Saugatuck, Michigan Sunset

Holland, Michigan

THIS KIND OF FIRE by Charles Bukowski

sometimes I think the gods
deliberately keep pushing me
into the fire
just to hear me
yelp
a few good
lines.

they just aren't going to
let me retire
silk scarf about the neck
giving lectures at
Yale.

the gods need me to
entertain them.

they must be terribly
bored with all
the others

and I am too.

and now my cigarette lighter
has gone dry.
I sit here
hopelessly
flicking it.

this kind of fire
they can't give
me.

IT'S ABOUT WHAT HAPPENED by Kelly Wantuch (John Ashbery eraser-Cop and Sweater)

                                                     

seasons forgot

those listless men’s

breathing        doom

take them away

grow a        wall

behind a prized mind

              of a dark few

drain the desert sand

leave the stars

so much could have happened

today the living

wave        possibility

from the universe

Yay, only one more day!

Worthy of a Poem by Kelly Wantuch

HOLLAND, MICHIGAN photography by Kelly Wantuch

COLLAGE PAGES by Kelly Wantuch

DECISIONS by Kelly Wantuch (oil pastels)

Newfoundland dog VS Rouen duck!

New Views on Gender- very nicely done editors Rebecca Gibson and April Buck!

I am impressed with this publication and actually feel proud to have my poem in this beautiful artful book. It is easy to see the hard work and dedication the editors have put into this. It sets a standard I hope other editors will try to achieve. It can be done with greatness, one just needs to have pride like Rebecca and April have shown in their work.

FATE by Kelly Wantuch (Ekphrastic on Andy Warhol's 129 Die in Jet)

Fate

There was time, and later
There was wreckage thrown in
The ripe wheat fields of Wakarusa.
Grasshoppers floated above
The fiery battleship
Ashes like drunken angels
Falling from the sky’s stars.
Crows cried out when Andy
Warhol’s remains were found.
Marilyn’s cries soaked the earth
Stinging the praying earthworms
Burned skin reminding us all
Of our own future extinction
Taken when least expected.

THE END by Kelly Wantuch ( Ekphrastic of George Segal's The Restaurant Window)

                                                                                                       

They no longer acknowledge  

The ruptured windows of matte

Patina reflections in  

Their cold burnt coffee re-warmed.

Yellowed Polaroids cascade out

Of dusty gathered albums stored.

Pigeons rustle and moan among

Dry bread crumbs thrown. A red balloon

Slips through the boy’s fingers drifting

Into the dark mist an unknown town.

They are just forced to wait longer.

 

  

Spring blossoms, Dogs, and Ducks