Saturday, November 3, 2007
Late Night Motel
Thirty dollars a night
no air conditioning
I lay half naked on the bed--
single bed in the middle under
the single hanging light bulb,
towels underneath me,
I dare not to touch the covers.
I scatter my clothes on the floor,
they’re dirty anyway
I remind myself, shake them free
of whatever is crawling through them
turn the light off, so I don’t have to see
walls painted grey
paint flaking here, there,
collecting on the bare floorboards
where my clothes collect dust mites
I can start to feel them crawl
possibly, underneath my skin.
I scratch and scratch with out relief
what is happening to me?
My skin is pink and raw
pain, the only relief from the itching.
I can hear the sounds through the walls
snoring, coughing, crying.
the low murmurs of people making love,
or are they just fucking their way into happiness,
with a stranger that they met,
on the street corner,
across from the motel,
Road House singing outside,
a fight in the parking lot.
An airplane soaring overhead,
landing in the nearby airport,
passengers oblivious of the degenerate nature of this city.
You are sleeping on top of the covers?
But I can't sleep.
The cockroaches are scratching down the walls,
pulling down the remainder of the paint.
It falls to the floor as they scatter.
The sun is finally starting to come up.
Bio: Andrew Craner resides in the small village of Greyabbey, Northern Ireland; he is originally fron Ontario, Canada, but moved to Ireland 11 years ago to be with partner Julie. He has been recently been published in 'A Hudson View Poetry Digest' and 'SpingingS... intense tales of life.' and in the up coming Christmas edition of 'Delivered'. He is also member of the writing group 'Ards Writers'. He has a number of poems and short stories posted on http://Writing.Com/authors/cranemillican.
Editorial Comments: Here is a real to life poem that
takes us to many places in our young lives some of which
we wished we could have avoided-but this poem adds craft
to the unsettling surrounds.
By Amber Rothrock
fallen crab apples
rotting in the heat,
infested with flies.
The apples that is.
Sitting on the bench
the lack of broken bones.
to stay home from school.
Mother’s only advice
is to pick up your feet.
But it would be
to cut down the damn tree.
eats crab apples anyway.
Bio: Amber Rothrock is a talented lady and editor of
Illogical Muse: http://www.geocities.com/illogicalmuse/
soon to go to print as well as online.
Editorial Comment: I love poems like this one, you can feel your toes
squeeze between the crap apples. The scent, the aggravation, the fall ritual,
the loveliness of southwestern Michigan. The poem is just real.
By Shirley Dunn Perry
Merton rarely speaks
except with his fingers
on the guitar, accordion
and church organ on Sunday mornings.
Merton doesn't chat
about weather, politics, or poems
because his words are marbled
a mumble of muffled sounds.
He was born with his top lip and palate cracked open by God or bad luck
only his family could understand him some of the time.
Merton, stooped by wordlessness
soul drawn tight into concentric circles like tree rings
harnesses Bess, the old mare
and heads down the logging road.
wild cherry blossoms
white in flight fall on the road
a cloud of mosquitoes
buzzing and biting
each bite reminding him
that he belongs on the farm
the one to stay
tending parents, gardens, and animals.
Merton stops to listen
to the White-throated Sparrow--
sun warm on his shoulders
one hand on the reins
the other in his pocket
fingering a newspaper clipping
with the name and address
of an oral surgeon in Halifax.
First published in Oregon East, Volume XXXVII, 2006
Bio: Shirley Dunn Perry has had a few poems published and
presently lives in Tucson Arizona. When she is not writing
she is a nurse.
Editorial Comment: I love poems like this, my only regret
is I didn't write it. They follow a pattern similar to my own writings
with a story, rich in with imagery that touches the heart and imagination.
I look foward to more poem by Shirley in the near future.