The Last Moa (Dinornis nomoris)
Dedicated to Dr Bruce Spittle, the last of the Moahunters
The first time that we met the bird
we were camping by a secret lake
when at midnight came the most dreadful cry
I ever heard
In the morning tracks there were in the sand
We took our photos but stilled our tongues
lest they thought us mad
and it's nice to have some mysteries left in life
At Arcadia, in the shadow of Red Mountain
we heard the fearsome cry once more
to find next day that our beer was gone
and the primus fuel was drunk
as happened in the Dredgeburn
the year before
We saw the bird next morning
standing underneath a waterfall
Big feet, brown hairy legs, plumage blue top and lower
and grey on top, with whiskers around it's beak
more like an aging kiwi than a moa
It carried a young one upside down
as a backward possum might,
but certainly looked sharp enough to read and write
We put it in my backpack
but its feet and neck stuck out and it soon escaped
to be decapitated by the chopper coming in to land
In its death throes the giant bird let forth an egg
which shattered into a thousand pieces
We laid it reverently to rest alongside its mighty mother,
in a swamp near a pyramid-shaped hill
where one day a fossicker will dig
and in time the bird will stand, tallest in the land
proudly under the summer sky
in the City of the Plains
Stand tall,
Apteryx spittlei
Dinornis nomoris
Role Play
We were wondering
who enjoyed it most
the sly taste of slipping together
and could we swap sides to share the other role
I wouldn't swap it for anything
you said
But now you have exchanged it for nothing
[On receipt of yet another "I am sorry" letter]
The Editor Regrets
Thankyou for submitting your poem
Unfortunately I cannot use it at this time
or any other time
so douse that glimmer of hope
It is unclear how I acquired
my right of divine decision
It is safer to be standfast than new
and push rising bubbles back into the murky depths
Excuse me
I find pulling the wings off flies
sharpens my judgment
Graham Bishop was a leading mountaineer and geologist. He has now retired and divides his time between walking, writing and wondering. His fourth book, Poles Apart is an autobiographical assemblage of poetry and prose. He is currently working on a biography of Alexander Mckay (1841-1917), another geologist who wrote poetry.
Peter Olds Meg Campbell Kirin Cerise Simon Lewis Graham Bishop Mahinarangi Tocker
Tuesday, October 01, 2002
Mahinarangi Tocker
Supper with Irena
'do you want another?
'cos I don't want to go yet
I think there's a coat in the car
if you're cold.'
it's cool summer
in ponsonby cafes
we are tabled on stones
where walk the couples
men with men
in talks that look tight
and walk that smoothes
the footpath
crack
early january
late night
wine and coffee
to whet the tummy grumble
cake and cream
to guilt the thought fumble
i like you
i love you
she shares with me
her smile
and for a second
there is no one here
but us
Dedicated to Richard T
February 3rd
Tamaki Makaurau
take my eyes patterned
against your blue
i watch you dance the strings
so, dance the strings like you do
to
break a heart
but take it
to a new sound
kind man of Celtic breath
the soul
is rested
Saturday evening
Auckland autumn calling
play another & sing one more
we're listening
laugh some more & talk us
into believing
you take those parts
that have ached me cold
where ice sticks
and sing them into summer
a friend for a day
a memory for a lifetime
A Poem For You
i'm sitting here in this loud bird
this bird with no song
this bird-like waka
in this
this rumble of strangers
going to a sameness
where only our hearts are different
until i am landed
and i see more changes
and walk a different fear
and see a different colour
and breathe a different voice
my tears fall further
than she who watches amused
i know she wants to ask
but i won't tell
i cannot
i have nothing to say
even to myself
what is there left between right and wrong
fear and desire
when everything untouched screams to be held
i walk beneath a sun
but i am burnt in a darkness
i have not planned to understand
nor should i
and so i never shall
i will miss you without yelling
i will miss you without talking
i will miss you without you even knowing
*waka - a traditional Maori canoe
Mahinarangi Tocker is an acclaimed singer-songwriter. She was the first Maori woman invited to perform at the Vancouver Folk Festival, and has worked with international artists such as Dame Kiri Te Kanawa, Clannad, Tracy Chapman, Shawn Colvin, and Richard Thompson. Her first book of poetry, Lyrics without melody, published by Street Women's Press was released in March 2001. She is one of the several artists who took part in the destigmatisation of mental illness in a television ad campaign in New Zealand called Like Minds, Like Mine.She is completing a collection of short stories.
Peter Olds Meg Campbell Kirin Cerise Simon Lewis Graham Bishop Mahinarangi Tocker
'do you want another?
'cos I don't want to go yet
I think there's a coat in the car
if you're cold.'
it's cool summer
in ponsonby cafes
we are tabled on stones
where walk the couples
men with men
in talks that look tight
and walk that smoothes
the footpath
crack
early january
late night
wine and coffee
to whet the tummy grumble
cake and cream
to guilt the thought fumble
i like you
i love you
she shares with me
her smile
and for a second
there is no one here
but us
Dedicated to Richard T
February 3rd
Tamaki Makaurau
take my eyes patterned
against your blue
i watch you dance the strings
so, dance the strings like you do
to
break a heart
but take it
to a new sound
kind man of Celtic breath
the soul
is rested
Saturday evening
Auckland autumn calling
play another & sing one more
we're listening
laugh some more & talk us
into believing
you take those parts
that have ached me cold
where ice sticks
and sing them into summer
a friend for a day
a memory for a lifetime
A Poem For You
i'm sitting here in this loud bird
this bird with no song
this bird-like waka
in this
this rumble of strangers
going to a sameness
where only our hearts are different
until i am landed
and i see more changes
and walk a different fear
and see a different colour
and breathe a different voice
my tears fall further
than she who watches amused
i know she wants to ask
but i won't tell
i cannot
i have nothing to say
even to myself
what is there left between right and wrong
fear and desire
when everything untouched screams to be held
i walk beneath a sun
but i am burnt in a darkness
i have not planned to understand
nor should i
and so i never shall
i will miss you without yelling
i will miss you without talking
i will miss you without you even knowing
*waka - a traditional Maori canoe
Mahinarangi Tocker is an acclaimed singer-songwriter. She was the first Maori woman invited to perform at the Vancouver Folk Festival, and has worked with international artists such as Dame Kiri Te Kanawa, Clannad, Tracy Chapman, Shawn Colvin, and Richard Thompson. Her first book of poetry, Lyrics without melody, published by Street Women's Press was released in March 2001. She is one of the several artists who took part in the destigmatisation of mental illness in a television ad campaign in New Zealand called Like Minds, Like Mine.She is completing a collection of short stories.
Peter Olds Meg Campbell Kirin Cerise Simon Lewis Graham Bishop Mahinarangi Tocker
Monday, July 01, 2002
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