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NEW POETS OF
POETRY CONNECTION!
Hosted by Gayle Slaten
DTLAL Poet Laureate


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COMMONS PHOTO

For the first month of this year, I asked the Poets to write about new beginnings, looking ahead--some prompts that I gave to entice them, were:  Great Expectations, Time, or Note to future Generations.  As always, they were welcome to send in any poem that they were working on now or a favorite from the past. 

 

 

Sanctuary


There is nowhere to get away

the noise the smell the dirt

hordes of people everywhere

crises to avert


Clothes to launder and to fold

Dishes to be washed

Floors to sweep and then to mop

Rumours to be squashed


Between this place and sleep tonight

There has to be a place

A taste of the uncivilized

Away from woe and haste


Around the curve and up the hill

Under the curving arch

Appears a world that’s far removed

From time’s relentless march



Fog blurs the edges dreamily

Illusions here abound

No buzzing phones or voices raised

Just peace on earth is found



To hustle here is paramount

But in that place there’s rest

Over the bridge into the fog

It’s quiet there, and blessed

          lynn oatman

 

 

 

 

 

Murder Incorporated

 

On seventh avenue

near the diagonal crossing Sandy Boulevard,

thousands of crows fill the street trees,

line the roof tops, the power lines,

every pole and perch in sight.

Crows are flocking to Portland,

crossing every border.

They like our progressive politics,

the entrepreneurial business climate.

Crows are innovators, dressed in mod black,

always in touch with fashion and the latest trends.

They’ve taken seventh avenue

and will spread east toward high ground.

No walls will stop them

although the hawks we brought in

and built nests for on the river bridges

chased them from downtown.

The hawks won a battle

but the crows are here for the war.

The city is prime picking and they’ve cornered

trash removal, rooftop security.

Murder incorporated, they fill the overhead space 

and the people just drive on.

Me and my buddies are loading up on ammo,

oiling our guns, dressed in camo.

We know a fight when we see one

and we’re damned if crows will take our town.

We do like the way they look on the high wires though,

the black gear and cocky attitude, free air and all that. 

Maybe we’ll make a truce, carve out a treaty.

There might be room for us and the crows.

but there’ll be a price. No free lunch,

no camping on the rooftops. 

So far the crows say no deal, but we’ll see.

          Don Hynes

          donhynes@cnnw.net

 

 

In This Place

 

In this place I write poetry because

land, nature, forces greater than myself

nourish my soul.

Because people who lived before

speak to me,

My story and theirs intertwine.

 

In this place I write poetry because

the contradiction of beauty and

danger mirrors the mystery within me.

Because there is a deep disconnect

between this place of majesty which

is also a place of death,

dreams shattered and

families ripped apart.

 

In this place I write poetry,

here in the Sonoran Desert.

          Laura Martinez

 

 

Colossal broken promises

 

America’s become a brazen giant

Influencing foreign policies from sea to sea

Standing against communism and green electricity

Refugees fleeing war, criminal violence and natural disasters.

Mild-eyed welcoming mother, has your beacon burned out?

Mighty woman, stand against the red-faced men who scoff and shout.

They’ve turned the light out and keep locking the golden doors.

They glut on the pomp and rally for more.

We’ve forgotten the hardships and fears,

Journeys of ancestors that persevered to venture here

Seeking opportunity, a place to belong, safety and shelter.

Now there is a taint of white supremacy, backed by a less than grand old party bandying conditional charity and bankrupted morality.

Craggy, fear mongering shades of Jim Crow, Frank Burns and McCarthy

They cry that the yearning wretched must be properly vetted,

Children must be separated, caged, they’re parents berated

On the other side of the border asylum seekers must wait,

Until they give up on dreams of false fairy tales,

Braving kidnap, forced prostitution, gangs and rape.

People shout for walls, bans, ICE raids and racial profiling

They’re not Norwegians, they’re from shithole countries!

Limit the flow of diversity, deaf to refugees

Crying, “America!  What do you want from me?

Will you ever let me and mine in to breathe freely?

This disgraceful state of the union poisoning our society

Is not more perfect, but blindly refusing to really see,

The dawning of a new age of autocracy.

Is this what you really want us to be?

         Sarah Quill

 

 

Intention

 

2020 is here

how perfect

for the world

to move into

a clear vision

of integrity

community

sustainability

compassion

for all─

 

In the morning

do you step

out of bed

with the right

or left foot?

with the in breath

or

the out breath?

 

Where did you place

the toothbrush

of mindfulness?

Please,

forget about

your goals

and be in the world

with intention

Please,

show up and share

in the heart way

of belonging.

         Mokasiya

 

 

From My Window

 

From my window

The rising sun

Spreads her quilt of color

Across the Salish Sea

Her patterned layers 

Blanket eastern forms

Awaken sleepy island forests

Dim nighttime’s city lights

Tints Cascading ridges.

Kneeling in homage before

Ti’Swaq’s majestic dome

Her backlit shadow 

Angles into drifting clouds

Transfixed by fleeting beauty

My new day has begun.

          Carolyn Wiley

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