Lawyer Poets

May 24, 2012

“Honk If You Love the Lord” by William KeenerPosted by

William Keener

HONK IF YOU LOVE THE LORD

John 3:16 is gaining on me, book,
chapter & verse welded to the bumper
of the Peterbilt burning diesel like
the devil in my rear-view mirror,
this son of a trucker come to set
driver against driver on I-85 near
Greenville, South Carolina, home
of Shoeless Joe and Praise Radio
whose listeners are the lambs of Christ,
say it ain’t so, in a world so loved
by God he gave his only begotten
as I give it more gas because Johnny
3:16 is barreling down, rolling steel
and chrome to kingdom come as if
my car is marked I Brake for Satan,
both of us overtaken by the white
Continental, license GOSPEL DJ,
a speeding preacher singing the news
whosoever followeth him shall not
perish, but shall take the off-ramp
for the Word of God Factory Outlet
where bibles stack halfway to heaven
next to Big Zack’s Discount Fireworks
and the roadside stand that promises
salvation from the traffic and an end
to everlasting thirst and hunger, yes
Hot Boiled Peanuts, Cold Peach Cider!

—from Rattle #23, Summer 2005
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May 22, 2012

“Unfinished Business” by Katya GiritskyPosted by

Katya Giritsky

UNFINISHED BUSINESS

I’ve seen them sitting in corridors
on locked units of psych hospitals
where it takes a nurse and two buzzers
to get you in and then back out again.
I’ve walked by them parked in chairs
in hallways—old women sitting alone,
uncombed, unkempt, needing a shave,
talking to someone the rest of us can’t see.

This one I know from sitting next to her in court
last week. I know from reading records
how the people that she knew started getting fuzzy
and fading away along with her mind.
Contacts lost over the years—
one son in prison, the other died a drunk,
a daughter somewhere
maybe in a facility.

She was young once, this woman—
had lovers and babies and friends.
All gone. Except the memories
of the people with whom she still
has unfinished business, to whom she is
explaining slowly, methodically, like an old
argument many times rehearsed, again
what is so important that she tell them.

—from Rattle #23, Summer 2005
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May 29, 2010

“Foxglove: Digitalis Purpurea” by David FilerPosted by

David Filer

FOXGLOVE: DIGITALIS PURPUREA

Once only a gray-green mat, like the weeds
That have survived winter in the bare ground
Around the roses. Now some spark has set
Them off, their green rocket tips, gently bent
Like hemlocks, at five feet and growing
Still, trailing plumes of blossoms, white like
Snow in shadows, crimson speckles inside—
And shaking with bees, far up in their cones.
I know how this works. Like fierce aliens,
Their brief ambition sucks the energy
From the late-spring day, first from the cats
That lay depleted under cool sword ferns,
Then me, willing to put my yard work aside,
Give what I can, these lines, to their brilliant ride.

—from Rattle #23, Spring 2005
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April 27, 2010

“Psalm for Working Women” by Lynne ThompsonPosted by

Lynne Thompson

PSALM FOR WORKING WOMEN

A microwave is my savior; I shall not starve.

It alloweth me to eat quickly. It leadeth me
to purchase Stouffers in bulk.

It restoreth dehydrated onions. It delivers me
from pre-heating for pre-heating’s sake.

Yea, though I walk through the valley
of canned goods, I shall fear no tin containers
for plastics art with me and glass and ceramics,
they comfort me.

It preparest a roast turkey in thirty-six minutes;
four for carrots when they’re ’waved on HIGH.
My rumaki comes out crisp.

Surely, defrosting and warming shall follow me
all the days of my life and I shall dwell
in the land of a Hotpoint forever.

—from Rattle #23, Summer 2009
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__________

Lynne Thompson: “Although I was a civil litigator for more than fourteen years, the practice of law seldom, if ever, enters my poems. It’s as though that person has gone off for a long (and well-deserved) sleep and this poet—always bemused—has taken her place. I like her.” (web)

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April 21, 2010

“Lion in Suburbia” by Alyce MillerPosted by

Alyce Miller

LION IN SUBURBIA

They spotted him one early gray morning
placidly seated by the children’s swingset,
over-sized marzipan cat,
like a child’s stuffed toy abandoned to the dew—

(Pathera leo, you with ratty mane and skeptical look,
briefly free of the torments that brought you here,
what compromises have you been asked to make,
while imagining a world where God shuts not the lion’s mouth.)—

What amazed them all was how still he sat—
like a statue!—is he real?—motionless predator
balanced against the backdrop of swings,
shell-shocked yellow eyes

staring down a newly-mown suburban lawn.
Roar for us! the children howled,
safely beating on glass panes.
Come away, children, come away from the windows.

We have to call someone, they said.
We must alert the authorities.
Yet they too were perplexed and transfixed
by the frayed version of mythic grandeur.

And later when the lion was surrounded and shot dead,
the spectacle of his limp yellow body
splayed in final retreat,
the children ran out in search of paw prints,

claimed remnants of the tufted tail.
They traced the flattened grass for souvenirs of fierceness,
ran roaring circles pretending to be lions too.
One child gleefully recalled the lion’s loamy eye

holding the light, like this! like this!
the proof of his terrible danger.

—from Rattle #23, Summer 2005
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__________

Alyce Miller: “Poetry offers a natural way to both talk to and about nonhuman animals. Thousands of lions and tigers live in captivity in the United States, many in private hands, often kept as backyard or basement ‘pets,’ or displayed in roadside zoos or photo booths. When they stop being ‘cute cubs,’ they are frequently subjected to acts of unspeakable cruelty, and their plight is profound. At a local animal rescue sanctuary, I met several rescued lions whose initially placid demeanor forms the deception that can make big cats so appealing. But no matter how many poems I recite to them as they lounge and stroll lazily in the sun, when these powerful, perfectly built predators turn to look me in the face, they see prey. Their real beauty is their wildness.” (web)

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April 18, 2010

“The Violet Room” by Rachel Contreni FlynnPosted by

Rachel Contreni Flynn

THE VIOLET ROOM

Small bird in the rafters.

Book buried in the hay bales.

Harness rotting at the door.

The days after my daughter’s birth
I spent reading Hemingway in bed.

Black flies roosted at the screens
and the afternoons were bright: silence

blasted in and I held still in the violet room
at the edge of town. If there was damage,

I curled away from it. If there were words,
I buried them. My flesh was sheepskin,

in the service of another. Night came
as crying, quiet as breath. I quit the book

when the old man failed to cut down
the stars with his capable hands.

—from Rattle #23, Summer 2005
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November 14, 2009

“Passenger” by Rebecca ClarkPosted by

Rebecca Clark

PASSENGER

I wonder at your nonchalance
as you drive one-handed,
not even that—
two-fingered, really
while the world flies by
at 70 miles per hour.

How am I to intervene,
save us from our fate—
pinpoints that bloom
into brick walls
in that instant I look up
to the morning sky?

A wedge of swans flies west.
Some ride a tail of wind so strong
all they do is glide, wings wide,
on nothing but open air.

—from Rattle #23, Spring 2005
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