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June Bug

A June bug
flying around
in late September
I think I’ll move to L.A.
sit in the sunshine
at a sidewalk Deli
and drink beer all day
and mix it up
with Hollywood’s best
scary, wide-eyed
cosmetically enhanced
West coast fags and sluts

I’ll walk to Malibu
with a six pack
and a note pad
passing up rides by actors
and electric girls
blowing off getting it on
in shorts and Babylon music

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poem by Jeffrey Quattlebaum
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I Know The Music

All sounds have been as music to my listening:
Pacific lamentations of slow bells,
The crunch of boots on blue snow rosy-glistening,
Shuffle of autumn leaves; and all farewells:

Bugles that sadden all the evening air,
And country bells clamouring their last appeals
Before [the] music of the evening prayer;
Bridges, sonorous under carriage wheels.

Gurgle of sluicing surge through hollow rocks,
The gluttonous lapping of the waves on weeds,
Whisper of grass; the myriad-tinkling flocks,
The warbling drawl of flutes and shepherds' reeds.

The orchestral noises of October nights
Blowing ( ) symphonetic storms
Of startled clarions ( )
Drums, rumbling and rolling thunderous and ( ).

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poem by Wilfred Owen
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Steel Our Hearts!

de profundis

I read books all the livelong day,
and find myself burning in water
and drowning in flame

doing as well as I can but doing no good!

I'm in a fine frenzy in this day of the locust!
I wage war against those merry tyrants of
good intentions whose book of dreams
allow no elegy for the southern drawl!

I ain't no Job! I ain't the first dissident!
Hell, I'm not even a white European male
whose forebears predicted the impending
suicide of Western civilization!

Give me my druthers-
seaspray and whisky, Shakespeare's bawdy,

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poem by Michael Pruchnicki
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From The Flats.

What heartache -- ne'er a hill!
Inexorable, vapid, vague and chill
The drear sand-levels drain my spirit low.
With one poor word they tell me all they know;
Whereat their stupid tongues, to tease my pain,
Do drawl it o'er again and o'er again.
They hurt my heart with griefs I cannot name:
Always the same, the same.

Nature hath no surprise,
No ambuscade of beauty 'gainst mine eyes
From brake or lurking dell or deep defile;
No humors, frolic forms -- this mile, that mile;
No rich reserves or happy-valley hopes
Beyond the bend of roads, the distant slopes.
Her fancy fails, her wild is all run tame:
Ever the same, the same.

Oh might I through these tears
But glimpse some hill my Georgia high uprears,

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poem by Sidney Lanier
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Ballade of Ancient Acts

AFTER HENLEY

Where are the wheezes they essayed
And where the smiles they made to flow?
Where's Caron's seltzer siphon laid,
A squirt from which laid Herbert low?
Where's Charlie Case's comic woe
And Georgie Cohan's nasal drawl?
The afterpiece? The olio?
Into the night go one and all.

Where are the japeries, fresh or frayed,
That Fields and Lewis used to throw?
Where is the horn that Shepherd played?
The slide trombone that Wood would blow?
Amelia Glover's l.f. toe?
The Rays and their domestic brawl?
Bert Williams with "Oh, I Don't Know?"
Into the night go one and all.

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poem by Franklin P. Adams
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Mindless Murmur Of A Babbling Brook

The mindless murmur of a babbling brook
Is the telling of it’s story
A story that has no beginning
And flows on without end

It dances…It sparkles
All the while telling it’s tale
E’en when there’s no one to listen
Not family…nor friend

Dabbling and babbling in sprinkles and splashes
Chortling away in mad mischievous delight
Then off to the sea it disdainfully dashes
Spreading rumors and humors into day and night

It gathers in pools, settles in sinks
Yet meanders off distractedly, to left and right
It swells fat and sassy, then as capriciously shrinks
Tinkling musically away into darkness and light

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poem by David Whalen
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The Big-Game Room

A proud and upright huntress
Seated in her big-game room
Surrounded by hectares of dead stuffed flesh
Wearing a later-life rictus smile
She has opted for anonymity
Due to "threats from animal activists"
And as for me
I never thought such a room to exist
So now she can count me among them

Antlers, antlers rise everywhere
And hordes of tiny wild cats
Snarling, fleeing, seated stilled
Arranged together in curlicues
On rugs of other animals' skins
And up beside the Texas brick
Two brown bears rise majestic
A Mexican jaguar, but even these
Are not the proudest centrepiece
Would you believe, she flew to the Arctic

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poem by Frank Bana
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Go Home Sister Snow

Snowy little girl with your eyes ice blue
Texas took your man and a side a pride too

You blaimed it on the heat
You blaimed it on the land
You shoulda been blaimin'
That no good cheatin' man

But go home sister snow
Go home sister snow
Go home where it drifts
And the wind does blow

Go home sister snow
Go home sister snow
Take your leave of this
Silly old Lone Star show

Well Texas burned you once
It ain't fair but its true

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poem by Atty Davis
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Disputed Boundaries

Taste? Good taste? It's been argued before,
But not many agree on it yet.
Much that A may condone B may deeply deplore;
So by whom is the standard set?
Are you thinking of jazz of the infantile kind
That predominates much of the day?
I am not high of brow, but I really don't mind
If you're cutting that out - Hurray!

If you must oscillate between brows that are high
And brows most deplorably low,
Then what of the midbrows who languish and sighFor melodious classics they know?
Is there never a mean twixt the music of Brahms
And the saccharine saxophone's bray?
For Cora loathes crooning, but Susie hates psalms,
Are you cutting out both? Hurray!

Taste? Whose taste? It is hard to define,
If my preference must be confessed,
I am partial to Schubert and Hubert in mine.

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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Accent Conscious

Trouble brews along the border for the word has got around
That blokes an' coves an' coots must mind their tongues;
Out about the long dry stages
Where the willie-willie rages
Strange sounds are issuing from leathern lungs.
Vowels, consonants and diphthongs in the old bark hut take place
Of the talk of clips or cattle or 'wot won the 'urdle race.'

For the world grows regimented and the olden orders pass
With those ancient heroes that we knew of old.
Out beyond the sandy ranges
Culture grows and fashion changes
And a bloke has got to talk the way he's told.
For the craze of 'standardising' has Australia in its grip,
And Lawson's friends, Joe Wilson, and his mates have got the pip.

These old battlers, so accustomed to the old Australian drawl,
Find it hard to knuckle down to modern ways.
Tho' the purists may deride them,
'Twas their speech identified them,

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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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