poetryrepairs #202 v14.07:080
RALPH MONDAY : The Play
MARGARET C. SZUMOWSKI : Self-Portrait in a Helicopter
KIRBY WRIGHT : Kahala Beach 2004
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RALPH MONDAY
The Play
She came from the bathroom ready for the play. Dressed to thrill, red plaid schoolgirl micro mini, leopard spike heels, she strutted through the room like an empowered Eve on a long overdue mission. These were her eyes, her legs, and beneath her self-acknowledged sinful panties her woman nature called out like simultaneous seductive dangerous voices beyond the rim's flickering fires. In the moment beasts and banshees were her nature. She came to me and whispered that all is a relative play, a stage set for the doomed, but now let us create our drama, our meaning, let us moan out our lines in the opening act and worry about neither the conflict nor the climax. She sucked in my flesh and made me the satisfaction of her throbbing desire, her pleasures rippling across her body like a summer heat wave. Neither was the object. Both players upon a momentary stage speaking lines of warmed wetness, her shimmering sex soaked and open to the erect hardness that penetrated beyond her open thighs, her eyes thrown back, her moans savage and surreal, she played upon her stage and set out to write meaningful lines. She came from the bathroom ready for the play. Dressed to thrill, red plaid schoolgirl micro mini, leopard spike heels, she strutted through the room like an empowered Eve on a long overdue mission. These were her eyes, her legs, and beneath her self-acknowledged sinful panties her woman nature called out like simultaneous seductive dangerous voices beyond the rim's flickering fires. In the moment beasts and banshees were her nature. She came to me and whispered that all is a relative play, a stage set for the doomed, but now let us create our drama, our meaning, let us moan out our lines in the opening act and worry about neither the conflict nor the climax. She sucked in my flesh and made me the satisfaction of her throbbing desire, her pleasures rippling across her body like a summer heat wave. Neither was the object. Both players upon a momentary stage speaking lines of warmed wetness, her shimmering sex soaked and open to the erect hardness that penetrated beyond her open thighs, her eyes thrown back, her moans savage and surreal, she played upon her stage and set out to write meaningful lines.

poetryrepairs #202 v14.07:080

All the fine arts are species of poetry--Samuel Taylor Coleridge

poetry repairs your heart
even as it splits it open.
VIRGINIA WOOLF
The Art of Reading




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RALPH MONDAY is a regular contributor; poetryrepairs has published him since the late 1990s. Poetryrepairs featured MONDAY's "Selected Poems" in #195 13.12

MARGARET C. SZUMOWSKI 
Self-Portrait in a Helicopter
She wants to pray, but Hades won't let her. He's got her. When he calls, she'll go into the dark, hitchhike, even if it's miles. "Walk the 20 miles to my house, Persephone." I can land on a slip of paper, I tell myself. Why wasn't I able to find her that whole night? Maybe it was the false address and phone number. I landed the helicopter carefully on the mayor's roof and crept down the back stairs. I thought it was his son Hades again, the one covered with a green tattoo. An undercover agent, I crept around the city, knocked at doors, looked everywhere, avoiding the attack dogs. I even lifted the manhole covers, searched the alleys. Sometimes I enjoy my helicopter its churning whirring turning relaxes me after another day of looking for her at Hades Barbecue, Hades Rave, the Raving Lunatic's Dance Hall, the Opium Den.

poetryrepairs #202 v14.07:080

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KIRBY WRIGHT Kahala Beach 2004
The waves are furious. They show no mercy, Angry faces crashing white. The beach responds by shrinking. Stones, partially exposed, Hide their bottoms. The clouds relinquish their patrols. The sky shifts from blue to cobalt. A jet descends, Roaring like ocean. Who rests in the deep water Where the waves are built? This vanishing strand Knew Kamehameha's footsteps. A chunk of lime-colored glass Maroons on the sand.

from poetryrepairs.com #79 04.07:080
poetryrepairs #202 v14.07:080

Poetry endangers the established order
of the soul - Plato

REPAIR : resort, frequent or habitual going; concourse or confluence of people at or in a place; making one's way; to go, betake oneself, to arrive; return to a place; to dwell; to recover, heal, or cure; to renew; to fix to original condition.
-- Oxford English Dictionary

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poetryrepairs #202 v14.07:080
RALPH MONDAY : The Play
MARGARET C. SZUMOWSKI : Self-Portrait in a Helicopter
KIRBY WRIGHT : Kahala Beach 2004

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