Free Verse & Prose Poetry 

Page 6.

We make out of the quarrel with others, rhetoric, but of the quarrel with ourselves, poetry.
William Butler Yeats - (1865- 1939)
Lyrical Passion Poetry E-Zine © 2007-2019

2018 - 2019

A practice ground :gravestones
taking off, touching down
gathering these dead
as the dirt for loving you
–this is no bird who sings
–this is a bird  who circles
by the book, eats rocks
–what’s left is a sky
that has stone to it
is bending the Earth
to steady your arms
covered with grass.

                                           by Simon Perchik


Through near-desert
brittle as busted glass,
a river forgets
where it left itself

Nesting      by yuan changming

With withered grasses from epics
Sticks from philosophy
Feathers from contemporary art
We are all busy building nests of meaning
So our souls could settle there
High up as if on Ygdrasil

Silent Days       by John Timothy Robinson

Pardonable mouse, awake!
Squeak your lilted song in the paradigm’s hour.
For many days of silence,
unnoised, made mad chaotic with clear-lined eyes.
Without unseeing in some quiet state,
only hear birds at five am,
or a metal roof move its jagged joints of rust,
the refrigerator’s hum.
There’s a faint wail from the highway,
some long-suffered machine
dying, leaving Earth.
And then one jet will break the mood,
call up unyielding, regal notions
where one, perfected vapor trail soars in Cirrus wisp.
All imagined in some room of giant quiet
where you, young lioned-mouse
have unsqueaked the hours in cobwebs,
the paneled walls of empty rooms,
cozy drawers in paper shreds
that once were finer words,
now hulls of lost expression,
well-mused bedding for your weary head.


YUAN: the Origin of a Family Name   by yuan changming

Y:         You are haunted by ‘Y’, not because it’s the first letter in your
Family name, but because it’s like a horn, which the water buffalo in your
Native village uses to fight against injustice or, because it’s like a twig
Where a crow can come down to perch, a cicada can sing towards
The setting sun as loud as it wants to; more important, in Egyptian hieroglyphics
It stands for a real reed, something you can bend into a whistle or flute
In pronouncing it, you can get all the answers you need, besides
You can make it into a heart-felt catapult and shoot at a snakehead or
Sparrow as long as it is within the wild wild range of your boyhood
U:        is surely a part of you, while you sound no more than a s single letter
U, which is nothing but a copy of a chick; you used to be on the bank of
The Nile, where u can be changed into v within a european word as in yvan
It’s said you have the makings of a victor, a powerful us or un representative
Who begins the unit, the union, the uniform, the university, the universe
A:        As the first born to the Semitic family, A was originally
A picture of an alef or ox, the agricultural energy that was rotated twice until
Alpha loomed up in the Greek psychoscape even before
Adam became the chosen father of all Europeans close to
Athens, where Apollo had acupunctured wisdom and knowledge into
Aristotle, the intellectual ancestor of modern man, who inspired
Alexander to make the first effort of globalization, which did not reach East
Asia, the land of Ah Q’s, the largest hotel for
All travelers until centuries later, but it is
Atomic bombs that will blow up all our pasts and send us through
America to a higher civilization, where the drop of an
Apple is to enable us to fly to the other side of the universe
Along the cosmic string as Africa, the heart of human darkness
Awaits for Buddha, Jesus, Allah or an other unknown
Author to come and rotate for the third time
A scarlet letter of A
N:        No, nobody knows this but you are really no more
Or no less than the old Egyptian metonymy of  a stream, river
Lake, sea or even an entire ocean, where there is always water
Where there are always fish rather than a synecdochic Z
Pushed straight upright On the bank of the Euphrates

POND                          by John Stanizzi
from the manuscript, POND.

8.46 a.m.
75 degrees
Presented as among the first harbingers of fall,
outline of elegant lace this plant named for Queen Anne,
needlework of nature, and the clover too are
doubling up their progeny, as tiny daisies are drawn up by the warmth.


6.48 a.m.
74 degrees

Payback for those bitterly cold days when I all but ran to the pond and back,
overtired of the deep freeze.  But today the heat not the cold will be our
nemesis, with the mercury approaching 100, and the pond shallow and tepid,
depleted and worn like an old faceless penny dropped in the tall grass.

Dusk Love   by Mir-Yashar Seyedbagheri

Dusk welcomes me in lavender attire. Welcome, she whispers, as I walk astride curvaceous mountain roads. She deepens, banishes weight from my shoulders, flicks on lights across the valley, from houses, from the lodge up the road, all burning warmth. A torchlight procession between pines and ridges. Mustaches who proclaim me weak, bad sons, too artistic all evaporate. She doesn’t care about the mustache, resentment I carry, sharp and grand. She soothes, as I stride among pine trees, dusk’s shadows a playground. I hold onto her until her last embers have been eaten by cold night.

THE SHADOW PLANE     by John Grey

I’m with the shadow-plane,
across the unending Midwestern farmlands,
faced with a roll and butter,
a plate of meat and gravy and peas,
soda in a plastic cup –
for five miles above the earth,
a decent enough meal.

It’s the closest I ever get
to the rural life below,
the dying family acres,
the bullying corporate concerns,
the droughts and the tornadoes,
fences and siloes,
the skin-leathering sun.

From the air,
I learn to appreciate
what I can only imagine,
how hard the life must be so far from shore.
Surely, it’s a little bit beautiful down there.
It can’t all be wretched.
Meanwhile, the roll is doughy and the butter’s salty.
But if that’s all I have to complain about
I can do what the pilot says,
“Relax and enjoy the flight.”
There may even be champagne later.

The older I get, the better
the reasons I love what I love.
I wonder if the seasoned
farming heads are the same way.
Have they grown enamored of topsoil
even when it’s at its worst?
Is the wheat in full head
their version of my symphony?
It’s all supposition.
It’s like the shadow below
crossing these unknown lands.
It’s shaped like a plane
but it is not a plane, I assure you. 

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