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The River Poets

Journal

Based in Lambertville, NJ

A Journal of Poetry/Prose

Art & Photography

Phantasmagoria

Tremors are causing the

Easter Island heads to bobble

and the Radio City Atlas

to wobble, dropping its

oxidized world

down 5th Avenue

toward St. Patrick’s

Cathedral it whirled.

Splintering the confessional and

shattering the condom dispenser

as Rodin’s Thinker

jumps up exclaiming,

“I remember! I remember!”

They’ve replaced Lady Liberty’s

pledge for the needy and desperate

with: “Send me your affluent,

stock diversified and

portfolio literate.”

While Starbucks franchises the

Taj Mahal into a coffee shop,

Ghandi ambles by Union Square

in cargo pants, bling chain

and afro-hair,

muttering; “Peace, mother-fucker!”

Gripping tight his walker.

And arms outstretched, from afar,

Corcovado bungee jumps

off Pao de Acucar.

Overheard at a Washington luncheon:

“Our president resembles an

erectile dysfunction.”

In search of additional commandments,

ecumenical’s continue to study

graffiti on tenements.

While NYU students are kept

busy with their theses,

Venus de Milo tries on

her new prosthesis.

They’ve also customized coffins

with cell-phones, in hope of

instilling an inner relief.

And Michelangelo’s David,

petitions for a larger leaf.

©Joe Treceno 1/24/08

Still Life

There is a scene in a movie,

where the heroine

runs away to a shore motel

for a few days respite,

no television, no phone,

no paper, no humans,

just the sound of waves

lapping on the shore,

as she drifts in and out of sleep,

wrapped in white sheets,

the salt water infused in the

air she breathes.

In the story, the young woman

left home, husband, children.

Floating between what’s real,

and imagined, she succumbs

to the dark side for a time,

eventually returning

a bit damaged,

but withstanding.

Yet it seemed to me,

this creature was ill-fitted

to her life from the start.

She was a moon dancer,

keeper of secrets,

a spinner of tales,

an imaginative adventurer

stifled by the confines of

a June Cleaver life.

I envied her brief episode

to the far shore,

wanted her to linger, to

become a woman made of

ocean, sand, salt and air,

eyes of ocean green

washed pebbles,

hair of flaxen seaweed

sweeping behind her,

erasing footsteps,

so none could find her.

© Judith A. Lawrence

Spring's Parade

Willows weep golden branches,

punctuate the drab horizon

fortelling Spring's arrival.

Intricate Red Maple flowers

tint ridges and woodlands crimson.

Blush Cherry and Magnoloa trees

transform landscapes into pink palaces.

Bradford Pears, white lacy cones of snow,

march in housing developments.

Huge buds of Shagbark Hickories unravel

divulging clusters of perfectly formed leaflets.

Beeches project sharp shimmering buds,

release last year's tattered foliage.

Oaks still sleep. Soon soft green catkins

of tiny flowers will cascade, twirl, and join

springtime's glorious tree parade.

© Carolyn Constable

Hurricane Andrew

With water on the windows

Chopin stops his etudes

in eagerness

of short-lived hours

cats lose sisters

in the soft muzzle

of the first palm's wrinkle,

you hardly spoke,

only infinite thickets

have fallen in branches

closing your bullet-holed eyes

from astonished casements

a wreckage of cars

crumbed limpid leaves

in its cold caresses

in unfriendly common places

Andrew turns the head

of skinny cupboard angels

as books and suitcases fall

like killer bees and locusts

dank waters flood

finding yourself

on a plywood mattress

looking for chalk

for your own obituary.

© B. Z. Niditch

When The Doves Go For Good

my mother comes back in their space,

There are birds in her hair,

more luxurious than before the

iv, a nest of hair for her last bird bones.

It was May. She wanted death. She

wanted to be one of those birds in India

people buy to let go. She wanted to

be all wings in darkness, wanted to be

where the sun thinned out, tired of

blood tests, vampires. Her body

dissolving, the birds' nest as

flimsy. They came back,

then left. There was no way

to keep what had to go.

© Lyn Lifshin

The Scavenger

Overhead, three buzzards lazily flew

As I lay in the sweet September sun

And I waved at them to be sure they knew,

If they saw me, that I was by no means done.

With living; Then laughed at my conceit

That they might even have seen me wave

Or have thought of me vaguely good to eat

Instead of leaving me to the grave.

(For a poet who hasn’t written lately

More than a fair few lines - unread -

Might not be worth the time of stately

Birds of prey, by hunger led.)

But they stayed aloft, seemed not to see

The treasure below, while on the wing -

Perhaps they’d have deigned to feast on me

Had I been some wide-eyed cat, or King.

© George Dabrowski - 9/3/2007

Blue Dragons, White Tigers

I hold a cup of tea,

Sip a poem.

Mimicking sound,

Blue Dragons begin to roar

As white tigers wrestle

With spaces between the rhythms.

In the breezes bamboo still blends.

© Richard Alan Bunch

REAL LOVE

REAL LOVE IS A HURRICANE

A SHOOTING STAR

A WALK ON THE MOON

REAL LOVE IS A SUNDAY PICNIC

A BARBECUE

A HOT DOG AND BEER

AT THE WORLD SERIES

REAL LOVE CAN'T BE FOUND

IN A STORY BOOK

OR IN A FAIRY TALE

REAL LOVE IS LIKE

A THUNDER STORM

A BOLT OF LIGHTNING

A HURRICANE

REAL LOVE KNOWS NO BOUNDARIES

DRAWS NO LINES

REAL LOVE IS LIKE PARACHUTE JUMPING

HALF JOY HALF FEAR

REAL LOVE IS LIKE A RAINBOW

PAINTING IN THE SKY

© A. D. Winans

Poetry Selections from River Poets and Contributors

Poems, Prose, Art/Photography by River Poets and Contributors

All future rights to material published on this web site are retained

by the individual Authors and Artists/Photographers

Music by Sandy Bender

"Thorns and Brambles"

"Garden Gate" Oil Painting - Joe Kazmierczyk

"Towards Bridge Street " Oil Painting - Joe Kazmierczyk

Warm Spring Morning

As the sun begins designing

with wind and shadow

Venus, blushing likea transient vision introduces

Aurora, who when thoroughly aroused

by the fragrance of spring

Hastens to freshen her face with golden sunshine.

Nearby, a dove coos

while a distant motor hums

And on the lawn outside my bedroom window

A pair of robins

play upon a circle

of freshly fallen magnolia petals.

THE WOODCARVER

He lies numb, the

stillness covering him,

In knotted bough and knotted pine

he'd sought beauty's every whim.

No longer sanding smooth the grain

and applying the varnish stain.

Once his work carried the

eloquence of Gaudi

and exhibited at Michner's

Museum and Rago's Gallery.

Friends and acquaintances

never found him a bore,

now move with heavier tread

and hearts grown sore.

Whimsical leprechaun

with lust for life,

comraderie and humor

helping blunt all strife.

A face rarely framed in glower,

building with skill

his Shangrila tower.

Devouring existence with

unbounding elation,

his God swishing slightly

upon occasion.

Muse with interest in all,

no longer to be, never at all,

listening to the majesty

of Beethoven's Ninth

never glancing at the

proximity of death's scythe.

An aroma of coffee,

a trail of woodchips,

adrift on savior wings.

In memory of Phil Powell, New Hope, PA woodcarver

Stopping By

Another day. I note the anger

in the sun.

There's work to do. Many will die.

We are entwined in our skins

counting the coins in the pockets

of the dead.

Once there were parties on the lawns

of Victorian novels.

I walked there reading. Reading.

Why does the swamp lure me on,

a wetness in the pant leg,

a slosh in the boots.

My blood owns me like an

absent landlord.

Ok I am behind in the rent.

I am on a short leash reaching

for the eggs in the pigeon nest.

Clack Clack.

I hear it. I know the bell tolls.

I grew up in a funeral home

I talked to the dead when nobody saw.

I made many friends there before departure

on the final train.

I am trying not to be bought by the

club of remorse.

If you hand me another day

I'll put on my clothes.

I'll take it.