Enter Home Planet News Poetry of Issue #5                        Page 57
Table of


I know two deaf mutes.  The sister is silent,
Angelic in quietude like a sunset.
Her sub-group gestures in solidarity                                   
To a manual alphabet that's a work                                                
Of blessed theater to watch and revere.                                           
Mimes treat them like a cryptic tribe of seers.                                 
Story in movement,  her way of existence.                                       
Her nimble fingers can pierce like alarms rung
For emergencies or draw epilogues
With all the detailed code of espionage.
Her language is a composite for world peace.

The brother speaks boldly in a flat gabble.
He has long sworn off every translator.
Awkwardly,  his syllables simply uttered
Evoke wrong notes from an upright piano:
He struggles impatiently for euphony
Like a news commentator badly prepared.
Strangers inundate him with requests to stop
Like pigeons on a statue coming to life.
His shrill cries into darkness must continue:
They are secret whale songs,  alien to ears,
Vital sounds one must become accustomed to.

I know two deaf mutes.  One is a silent
Ray of light in a hushed melodrama.
The other,  singing notably off key,
Mutters his tune with firm integrity.
  Joshua Meander __


The tones of some Gregorian chant
Hissing from the opening of a cavern
Entice me to enter
Even though I know it's occupied
By the occult.
Once in;  will I encounter Goddess worship?
If so,  that's no threat to me
For I've no grudge against my sisters.
Will I be fed a meal
That required no animal sacrifice?
If so,  I may return.
I am no barefoot seeker,
But am no skeptic either
So I'd be willing to try
To understand fire-breathing shamans.
The minute I sense the hailing of evil
Over good,  I'll slip out of the cavern
And try to seal the opening.
  Joshua Meande __

©Eve Packer : Tia Lina Day Care


Foreign films in black and white
Depict the weird inner world                                     
As we consume subtitles in                                        
A chain reaction of sound.                                          
Images are two-fold: ghost with sickle.
Tart images continue to baffle
As the reel unties psychology.

A human's profile or a beast well-dressed?
A breeze is mistaken for smoke adrift.
Storm clouds... no,  dust on a released awning.
Graphic S&M  scenes, ghastly to watch,
Or light on a sacred mythology?

Nudes, charcoal-tinged and firm:
Did statues worship us?

Before the rolling credits
On the screen,  we see the beach,
A cement lot with buildings
Spewing forward only to retreat,
Take after take.

Has film reversed
Revealing some of our wants?
But the film is dim and clear.

  Joshua Meander __