John Olson

How To Get Rich Writing Poetry

That’s right you too can be a Donald Trump

A Warren Buffett of poetry

A buffet of trumpets a warren of infinite crisis

Just follow these easy steps

To a cocktail lounge sit down and employ

A ceremony of words in a roiling brook

Of magnetic obscurities. An angel

     of the morning

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Paul Nelson

86. Paulownia Tomentosa

 

His “Good Day!” was always overcast.     - Ramon Gomez de la Serna

 & yes, he was from Seattle. & yes, the sun was shining that particular Friday in the season of lilac blossoms and a full bloom Empress Tree, Princess Tree, Paulownia tomentosa, stolen from central and western China but an invader here loving the lack of competition for what sun there is, shaping purple hanging bell blossoms and leaves in whorls of three. We sit under it, take fotos,  are there if we think about it, Lakewood Park.

& by good day he meant, in Seattle nice, courtesy and not much else, will wait for your street crossing, will not honk, “a city of the mind . . . a city of geeks. People here . . . totally blow you off ” the newcomer’d say in The Times. But not at the stop sign beyond the Empress Tree. Not at the four way stop where you go no you go no you go & the guy from Chicago goes knowing your M.O., knowing driving the car “is personality enshrined.”

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Mike Hickey

Service Dog
I could be a Schnauzer, a Black Lab, or a Dalmatian, but I’d prefer to be a German shepherd, and you could name me after a Greek god or your great grandfather or that punk/funk band you really like. When we go out, I would start wagging my tail like a pendulum in heat and you could dress me in one of those neon orange vests with the silver stripes (maybe neon yellow on special occasions) that says in big block letters: SERVICE DOG. 

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Thomas Hubbard

The real uncle sam

GIs came home after WW2, raised hell for a while,
then found a wife and looked around for a house. 
Markets provided prefabricated house kits, delivered to your lot.  Pre-fabs. 
Buy them on the GI Bill. Put them up in a few days.  Crackerbox houses. 
Square, plain, two bedrooms, kitchen, bath and living room.  Plywood.  A
few of them are still around.  Crackerbox houses.

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Judith Camann

Thoughts Are Not Feelings
 

Between blankets and sleep, sleep and death rolls hard red apples, day old
bread, liverwurst, fingerless gloves, frayed shoelaces, nine pregnancies, six live
births, red-brick walls, tarnished forks with bent tines and a topless jelly jar where flies
procreate. My thighs wake to cold.

Not snow-cold children pray for with carrot nose snowmen sledding down hills.
Not ice cold cubes clanging against sides of a sparkling tumbler swishing an orange rind,
maraschino cherry, barrel-aged rye, and a sugar cube. Not chills or sneezes.

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Sam Roxas-Chua

A BEAST IN THE CHAPEL

Several times I asked my father
to pull on my ears
until my feet were lifted off the ground.

Several times I asked him
to look into my eyes
and blow out the red lanterns—

those soft pendulums
that keep me up at night,
twin stars of vermillion arias.

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Margaret Roncone

I Fall in Love with a Photo of e.e. cummings in a New Yorker Magazine While in the Waiting Room of an Opthamologist’s Office

it's black and white

he's looking intently

away from the camera at

a parade of lower case 'i’s

a hyphened world

linear time and rhyme

disappear in a desert

of white stallions

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Dorothy Lemount

SHORE

When all becomes quiet and still

 I always find myself looking for the person I used to be. 

When all endings become beginnings and

The hours seem to have dissolved into 

Nothing

I always find myself wondering

Where have I been? 

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Lew Jones

I Saw the Crows of Summer Charge the Powder Blue Sky
 

I saw the crows of Summer charge the powder blue sky

Roadwork on the freeway could not stop their mission

Technology w/ all its posture could not halt their flight

Like midnight ink splattered on sunny white sheets

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