At the Yawkey Wildlife Preserve

Three weeks ago I brought in fifty

Rhode Island Reds to free range

the young man said, he & his buddy

DNR personnel, tight T-shirts

& short hair. Coyotes raiding

make it less than half that now,

one day must have been a thrill

killing, thirteen bodies left uneaten.

The personnel all men, not like

California where half are women —

same tight shirts, some with long hair.

Sat out with my AR-15

one night, not one came.

He might be ex-military

like the neighborhood handyman

everyone speaks so highly of —

Most of us in SC are supporters of

Trump & some of us actually recycle

& sometimes volunteer. Gadwall, teal,

pintail,scaup — hundreds of ducks —

safe impoundments. Must be

a long-standing DNR rule

allows guns at a wildlife preserve

in case an alligator acts wild

or an owl goes rogue.

Ark 50, Adamspire

by Ronald Johnson

that this is paradise,

add words in legion

beating around the veritable bush

years shape and illuminate:

when the great cats purr

so closely woven,

when sparrows hedge fled field

one sounding cloud,

when down the wild wind ride

Galapagos, archipelago!

eagle dodge eagle

and tigers scatter cage

according to their lights,

burn each thy word

to crowd at last on life in full

— the elder the earth —

Sky Line Blvd.

uphill all the way

never were there such roses

under the banner of summer,

never such

beautiful hullabaloo

hello down well, clap upper cloud

passed muster

to stay the spell,

never this horse of another color

on such goldened a road

find voice,

invent interior face

(I mount to save my very hide)

raised all likeness

kindled, not knuckled under

as one seize it

— howe'er humbly cobbled on order,

a universe sprung free —

probeable as possible

be, but bear

at most the least belief

proud sprout pry ancient any brain

again again again

intimate under the inanimate

tossed world

Tree of Life

small man full of fear

fast gun — eleven dead

is a number you can grasp

sort of — not like six million

or fifty-eight thousand or twenty million

a single death hurts badly

how can more deaths hurt less?

today’s story is Jews dead

white man — white men — alive

what part of me is a white man?

history, his story

cannot be our story

take their voices, take their guns

send them away for the rest of time

Beckett knew — game over

the struggle though is not over

we must be as King, as Gandhi

one march, one sit-in, long wait

generations of non-violence

no more testosterone

if men, then men without balls

rose without thorns

Khashoggi

Khashoggi

Remember, reader, if ever in the mountains

you were trapped in fog & could not see

except as moles do, through their eyelids

— Dante, Purgatorio, tr. Robert Hollander

Lights out, tucked in bed I re-live

Khashoggi’s last moments. He’s come

for paperwork in order to marry Hatice.

Goons put out his eyes, one severs

his fingers, or is it his hands? Blood pools.

He knows now he’s a dead man. Another

cuts out his tongue — no. This one

is my death. This can happen

to anyone. This is the brutal world

we humans make. Leaders license torture

mutilation & death — it's how they rule.

My eyes, fingers, hands. My tongue.

Dismemberment merely requires the proper

tools. You or I can do it if we choose.

The Dream of the Architect [excerpt]
by Joan Murray

THE CIVILIAN

While you were pricking out the strange blue plan, I was
dancing an awkward step toward the future of man.
Dancing the confusion and eruption alone,
Making sound with my bones, with my feet stamping the
one
Drum over and over again without end.
The demand of doing well the bad would send
Me into a more than bitterness, into a very fatherhood of
action.
Alert white forms stood by at every crumpled stair to
sanction
The dying to carry the dead to the burial lands,
The wet shores where the waves bear out the lovers of
earth in their hands.
There were sea gulls whenever the storms came over the
water,
To inundate the restless places and the timeless sleeper.
The widows that gathered from the cities knelt there.
The sea gulls and the wives, the girls and the women
without sons,
Their eyes on the horizon for invasion or turned to the
farther channels
Of the sea,
Were immutable in their cold austerity
And yet, the few heard wings. The gulls beyond the rotting
nets
Where the fisherman now gathers and lets
His sleek imaginary catch fall to the deck in that pale under
water made the stir.
If you cannot name images or touch the shrill night crier,
Why fold hands together or shake tears from sockets warm
with fact?
O yes, the dreadful angels have their symbol in some
human act,
The pillar of fire takes on the soft young lad,
The witch and evil have their symbols in the ruling mad.

Departure

Susan is no more in Ireland

than I am in Argentina, nor do any of
the many men I bedded

share my elder’s bed.

So much, possibly all of my life

lies behind me, back

where my mind was a sharpened blade

now worn to velvet

cover for a well worn chair.

I could, like Susan, die in a moment

nearly all of me lost

not lost, merely finished

like days finish

not in a whirl of sparks

more like drapes

unfolding to enclose the dark.

Down to the Salt Meadow and Heaving Sea

by Libby Bernardin

Through every crevice and mountain vein of strata

rich with muted color, beauty welcomes,

as water and wind break whole rocks into sediment,

a metamorphosis so slow my fast-forward mind

flies past, unseeing, though I note their lofty reach.

My Grandfather, I remember, cupped his palms,

held then released the Word, as though

falcons circling blunted tops and bald knobs

though weary, weathered eons,

pummeling their steepness down to navigable paths

bordered by hellebore following foothills

through long meadows shimmering

with Queen Anne’s lace and blazing star,

down to the salt meadow and heaving sea —

habitat of ox-eye, cord grass, and pluff mud —

where tides rise and fall for pleasure

casting the bay’s sloshing waters

as if to slake some enormous thirst.

What About Me

what are my goals?

live occupied & peaceful until I die

what makes me happy?

lack of anxiety, books, learning, the outdoors, sunrise,

sky & wind & water, people I love, Bach

what are the most important things to do?

experience beauty, read, write, exercise, garden,

be with Beatrice, sleep

what relieves my tension?

meditating, riding my bike, seeing a bird, music,

alcohol, bite-sized tomatoes, grapes

what are my obsessive compulsions?

neatness, energy conservation, doing what needs

doing at once so it doesn't linger

what do I need that I don’t have?

better eyesight, a screen for the slider, my toilet fixed

what makes me sad?

conflict, other people unhappy

what gets my goat?

testosterone behavior, unkindness, nationalism,

celebrities, conspicuous consumption

what am I afraid of?

mental disarray, violence, drunks, crowds

what don’t I need?

more money, poor health, Beatrice biting my ears

what makes me feel guilty?

I’m safe & comfortable, not in trouble, not in danger,

not the downtrodden

in case you want to try this yourself, here are the questions:

what are my goals?

what makes me happy?

what are the most important things to do?

what relieves my tension?

what are my obsessive compulsions?

what do I need that I don’t have?

what makes me sad?

what gets my goat?

what am I afraid of?

what don’t I need?

what makes me feel guilty?

A Pounding

Beatrice grips the orange felt mouse

(green tail) between her curled front paws

& rakes it hard with her rear ones — mild

mouse, bell stitched to the base of its tail,

doesn’t feel it, lies fat in her fevered grasp

until it’s forgotten. The tree frog hops

compactly from floor to wall to glass, bounding

prey Beatrice can’t let pass — crouch,

leap, slap — she mouths it up & saunters

only to drop the flattened frog, lick her paws,

quiver in dismay — the taste of amphibian

must be ghastly yet on they fly, feline

pounding frog thinner & longer. The frog

begins to subside. I throw it outside.

Sam Lord

by Kamau Brathwaite

The lord is my shepherd

he created my black belly sheep

he maketh me to lie down in green pastures

where the spiders sleep

he leadeth me beside the still waters

lakes green pond constitution river glitter bay

he leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for his names sake

tho i am dry as a crack sculptors mould

he restoreth my soul

yea, though i walk through the valley of the shadow of death

minnie root gullyroot lignum vitae

the green bowl of the watergrass under the tree

thrash down by the rain in the image of the tree

i will wear no eyevil.   for thou art with me

the grass lying down w/the rain

ragged point at dreams morning

oistin town dripping to dust in the long line of fishermans lanes

thy rod & thy staff they comfort me

seine lobsterpot gaulin

thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies

candle.   book of confectionery that i will proudly bear

bell that i will break & pour its sound

in the vévé

breadnut.  casket of my mother

plantain.  mortar. slave song

& the grapefruit which is life which is love

which is death which is resurrection

skin of fire.  pith of innocent air

pulp of flesh of freshest clear.  gold volcano seed of earth

thou anointest my head with oil

halleluja

thy rod & thy staff no longer assault me

my cup of hands runneth over

surely goodness & mercy.  francina & faith

will follow me all the days of my life

& I will dwell in the house of the merchant

for nvr