All the content of this website is © Copyright erbacce © Copyright on individual poems

remains with the authors; nothing may be reproduced without express permission.

If you download a copy of erbacce all copyright rules still apply.

31. Featuring: Aleathia Drehmer

Giorgio de Chirico

Melancholy and Mystery of a Street, 1914

 

Perspective is relative

to where we each stand

on the longitude of time.

                               The arches line

                                               the street—dark

                                                               mouths gaping

                                               with want to be filled.

Distance requires our eyes

to tell the truth in all

latitudes of space.

                               She    runs   close   to   the   sun,

                                               wheel    and    stick

                                 turning       torture      over

                                               to   infinity    and    with    glee.

Light moves regardless

of any constraint placed

by the hands of man.

                                       The street holds darkness

                                                              hostage with mental

                                                    barbed wire.  The trinity will swallow

                                                              her, undeniably and with passion.

 

Aleathia Drehmer

Finding a Breaking Point

 

We fall on our knees

in the most cliché of ways

looking for understanding.

 

“One thing is for sure,”

he says, “we’ll never get out

of this life alive.”

 

As he moves down the hallway,

I know my religion prepares me

from birth knowing it all ends in death

 

with the essence of our being

spread back into the atmosphere

like dandelion fluff full of wishes;

 

it lands where the wind

takes it, it grows

if conditions are right

 

but, I can’t help but hang

my tear soaked face, shoulders

shuddering, as we add

 

another bag of memories

to our closet of failed

great expectations.

 

There is nothing more

we can do than hold hands

and say I’m sorry.

 

 

Aleathia Drehmer

I painted this picture for you

 

shivers of

ink dark

crashes shy

across accidental

declarations sinking

thick brushstrokes

shaken

landscapes spill

slow drip unfinished

tears pull dry strokes

across calm sea

 

located

ink imaginary

lost in this distance

awkward lines drawn

across faint eyes echo

 

 

Kate Adams

 

 

 

ON THE ART OF DREAMING

 

If allowed not to leave past the dimming horizon,

then I request a ticket to stay. So I can watch

a new screening of a dream! Why is this yearning

for a relentless rattle of a film projector?

 

…the daily movie show has given me the power

of humility. Ever since a cold image of a crypt

changed into the sun’s greeting…

 

In my fist I firmly hold an entrance pass

to inexplicable dramas on celluloid. While

at nights I emerge towards the frontier,

fix my eyes on reality: gray it isn’t

 

– it radiates enchantingly with mystifying gleams!

Still I always step back and press hard, till I bleed,

an advance ticket to tomorrow’s screening…

 

Dariusz Pacak

 

 

 

 

BLOOD FLECKED GRASS, WEED,

BOTH FUCKED IN THON FIELD

 

CC all embarrassed at menstrual staining Ma’s mattress

coaxed me to hatch our escape.  A walk to river Bann

along back roads barters the balance of flowering

love. Bloodhounds barked and cock and hen crowed.

Do you remember CC?  The sun shone springtime bright.  

I remember flowers unknown by name, but crystalline

like semi-precious tears.  In walk we clasped each other

like we couldn’t grasp by mind this concept of balance, like youngsters

on a see-saw we’d let go to feel the warm repletion in the  rise,

to touch skies that were ourselves, searched and traversed their limits,

and all this beneath the most beauteous sky not imagined,

to clasp each other again, and again in a falling away

in a constant return, to the bounteous form that bridges the void.  O!

The tumult of rain that holed us up at Finney’s Oils

was gracious in granting us time to kiss and we thanked it

as it waved goodbye, and in the bright again, and clasped just so,

we reached the river and the bridge where I’d last seen Colleen.

In your attempt to clamber the wrong fence you got your boots

covered in dog shit and we began to worry about going blind.

But we set all worries aside and clambered the right fence

into the angler’s field that used to be somewhere not to call my own.

The singing donkey and the pookah were still there and looked askance

in our advance, I was sure I heard them say “beware, tonight

the moon will fall out of the sky, forever.”  CC I’m sorry

I never told you.  But it took me time to trust myself again, again.

And anyway, I knew, I couldn’t be sure, as the holograph is grimy.        

 

 

Robert Herbert

before sleep

 

the plane

throws nets of rain-mail knitted from quadratic equations

over my roof and thoughts.

solutions dissolve like chalk as they slide

into wet guttersleep. i resist,

just in case a unified theory

of everything

should come to me uninvited

like a gift of engine-noise and water.

 

the plane fades into ink still loud on the page

but the rain is tenacious;

scratches formulae on the slate.

 

it is late.

time conspires with space and gravity

to pull me down into a black hole;

the pen now weighs the same as a

small hatchback

and my lashes

drag my blinds down to the

event horizon.

 

Roddy Williams