Wednesday, July 08, 2009
Zvi A. Sesling has had poems published in the Voices Israel Anthology, Midstream, Ship of Fools, The Chaffin Journal, Poetica, Ibbetson Street, Illya’s Honey, Wavelength, Asphodel, Saranac Review, New Delta Review, Main Channel Voices and Hazmat Review, Ibbetson Street among others. In 2007 he received First Prize in the Reuben Rose International Poetry Competition and was selected to read his poetry at New England/Pen in 2008 by Boston Poet Laureate Sam Cornish. He is the founder of the Muddy River Poetry Review.
He was drumming his fingers, raising
First the forefinger, then the middle,
Ring and pinkie, and dropping them
Rapidly to create a drumming sound,
Repetitious and as boring as he was
Bored, the only sound in the room
The incessant rat-a-tat-tat of the fingers
Matching the vacant look in his eyes, the
Falling of his face like a melting ice cream
Cone, his left ear cocked slightly upward
To hear a sound that would break the
Boredom, free him from the classroom
For Wanda Bowers, English teacher, Ret.
University City (MO) High School
Some leaves are blushing red,
others are smiling yellow at the
long winter sleep ahead, brown
leaves are ready to be buried while
trees, embarrassed by their nakedness,
await their snow white dresses and
the new green gown that spring brings.
As the trees shed summer, people begin
to cover themselves for winter. First jackets,
then coats, hats and gloves. Boots follow
I can hear her smiles in waves across
miles of telephone wires bringing
her voice and that smile unseen to warm
a cold room like a flame reaching outward
against the chill or lighting a darkened room
like a lamp touched with electric life. Her
voice and smile arouses my drowning spirit as
if she'd tossed a raft into a sea of boredom
For Susan J. Dechter
The snake is on the kitchen counter making its
way toward me. Deception: it is a licorice stick
and instead of a smooth body it is twisted and
instead of biting me, I bite it, my front teeth cutting
through like two cleavers about to engage in battle.
Licorice, you see, is the human mind, it can be twisted
yet remain cheery like a dream, or hard like a nightmare
Like nations it can be sliced into pieces or heated and
stuck together, fractures forever separating the pieces
the way our minds are detached from each other.
* From "Cyclamens and Swords Magazine"