Enter Home Planet News Poetry of Issue #6                        Page 29
Table of

Van Gogh’s Field
~suggested by “Wheatfield with Crows”

Crows caw and careen
above a field crazy with stalks,
wildness and impending rain,
a seething plot of land
passionate with the tragedy
of an impassable road.

My sister driving on an overpass
while being caught in a storm,
her normally steady psyche
alarmed by sudden skidding:
her car doing insane circles
till it stops, its tires an inch from
the dangerous asphalt rim,
on the verge of plunging
onto the highway below.

But Van Gogh doesn’t escape
a stumble into the abyss---
crows lunging in zigzag fury--
nor does he avoid the episode
of his cut-off ear oozing blood
thick as a torrent of splattered paint.
The lane before him swerves,
shoots off on a diagonal
overgrown by predatory plants
oppressed in a swirl of wind.
The road morphs into confusion
hovered over by dark-blue sky
smudged and dirtied with doom.

  Austin Alexis __

The Separations

Without my parents I feel naked
in a world where all others wear clothes.
What bitten fingernails, what anxiety
created by separating parent from offspring!
We’ve been edited from each other’s lives.
We’ve been herded and fenced off--
unicorns in double, triple cages of captivity,
poking, gnawing in vain at what imprisons us.

I leap, but the fences grow
twelve feet taller than they were before.
I stare, but spot only the invisibility
of those who maintain the barriers.
In a land where the language is barbwire,
chain link and thick brick wall all in one,
I need my mama,
as a singer requires air, craves air
to belt out a note that must be expressed.
In a pen that grows smaller by the second
my identity flaps and waves
like a flag trying to beckon
aid in a wilderness.

  Austin Alexis__

Release me
into Niagara’s tremble.
Life, let me go.
Let the roar of The Falls
overtake my eardrums,
intimidate my limbs.
Let me tumble
with gushes of water,
fall upon
and slide down
rocks and water walls
until I’m beyond
the notion of rescue.
Let waves drive me
until the life in me
is driven out
and I float

into a past tense
free of all tensions,
alive to a life
before the dissonances,
before the fault lines,
before the mistake
of me.

  Austin Alexis__
The F Train Never Comes. Ever.

The F Train
Never Comes.


  Mary E. Allen__

©Frank Murphy: Sheridan Square