Along Lighted Alleys: an anthology

Along Lighted Alleys

an anthology edited by Gerard Kuc

Copyright 2005 The Contemporary Poet Guild non-cover artwork royalty free

This book is dedicated to every reader of a poetry book and every person that attended a poetry recital, for, as Walt Whitman once said, "To have great poets, there must be great audiences, too.”

Along Lighted Alleys Contents Title Page

i

Copyright

ii

Dedication

iii

Table of Contents

iv

Preface

viii

K Is For Christ

3

Venice Beach

5

A Second Cup (at Buster’s)

6

Dead Poet Party

7

Fatalism-by-numbers

8

President And Beggar

10

Greatest Author

11

Please Note My New Address

12

Song

13

Holly

15

Fairest

16

Seasons Of The Soul

17

Fireworks

18

Snow Of A December Thaw

18

Echo Of The Future

19

Crow In The Morning

20

Leaden Hands

21

Water To Water

22

Spider's Rainbow

22

Reflection In A Window

23

Tyrannosuarus Rex

23

Stain

24

Sweet Song So Young

24

The Word

25

Self Inflicted

26

Southbound On I-75

26

Yellow Rain

27

Reflections On A Lightning Storm

27

He Wasn't Doing Nothing

28

Who Do I Worship

29

The Unreal

30

Nicotine

31

Between Heaven And Hell

32

Secrets

33

Silence

34

Sunday Morning Blue

35

If Wishes Were Razor Blades

36

Boulevard Of Fire

37

The Rationale

38

Heed

39

Deadly Lullabies

40

The Army Of My Soul

41

Now And Then

42

Index

55

Preface “Where’s the Poet?” John Keats once asked. In terms of todays modern society, one could be hard pressed to find one. They seem to be invisible with all of the distractions, demands, and disorders that abound within our current civilization. For to be a poet one must have the time to observe, to think, to reflect, and to write – especially to write. A poet must also be willing to be different in different ways at different times. Modern society does not usually lend itself to these for the poet, and so the poet is invisible: drowning in a sea of ambiguity. But there comes a time when the distractions, demands and disorders of society become so commonplace that they become a monotony , and this is the time when a voice in the wilderness- a poet, a philosopher, a modern day prophet – can break through and be heard. The time, person and place varies within the culture. The birthplace could be a person giving a reading at a local coffee shop, or presenting a work in front of a creative writing class at a college campus, or having a poem printed

in a local newspaper. It could also start with a publication such as this. What is poetry? “It is the street talk of angels and devils”, according to Lawrence Ferlinghetti. It is the talk about ones angst, or ones observations of societies ills, or about praise to ones God, or about the depths of ones darkest imagination, or simply about life and how it is today. The talk may be from different people of different backgrounds living in different cultures. But they all speak the same language- that of poetry – and this is no more true than here in the anthology you hold in your hands. Along the lighted alleys in this anthology, you will find both angels and devils. Whereas culture has been reduced to a breakfast cereal and a sitcom, it is both the angel and the devil in each prospective poet that strives to save humanity from identity oblivion. With each poem they prod the human race one step away from cultural stagnation and decay and towards independent thought and reflection. The poets in this anthology, myself included, all belong to an online Yahoo Group called The Contemporary Poet Guild. It is a growing group of aspiring , and some established, poets from around the world of various backgrounds and styles.

The Guild is a meeting place for these poets to share their art with each other and get feedback to perfect his or her craft. There is also a useful link section, a poet picture gallery, a related polls section, and writing projects such as this anthology to get members published. Membership is limited depending on group activity, but if you are an aspiring poet, you can look us up in Yahoo Groups under contemp_poet_guild . Again, this anthology is for nothing but to provide recognition to the poets of the Guild, and it is sold nonprofit. The copyright for each of the poems contained in this book belong to its respective author, and permission was granted for the purpose of this anthology alone. But enough of the advertising… “Where’s the Poet?” Mr. Keats? They are HERE!

Gerard Kuc Los Angeles County, CA

The Poems

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Gerard Kuc, Los Angeles County, California I like reading early 20th century poetry up to and including Beat poetry. I dig beat culture. My primary influence is Charles Bukowski, though my favorite poet is Robert Frost. I am an unorthodox Christian as you can read in my poem K is for Christ . I like listening to music, watching movies, and reading books. Once in a while I take a road tripone of which is covered in the enclosed poem Venice Beach. I wrote the book Reduced to Dust and other poems.

K is for Christ Dig - it's the Bible 1,2,3 rides a trinity signifies the number of my groovy family one hep cat bro and the head of the Gabriels all flip, to the most hip, big Daddy-O Ow! We wail about the scene and try not to be a drag just hope that cats and chicks can pick up on

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being melted out of their pad, it is A/C that they lag "Lay your racket", the crowd request "but don't be unhep - no square" The man, my bro, just smiled at me took the main kick, and go-go-go "Cool it!" the J-man sounded off "What I have to say is simple, you see" "Love one another, for in doing so you love me." The joint was jumping-but we had to cut out K is for Christ of that I have no doubt (I'm beat-Later!)

Gerard Kuc

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Venice Beach Walking in the shadow of the Lizard King can make one's life a nefarious thing but that the day destroys the shadow is no truer here than at Venice Beach where the sun shines through tomorrow color and beauty are within reach Ocean Front is where the actions at during the stroll, gulls spy overhead along the sidewalk the vendors sat artists continue being fed Bicycles breeze as panhandlers sweat What's this? A roller-girl I bet in perfect form, a sight to see to wander my mind from chastity Lunch at the kitchen of Mao the waitress more edible than the dish clothes barely cover her tattoos-wow violet hair, skull-studded beltMine! (I wish.) A walk through inland canals the mallards quack me goodbye so long Venice Beach one last coffee, and look, I sigh

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A Second Cup (at Buster’s) Caffeine muse in a cup aroma permeates my pores a saucer for spills a spoon stir liquid beans and cream sooth my throat add sugar make it sweet to desire more coffee.

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Dead Poet Party life sucked out of me invite for an eternity as a guest of a dead poet party there was Kerouac and Thomas drinking at the bar Bukowski comes out of the John and challenges one to spar Frost is in the corner doing a slam with Emily D these two are so good at this its been going on for eternity Poe is in the middle of the room drinking a glass of wine burdened by a deep depression 'Nevermore' was his crime And there the Bard, Shelley and Byron each exchanging a verse taking turns to find out who's better cause it's impossible to find who's worse Corso was ranting about the bomb while Neruda was talking about love this was the best party on earth below or here above

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Fatalism-By-Numbers “It’s always something” my dad told me a bill unpaid a strange noise under the hood an increase in the rent

an unreturned phone call an unwanted phone call

finding out the side effects of your medication finding out the limits of your insurance

people whom must have been minerstheir heads shoved so far up their ass people who don’t know how to driveexcept driving other people crazy

computers that aren’t user friendlythe information superhighway having a traffic jam

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women expecting you to read their mindand try to read yours

the so-called simple things that simply add-up a hole in your sox a stain on your shirt hair you don’t want breath that aint fresh and where’s that odor coming from? age?

then there’s the big things, the truly ominous things like always being a virus away from a life-threatening disease or a hair-width away from a car accident

anxiety worry they are like the plague

yet, somehow, most people hold-it-all together yes, “It’s always something.” but there’s always something more

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Shah Pravinchandra Kasturchand North Brunswick,NJ Poetry was also born along with my birth on November 6,1934. I am a B.Com. graduate of 1957 batch from Sydenham College of Commerce and Economics,Mumbai,India. Since August 2000 I have been in North Brunswick,NJ. Reading,writing and appreciating poetry is my only religion.

====================== President and Beggar ====================== A beggar one day visited Washington. He went there and met the President; So greatly pleased was our President He presented the beggar an elephant. Ever since his such gigantic gesture Washington is deprived of any beggar; Beggars' Fed has passed a Resolution? "Never meet President in Washington." =======================

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Greatest Author ================================= At the dead of night When lights are off, I open 'Book of Sky' And start reading Glittering contents Written in stars By Greatest Author Almighty God! =================================

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Please note my new address ================================= Friends, I am no more now. This is my new address: Post man can't deliver; Emails id is redundant. Telephones will not work; Telepathy, intuition work; If connected with hearts Surely forever I'm yours. So note this new address: To, The heart, Everywhere. Yours sincerely me. ==================================

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Michelle Brady Louisville, Kentucky Michelle Brady is a married mother of two from Louisville, Kentucky. She loves Indian food, Stephen King novels, and coffee. She hates trying to write short bios. Song I delight to sit down in your shadow and your fruit is sweet to my taste. In the day, I long for the night when, at last, I have you to myself and I can hold your head to my breast. I feel your tongue's flicking shadow danceit brings sweet, tireless music and in turn, I sing. Your teeth perform their gentle savagery hurting me in exquisite ways and with your fingers, you pluck my tender stringsI become a harp, a lyre crying melody in tones too melancholy to be anything but ecstasy. When you bear for me your sweet fruit, O perfect love I delight in knowing only I bring forth that nectar intoxicating elixir that it is. I will drink until my thirst is no more. I will eat of your body as you partake of mine:

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We shall feast on one another and delight in our completion as the echoes of my song grow distant. Casting our shadows over one another we sleep, at peace, two vines entwined in rest the garden still, quiet, awed our love perfection our harvest complete.

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Holly 11/20/2004 she sleeps in a sprawl, like a spill a mess: refusing to be contained. i am covered by her sweet weight, the heft of her unconditional love as she breathes in and i breathe out. there is the press of her belly against mine, she exhales i am reassured only when i hear that breath come back in and i can let go my sigh of relief. for now, she is quiet the joy with which she embraces her world silenced by the need for sleep a recharging; when she wakes, her eyes shifting distant and dreamy to bright and present i am reminded that she is more than a serendipitous meeting. she is my daughter.

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Fairest

Mirror, mirror, you ruthless bitch you only show me ghosts. I tore my heart out for you I did everything I knew to correct my flaws while you sharpened your claws on my smile, just because. That's your way. I'd like to know why or at least give it a try find out if you can tell me why you always tried to sell me more of your secrets still more of your lies. Has it ever mattered? Whenever I see you, no matter where I always find the same ghosts there you harbor them, teach them to deceive and you, you bitch, would have me believe I've no reason to smile, but plenty to grieve. Do you know what you have cost me? Any idea what your false face lost me? Smashing you is the most humane thing to do. Tears fall down, silent release One for me one for each piece.

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Frank Allen Blissett III Sault Sainte Marie, MI Frank Allen Blissett III was born on August 22, 1974 to college students at Centeral Michigan University. His childhood and adolescence were spent in rural Rose Township, in Oakland County, Michigan. He spent these early years hiking, fishing and canoeing on his family's ten acres and on the surrounding properties. In 1992 he went to college at Lake Superior State University in Michigan's eastern Upper Peninsula and decided to settle there, where he made a name for himself hosting a bluegrass show on college radio and, more recently, as a market gardener. He wed his wife, Lylene, in a hand-fasting in 2004 – though for financial reasons they did not get the marriage certified by the county. Frank and Lylene have recently bought thirteen acres of property near Kinross, Michigan, and will be expanding their market-garden over the next several years.

SEASONS OF THE SOUL She wilts under his blanket of snow, He melts around her uplifted rays. She counts the years left to go, He counts the lost days. Spring heals winter. Winter chills the fall. Fall drains summer. And summer forgives them all.

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FIREWORKS FLASH! Breathless second then BOOM!, And streams of light split the night. A tapestry woven on a cosmic loom, As if the threads of life will ignite. But the blast quickly becomes cinders, Embers that hang as the world spins. Life blurs and the world turns asunder, But the embers just lean with the wind. As my world slows and turns to black, Embers fall and fade, turning to ash. And as they do FLASH! and CRACK!, And the sky is again a riotous splash.

SNOW OF A DECEMBER THAW The snow of a December thaw Lands on muddy concrete And wilts into oblivion. Thus dies another day Waiting for truth On muddy concrete.

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ECHO OF THE FUTURE You were on my mind the other morning. An imaginary future formed in my mind. You were lying on the bed, Belly telling of tenderness months earlier. I sat beside you rubbing your stomach, Felt your hand on my arm. The thought that came was that this child would be part of the great story. The idea of sharing our love with someone untainted filled me with peace and wonder. I then slid my hand around your back, contemplating the future. Our child grew – Loving and losing and loving again. The love we shared passed onto another generation, Then another, Then another – till all humanity was filled with our compassion. Soon reality snapped me out of the reverie. The tenderness drained from my soul – Leaving only an echo to fill the void. In that brief instant where lucidity entered, All humanity evaporated in the greatest genocide ever.

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CROW IN THE MORNING I saw a crow this morning, Gliding between spruce trees The town waking below Under gray dawn's jubilee. We all have the image Of mountain peaks, Fixed in our minds, And the sound of an eagle's shriek. Have you actually seen such a sight? I have seen eagles only high On dying treetops looking for roadkill to steal Or as untouchable specks in the sky. However I have seen a crow, Body arced in a slight list And feathers splayed, Gliding silently in the mist.

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LEADEN HANDS With leaden hands I write these words, Too tired to stop them should I want. They flow in bouts from my cracked soul, Slipping from their rotting haunt. With leaden eyes I watch these words, Too tired from tears to see them straight. The tears have stopped but left a hole, The hole through which I knew my fate. With leaden lungs I breathe these words, Too tired from sighs to stop their flow. My chest feels dead from inside out, Love has dried as foul winds blow. With leaden heart I beat these words, Too tired to move and drown them out. They pound my chest but chill the whole, And fill my veins with shame and doubt. With leaden mind I think these words, Too tired from life to catch their gist. With emptiness they fill my soul, And cloud my thoughts as with a mist. Leaden hands, leaden eyes, leaden lungs. Leaden heart, leaden mind, leaden life.

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WATER TO WATER Today there is more dust settling at my feet, More dust covering the family legacy. Ever and anon the tall prairie grasses of Michigan reach up, But another strata of us is now beyond reach of eager roots. The women in my family collect dust, Keeping it neatly boxed, On the top shelves of their closets, With the rest of the memories. But decades of memories mean nothing when With sudden start you look up Through a window in the blackness of infinity, Into the cold waters of home. A simple incident when all is said and done, And as such the waters rock on in their winter slumber, And the ice still stretches and yawns in the channels, And mariners still slide over her listless waves. And the prayer that floats into my mind is, "Water to water, ice to ice."

SPIDER'S RAINBOW In dawn dew, The spider's rainbow Lies laden, With creation's glow.

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REFLECTION IN A WINDOW Do you even notice me in the booth in front of you? Looking over your shoulder, As twilight presses on the restaurant's back window. In it, you are a reflection of a reflection. Your ghost eyes look to me, Look through me Look to a future setting red and mean across a dusty freeway overpass. A future I can only see in reflection.

TYRANNOSUARUS REX Tyrannosaurus Rex You may consider very mean, With six inch dagger teeth And skin a slimy green. But just ponder What it mawed and munched, Then think of all the plants That prey had chewed and crunched. Those plants lived and breathed too And were torn leaf from stem, And the T Rex, you see, Was a messiah to them.

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STAIN My life is a stained film. Peel it back and you reveal The shimmering milk-white of ancestry. Naked ancestry in water, Slowly dissolving, Leaving only a stain.

SWEET SONG SO YOUNG Orpheus in straw hat and blue button-up, Before the ash and bile of grief. Eurydice by his side, Before an asp gave her soul relief. Two by two genesis circles, As his flute spills love, his heart truth. Their world bound by her silk hair and his bare feet, The green glade the limits of spring's youth. She looks through the swirl of life, Pierces the white veil to our universe. But he plays on unaware his song is fading, Or that his love has glimpsed time's curse.

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THE WORD We learn to read and all is well and good. Then we get ill from a need to know and find newspapers, Dime store novels, Biographies, Even essay anthologies. However, we soon find that these reduce to a handful of lines – All else is filler. Thus poetry enters our lives as more than doggerel. Eventually even poetry leaves us flat, When we hear the same colors over and over ad nauseum. By now eyes have grown older with life, Yet we still stumble around for what really is. We turn to lines of hope and jokes, Glued to refrigerator magnets. As age stiffens bones even these become cliche. In desperation we search for the Word of creation. Obsessively we repeat ourselves – Our brains arthritic dogs crawling after mangy tails. We could save a lot of grief if we skipped past this And were able to look within the word. For all we need can be found inside Truth – Like a black hole, small yet all encompassing.

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SELF INFLICTED Well, I'm just sitting here singing that old song (Older than prostitution itself) "If the blues is a lady then I'm life's bitch" But the blues is the blues is the blues is the blues is the blues is the BLUES, And what do I know about the blues? For all my blues is self inflicted. I suffer from self inflicted wounds: Self inflicted love and self inflicted memories.

SOUTHBOUND ON I-75 Southbound on I-75, Oil pressure low and two lugs long ago snapped. The summer sun shines, Painting bright white heat across the dash. Dodge stretches his legs, Reaching his paws across the gap between us. Hind legs over there and front in my lap, He rests his head in shaded relief from the sun. Bridging the two shores, His sloshing heart wheezes in overlapping beats. Below still sky, Blooms of fireweed and work barrels blur by.

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YELLOW RAIN Yellow rain seeds a parched field, Burrows under the rising ground. There they wait to be revealed For a chance to reach around. It waits for a child to kneel, Spreading Christ's offering atop. A red bloom as death's seal And the field reaps its final crop. REFLECTIONS ON A LIGHTNING STORM Flickering white light and a growing rumble woke me. Outside, I stood in awe as the sky lit to an electric blue bright enough to read by, So bright the streetlights thought it was day. Behind me cowered Monty, Trembling yet trusting – My presence was his talisman. Dan left his bed and stumbled downstairs, Showing a nonchalant amusement at the spectacle. However our peace was broken. Down the street two teens whooped like monkeys at every peel of thunder. Such a storm is only seen a few times in each life, But instead of peaceful reverence They were focused inside themselves. The whoosh in their throats from squeals of pleasure, The light spread across their retinas – Hazy and half forgotten already, The rumble against their eardrums mixing with their cries. As the storm began to tail off, I went to bed. Only later did I come to consider: Maybe those kids had a piece of the puzzle as well.

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Jerome Obada Lagos, Nigeria I'm a webmaster, Mechanical and Electrical/Electronics Engineer. My hobbies include: Web design , programming, reading, writing poems and travelling. To know more about me, go to www.jerome.s5.com for my resume and biography and www.jeromeng.8k.com . He wasn't doing nothing *************************************** its another day in the 'row everybody was busy everybody was working today is the day he'll meet his fate the foreman came to take him away where is he, look for him check his cell, check is bed he has been lazy he's been doing nothing today is the day, the law has set where is he, where's the sloth he wasn't doing nothing he was hanging he was dead

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who do i worship I'm confused who do i worship what do i worship worship XA, god of thunder XA is made of wood wood can be burnt by fire worship fire fire is an element it can be killed with water worship water i cannot worship water it comes from rain worship rain rain is a child the child of the clouds worship the clouds the clouds are fickle they can be driven by wind worship wind wind is prosaic it comes from the lungs of men then worship man I am man i cannot worship myself I'm confused who do i worship what do i worship

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The unreal >>To HIM that is destined to rule the netherworld