January 20-26, 2014: Laura Grace Weldon and Sam Silva

Laura Grace Weldon and Sam Silva

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Laura Grace Weldon

Bio (auto)

Laura Grace Weldon is the author of Tending, a poetry collection recently published by Aldrich Press and Free Range Learning, a handbook of natural learning. She’s an editor and nonviolence educator who lives on a small farm in Litchfield, Ohio where she’s a marginally useful farm wench. She regularly writes about learning, mindfulness, and peace at http://lauragraceweldon.com/blog-2/, posts food-related sarcasm at https://www.facebook.com/SubversiveCooking and opines on family geekery at http://geekmom.com/author/laura/

The following work is Copyright © 2014, and owned by Laura Grace Weldon and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.

Santa Clara County v. Southern Pacific Railroad

Precedent for corporate personhood established by
U.S. Supreme Court ruling, 1886.

What’s alive seems puny
in darkness this large.
An engine’s steaming eye wavers, 
then train cars too big to fail
cartwheel down a wet hillside
in shrieking metal tantrums.
An embarrassment of goods
sprawl across quiet grass:
imported TVs, broccoli, children’s shoes.
Before dawn, machines larger
than what lies
are ordered to a resurrection.
Silent crowds watch 
cranes lift each hulking body
and bulldozers crush what’s left
into unwatchable, uneatable, unwearable
mud-licked trash.
Lifetimes ago my uncle raced
behind trains with other poor boys
collecting fallen coal shards
for a few moments heat.
The day a car uncoupled,
spilling frozen sides of beef,
armed guards arrived to destroy the cargo
but hungry people pushed onto the tracks.
They bent gladly all the way home
bearing supper’s heavy promise. 
Torn hillside nearly empty, still
those who know what it is to be broken
stand on the crushed grass
staring at tracks

leading away from here.

Calling the Dog

Following messages left in leavessoilair
he wanders too far.
When I call    he pauses
to hurl fullness and glory
ahead of the self
like whales breachtigers lungehawks soar.
There’s nothing but an arc
between hearing his name and springing
toward the one who named him.
I want this completeness.
I want to feel 100 trillion cells spark
from my body in answer
to what we call spirit.
I want to taste 
the shimmering voltage course
from every rocktree….star.
A moment before reaching me
he unsprings,
back to golden fur and brown eyes

arriving tongue first.

Dreams of Mice

Brains of sleeping mice reveal
to science, unwittingly,
that scent locks in memory
like Proust’s tea and cake.
While lab coats scan, measure
and tabulate in chambers
scrubbed of odor,
tender-limbed mice dream
and reminisce.
Today’s autumn air conjures
toast my mother made,
starlings swooping in unison,
and you, the comfort of your smell
in the bed where
our bodies mingle.
If baby mice curl in our closet
among boxes and blankets, surely
our scent enters their dreams,
lingering through their small

remembering lives.   


Sam Silva

Bio (auto)

Sam Silva (Fayetteville, North Carolina) has published at least 150 poems in print magazines, including Sow’s Ear, The ECU Rebel, Pembroke magazine, Samisdat, St. Andrew’s Review, Charlotte Poetry Review, Main Street Rag, and many more. Has published at least 300 poems in online journals including Jack Magazine, Comrades, Megaera, Poetry Super Highway, physik garden, Ken again, -30-, Fairfield Review, Foliate oak, and dozens of others. Three legitmate small presses have published chapbooks of his, three of those presses have nominated work of his for Pushcart a total of 7 times. Bright Spark. Creative of Wilimington purchased rights to his first full length book EATING AND DRINKING and put the book out through author house at there expense. He now has many books and chapbooks available at http://www.lulu.com/samsilva54 and as books at Amazon.com, and his spoken word poetry is avaible at the major digital markets such as Apple iTunes.

The following work is Copyright © 2014, and owned by Sam Silva and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.

Ghost of a Christmas Spent Alone

Dead people can’t speak
…they drag their souls, their heavy feet
away from the mumbling utterance
which the lake of fire becomes

…and in that evil night
lie down
wishing that they could sleep

…dead people!
…as if killed by war
in the winter of this silent
army town.

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