Enter Home Planet News Poetry of Issue #5                        Page 1
                                   
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Friends on the Go
      for Donald Lev

My friends and I walk nightly
into and out of the miasma,
tangled up in our own foolishness.
The little fish dart between our legs,
and we love them
for their silver slides.
In daylight, we listen to new jazz
and Gregorian chants as we go.

Friends are gold coins
dropped into each of our pockets,
deep pockets with sensitive linings.
Each buys a round for the others
and when my turn comes around,
I raise a glass to toast the times ahead.

  Barry Wallenstein __

nn
      ©Bob Heman: Night Chimney






















Swamp Girl


What was a brown and green grove,
is now a spectacle of cockeyed ferns.
Dank patches smudge the lawn’s edge;
moss thickens up to the snake holes.

Growing one on the other,
red maples and birches couple up.
Rootlegs intertwine and lightly test
her sponge-like membrane.

Pink fluted mushrooms rise
along the way; puckered lips
wet the crevices of rotting stumps,
as she recalls only the finest weather.

Her skirt becomes muddy & slimy;
spiders stealthily weave about her shoulders.
Breathless, she’s languid but alert
in the new-found vegetable darkness.

  Barry Wallenstein__

The City


In the city of mild extremes,
lidded from summer starlight
and sweet sonorities,
I often get the willies.

In this city, the girls feed each other sugar;
each craving has a sweet tooth,
and they stay up late hours
watching old movies, talking softly,
trying on sweaters, skirts and jewels.

In the rooms and the backrooms of bars,
I fashion the changes
and watch Tamar and Sue
turn Tommy around;
they place wool over his eyes.

In this city I recompose,
I wake Tommy up
and give him my habits: a chance
and an uncut deck of cards.
Tamar and Sue, stop your games;
let Tommy in.

  Barry Wallenstein__

Topsy-Turvy


Wandering lonely atop a cloud
I fell into a turvy.
A cart pulled by three dappled horses –
one named Topsy
one called Heat
and the last one Miss Cool –
passed me by, the iron wheels
churning up a mist of dust.

So here I am,
in the mid-stride of my age
all upside down in love.
One day her smile is like a quilt
cozy warm to slip under;
the next day the grin askew
with lust and discontent
sends me into the spin of the tail.

What to do when held by such a spell,
with all those years behind me
and none to speak of up ahead?
I call her on the phone
and my heart catches and rings
with each brief bleat of sound.
Her voice trills in the receiver,
and I’m lost
again to be found.

  Barry Wallenstein__