Sky

Way up there in the endless blackOf night and spaceThere is no lackof glittering lightThat shines -Speckles in the endless nightSome that shoot across the skyWay on highLike dragons dartingHopes that flyCarrying wishes within their streamsA fuel for dreams.There's magic there - way aboveWhen sun is gone and darkness’ gloveTakes hold of all and hides from viewThe day, the world in usual hueAnd so they carry upon their courseThe dreams and wishes like mystical horseThose stars above that bless the worldNew horizons now unfurledAnd so we look for magic to seekTo break on through the cold and bleakAnd light the way for birth of dreamsFor in the stars it's not as it seems.M. J. Fraser

Yesterday

MJ Fraser Yesterday brings today Like the night brings the moon Like the break of dawn brings the sun There's nowhere to run Yesterday has been and gone Talked about or sung in song Right or wrong Today is here Filled with burning, filled with fear To long for yesterday, a crackling ache A new day dawned, supposed to make For what has been, can only break Look ahead for sanity’s sake But tomorrow has yet to arrive Although indomitable, one does strive Step by step, relentless time Captured words and passable rhyme Tomorrow comes, but with what speed Always long, insatiable greed For today has come from days gone by Regardless of how or questions why But bring tomorrow, it's up ahead The food for though, life's true bread No matter what's been done or said Bring tomorrow here instead.

Fire

M. J. Fraser Across the sky the flames shoot high Dashing by with thunderous roll To capture the soul Amidst the cloud The crashing loud Upon the earth below As lightning crackles, a jagged flow The storm roams Above trees and homes And there, upon horizon's edge On the very ledge The flames rise Towards the skies From which they were born

November chill

In November chill, eighty years ago,

You took your place where the wild wonds blow.

Among the pine and cypress, strong and tall,

Like elders root you've weathered them all.

Owls whisper wisdom, and ravens sing lore,

While falcons sore high, searching for more.

Auburn leaves dance in a timeless embrace,

As your spirit shines as a beacon of grace.

#BENOTEWORTHY

#piccadillyinc

November's Glow

In November's Glow, you took your stand,

Eighty years of wisdom, a gentle hand.

From matzo ball soup to pasta's embrace,

In your kitchen, I found my sacred place.

You wove me of threads of your love so bright,

Jewish heart, Italian dreams took flight.

#BENOTEWORTHY

#piccadillyinc

Torch

M. J. Fraser There it sits, on the horizons of yesterday Beyond reach The claws and teeth What lessons to teach The grips of pasts, lost to the stream Now to haunt in day and dream All that was That wasn't A river of fire Path well scorched The dream that's torched Will burn For there is no return

First Light

Chen Chen I like to say we left at first light with Chairman Mao himself chasing us in a police car, my father fighting him off with firecrackers, even though Mao was already over a decade dead, & my mother says all my father did during the Cultural Revolution was teach math, which he was not qualified to teach, & swim & sunbathe around Piano Island, a place I never read about in my American textbooks, a place everybody in the family says they took me to, & that I loved. What is it, to remember nothing, of what one loved? To have forgotten the faces one first kissed? They ask if I remember them, the aunts, the uncles, & I say Yes it’s coming back, I say Of course, when it’s No not at all, because when I last saw them I was three, & the China of my first three years is largely make-believe, my vast invented country, my dream before I knew the word “dream,” my father’s martial arts films plus a teaspoon-taste of history. I like to say we left at first light, we had to, my parents had been unmasked as the famous kung fu crime-fighting couple of the Southern provinces, & the Hong Kong mafia was after us. I like to say we were helped by a handsome mysterious Northerner, who turned out himself to be a kung fu master. I don’t like to say, I don’t remember crying. No embracing in the airport, sobbing. I don’t remember feeling bad, leaving China. I like to say we left at first light, we snuck off on some secret adventure, while the others were still sleeping, still blanketed, warm in their memories of us. What do I remember of crying? When my mother slapped me for being dirty, diseased, led astray by Western devils, a dirty, bad son, I cried, thirteen, already too old, too male for crying. When my father said Get out, never come back, I cried & ran, threw myself into night. Then returned, at first light, I don’t remember exactly why, or what exactly came next. One memory claims my mother rushed into the pink dawn bright to see what had happened, reaching toward me with her hands, & I wanted to say No. Don’t touch me. Another memory insists the front door had simply been left unlocked, & I slipped right through, found my room, my bed, which felt somehow smaller, & fell asleep, for hours, before my mother (anybody) seemed to notice. I’m not certain which is the correct version, but what stays with me is the leaving, the cry, the country splintering. It’s been another five years since my mother has seen her sisters, her own mother, who recently had a stroke, who has trouble recalling who, why. I feel awful, my mother says, not going back at once to see her. But too much is happening here. Here, she says, as though it’s the most difficult, least forgivable English word. What would my mother say, if she were the one writing? How would her voice sound? Which is really to ask, what is my best guess, my invented, translated (Chinese-to-English, English-to-English) mother’s voice? She might say: We left at first light, we had to, the flight was early, in early spring. Go, my mother urged, what are you doing, waving at me, crying? Get on that plane before it leaves without you. It was spring & I could smell it, despite the sterile glass & metal of the airport—scent of my mother’s just-washed hair, of the just-born flowers of fields we passed on the car ride over, how I did not know those flowers were already memory, how I thought I could smell them, boarding the plane, the strange tunnel full of their aroma, their names I once knew, & my mother’s long black hair—so impossible now. Why did I never consider how different spring could smell, feel, elsewhere? First light, last scent, lost country. First & deepest severance that should have prepared me for al

Web

MJ Fraiser

Shadows dance just beyond reach

As if the darkness has lessons to teach

The thick tendrils of shadows latch

Enclosing, constricting, gripping their catch 

For there they were, trapped and set

Ensnared within the demon's net

Where on its net it holds it prey

Wrapped in silk, no words to say

Nowhere to look for darkness' hold

Burned with heat while shivering cold

No place to turn from demons view

No way to move, no thing to do

Ensnared in darkness, demons hold

The darkness washes, a blanket cold

And in icy flames of blackest night 

Inferno roars from any fight

For there the path that led this way

Solidly etched and here to stay

Health

To be healthy 

Is to truly be wealthy.

To maintain healthy life,

You need to laugh as much as possible.

#BENOTEWORTHY

#piccadillyinc

To snooze

Take a snooze,

What do you have to lose,

So you will not be confused.

#BENOTEWORTHY

#piccadillyinc

Write a Bathroom wall limerick.

I'm here to keep you clean,

I see a lot of hygiene.

Don't worry I won't say a word,

About that turd.

#BENOTEWORTHY

#piccadillyinc

How hard was it for you to face all the wrongs you've done? What was the hardest part?

Facing wrongs is part of life.

It shouldn't cause you that much strife.

Just face your fears,

And you'll get cheers.

#BeNoteWorthy

#piccadillyinc

Describe in detail an everyday object-a peice of fruit, a water bottle, or your beat up old wallet.

I hold your money,

I hold your cards,

You usually sit on me,

But that's okay.

I am used to that,

And still love you.

#BeNoteWorthy

#piccadillyinc

Darkness

M. J. Fraser

When darkness closes in, ensnaring the mind

You find the thick tendrils gripping

The black holes ripping

At the soul

It can’t be whole

With wounds of past and days gone by

And wondering why

As nightmares attack

And the demons snack

They grip with iron fist

Pull and twist

For yesterday is done, it can't be won

No place can break it, not even the sun

Sky

M.J. Fraiser

Stars glitter in the deep Night

Peering from the black

Watching down from Ethereal flight

No turning back

As the enveloping dark enwraps

and deep thoughts entrap

the stars forever glitter

The fairies flitter

to and fro

nowhere to go

to look back is to sting

as regrets ring

and yet here and now

there is no how

of escape

And so the bars fall

From sky to ground

Silent, never a sound

And yet they surround

On all sides

As the stars glitter

i know the grandmother one had hands

Jaki Shelton Green

i know the grandmother one had hands

but they were always in bowls

folding, pinching, rolling the dough

making the bread

i know the grandmother one had hands

but they were always under water

sifting rice

bluing clothes

starching lives

i know the grandmother one had hands

but they were always in the earth

planting seeds

removing weeds

growing knives

burying sons

i know the grandmother one had hands

but they were always under

the cloth

pushing it along

helping it birth into

skirt

dress

curtains to lock out

night

i know the grandmother one had hands

but they were always inside

the hair

parting

plaiting

twisting it into rainbows

i know the grandmother one had hands

but they were always inside

pockets

holding the knots

counting the twisted veins

holding onto herself

let her hands disappear

into sky

i know the grandmother one had hands

but they were always inside the clouds

poking holes for

the rain to fall.

Breath of the Song: New and Selected Poems (Carolina Wren Press, 2005).

Dear Mama

Wanda Coleman

1946 –2013

when did we become friends?

it happened so gradual i didn’t notice

maybe i had to get my run out first

take a big bite of the honky world and choke on it

maybe that’s what has to happen with some uppity youngsters

if it happens at all

and now

the thought stark and irrevocable

of being here without you

shakes me

beyond love, fear, regret or anger

into that realm children go

who want to care for/protect their parents

as if they could

and sometimes the lucky ones do

into the realm of making every moment

important

laughing as though laughter wards off death

each word given

received like spanish eight

treasure to bury within

against that shadow day

when it will be the only coin i possess

with which to buy peace of mind

From Heavy Daughter Blues by Wanda Coleman. Copyright © 1987 by Wanda Coleman. Reprinted by permission of Black Sparrow Press, an imprint of David R. Godine, Publisher.

Sleeping in Late with My Mother

Cristin O’Keefe Aptowicz

She apologizes. It’s not like her. She’s usually up by six.

But it’s the weekend, you tell her, there is no need to rush!

The plan for the day is breakfast somewhere and walking

somewhere else. I’m happy, but Mom can’t believe that

she forgot to bring conditioner, or that she slept so late.

The housekeeper at the discount hotel knocks. We’re still here,

we’re still here! she shouts back. Girls’ weekend, just us two,

and still we have to remind each other it’s okay to take our time.

No rush, we say to each other, firmly. I’m writing two poems

a day all summer: one every morning and again every night.

It is morning and my mom tells me, Write a poem about this,

but don’t mention I slept in so late! Just put down that your mother

is taking it easy, that your mother is taking her time for once!So I do

what she says, sort of. And the housekeeper knocks again.

But this time, my mother doesn’t jump. Instead, she leans back,

comfortable, and shouts: Still here, Still here! We are still here!

Copyright © 2018 by Cristin O'Keefe Aptowicz. This poem originally appeared in How to Love the Empty Air (Write Bloody Publishing, 2018). Reprinted with permission of the publisher.

From Grandmothers Garden

Meena Alexander 1951 –2018

I am in another country. On a morning of clear sunlight, I walk into a garden thousands of miles from where grandmother lived and died. I speak of the Heather Garden at the mouth of Fort Tryon Park in upper Manhattan, a stone’s throw from my apartment. 

I stroll on the curved path past a lilac tree with its gnarled trunk. I stoop to touch purple fuzz of heather, I try to avoid earthworms twisted at the roots. In between the stalks of heather I see tiny snails. Their shells are the color of laterite soil in the garden of my childhood, a reddish hue with shades of indigo from the minerals buried in the earth.

Close by a baby gurgles, its limbs held tight to the mother’s chest in a snuggly, its tiny head bobbing. A dragonfly on iridescent wings glides by the mother and child. Overhead clouds shift and pass.

Later by stone steps that lead down to grassy knoll I see a child.

He wears clothing at least two sizes too large for him and on his feet are sneakers of a dull green color with frayed laces he has bound to his ankles. He is standing on his tiptoes, rooting in the trash bin.

He picks out a half eaten sandwich and clutches it tight. Then he brings it to his lips.

I stand very still. I do not want to scare him and I watch as he runs hard, a brown streak of light, past the lilac tree, out of the park.

Dare to Soar

If you dare to soar above the rest,

You will be the very best.

Your life is a miraculous bouquet,

It unfolds at it's own pace.

Don't be jealous or vain,

Because it's better than being the same.

Even if it's only a game,

Just remember to be your very best.

#BENOTEWORTHY

#piccadillyinc

Light

M. J. Fraser Into the mist we wander Far and wide, we ponder About all that's been, what's yet to be For all around it's hard to see When the mists of yesterday rise and enclose Like water latched, stuck where it froze Ever present the clouds enwrap Thin tendrils, yet somehow they trap Perhaps ahead a light breaks through And mist retreats as it's wont to do And so we walk forward Moving ever toward The light.

Poets! Towers of God!

Rubén Darío

1867 –

1916

translated from the Spanish by Thomas Walsh and Salomón de la Selva.

Poets! Towers of God

Made to resist the fury of the storms

Like cliffs beside the ocean

Or clouded, savage peaks!

Masters of lightning!

Breakwaters of eternity!

Hope, magic-voiced, foretells the day

When on the rock of harmony

The Siren traitorous shall die and pass away,

And there shall only be

The full, frank-billowed music of the sea.

Be hopeful still,

Though bestial elements yet turn

From Song with rancorous ill-will

And blinded races one another spurn!

Perversity debased

Among the high her rebel cry has raised.

The cannibal still lusts after the raw,

Knife-toothed and gory-faced.

Towers, your laughing banners now unfold.

Against all hatreds and all envious lies

Upraise the protest of the breeze, half-told,

And the proud quietness of sea and skies …

----

Torres de Dios! Poetas!

Pararrayos celestes,

que resistís las duras tempestades,

como crestas escuetas,

como picos agrestes,

rompeolas de las eternidades!

   La mágica Esperanza anuncia el día

en que sobre la roca de armonía

expirará la pérfida sirena.

Esperad, esperemos todavía!

   Esperad todavía.

El bestial elemento se solaza

en el odio a la sacra poesía,

y se arroja baldón de raza a raza.

La insurrección de abajo

tiende a los Excelentes.

En caníbal codicia su tasajo

con roja encía y afilados dientes.

   Torres, poned al pabellón sonrisa.

Poned ante ese mal y ese recelo,

una soberbia insinuación de brisa

y una tranquilidad de mar y cielo …

Poetry is This Screaming Madwoman

Giannina Braschi

1953 –

translated from the Spanish by Tess O’Dwyer

(ars poetica)

Poetry is this screaming madwoman. Everything seems poetry. Madmen

gaze high. Everything seems madness. Madmen fear no moon, fear no fire.

Burns of flesh are poetry. Madmen’s wounds are poetry. The witch’s crime

was poetry. Magic knew how to find its poetry. The star wasn’t poetry

before the madwoman discovered it. Discovery of fire in the star. Discovery

of water with sand. Neither poetry nor prose. Salt is for fish, salt is for

death, the poem is not among the dead. Remember, but don’t write it. Love

her duendes and act as her Lazarus, but don’t wake her. Sleepwalker

among cats, thief among dogs, man among women, woman among men,

blasphemous toward religion, fed up with poverty. Tear out poetry’s voice.

Don’t let her find you, hide. Disregard her, ignore her, forsake her. Don’t

touch her wounds, she’ll scorn you. Back away. Scorn the poem. Develop

without her. Give her the necessary distance. Let her feel conceited. Then

insult her for not having written with power. Deride her dreams, slap her

eyes. Kneel down and ask her forgiveness. Take the poem from her belly.

Sleep beside her, but don’t avert your eyes. Listen to what she tells you in

dreams. Acknowledge her when you see her spell the names of hell.

Descend with her into hell, climb her streets, burn within her history. There

are no names, no history. The volcano erupts and rushes toward the poem.

I can’t do anything but bash her against a rock. I can’t do anything but

embrace her. I can’t do anything but insult her dreams, and she can’t do

anything but open the poem for me, just a crack, a crack in silence, without

watchmen or maidens, with a fowl and an owl to keep distant, to keep

silent, to show up barefoot. And she couldn’t do anything but crash against

the rocks, and the wind couldn’t do anything but blow her locks, and time

couldn’t do anything but eternalize her moment. And poetry is nowhere in

the castle. She disappears through the trapdoor, escapes with the fire that

burns her and dissolves in water.

 

La poesía es esta loca que grita

(Ars poetica in Spanish...)

La poesía es esta loca que grita. Todo parece poesía. Los locos miran alto.

Todo parece locura. Los locos no le temen a la luna, ni le temen al fuego.

Las quemaduras del cuerpo son poesía. Las heridas de los locos son

poesía. El crimen de la bruja fue poesía. La magia supo encontrar su

poesía. No era poesía la estrella antes de que la loca la descubriera.

Descubrimiento del fuego en la estrella. Descubrimiento del agua con la

arena, no es poesía ni es prosa. La sal es de los peces, la sal es de la

muerte, no está el poema en la muerte. Recuerda, pero no lo escribas.

Ámale los duendes, y sírvele de Lázaro, pero no la despiertes. Sonámbula

con los gatos, ladrona con los perros, hombre con las mujeres, mujer con

los hombres, blasfema con la religión, harta con la pobreza. Arráncale la

voz a la poesía. No dejes que te descubra, escóndete. No la pienses ni le

des importancia, abandónala. No le toques las heridas, te despreciará.

Apártate. Despréciale el poema. Desenvuélvete sin ella. Dale la ncesaria

distancia. Deja que se siente engreída. Entonces insúltala, por no haber

escrito con fuerza. Entonces ultrájale los sueños, abofetéale los ojos.

Arrodíllate y pídele perdón. Sácale el poema del vientre. Duérmete a su

lado, pero no la dejes de mirar. Escucha lo que en sueños te dice.

Reconócela cuando la veas deletrear los nombres del infierno. Desciende

con ella al infierno, sube por sus calles, arde dentro de su historia. No hay

nombres ni hay historia. Se precipita el volcán y la lava está deseosa de

introducirse en el poema. No puedo menos que estrellarla contra una roca,

no puedo menos que abrazarla. Ni puedo menos que insultarle los sueños,

ni puede menos que entreabrirme el poema, a medio decir, en silencio, sin

centinelas ni doncellas, con una lechuza y un buho para guardar la

distancia, para guardar el silencio, para presentarsedescalza. Y ella no

pudo menos que estrellarse contra la roca, y el viento no pudo menos que

soplarle los cabellos, y el tiempo no pudo menos que eternizar su

momento. Y la poesía no está en todo el castillo, desaparece por la puerta

defuga, se va con el fuego que la quema y se disuelve en agua.

To the Sonnet

Ameen Rihani

1876 –1940

Though cribbed and gyved, thou canst within thy 

          walls 

Unfold a wondrous wealth of worlds unseen,

And flood the soul’s abyss with moon-light sheen,

As well as darken passions’ gilded halls ; 

Thy fourteen outlets are so many falls 

From which gush out the prisoned joy, or 

         spleen— 

The silvery cascades, or the billows green,

And either a sea of bliss or grief recalls. 

Thou goddess of the gems of Fancy’s deep, 

Though few thy facets, they reflect the whole 

Of inner-self in multi-shaded hues ; 

Thou art the couch of dreams that never sleep ; 

Thou art the phoenix of the poet’s soul,

As well the crystal palace of his muse.

To Magic

The world has to be filled with magic,

All the sages,

Write in their pages,

Of the wonders,

That they ponder.

This magic comes in blessings,

Which take on different forms,

Each life has many magicks within it.

Every aspect has many different outcomes.

#BENOTEWORTHY

#piccadillyinc 

Antidepressant

Laughter is the ultimate antidepressant, Laughter makes you feel wonderful. Laughter spreads joy immensely throughout the community. #BeNoteWorthy #piccadillyinc

Eyes

Compare your eyes to the summers day.

Even though the shivers that do maintain,

Shall always be avail,

For you to maintain.

You are a sight for sore eyes.

To always excell in the darkness that you came.

A Blessing

BY SAMYAK SHERTOK

After Li-Young LeeTwice a year Apa cooked his “monk’s half-moon” dish: pumpkin blossomlamb curry—first crackle the fenugreek seeds in ghee, stir the thinly slicedbaby pumpkins translucent, add a concocted paste of wild herbssoaked in buttermilk overnight, drop the smoked fatted lamb pieces,pour bone stock, let the fat begin to melt, then spread the flowers wholeon top until they’re dreaming—but before offering it to us over steamed rice,even before his gods, he’d serve those who were not home, place the filledclay bowls on the edge of the smoldering hearth in a half-ring,always bigger portions than for those politely waiting around himwith clean wet hands, which made me wish I were not therebut forgot all about it as bite after bite dissolved in my mouth,each mouthful lusher than the last, more ravenous for the next:salt, cliff-forged flesh, aged smoke, foraged fragrance, rain-honeyed dark,earthed moonmilk, petrichor pistils, butter gossip of the butterflies, fireof the fireflies, summer, sweet summer, sweet impossible summer—Source: Poetry (January/February 2024)

Howl

BY HUMBERTO AK’ABAL

TRANSLATED BY MICHAEL BAZZETT

The wind

trails the evening’s cry

over the flowing river.

A coyote drinks:

his sad howl

is all water,

water,

water.