VC Ferry
VC Ferry
L.K. Thayer
“Praises From a Tenor Sax”
like salt on a bloodsucker
recoiling, shriveling
paralyzed fits of punishing
pawnshop
reuniting
with the sell-out
the down and out
muck and mire choir
singing
praises from a tenor sax
and a song
you can’t let go of
fill the loving cup
and drink it dry
try to stay away
but you can’t fight
the pull
of the taffy
you get stuck in the
sweetness
and you wanna
die
happy
VC Ferry
poetic pause…
“Epiphany” by Ariana Trinneer
It is a bright Easter day
washed with the kind of light
that pierces,
bouncing off the sand
and around the edges
of my sunglasses so that I squint.
It isn’t the easiest thing,
to focus one’s eyes
intent upon the horizon.
But miracles
must be searched out these days
and blinking is just plain irresponsible.
We hover near the water’s edge
speaking in hushed
excited bursts, disciples
huddled against the wind, waiting
for our breath
to be taken away.
One boy
is paying no attention.
He spins in the golden white
of the day, squealing as the water
pinches his toes with cold,
leaping to catch a feather
which floats
prayer soft beyond
us. I have never told
him that patience
is a virtue
and he is not one to wait.
He turns, pulled by my gaze,
and rockets to my side
where he pants in silence,
finding our point of worship
upon the water
as the whale crests,
dark and mysterious.
The crowd gasps and I feel
his body curve
into the light, release.
He tugs upon my hand
with five year old zeal,
“When I die mama
I want to become part of the ocean,
because then I can be waves.”
© 2011
“To My Father” by Ben Brandstein
Like an autumnal leaf
Gently waltzing with the wind
Here and there, until coming to rest
In a pool of water, causing the aquatic reflector
To wrinkle; I think of you and it takes some time
To remember to forget about you.
Would you be proud?
Would you praise or condemn these fingers
That feel whole when perched on a pen and not pig skin?
Cuticles stained with ink,
Trenches occasionally occupied by nylon.
Would you teach me anything significant?
I shaved with the help of magazines.
I learned how to treat a woman from the way
Clark Kent embraced Miss Lane.
The transcendent value of a dollar was taught to me
By a prepubescent entrepreneur across the street
Desperate for the missing quarters his lemonade was worth.
So what would you give me? Lessons? Gifts?
Happiness? A harmonic resonance to eradicate
These moments of dissonance?
Or perhaps your greatest gift was absence.
Instead of a young, pliable counterpart I am
Myself. My own source of instruction.
But when I am blessed with a child of my own
I will provide them with every single moment
I wish I could have had with you.
© 2011
“in the thick of love” by L. K. Thayer
in the thick of love
your heart beats fast
in the thick of love
you’re afraid it won’t last
in the thick of love
you can’t stand still
in the thick of love
wonderin’ if they will
in the thick of love
hoping they care
in the thick of love
having someone to share
in the thick of love
can it be true
in the thick of love
how I feel about you
© 2011
“Buddy” by Keven Bellows
I sometimes think the Jim he is becoming
may be the Jim who was. Buddy
swinging on a fence
around a New England clapboard
with a wide porch, where
his grandfather rocked rain or shine.
Summers in Still River away from parents–
Buddy’s happiest hours. When not
sitting with the man in the rocker,
retired by alcohol long before his time,
he was practicing his swing
with a found golf club
on the course behind the property,
scrounging balls to earn pocket change.
Always easiest on his own, Buddy thrived
in this odd company that included Emerson and Thoreau,
favorites of his wellborn grandfather,
a 19th century gentleman, who left him
an abiding affection for men of few words—
memories undiminished through eight decades.
More boy at the gate
eager for adventure,
than the grandfather he now is,
Jim’s reservoir of resilience is Buddy,
whose arrival incites the onset of summer,
lazy days lengthening, lure of tall grass,
leaves turned inside out looking for rain.
Unfailingly courteous, grateful
for love that surrounds without confining,
the solitary boy reclaims the man,
makes us comfortable on the porch,
while he makes for the fence
across an invisible lawn.
© 2011
poet squeeze…
“God’s waiting room is full of painters and poets
and old black jazz saints in pork-pie hats.”
Photo by
VC Ferry
© 2011
