Tuesday, September 29, 2009

Featured Poet: William Stoneberger

                          The Mirror

               Sometime the mirror is my mother.
               Her hair,
                             going toward gray,
               graces my head.
               Her eyes,
                               owl-wise and ancient,
               emerge behind my own.
               I recognize their regrets,
               harbor their hopes like heirloom treasures.

               Sometimes the mirror is my father.
               His expression,
                                        almost evil,
               possesses my mouth.
               His attitude,
                                 all-mighty and apathetic,
               is my only legacy.
               I bear its terrible weight,
               feel its fangs sink into my spine.

               Sometimes the mirror is my mask.
               Its stare,
                             blank alabaster,
               terrorizes my mind.
               Its features,
                                  frozen and unfeeling,
               refuse my reflection.
               I give nothing away,
               shut my heart in a lead-lined vault.

               Sometimes the mirror is my self.
               My face,
                              sagging slightly,
               shows my years.
               My mind,
                              contemplative and nostalgic,
               imagines another life.
               I dream "me" out of existence,
               someone else stares back.

                                  An Artist Confesses

                     I have been a thief,
                     robbing life from the night
                     stealing its essence
                     inhaling all its offerings
                     like the cigarettes
                     I stole from my father
                     and snuck into dark corners
                     to smoke.

                     I have swiped the moon's power
                     and used it       
                     to weave a web,
                     ensnarling strangers
                     in that lacy seduction
                     - lust and lunacy.

                    I have taken the colors
                    of certain eyes
                    that offered their glances to me,
                    flashing like strobes
                    across bar rooms and lanes of traffic,
                    holding them up toward the light
                    like crystal prisms.
                    I have been a burglar,
                    breaking into the best of dreams
                    convincing them to belong to me
                    conning them into keeping me company
                    recreating them in my own image,
                    chiseling away.

                                         The Little Man

                            L (ove)
                               onliness lingers
                            in the little bed
                            in the little room
                            in the little house.

                            The little man
                            ( moan & groan )
                            ( regret) is in deep
                             in a drown of a river
                             of rolling rage.

                             He hums his heart
                             a dirge
                             lowdown dirty (dog) blues
                             & blacks
                             & grays (shadows)
                             ( ghosts).

                             Winter within
                             the reach his
                             ( arthritic ) fingers
                             he feels the grip
                             tighten ( his throat )

                             D (espair)
                             into circles under
                             his eyes (blind)
                             and he keeps the depression
                             tucked in a cr (amp)
                             tight twisted
                             little torture.

                             The little man
                             in the little house
                             all alone   trapped
                             ( tears )  in the temptation
                             to put an end to it all.

                             There's nothing little
                             about his pain ( massive )
                             large in l (ove)