Lawyer Poets

October 28, 2009

“Small Reflection” by Louis FaberPosted by

Louis Faber

SMALL REFLECTION

It is that moment when the moon
is a glaring crescent,
slowly engulfed by
the impending night—
when the few clouds give out
their fading glow
in the jaundiced light
of the sodium arc street lamp.
It nestles the curb—at first a small bird—
when touched, a twisted piece of root.

I want to walk into the weed-strewn
aging cemetery, stand in the shadow
of the expressway, peel
the uncut grass from around her headstone.
I remember
her arthritic hands clutching mine,
in her dark, morgueish apartment, smelling
of vinyl          camphor          borsht.
I saw her last in a hospital bed
where they catalog and store
those awaiting death, stared
at the well-tubed skeleton
barely indenting starched white sheets.
She smiled wanly and whispershouted
my name—I held my ground
unable to cross the river of years
unwilling to touch
her outstretched hand. She had
no face then, no face now, only
an even fainter smell of age
of camphor          of lilac          of must.

Next to the polished headstone
lies a small, twisted root.
I wish it were a bird
I could place gently
on the lowest branch of the old maple
that oversees her slow departure.

—from Rattle #23, Spring 2005
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October 17, 2009

“Plea Bargain, June 29” by Mark C. BrucePosted by

Mark C. Bruce

PLEA BARGAIN, JUNE 29

I’m waking from the early afternoon,
I watch the trees outside nod with the wind.
I need to go and plead a client soon.

The café radio casts out a tune,
a lover’s plea: Forgive him, he has sinned.
I’m waking from the early afternoon

to reappear and try to staunch the wound
of a life beneath the law now pinned.
I need to go and plead a client soon.

Outside the vagary of testy June,
the sun in pale blue sky, alone and skinned.
I’m waking from the early afternoon,

the taste of sleep now fading. Here, the moon
has come out early, shaking white and thinned.
I need to go and plead a client soon.

The letter of the law reads like a rune.
“This’ll be quick,” the good bailiff grinned.
I’ve wakened from the early afternoon.
My client slumps. He’ll be pleading soon.

—from Rattle #23, Spring 2005
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October 4, 2009

“What Is Your Idle Job?” by Ace BoggessPosted by

Ace Boggess

“WHAT IS YOUR IDLE JOB?”

—question (with typo) in a mass email’s subject line

I wait for lunchtime at my desk, spinning
like a boy in a barber’s chair. Come noon, a walk
past pretty girls in flowered clothing, faces blooming
from sunlight’s brownish blush. I sit awhile,
lotus-like beneath a shadowy willow, breathe smells
of cut grass, melting chocolate.
I feed squirrels, sing love songs to pigeons,
watching as they bob their heads in rhythm.
Then it’s back to the office for coffee
tasting like gasoline, maybe a doughnut on the sly.
If my boss pops over, checking my progress,
I greet him with a good-natured pat on the back
to wipe the sticky glaze from my fingertips. After,
it’s time for all the important tasks: I shuffle
blank pages, transfer calls to disconnected numbers.
I wink at my window-reflection. I liaise. Mostly,
I deal with people come looking for me.
I give directions, always surprised if they reappear,
winded & flushed, to ask me where I am.

—from Rattle #23, Summer 2005
Tribute to Lawyer Poets

__________

Ace Boggess: “I just like watching things, from at a distance at first and eventually from the center of the scene. I started writing as a way to take photographs of the things I was watching and, later, living. I began with songs as a fun way to take those photos, then moved on to my real love, novels. I picked up the bad habit of writing poems when I finally realized writing novels takes so long that too many important photos never get taken along the way.” (web)

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September 26, 2009

“Doing Lineups on my Birthday” by Richard S. BankPosted by

Richard S. Bank

DOING LINEUPS ON MY BIRTHDAY

First you flew over the jungle canopy,
your chopper throbbing like a heart.
I was in the movement, striving against it all.

We crossed swords in the frenetic courtroom,
you in high boots and fifty-mission crush
describing how blood glistens on the dull
3:00 AM streets as if it were alive and I,
asking the time between the call and arrest,
radio descriptions, the cuffed I.D.
The jurors saw you as the Oracle, girded for war.

Now I am the technocrat, filing motions,
attending pre-trial conferences in a bow tie;
you are detailed to the prison, running lineups.
We talk about statistics, the per diem for a cell,
that our paths have suddenly crossed again when
the phone announces your second grandchild,
born on my birthday far from this gray place.

Somehow, I felt all along that neither of us
ever wanted more than home.

—from Rattle #23, Spring 2005
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September 23, 2009

“So You Said What You Had to Say” by Susan AbrahamPosted by

Susan Abraham

SO YOU SAID WHAT YOU HAD TO SAY

So you said what you had to say, so what
if your words are like a road
that finally got paved;
so what if the wheels
that were always spinning
now have a place to roll,
their own lane beside
the bicycles, and the cars
forever spilling smog.
So now you can say
that the road is yours, too;
that of the great roar
that wakes us each morning,
one tiny squeak is yours.
Now you are the lucky woman
in the supermarket starting
the new line at the new cashier.
Now the parties you dance at
will be above ground
and you will have traded in
your gills for lungs.
And your galoshes will be applauded
at the fashion show for frogs.
In the bleakest urban park,
the pigeons will mimic
your walk, and the tigers,
forgetting the amber sheen
of their own fur, will brush
against your skin saying
what your father said each time
he bought knew shoes:
Feel this, like butter.
All this and more because
of the cryptic company you keep;
all this because you were busted
for lecturing in a private museum
posted with anti-lecture guards,
because your skin overpowered
their fur; your nails, their claws;
your breath became the color of dahlias
reflected in your mother’s long car.
A few words strung on a line
like the whitest sheets
across an alley and everyone’s
muttering. Everyone’s too stunned
to pick up your dropped glove.

—from Rattle #23, Summer 2005
Tribute to Lawyer poets

__________

Susan Abraham: “I write poetry because it makes me work hard at getting things right; there’s no point in racing to get to the end, and it works best when read out loud. It has room for everything and doesn’t have to be about anything.”

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