#216 v15,08:090

RALPH MONDAY : Sunday Night
JEAN HULL HERMAN : Observing Men at Play | the Rites of Racquetball; or,
JANE HUTTO : The Settlement

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RALPH MONDAY
Sunday Night

To ride you like a kayak across the Styx, personal aruspex, postmodern oracle where in the caverns that we sail I eat your thaumaturge mind. There in water, in shadow, skimming your depths, mind tongues, I would travel downward to your ambiguous emanations at the recessed core, concentric nucleus chaotically swirling singularity. You cannot resist. There, your tongues know a thousand different voices, ungendered. There, layered pathos stripped bare, you offer up the language of the living.

from "Selected Poems" poetryrepairs #195 13.12 by RALPH MONDAY, featured poet
POETRYREPAIRS #216 v15,08:090





JEAN HULL HERMAN
Observing Men at Play | the Rites of Racquetball; or,

On the gym track bright and early, 'fore the crowd was hot and surly, Going 'round, I saw the gym bags, saw the floor five deep in gym bags, Saw a plethora of gym bags and the men crowding 'round the court, Waiting for their turn. Puzzled, I lapped 'round the track and every time I rounded back, There stood guys correctly got up, uniformly gym-clad dressed up, Ready for their turn to step up, hit that little racquetball, Ready for their turn. Ostentatious bags by Reebok, Nike, E-Force, Black and Steinboch, Bags that wouldn't make it through an airport's luggage check device, Crammed with shirts and gloves and head scarves, shoes and laces bearing logos, Ready for their turn. Oh! the racquets! Each, superior. Pity the novice 'quipped inferior, Novice brave in bright white sneakers, clean shirt, no gloves, simple shorts, Novice thinking his bag, paper, straight from Sears, would sure suffice, Ready for his turn. One sweet specimen caught my eye one man's racquet snared my eyes: Twenty-two-inch-long string techno-marvel, quivering, ready, in its frame, E-Force specially-molded carbon poised for owner's skillful strike As he swept into his turn. Though e-quipped manly cap pie, this hero, strong of limb and eye Swung his snappy 22-inch-long strings fiercely at the trophy ball, Noisily slammed it 'gainst the glass walls, rammed it home against the tough glass, Scoring with his turn. There's a moral to this story: honor, manhood, love and glory Are not found by slamming 'round some busy little tinted ball, But in the size of one's equipment. Actually, it's all equipment, Displayed at every turn.

POETRYREPAIRS #216 v15,08:090





JANE HUTTO
The Settlement

We do not speak of things forbidden now Or meet as frequently as once before, Yet through it all let's hold a firm resolve To shelter every bit of love we can. How strange that ones who cause a breach Will scarcely know or care what they have done, And even you, my dearest, fathom not The quiet breaking of my heart. Sometimes I think to go away would be An answer to this disarray of us, then Introspection deems we contemplate What one should do when faced with characters Intent on selfish enterprise and gain, Regardless of a documented plan

POETRYREPAIRS #216 v15,08:090







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from "Selected Poems" poetryrepairs #195 13.12 by RALPH MONDAY, featured poet

Many of our early poets, like JANE HUTTO here, remain active poets 20 years later. ALWAYS! humor ALWAYS! contents home TOP