empty place at the table.
Within our home, I placed a kiss
on your forehead. My tears trickled
like a holy water baptism, lips
murmured words of mourning.
Two poems and a card,
laid under your arm,
embodied the spirit of my love
to mix and rise with yours
in smoke from the flame.
Today I hold your ashes,
touch the urn
the way I used to touch your face,
and believe like Buddhists
in the cycle of rebirth.
On Route 32, the Dance Floor Bus
Yesterday, he was the comb-over king,
a sad jazz ramble of jibber-jabber facts.
Tonight, he is hushed anticipation,
an unknown destination,
a step,
a dance,
a pirouette;
look at his eyes,
the way he jives when he moves.
Rick Parsons: I am a veterinary technician living in Phoenix, AZ. I have suffered from depression and anxiety/panic attacks, but control both fairly well with medication. My home is shared with six cats whose souls are to mine as child is to mother. For me, writing poetry is the "ow, what'd ya do that for?" that is blurted out after being smacked in the back of the head by my muse's hand.
Joe Hackworth Bruce Stater Rick Parsons Jerry Hicks Colin Van der Woude Shaela Phillips Martin Rutley K. R. Copeland Jack Cannon Dave Ruslander
Jerry Hicks
Outlines
Paper odors: sulfur tinge,
moist rolled gruel scent. Each scrap
finger-print distinct. Only months ago I was
a butterfly on her thigh...
now constantly mono-directional.
Zoom past Blythe, jibe at Albuquerque
"Wrong Direction!"
Then maybe lickety-split to Corpus. Toe-the-Gulf
pause,
sweaty clothes irritating like hollow complements.
Next
roll-ripping Portland bound, gas
card greasy-fingers blackened.
Only windshield & mirrors clean.
Del Rio static songs & pleas: Serve J-e-s-u-s!
Seat, floorboards strewn w/ crumpled maps,
plastic bottles crushed,
chewed foam coffee cups,
dirtynapkins, candywrapper scraps.
Portland to Laramie--checkerboard blare.
Can't savor the view, strapped in. No
diversions; course locked.
Miles clicking odo sanes me.
Days sandwiched w/ sleeps. Months vanish
like whole trains piercing mountains.
Something pursues, often roars ahead.
Swapping energy for distance--
swapped for time--swamping memories.
More & more: I am nose art
And Accept What I Can't
new. never tortured
.before. wasn't sure. i wanted
but . my job was.
that. or .Northern. Front. trench duty.
where
.none. i knew . returned
.with everything they left with.
go ahead, .peers said.... nothing. to it!
we're all .squeamish . initially..
they don't .really. feel
after a .few jabs.
toothless sergeant.
lost . foot, hand, . eye at the.. S . F .
.said, .Know. how your. guts
.growl, 'ts okay to .feel. for a fellow human.
Just 'magin. them
cattle--
Makes it .easier.
They feel .like cattle, so's .better
for all.
true, tho. i never.
warmed. to it. like. . .the .men.
the .women, the .sick, the .elderly....
.but. .no. t.ho.u.gh.
.. .ne.ver. .got. .use. t.o ..scre.am.ing.
.chi.ldre.n.
.th.eir. .piti.ful. .suf.ferings..bo.u.ght
. .ol.. .age....
.woun't. .change..
.a. .thing.
Jerry Hicks: I thought for most of my life, "suicide is the only cure," but here I am at 65 with more lust for life each day, meds and all. No one can understand mental illness who doesn't have it. Compassion comes with incapacity. What is wrong? Why don't things work? The cure: Just slowly living through it--doing whatever it takes to survive. One day, colors come back for an hour. The first ray of hope.
Joe Hackworth Bruce Stater Rick Parsons Jerry Hicks Colin Van der Woude Shaela Phillips Martin Rutley K. R. Copeland Jack Cannon Dave Ruslander
Paper odors: sulfur tinge,
moist rolled gruel scent. Each scrap
finger-print distinct. Only months ago I was
a butterfly on her thigh...
now constantly mono-directional.
Zoom past Blythe, jibe at Albuquerque
"Wrong Direction!"
Then maybe lickety-split to Corpus. Toe-the-Gulf
pause,
sweaty clothes irritating like hollow complements.
Next
roll-ripping Portland bound, gas
card greasy-fingers blackened.
Only windshield & mirrors clean.
Del Rio static songs & pleas: Serve J-e-s-u-s!
Seat, floorboards strewn w/ crumpled maps,
plastic bottles crushed,
chewed foam coffee cups,
dirtynapkins, candywrapper scraps.
Portland to Laramie--checkerboard blare.
Can't savor the view, strapped in. No
diversions; course locked.
Miles clicking odo sanes me.
Days sandwiched w/ sleeps. Months vanish
like whole trains piercing mountains.
Something pursues, often roars ahead.
Swapping energy for distance--
swapped for time--swamping memories.
More & more: I am nose art
And Accept What I Can't
new. never tortured
.before. wasn't sure. i wanted
but . my job was.
that. or .Northern. Front. trench duty.
where
.none. i knew . returned
.with everything they left with.
go ahead, .peers said.... nothing. to it!
we're all .squeamish . initially..
they don't .really. feel
after a .few jabs.
toothless sergeant.
lost . foot, hand, . eye at the.. S . F .
.said, .Know. how your. guts
.growl, 'ts okay to .feel. for a fellow human.
Just 'magin. them
cattle--
Makes it .easier.
They feel .like cattle, so's .better
for all.
true, tho. i never.
warmed. to it. like. . .the .men.
the .women, the .sick, the .elderly....
.but. .no. t.ho.u.gh.
.. .ne.ver. .got. .use. t.o ..scre.am.ing.
.chi.ldre.n.
.th.eir. .piti.ful. .suf.ferings..bo.u.ght
. .ol.. .age....
.woun't. .change..
.a. .thing.
Jerry Hicks: I thought for most of my life, "suicide is the only cure," but here I am at 65 with more lust for life each day, meds and all. No one can understand mental illness who doesn't have it. Compassion comes with incapacity. What is wrong? Why don't things work? The cure: Just slowly living through it--doing whatever it takes to survive. One day, colors come back for an hour. The first ray of hope.
Joe Hackworth Bruce Stater Rick Parsons Jerry Hicks Colin Van der Woude Shaela Phillips Martin Rutley K. R. Copeland Jack Cannon Dave Ruslander
Colin Van der Woude
Facilitate
The night sky opened
releasing it's dirty bowels onto the land
secrecy among the shame
tomorrow we'll gather our belongings
to move along as instructed
destruction on a mass scale
we'll bleed tears from the new found bewilderment
time stopped for a mere second
the clock broken on seven eleven
wind it back or forward, as you please
enjoy the plague of fear for it's eternal
introverts unite in solidarity
seeking to unite with some kind of clarity
married to demons
many wives wasted lives
many husbands left to guess
they all try to impress with deception
you've joined an elite group...
welcome aboard, comrade
the surprise of a dead element
sacrificed for the ceremonial party
we hare our blood
we lust and recreate
facilitate and relate with poison as bait.
Colin Van der Woude: I'm a 25 year old from Australia who is living with schizophrenia and I use poetry as a creative outlet. I love using words to convey memories and feelings, emotions… I hope to one day have some work published and I'm on a mission to dispel any myths of mental illness.
Joe Hackworth Bruce Stater Rick Parsons Jerry Hicks Colin Van der Woude Shaela Phillips Martin Rutley K. R. Copeland Jack Cannon Dave Ruslander
The night sky opened
releasing it's dirty bowels onto the land
secrecy among the shame
tomorrow we'll gather our belongings
to move along as instructed
destruction on a mass scale
we'll bleed tears from the new found bewilderment
time stopped for a mere second
the clock broken on seven eleven
wind it back or forward, as you please
enjoy the plague of fear for it's eternal
introverts unite in solidarity
seeking to unite with some kind of clarity
married to demons
many wives wasted lives
many husbands left to guess
they all try to impress with deception
you've joined an elite group...
welcome aboard, comrade
the surprise of a dead element
sacrificed for the ceremonial party
we hare our blood
we lust and recreate
facilitate and relate with poison as bait.
Colin Van der Woude: I'm a 25 year old from Australia who is living with schizophrenia and I use poetry as a creative outlet. I love using words to convey memories and feelings, emotions… I hope to one day have some work published and I'm on a mission to dispel any myths of mental illness.
Joe Hackworth Bruce Stater Rick Parsons Jerry Hicks Colin Van der Woude Shaela Phillips Martin Rutley K. R. Copeland Jack Cannon Dave Ruslander
Shaela Phillips
Queen of the Mosquitoes
it was a late funeral
i carried poems hidden
in breast pockets
from all those angry years
no one taught me how to live
dandies fly off dark ivy swallows
into pits
gloomy
held captive
on the shores of barbicide
bubbled
curdled
putrid
a river of madness
where i drain my blood
from a small incision
for the leeches
hurry come and get it,
fast
run
smooth
into the quick sands
withdraw-ling my sickness
injected me with serum
to formulate attitude
under a bridge of armageddon
bye-bye sweetness
there are thickly boarded houses
settled on puddled dew drops
that call me by name
and know the history
that I have stored
from even my husband
the icy rivers through me
in red rock canyons
eaten mosquitoes
i blow on raw-hide
rolled into a bamboo flute
And call
to the woman in me
lost in the wildness
i make home
and shake the hand of peace
knitting my sweater
i am a free woman
Shaela Montague-Phillips: I am a student at Pittsburgh University. I begin having problems with depression when I was raped by a close family member and then I got married to my husband who was foster child and did know how to love so he was always drunk in the first few years of marriage. But now I have this fresher outlook on life and I am loving myself more and more each day.
Joe Hackworth Bruce Stater Rick Parsons Jerry Hicks Colin Van der Woude Shaela Phillips Martin Rutley K. R. Copeland Jack Cannon Dave Ruslander
it was a late funeral
i carried poems hidden
in breast pockets
from all those angry years
no one taught me how to live
dandies fly off dark ivy swallows
into pits
gloomy
held captive
on the shores of barbicide
bubbled
curdled
putrid
a river of madness
where i drain my blood
from a small incision
for the leeches
hurry come and get it,
fast
run
smooth
into the quick sands
withdraw-ling my sickness
injected me with serum
to formulate attitude
under a bridge of armageddon
bye-bye sweetness
there are thickly boarded houses
settled on puddled dew drops
that call me by name
and know the history
that I have stored
from even my husband
the icy rivers through me
in red rock canyons
eaten mosquitoes
i blow on raw-hide
rolled into a bamboo flute
And call
to the woman in me
lost in the wildness
i make home
and shake the hand of peace
knitting my sweater
i am a free woman
Shaela Montague-Phillips: I am a student at Pittsburgh University. I begin having problems with depression when I was raped by a close family member and then I got married to my husband who was foster child and did know how to love so he was always drunk in the first few years of marriage. But now I have this fresher outlook on life and I am loving myself more and more each day.
Joe Hackworth Bruce Stater Rick Parsons Jerry Hicks Colin Van der Woude Shaela Phillips Martin Rutley K. R. Copeland Jack Cannon Dave Ruslander
Martin Rutley
Disco Subtext
In the September gutters of
St. Petersburg 5:43 am
Twenty-second century clerks
Albino-aluminium
Sleep on slabs of
Vast inhuman endings
Like redneck poets typing
pavement anthems
Regurgitated people reaching
for concrete stars
Snowflake theories staining
Raskolnikov basements dressed
in Siberian fashion
Ritalin projects in the breathing
pages of naked books
The elaborate wreckage
of disco subtext
Martin Rutley: I live in Manchester, England, and am 28 years old. I am influenced by several writers, but largely by certain writers from the beat generation. I have suffered from depression on and off for a large part of my adult life, but find that I am able to use this creatively.
Joe Hackworth Bruce Stater Rick Parsons Jerry Hicks Colin Van der Woude Shaela Phillips Martin Rutley K. R. Copeland Jack Cannon Dave Ruslander
In the September gutters of
St. Petersburg 5:43 am
Twenty-second century clerks
Albino-aluminium
Sleep on slabs of
Vast inhuman endings
Like redneck poets typing
pavement anthems
Regurgitated people reaching
for concrete stars
Snowflake theories staining
Raskolnikov basements dressed
in Siberian fashion
Ritalin projects in the breathing
pages of naked books
The elaborate wreckage
of disco subtext
Martin Rutley: I live in Manchester, England, and am 28 years old. I am influenced by several writers, but largely by certain writers from the beat generation. I have suffered from depression on and off for a large part of my adult life, but find that I am able to use this creatively.
Joe Hackworth Bruce Stater Rick Parsons Jerry Hicks Colin Van der Woude Shaela Phillips Martin Rutley K. R. Copeland Jack Cannon Dave Ruslander
K. R. Copeland
The Poet's Spiral Notebook and the Noose
The poet, with notebook in hand,
failing to find inspiration in the humble surroundings
of his first floor flat,
turns toward the window for answers.
The scene he sees, the same.
The stately Sycamore
that has lived a hundred years or more
takes precedence.
The poet zeros in on one of the lower most branches,
which hosts a rope
that once served as a pulley for a piñata.
He pictures himself hanging lifelessly
from this remnant of birthday party past,
imagines that he'd jumped,
sees his flaccid body, slumped,
his bulging eyes
and gaping mouth,
his purple tinted pallor.
Disturbed, he shakes the image from his head.
His eyes fall back upon blank paper,
and once again, the poet struggles
for something to write…
K.R. Copeland is a self-taught poet, residing in Chicago Illinois, who suffers from bi-polar/ borderline personality disorder. Her work, which ranges from formal to experimental, heady to absurd, has been featured or is forthcoming in publications such as, Beginnings, Seeker, Dakota House Journal, Alternate Realities, Collective Insanity, Poetry Super Highway, Unlikely Stories, Decompositions, Snow Monkey, Niederngasse, and, The American Muse.
Joe Hackworth Bruce Stater Rick Parsons Jerry Hicks Colin Van der Woude Shaela Phillips Martin Rutley K. R. Copeland Jack Cannon Dave Ruslander
The poet, with notebook in hand,
failing to find inspiration in the humble surroundings
of his first floor flat,
turns toward the window for answers.
The scene he sees, the same.
The stately Sycamore
that has lived a hundred years or more
takes precedence.
The poet zeros in on one of the lower most branches,
which hosts a rope
that once served as a pulley for a piñata.
He pictures himself hanging lifelessly
from this remnant of birthday party past,
imagines that he'd jumped,
sees his flaccid body, slumped,
his bulging eyes
and gaping mouth,
his purple tinted pallor.
Disturbed, he shakes the image from his head.
His eyes fall back upon blank paper,
and once again, the poet struggles
for something to write…
K.R. Copeland is a self-taught poet, residing in Chicago Illinois, who suffers from bi-polar/ borderline personality disorder. Her work, which ranges from formal to experimental, heady to absurd, has been featured or is forthcoming in publications such as, Beginnings, Seeker, Dakota House Journal, Alternate Realities, Collective Insanity, Poetry Super Highway, Unlikely Stories, Decompositions, Snow Monkey, Niederngasse, and, The American Muse.
Joe Hackworth Bruce Stater Rick Parsons Jerry Hicks Colin Van der Woude Shaela Phillips Martin Rutley K. R. Copeland Jack Cannon Dave Ruslander
Jack Cannon
The Buildings I've Built
Meaning
Incomprehensible studies
of afternoons and evenings
Twelve seconds from a childhood
vacation in the bottom
of an empty coffee cup
Tomorrow, I'll rebuild
my typewriter with
the welfare cheque
Sit on stone walls
dragged from vast melancholies
of orderly waiting rooms
Travel on empty buses
re-capturing myself
I'll throw my body
from the buildings I've built
and chat with Fathers whilst
their children are
being born
Jack Cannon: I have been writing for some years, and like to get below the surface, if I can, and take a look at things from a less common perspective.
Joe Hackworth Bruce Stater Rick Parsons Jerry Hicks Colin Van der Woude Shaela Phillips Martin Rutley K. R. Copeland Jack Cannon Dave Ruslander
Meaning
Incomprehensible studies
of afternoons and evenings
Twelve seconds from a childhood
vacation in the bottom
of an empty coffee cup
Tomorrow, I'll rebuild
my typewriter with
the welfare cheque
Sit on stone walls
dragged from vast melancholies
of orderly waiting rooms
Travel on empty buses
re-capturing myself
I'll throw my body
from the buildings I've built
and chat with Fathers whilst
their children are
being born
Jack Cannon: I have been writing for some years, and like to get below the surface, if I can, and take a look at things from a less common perspective.
Joe Hackworth Bruce Stater Rick Parsons Jerry Hicks Colin Van der Woude Shaela Phillips Martin Rutley K. R. Copeland Jack Cannon Dave Ruslander
Dave Ruslander
Delusion
I sit on my red leather sofa
in the living room.
An oil painting hangs to my right;
to my left the gas logs burn.
But I can't shake the thought
that I am threadbare
sitting in the corner of a chinkless cabin
cold and hungry.
Hush
Listen
Do you hear plinks?
The sound pulls at my ears.
They are cobbling the road ahead.
One day we will meet them.
Dave Ruslander has bipolar disorder but is able to work and create. He lives on his horse farm in Virginia and works as a computer network engineer. He's been published in numerous e-zine and print publications.
Joe Hackworth Bruce Stater Rick Parsons Jerry Hicks Colin Van der Woude Shaela Phillips Martin Rutley K. R. Copeland Jack Cannon Dave Ruslander
I sit on my red leather sofa
in the living room.
An oil painting hangs to my right;
to my left the gas logs burn.
But I can't shake the thought
that I am threadbare
sitting in the corner of a chinkless cabin
cold and hungry.
Hush
Listen
Do you hear plinks?
The sound pulls at my ears.
They are cobbling the road ahead.
One day we will meet them.
Dave Ruslander has bipolar disorder but is able to work and create. He lives on his horse farm in Virginia and works as a computer network engineer. He's been published in numerous e-zine and print publications.
Joe Hackworth Bruce Stater Rick Parsons Jerry Hicks Colin Van der Woude Shaela Phillips Martin Rutley K. R. Copeland Jack Cannon Dave Ruslander