Members
Western Oregon
Ars longa, vita brevis.
Poems
Left Foot Poet
Nov 2017
The Allusionists (Mary Winslow and Jeff Steir)
these two allusionists **(not illusionists!)
composition is a criminal sentencing, a full-time sensitizing,
a never ending t/rue seeing, recalling, photography by word.
I am a career criminal. I know.
these two retranslate by digging into word wells and
well hid storage closets under stairs so that we,
the not-in-attendance may envision their sightings with
two hands clutching, comprehending almost better than
the one who is actually there.
for our version, the one they provide is,
coffee with cream,
scotch with a beer chaser, tea with honey,
all to be, sipped slow, so
the hot frost on my the chest, infiltrating nostrils,
Vaporub-spreads slow and easy, brainward.
the allusionists.
the habitual employers of this
specific filter,
(word weavers, I call them behind their backs),
weaving is not in my eternally planned skill set.
I do so admire their tapestries
that guilt alone demands tribute and obeisance
and this poor imitation.
I do so admire their tapestries.
these two allusionists **(not illusionists!)
composition is a criminal sentencing, a full-time sensitizing,
a never ending t/rue seeing, recalling, photography by word.
I am a career criminal. I know.
these two retranslate by digging into word wells and
well hid storage closets under stairs so that we,
the not-in-attendance may envision their sightings with
two hands clutching, comprehending almost better than
the one who is actually there.
for our version, the one they provide is,
coffee with cream,
scotch with a beer chaser, tea with honey,
all to be, sipped slow, so
the hot frost on my the chest, infiltrating nostrils,
Vaporub-spreads slow and easy, brainward.
the allusionists.
the habitual employers of this
specific filter,
(word weavers, I call them behind their backs),
weaving is not in my eternally planned skill set.
I do so admire their tapestries
that guilt alone demands tribute and obeisance
and this poor imitation.
I do so admire their tapestries.
November 25, 2017. 11:07 AM.
Jeff Stier
Aug 2017
(In this poem, the authors alternate stanzas.)
AUTUMN'S CALL
In the stray
sweetness of yarrow
and starlings’ trill by dusk
rejoin the fading
without regret
as the foot worn grass will
receive morning’s frost.
And whenever that green yarrow fades
then I fade
in the dry husk
of this autumn of fire
this autumn of smoke and regrets.
Wake in sidelong sun
light half hidden
days under curtains
of violet and scarlet
leaves so soon
will bury the moss
inch by inch.
But I
being the beast that I am
will burrow through the moss
past every encumbrance
beyond hope and fear
and finally find the freedom of one
sweet day
in October
the air still
not a sound
but leaves settling
into the detritus of dreams.
AUTUMN'S CALL
In the stray
sweetness of yarrow
and starlings’ trill by dusk
rejoin the fading
without regret
as the foot worn grass will
receive morning’s frost.
And whenever that green yarrow fades
then I fade
in the dry husk
of this autumn of fire
this autumn of smoke and regrets.
Wake in sidelong sun
light half hidden
days under curtains
of violet and scarlet
leaves so soon
will bury the moss
inch by inch.
But I
being the beast that I am
will burrow through the moss
past every encumbrance
beyond hope and fear
and finally find the freedom of one
sweet day
in October
the air still
not a sound
but leaves settling
into the detritus of dreams.
Jeff Stier
Aug 2017
(A note: in this poem, the authors write alternate stanzas.)
FREEDOM
has always demanded
my surrender to an instant in time
surrender to fate and therefore
to glory
Though my wily will
has oft gotten in the way
with grand illusions and the necessary
fiction that I am in command
But in the end, it is command
of nothing and no one
for that is the nature of time,
mean shrew who prunes our hopes
A clock that does not click
nor clang, but flies tirelessly; one day
its talons will ****** us away, releasing us
forever, from the burdens of the day
And until those burdens take flight
I carry a candle for the hours, open a book
for the days, and teach my trembling hand
to hold on to hope.
FREEDOM
has always demanded
my surrender to an instant in time
surrender to fate and therefore
to glory
Though my wily will
has oft gotten in the way
with grand illusions and the necessary
fiction that I am in command
But in the end, it is command
of nothing and no one
for that is the nature of time,
mean shrew who prunes our hopes
A clock that does not click
nor clang, but flies tirelessly; one day
its talons will ****** us away, releasing us
forever, from the burdens of the day
And until those burdens take flight
I carry a candle for the hours, open a book
for the days, and teach my trembling hand
to hold on to hope.