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Orloski, Chandramohan.S & Wilkinson

by POETS' BASEMENT

Sudden Appearance of a Bride Not to Be

by CHARLES ORLOSKI

 

Freezing December rain, 6:00 Ante Mediem –

I drive a baby-blue 1969 VW Beetle,

Washburn Street, West Scranton,

am late for work on Roadway Express dock.

No parking spaces available at Mastrucci’s store,

I double-park, VW idles unsteadily in-neutral,

casual store entry, coffee into styrofoam cup,

old Mastrucci has The New York Times ready,

1979, Red Army’s engaged in Afghanistan.

I hand Mastrucci $1.50, turn to depart,

& a woman appears in wedding dress,

she’s certain I am the one who jilted her

many years ago, at Saint Lucille’s altar.

Angry, she lashes out,

curses me for hurting her so.

I hurried to VW, exhaust smoke ascent,

Scranton fog like choreographed incense.

She follows outdoors, threatens harm,

rain soaks beautiful white-gown, it still fits,

Mastrucci said later, “this happens once a year,

Chuck, it’s her wedding anniversary that really ain’t.”

Today, I’m scared –

that frantic face impaled upon VW window.

Poor woman, yellowish-veil drenched, perm no more,

she screamed, “Richie, I never wanted you to leave!”

1st gear would not engage,

nervous left-foot pumped clutch, a Local 229 Teamster,

fragile, I went to work in honeymoon Poconos,

bride stranded on Main Street, fist disappeared in rear-view,

no empty cans tied to Beetle’s bumper, cold rain fell,

no fallen rice, fearful, wedded to I-80 East black-ice,

down & out Saint Lucille had no dowry for me…,

why should that be?

 

Charles Orloski lives in Taylor, PA.  1974-1984, Orloski worked the break-dock of Roadway Express, Inc., Rte. 714, Tannersville, PA., until hundreds of disciplinary letters & suspensions did they part.   He can be reached at orlovzek13@aol.com.     

 

 

Nervous Flowers

by CHANDRAMOHAN.S

 

“The intellectual is a middle-class product; if he is not born into the class he must soon insert himself into it, in order to exist. He is the fine nervous flower of the bourgeoisie.” –Louise Bogan

 

Letters.

Full of ideals.

Revolutionary.

written in blood that is not theirs

Sloganeering in chorus

nervous in solitude

typeset in convent and Ivy league fonts

alphabets that never court arrest

boils down to the cost of stamp age

carried in gunny bags of leather tanned from the hides of martyr’s corpses

addressed to the mansion of bourgeoisie

where synthetic grass is cut to a level

and all algae weeded out.

 

Chandramohan.S is an Indian English poet focusing on struggles of the world’s marginalized, migrant laborers, nomads, immigrants and working classes—victimized and then forgotten as nations and cultures clash and wage relentless war.

 

 

2014: On the Eve of the Centenary

by DR. T. P. WILKINSON

 

There are no fields

we see

the static stream

throughout

the stone strewn

paths

where never known

flesh and bone

for bliss

poisonously purchased

were stranded

vaporised

all in the silence

where fingertips

slip along

the synthetic

flesh of consciousness.

There are no fields

to see

the fanatic dreams

the pouting

faces of souls

in sand and sordid

fantasy

bought yet

unsatisfied.

In the deep trenches

consumed earth

waits for blood

to rain

for clouds

to smother

another

solitude with love

Love of self,

selfless,

with an invisible

smile

wiped away

by the touch

of tender tyranny.

 

Before the shrapnel

before the slicing

splitters sever

sensitive surfaces

from their smiles

synthetic substances

separate the natural

and gratuitous

from their bearers

writhing in the search

for buried beauty

the innocent dig

blossoms along

the pock-marked

paths for bleached

hormones

aerobic srains

fashioned

into fables

drawn by saddened

trains

not yet bleeding

not yet ceding

the last dust

of beauty

until decency

at dusk

is lost.

 

Editorial Note: (Please Read Closely Before Submitting)

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