Poetry for a Change, West End Poetry Festival 2020
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Created and Issued by: Carrboro Recreation, Parks & September / October / November 2021 Issue No. 79 (Est. June 2006) Cultural Resources Department 2021 WEST END POETRY FESTIVAL Sponsored by the Town of Carrboro & Coordinated by the Carrboro Poets Council th th Thursday, October 14 - Saturday, October 16 Come and be a part of the most unique poetry event in NC! The 16th Annual West End Poetry Festival will feature readings with many talented poets while celebrating the many exciting and varied poetic styles. The festival provides a setting where poets can engage, share, and encourage the reading, writing, and listening of poetry. For more information, please visit: http://www.WestEndPoetryFestival.com. This event may be presented in a hybrid (virtual and in-person) format. More detailed information is available at www.WestEndPoetryFestival.org. Contact Person: Fred Joiner, Carrboro Poet Laureate [email protected] October 14th Time TBD Venue TBD All Ages Free October 15h Time TBD Venue TBD All Ages Free October 16th Time TBD Venue TBD All Ages Free Contents Poetry 2-13 Poetry Workshops 18 Carrboro Rec & Parks Info 20 Poetry Readings & Events 14-17 Poetry Websites 19 Image Credits 21 wm Mason Page 2 Silver Queen each stalk of Silver Queen wears a tiara of glittering gold honey bees flit their legs collecting pollen sacred purveyor of kundalini whose wild abandon from ejaculating stars punctuates our every pore such adoration that lights the sensorium of our narrow vision setting those who so choose upon thrones of prickly pear wood so far from corn shaken by the wind we as well are joined in this eurythmy transiting within to without and with some grace discover the source of la Gioconda's moue.. Paul Jones Page 3 Hot Now! — an ode to Krispy Kreme Donuts They have no ends, no centers. Angelically white, they rise. They expand before our eyes— light, lithe, gracefully bloated. Hillbilly bagels begin their float down the river of hot oil, wafting, as we are watching. They are casually comforting as they fry—tan, taut yet tender. Midway, midstream, they execute their athletically perfect flip, effortless as young gymnasts, as surfers on white wave tips. Half naked for now, unsuited, half-pale, they seek an evenness in tint. They take their sweet time before they come to us hot off the rollers through the shower of molten sugar, a waterfall of nearly supernatural supersaturation. Their glaze as we gaze, becomes opaque like the windows on summer days. I’ll down a dozen before daybreak. Even if I lost all my teeth, I would still keep my sweet tooth. If I die of cardiac arrest, at least I will have had the best last meal. Not that I’m asking to die, but that’s the honest truth. last meal. Not that I’m asking to die, but that’s the honest truth. Timothy Crowley Page 4 Two Old Goats Sleeping with goats as they clamber up the mountainside. A recurring nightly event, unable to decide how this dreamlike adventure has come about. They rarely acknowledge me, chewing away. Somewhere, sometimes I find myself in an auto wasteland with my goat friends which possibly has to do with the turmoil within all of the Middle East There’s one goat, obviously an elder, while chewing away, I suspect he is observing me another old goat, who has found his way into the field neighboring this junkyard. An endless imagination never ends. Doug Stuber Page 5 Swan Bay Maples, Loblolly Pines, Cedars spring up, three feet per year, witness eight foot black snake purposefully slow. Is our lot to extinguish his magic, replaced by copperheads now free to inhabit our dry knoll in wet weather? Coexistence requires understanding. Never pet a snake, but our son respects the black snake, though he hasn’t seen it. Yes, this big slithery snake is the type that will chase you if upset. But legend says it keeps the poison snakes at bay. In Asia the black snake is good luck. Hmmm. Maybe because it sharpens your senses, maybe because harmony is never easily achieved. In tall grass, two snakes rise and strike at each other. We have been told which will win, but the divisions they have made cut through so many territories, and the legend box fills us with hate toward each other, us versus them. Fourteen friends 40 years removed from their last tango, last athletic attempts, last class, paddle through Ellison Park to Irondequoit Bay. Mutual aid societies form as divisions grow, lurching many into copperheads. Sybil Austin Skakle Page 6 WINTER A busy grey squirrel scurries, Searching for things to store Digs a hole in the soft grass Either searching or storing For the long months ahead. The trees shed their leaves Send roots deep into dark earth To store energy and nutrients To emerge in spring after the sun and moon have journeyed around the earth the correct number of times and tides have risen and fallen regularly Winds blow cold to warm to Harden and encourage nature Everything is as it should be What will my spring bring? Mario D. Kersey Page 7 Stuck Sleeping with yesterday is a slow death That leaches life of its vitality through Pleasant memories edited by denial. A darkness ever present on the periphery Of the calculated routine, waiting Patiently for me to relinquish my drive But somehow I don’t give up the keys. Tears leak like diamonds from a cut purse; A light upon my steps not knowing if the sky Yawns below or above me. Voices seek To rekindle a perceived normalcy that never existed. There is thunder in the distance But it’s just me arguing with myself. Regina Gale Page 8 Sometimes He Buys Me Grapes My very best friend had the nerve to say, He doesn’t do a thing for you It’s always about him, him, and him Why do you stay? I looked at her As she challenged me Wanting me to stand up and see that I was holding on to a hope that had seen better days So in defense, I opened my mouth and belligerently blurted out, “Sometimes he buys me grapes.” That was all I could say, That was the best that I could say. I looked at her, She looked at me She rolled her eyes at me Then with clenched teeth and a sarcastic tone in her voice she asked, “Were they seedless grapes or grapes with seeds? Were they red grapes, green grapes or black grapes, because you know it makes a difference. Annoyed I said who the hell cares what kind of grapes they were? I looked at her She looked at me And we both burst out in uncontrollable laughter, Because the only good thing I had to say about him was…. Sometimes he buys me grapes Judy Hogan Page 9 Being Wise Nineteen I live with boxes and clothes. No messages have come in so far. Boxes of books, seeds, piles of clothes: gifts, hand-me-downs for winter and summer. I don’t need many. I don’t go out much. I sorted the gardenias Janet brought me, the fresh white ones from those turning yellow, dying. I miss old friends. I still have some. I can’t go back into the past. But it’s still there in my mind. Thailanna and that loving family I won’t forget, nor Sam, who let me know in so many ways, that he loved me, valued me. All that work we did on Grace. He wouldn’t let me stop until I’d discovered who all these people were: the missionaries and their children. A lot of women wanted that book because Grace had mental illness. There is plenty to do here. All I need is the will. My shoes fit now. I have more energy. Slowly I’ll summon my will. I’ll tackle the boxes, the piles of clothes. I’ll remember to be grateful for all the loving people I’ve had in my life. When you’ve been loved, you’re honor-bound to give love back. Not brood, not despair. Life’s riches will come. Sybil Austin Skakle Page 10 Ownership Questionable We wear clothes and live in house Drives cars and use things. We spend a lifetime acquiring Possessions. Naked we came into the world And leave it, owning nothing. Pride of property is futile. What owned whom? Timothy Crowley IMAGINATION tea with honey. The fear of the unknown for the moment is part of the past. With gratitude, I thank those who paved the path as I remain to understand and be “home” with the present moment. Doug Stuber Page 11 The Man Who Solved All Problems He didn’t have a driver’s license; he rode his bike each day. Someone ran him down last week and M. is here to say: “I lost a friend just this last Tuesday, Baek, Jeong Seon by name. He was a genius, visited by men from Seoul who came to learn.” Baek knew that earth was running out of its ability to nourish, So he caused no carbon exhaust, an example, but who followed? They knew his math, they new his face, his children can only Remember. His wife waits with tea and drinks but fresh flowers Do not prevail. This man was quite unknown to me, as you can Tell by now. The drivers in this “me first” town did not slow For him. One ran him down in what was described as a type Of trance.