| Parenteau Chad Parenteau Chad Parenteau has lived and worked in the First in a SeriesFor Sheryl
The woman who cuts my hair when you’d rather keep it long told me once, to be more difficult, that she and her boyfriend never discuss old soul mates—even in passing— unaware that she was condemning our first week of phone calls, as we validated to each other why we had chosen to be alone, before scrambling for a shared time and place.
Also condemned was my thesis of poems you asked to read, a hardbound summary of my life’s expectations before they were overwhelmed that first night as I ran to and from payphones to call your cellular, only yards apart but wanting to pinpoint the latitude and longitude of our meeting spot so I could flag it with a rose.
Famous poems can be read like unearthed crimes long gotten away with. Unpublished, they are the 6:00 news piece that airs long after the gun runs out of smoke. After showing you my credentials, almost forgetting the endless female references, you were kind, deemed me bitter and funny.
Still cautious, you asked if I planned to write about you with equal tact. I almost asked you then, what would you do to be in my thoughts enough for that to happen? Neither question fair at the time, best unanswered by words, at least then.
A week before your birthday, waiting for you to fetch me from the station, I open my sketchbook of words and think, deadlines are good, as I write in anticipation of you snooping while I sleep.
You asked for a poem, and before you asked if I loved you, liked your children, wanted to move from Boston . In poetry, they are all the exact same question I’ll continue to answer with each new white sheet. Ask me if you should expect a change of mind, and I’ll say no, just a better draft we are both happy with for each moment.
Gathering To Simon Schattner
If a poet falls and no one bothers to call and tell the rest of us, was he really here?
Your time of death estimated, we search for your date of birth like the police tearing through a homeless man’s bag.
Your family has already claimed you, taken you home. Luckily, they throw us scraps of fact, anecdote. There will be closure only after we’ve pried the door open again.
At your memorial, your recorded voice seems muffled, behind closet doors with your poems, your harmonica, taken back to New York . Will they be ever put to use again?
The older poets speak, at race with their words hoping their recitations outlast them—even by minutes— drinking in hopes of finishing quicker.
In this way, immortality can be faked. However, their lines for you are sweat-stained whispers, the words long having placed and gone home.
Selfish as it is, this gathering is for all of us. We might not get another chance.
Lonely People Haiku Lonely people could teach rats to do tricks if you just show them how. Please? Lonely people write sonnets to their bowls of fruit, omit oranges. Lonely people take off their clothes and face mirrors just so they can laugh. Lonely people will go look for presents under the town Christmas tree. Lonely people buy second hand sweaters, hoping they haven't been washed. Lonely people rent, afraid even their movies won't want to commit. Lonely people give their haikus to exes—or no one, if they're smart. Lonely people still write love poems as if to prove that they learned nothing.
Visit his blog for information at http://freakmachinepress.blogspot.com Visit the Stone Soup website at http://stonesouppoetry.blogspot.com
Debbie Priestly  Deborah Priestly lives in Cambridge, Mass. and runs a vibrant and growing poetry venue, going strong for ten years now, “Open Bark” Candelite Poetry. She has been published in many small presses and local newspapers and anthologies. One of her favorite activities is sharing poetry with other local Boston/Cambridge poets and the prisoners at the Bay State Prison Program that was formed under Boston University Professor, Elizabeth Barker from Boston, MA for about five years to present. She has also taught a few poetry workshops through the Newton Public Schools via Douglas Holder (of the Ibbetson St. Press) and at the Very Special Arts in Boston, Massachusetts. For approximately three years, she holds a Women’s Creative Healing Arts Group at the Out of the Blue Art Gallery on Sundays from 1 to 5PM rain or shine so that women may express deeper parts of their spiritual being through either poetry or art. She co-leads this group with Devon Prevost, a sculptress and graduate of Lesley College. A creator of the anthology called Out of the Blue Writers Unite, and published in Poesy, Bay Windows, Boston Girl Guide, Boston Herald, Cambridge Tab and Chronicle, Crooked River Press, For Crying Out Loud, Fresh!, Gay Community News, Goddess Dancing, Ibbetson St. Press, I Refused to Die (an anthology of Jewish history of the Holocaust), Manifold (England), Spare Change and more, Deborah enjoys writing and getting her words and images out there. She also paints and sells her work at Out of the Blue Art Gallery (a community art gallery) in Cambridge, Massachusetts which she also helps to run and promote other artists and poets with pride! Other publications include, The Woman Has a Voice, Out of the Blue Writers Unite, The Kiss of the Tiger Woman, The Pieces that Remain, The Soul of the Sunflower and Hey, Buy a Camera – You Ain’t That Ugly! Deborah is so indebted to Douglas Holder, Lynne Sticklor, the Stone Soup Poets, Jack Powers, Timothy Gager (a novelist) and all of the other writers and editors who have helped her along the way get her voice and groove back! She wants to give back always and get other poets and artists their voice too! "I love being the candle" she is quoted to say, "I love lighting the way for others!" Halos to God, Voice of An Angel (for my daughter, Rebekah) I was dancing to the song of the dust My heart, the echo of wind fading Then came the voice of an angel She sang like rain in the dry heat of day Flew her wings of harmony by way Of her flowering soul and it was free So free, I could taste the heights of air I was dancing to the song of leaves Dying and crackling their death Breath by breath, and then I heard The cry of a heart losing its life Through music , beat by precious beat, Life so passionate it rose quick like fire Sending halos only God would touch. Deborah M. Priestly Black Sky Lightening fills my lungs and breath Fear I once ran from and now I embrace So high the jagged steeple climbs to the sky Like hands in prayer, or act of faith Light and then darkness, belief then doubt And so with age, I ride this splintered leaf With less memory shape of secure roots And tonight the air seems dramatically thin The heat is unbearable, and it is hard to listen To you speak of redemption and forgiveness, But I am listening, while the heavens above Open and close their eyes to me again and again. I always stare into my hands during times like these, Curious and dreaming of the divine paths I could have taken, and I am thankful that the fire Of my broken child did not kill me My spirit remains tumbled in scattered stones Instead of loose, flying aimlessly in dusty clouds. Deborah M. Priestly Blooms Dancing In Stillness (For painter, Sue Carlin) Motion is only a matter of mind the paintbrush has its own intention scattered strokes pulse their message through the bright blood of dreams wind chases away reason, slipping its buds ivory and pink into the crossing branches that blind our way through the wide open sky Your emotions are the stirrings within the music of your hands, directing flow but there is no wind here, all is flat green leaves confined to a glass vase in a time without sun or moon and the waves within the waters invented are all pretend, a display of imagined life but I love your blooms dancing in stillness I remember their stems trembling for the wind. Deborah M. Priestly |