| Poetry |
| FOLLY |
| REPORT by Barry Spacks The seas surge, the lions roar, the sun and the subways pound and the miracles miracle. Mainly the people sigh. WAITING by Barry Spacks A little boy in a photograph leans hunched against a white stone wall. I was once this little boy... weren’t you? Or his sister, small and waiting. Waiting for what? For “it” to happen... "it?" -- whatever's not this wretched wall! SERENDIPITY by Barry Spacks A student queries the spelling of master poet Rumi's name -- "Roomy?" Well, yes, in a way. DEW OF THE VOID by Barry Spacks Brother Frank rents words to poets. What a notion, it gives me an urge to traffic in the silences between. These words? Rented from Frank, must be returned. But the little spaces? They're mine. Please, help yourself, no fee, use them to bless translucence, the way a mystical interlude lets the light pour through to shimmer thoughts. Bless the poem whose shoes are shined, whose telling words -- some even rhyme! -- wear suit, crisp shirt & tie. A poem comes up from darks of sleep blinking its eyes, saddlebags filled with strangely set gems from Persia. Bless the poems that glow for us, arriving bearing the weight of space with the dew of the void on their fingers. |
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