Carolyn Adams
Our Lady of Eventuality
Oh lady of the easy bargain,
identify us.
We have exhausted our titles,
but the nobility of being
named is sacred.
Our lady of sparkling trends and beautiful thefts,
visit us in our needful hour.
Give us a post-dated miracle
to quench our thirsty crowds.
Your new and improved cloak, your hood of plenty,
shield us from logic's geometry.
These paychecks are your prayer beads,
these satellites your crucifixes,
these gridlocks your temple gates.
Oh lady of mystic expenditure,
take what you want, but never abandon us
in our quest for fresh lies we can believe.
Lift us up to meet you
in the toxic clouds of holy commerce,
the burnt offerings of neighborhoods.
We praise you,
though we don't know what you stand for.
We offer you tribute, though we are in debt.
Our lady of eventuality,
remind us why we pray.
Copyright Carolyn Adams © 2008
This poem may not be reproduced in whole or in part
without express permission from the author.
Matthew P. Gallant
The Toil of Animals
for Billy Collins
After a bumpy night spent in already
littered margins, I set up camp
in the shadow of nine horses fenced
by posts set in a pattern
of twos, threes and an odd four,
all with unmatched ends. Here
scurry mice and there perches
a parakeet as if they await
Noah's last call.
I gather strips from sturdy rungs
for a small fire, and when the backs
of my eyelids blacken, the horses
have the mice check my pockets.
The parakeet lands to help
and together, they tug at a button
as I dream of my first call
with the volunteer corps
of my small town's fire brigade.
The vermin ignore the horse's pleading
and tug harder. Winding streets and
jumped curbs jolt the cab.
At my knee jerk, the mice and parakeet
freeze and the horse holds its breath.
We swerve to avoid ghosts and wandering
dogs, weave between wide-eyed pedestrians.
While the heroes engage the blaze,
I unfurl the hose and out falls a poem
that ends not with smoke and ashes,
but with wet furniture and broken glass
because the deadbolt, like the button,
did its job.
Copyright Matthew P. Gallant © 2005
This poem may not be reproduced in whole or in part
without express permission from the author.
Dan Halberstein
The National Enquirer Should Be So Lucky
While broiling up a strip steak
for dinner late one night,
I cut away a bit of fat,
and saw the strangest sight:
Sizzling brown, and bordered black,
(for it was done quite well,)
before me lay the very map
of Eretz Yisroel.
I'd heard of savior-printed toast,
and Mary on a chip.
But never (I would almost boast,)
God's Land on New York Strip.
So what to do? A photograph?
A call to channel nine?
But that is not my peoples' path -
Another course was mine:
I ate the Negev, Galilee,
Yerushalayim too,
and not because I'm literally
a non-observant Jew.
Oh, I could see the miracle
Hashem had thought to render;
But now it's gone, and I am full,
and He and I remember.
Copyright Dan Halberstein © 2008
This poem may not be reproduced in whole or in part
without express permission from the author.
Laura Heidy
Shooting Ducks
Come let us hunt now, you and I,
and fortified on wine and rye
let's shoot whatever's flying by.
The Bible tells us to subdue
the doves, the quail and pigeons who
disturb our peace with gentle coo.
Forget the verse on reap and sow,
let's shoot the deer and skin his doe
like grandpa did the buffalo!
There's game to bag, let's bag us some!
That eight-point elk, his day is done
and check this out - I've got the gun!
No matter who deserves it least -
no loyal dog, no friend, no beast,
there's no one safe - save those deceased.
Let's shoot to kill, let's never quit.
Religiously, let's do our bit.
Let's hunt! The Lord commandeth it.
Copyright Laura Heidy © 2006
This poem may not be reproduced in whole or in part
without express permission from the author.
Ada Fuller
Sashimi Love
How do I love thee? Let me count the ways
I love thee as the Gunkan cup loves
The salty Ikura,
Small salty bubbles cradled in its mouth
Leaving only the feeling
Of ingesting new life.
I love thee as the Uni,
Smooth, slippery,
Caressed in leaves of seaweed,
Sent from Yaoyorosu no Kami. Soft, acquiescent,
Holding the gift of Amaterasu.
I love thee in my soul,
As the little Ika or Tako,
Reduced to its bare essence,
No leg, no beak, bare body,
Broken for you.
I love thee more than Maguro,
I love thee with a love reserved
For the unnamed Mizuko, dear Toro,
The soft underbelly
Of an ancient tuna,
Sacrificed for you - only you.
Copyright Ada Fuller © 2006
This poem may not be reproduced in whole or in part
without express permission from the author.
Jan D. Hodge
Little Miss Muffet
Little Miss Muffet of
Mannerly Parsonage,
orphaned and left to the
mercy of God,
lives on the margin of
venerability,
crumbs, and on Sundays a
morsel of cod.
Life isn’t easy for
children of happenstance,
begging for tuppence to
outlive the day.
So, with a chance at a
semireliable
place with a parson, she
didn’t say nay.
Working at dusting and
cooking and laundry for
minimal board and a
closet for sleep,
Muffet accepted her
implenitudinous
circumstance, glad to be
earning her keep.
We cannot blame her if
sitting to savor a
dairymaid’s offer of
curd-thickened whey,
she saw a spider and
proprioceptively
leapt up and skittishly
hastened away.
So there is more to be
learned from her story than
little girls fleeing when
spiders come near.
Though it may strike us as
untheological,
those who have little have
plenty to fear.
Copyright Jan D. Hodge © 2006
This poem may not be reproduced in whole or in part
without express permission from the author.
Erica Lehrer
Elegy for Anna, a Lapsed Vegetarian
Pretty and thin, Anna was a practicing vegan
who'd adhered as a girl to a very strict meal plan,
eschewing (thus never chewing) any sort of meat.
In fact, no fish nor fowl nor dairy would she eat.
Shunning fur, leather, feathers and wools,
Anna boycotted all products tested on animals.
Yet our young heroine, so lovely and so pure,
fell under the spell of Joe, a carnivore!
Seeking to please him, she ditched her convictions,
abandoning her holistic dietary restrictions.
Bidding farewell to healthy légumes, Anna ate steaks,
and plate…after plate…after plate of crab cakes,
and plump poulets doused with melted Gruyere,
and marinated pork chops and fricasseed hare,
and boeuf bourguignon on cold winter days,
and creamy tiramisu and mocha crème brûlées,
and toll-house cookies made with butter and chips
-- only pausing (mid-chew) when she glimpsed her wide hips.
Alas, my friends, Anna noticed too late,
crying: "I have been undone by what I ate!"
Friends, gourmands, countrymen, lend me your tears:
We are gathered here today because it wasn't just BMI,
but clogged arteries that caused poor Anna to die.
And now she lies resting in her pall, eating nothing at all,
nothing at all.
Copyright Erica Lehrer © 2007
This poem may not be reproduced in whole or in part
without express permission from the author.
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