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About The North Coast times-eagle. (Wheeler, Oregon) 1971-2007 | View Entire Issue (Oct. 1, 2002)
PAGE 11 NORTH COAST TIMES E A G L E , OCTO/NO VO 2002 THE WARSHIP ‘MAR/’ 1 The warship, which bore the name Mari, lay at anchor again, at moonrise, at a wharf in North China — secret and as white as rock salt. I was the Captain, a lieutenant, slim and fair with the figure of a gazelle; I seemed to myself as graceful as a woman. I lay upon the morocco divan in the Captain's cabin, drowsing by day and by night, obsessed by opium and utterly abandoned. All this while a snow white collie at my feet kept watch over me. I had been unable — I do not know how long — to move at will. 1 was a prisoner. 2 The moonrise reminded me dimly of my sister— my only sister. I had an inkling of her fate. Long now she had been violated by the Chief Engineer of this ship, from Normandy. But I was powerless. Moreover the Mari was now a ship that shifted anchorage from port to port under cover of darkness — a ship of the fleet, under the command of infamous Yellow Pirates. Against my will I was slipping into an innocent sleep — a sleep that was not exactly sleep. 3 Midnight, I woke to the ominous creaking of the pulley. Once again someone was being consigned to the sea — I had a vision of the wooden coffin sinking down towards the dismal water. Sharper than the flash of steel, I suddenly visualized the body of my sister, now a corpse. I struggled to get to my feet, but the snow white collie, as cold as a button, was holding me down on the divan...Alas! Impotently I writhed my feeble body, and then fainted. 4 The moon had slithered down like an almond. Black night reined — time for the Mari to weigh anchor. The ship swung round on its ram, under cover of darkness, the color of the plague. -FUYUE ANZAI FLAGS FRANK RUDOLPH PAUL THE DA Y WE CUT THE SKY OPEN For Wilfred Owen The stars and stripes attached to every pane? They celebrate brave men and women going So none forget to fan the dying flames And keep the crimson tide perpetually flowing Film footage feeds parades across the sand In barbed wire barracked training camps so we Feel safe; those fresh creased uniforms can stand The rigors of a war we hope we’ll never see Those uniforms distinguish theirs from ours Once red and white cells seek quickest release And bodies take the hue of Iris flowers The prison of the skin, inviolable is breached So bury them from thirty thou so we Won't have to change but still can beat our breast And hang 'em high from pipelines to the sea The price is paid: a few flag draped homecoming chests Still Owen’s words keep calling from the trench Cursed through the sludge of death’s horrific march Across the earth where countless wars have slaughtered countless men And women, all for glory, we must ask: Sweet? Fitting? To be killed for one’s country? Or kill: You sonabitch, bang bang you’re dead! When the fight’s to line the pockets of the ruthless and moneyed Through these white lies a deeper blue is read -SID COOPER 'There is something about poverty that smells like death. Dead dreams dropping off the heart like leaves in a dry season and rotting around the feet.” -ZORA NEALE HURSTON FIRE & MAGIC WATERS Magic waters laughing with Mother Earth There is fire in those little streams but who can see it Little cherubs belching flames at pumice They are catching runaway flamethrowers When people get crazy with heavenly power And start doing it to each other in war When you grow up with death for a neighbor you toss it around some When it gets thrown back you ask the lord for strength to overcome Whose fnend is heated sand just ask the nomad shielded eyes Desert and mountain cave and tent I shall hide from all My brothers shall give me shelter and I shall be king This poet is not king but scion of harmony A wanna be angel of the blues, rock and folk guitar I vibrate green and brown like the trees of Eden rock jungles I am honorary sting of guile All the while inside these tears are flowing For unsafe children and woe begotten grownups with blackened souls -CHRISTOPHER KRAEMER the day we cut the sky open loud and proud, heads held high didn’t know what we had done first sight, first step an alien soil thought we knew our own friendly satellite couldn’t satisfy us there dipped our toe into the soup the sea of disarray of misplaced constellations, developed a thirst for it, a hunger the taste of discovery of first contact neither God nor earth rewarded us for this so we rewarded ourselves fashioned a trophy of lives and prayers, meaningless dates and statistics sit back, launch another mission lost in the loops and threshes — our pool of stars and planets sip the success from the golden cup of Opportunity awaiting the date, when, we, able to see the Little Dipper from a different vantage point shall receive a note of praise “well done" not restrained by the boundaries of earth and sky, the comet caught, analyzed once was what a hailed meeting — every 2000 years — reduced to bits of spatial flotsam and jetsam trapped in aerogel this cosmic object hailed by our ancestors, worshipped — we have stolen from time Us, thieves OFF the opaque veil of mystery, lifted we have drunk from the cup for too soon — poisoning, infatuating ourselves so madly in love with our quest for domination have gained knowledge, power, strength not pausing realization pushed away by cold, damp fingers in our missions, our endless realms of charts and data have broken our one motivation the unknown, known Man looked at the stars from the day he crawled — gilled— from the primordial soup, and wondered through years through eons of time, and history wandering our search ever onward pressed by greed, and want, and primeval instinct to tire and cease, Footprints worn away no wind to dust them from sight — only lost by mind, An abandoned planet our home world empty houses, temple ruins, ghost-eye vacant windows — lost and alone adrift the same sea now ocean of stars that we call our home -MARGIT BOWLER Margit Bowler is 12 years old She wrote this poem after reading an article in National Geographic about scientists' plans to capture part of a comet in the near future (October 5 is the 45th anniversary of the launch by the Soviet Union of Sputnik the first earth satellite) ‘JUST’ CHILDREN staring into someone s window it looks like no one s home and no one s looking back at me calling the dog to hear something love me something breathe sleeping in the darkened room again and again waking and lying debating on the pills inside the dresser drawer waiting for him to come home and bring me what I ve got to have I want I just need something to distract me -SUSAN DeBOlS It was just children playing in the sand (accompanied by the narcotic scent of blooming lindens don t forget), just children but after all the devil and the minor gods and even forgotten politicians who d broken all their promises were also there and watched them with unending rapture Who wouldn’t want to be a child — for the last time' -ADAM ZAGAJE WSKI
