Michele Habel-Coffey: Strings



By Michele Habel-Coffey

Quantum play
Bosons pushing violently
On the fermion 
Of impenetrable walls

Taut on the reel
Rendering infinities
Concentric circles 
Bleeding out
Over the surface of 
The still water

Across the ancient Lyre
Waiting upon the winds 
Of Orpheus spirit
To move the stones
To dance

Hebrew Shani
Crimson veins of humanity
Coursing inside
Sixty thousand miles 
Across Adam’s bloodline

Tied to Anglo-Saxon fingers
Of what should not be forgotten
Of histories repeated

For you, my Theseus
Red as my beating heart
Tied to my finger
Anchored in my veins
Pulled by violent energies
Into the Labyrinth
Whereby you may find your way out
And back to fair Ariadne
Back to me

Joyce Kilmer: Trees

I think that I shall never see
A poem lovely as a tree.


A tree whose hungry mouth is prest
Against the earth’s sweet flowing breast;


A tree that looks at God all day,
And lifts her leafy arms to pray;


A tree that may in Summer wear
A nest of robins in her hair;


Upon whose bosom snow has lain;
Who intimately lives with rain.


Poems are made by fools like me,
But only God can make a tree.

The Apple


The Apple
by Michele Habel-Coffey

I pulled the stubborn ass along the fence line with its jagged, barbed blooms in a perfect vertical line every so-many feet. The grey beast half-fought and half-submitted. It knew the carrots were waiting.

But it was the farmer’s place next to us that was the test. That old apple tree with its ripened, tart apples glistening with fresh raindrops, some dripping, some holding their teardrop shapes and reflecting the sunlight.

Raphael wanted an apple. He stopped. He dug in. He brayed and he bucked and he dug in.

I starred at the apples on the ground. Dozens of them. They were just in front of me but they were on the very outmost edge of David’s property, right at the fence where it met mine.

What the hell. The apples were going to rot there on the ground. It wasn’t that though. For weeks now I’d been eyeing the perfect specimen growing midway up, at the widest breadth of the old tree. It was just barely ripe and saturated in a cold, morning rain.

“Ah Evie”, I thought to myself, it’s not stealing if you take something no-one else wants. Fools…, they miss the treasure. Besides, if you only eat it yourself, what’s the harm.

I tied Raphael to the fence and I jumped over a little high; it hurt my knees when I landed. Last time I’d torn open my favorite jeans and they still bore the patch. I didn’t want to repeat it.

No snakes today. I was clear.

I quickly bent and grabbed three or four good looking groundlings and threw them over the fence to Raphael, knowing it would keep him content and occupied.

I glared at the glistening apple. I was going to pick it. I was going to taste it. Just how…

The lower part of the trunk split grandly into two bulky, rigid sides of a U-shaped under-arch. I could still do this. I grabbed at the secondary branches and I made the climb.

I reached for the apple and I ripped it from its stem. It gave willingly. I put it in my mouth and bit down lightly, securing the apple for the descent from the tree.

Raphael was still grazing contentedly on the apples I’d procured from earthy floor. I jumped back over the fence and I bit down hard, tearing the perfect apple. Its tart juices cleansed my palette and filled my senses, like a quick autumn breeze haunted by winter’s close chase.

It was as good as I’d imagined.


Wuji Seshat


I’d like to make Amends with the Night
Who sheltered me with my tears
Laying my cheek I held her alone

In Moonlight’s picking at small stones
I was there, with sand-and-gravel hope
To find the civilization of tomorrow

Past the smallness of our fate
I’d like to make Amends
With the Day, strong and tender

Were our flowing days, our
Mornings with our hunger for clarity
Our marigold youth of never-ending longing

Nothing is finally necessary
In how the cities we live in are occupied
In how our beds are unoccupied

We have to touch life through our ribs
And hear the beating of our hearts in what we do….

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Shel Silverstein: Sick

“I cannot go to school today,”
Said little Peggy Ann McKay.
“I have the measles and the mumps,
A gash, a rash and purple bumps.
My mouth is wet, my throat is dry,
I’m going blind in my right eye.
My tonsils are as big as rocks,
I’ve counted sixteen chicken pox
And there’s one more–that’s seventeen,
And don’t you think my face looks green?
My leg is cut–my eyes are blue–
It might be instamatic flu.
I cough and sneeze and gasp and choke,
I’m sure that my left leg is broke–
My hip hurts when I move my chin,
My belly button’s caving in,
My back is wrenched, my ankle’s sprained,
My ‘pendix pains each time it rains.
My nose is cold, my toes are numb.
I have a sliver in my thumb.
My neck is stiff, my voice is weak,
I hardly whisper when I speak.
My tongue is filling up my mouth,
I think my hair is falling out.
My elbow’s bent, my spine ain’t straight,
My temperature is one-o-eight.
My brain is shrunk, I cannot hear,
There is a hole inside my ear.
I have a hangnail, and my heart is–what?
What’s that? What’s that you say?
You say today is. . .Saturday?
G’bye, I’m going out to play!”
– See more at: http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/16480#sthash.ubi2u521.dpuf