Annsfire and Davies

Event Horizon

by JOAN ANNSFIRE

 

Gathered at the threshold of the possible

we speak out, exchange ideas,

our call and response reverberates

with the acoustic harmony of resistance:

Whose streets? Our streets!

Whose city? Our city!

 

Assembled against despair,

reconciliation, surrender,

we have arrived to collect

on a promise denied, a promise long overdue,

we have been waiting for this moment

since the floor began slipping

down and away beneath our feet

like the amusement park ride

that depends solely on centrifugal force

to keep bodies splayed up against the walls

until the motion stops.

 

Then, everyone slides down

into the slowing center,

some breaking the falls of others,

all without a foothold

descending into a closed circle,

marking the end

of a wild ride.

 

The carnage is real,

collateral damage,

the inevitable consequence of undeclared war;

greed, dishonesty, speculation,

weapons of mass destruction:

a crisis, a travesty,

a legacy of lies.

 

A gaping black hole

breathes its dark whirling breath

inches from our eyelashes:

it is a maelstrom in waiting,

growing, expanding, disappearing

into a vortex of unlimited capacity

where all matter is consumed and transformed

into pure energy.

 

Inertia is no longer an option,

stasis has become impossible;

we are hurled by unstoppable trajectory

into a future young, inchoate,

awaiting definition.

 

Poised and ready,

we are standing on the event horizon,

the dawn of insight, a threshold

where imagination meets and merges

with vision.

 

Once we were scattered like

stars across the night sky

now we become a beam of light

able to penetrate deep into dark places.

 

We link arms,

step beyond hesitation, united;

just one paycheck from the street

and one moment

from destiny.

 

Joan Annsfire is a Berkeley based poet and writer whose work has appeared previously in Poet’s Basement.

 

 

Native Plants and Aliens

by ROBERT A. DAVIES

 

So many plants in my garden native to Oregon,

to New England also.

Not the wild geranium

taken by a friend from Robert Frost’s back lot.

And not the wintergreen

because pines in New England

are supposed to have them.

It’s not nostalgia that makes me plant these aliens

but a sort of justice.

 

Maybe justice itself has become alien

to all these united states,

as drones fly above

poets and immigrants.

 

 

Power Washing

by ROBERT A. DAVIES

 

The CIA man down the street

has spent half the day

power washing his porch and steps.

He will never wash the blood away.

 

Robert A. Davies has been living in Portland a long time, in Oregon longer. He has recently appeared in Windfall, Poetrymagazine.com and in CounterPunch. His latest book is Melons And Mendelssohn.

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