March 28 – April 3, 2016: Poetry from Dave Ludford and James Robert Rudolph

​Dave Ludford and ⁣James Robert Rudolph

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​Dave Ludford
dave.ludford@outlook.com

Bio (auto)

Dave Ludford is a poet and short story writer from Nuneaton, England

The following work is Copyright © 2016, and owned by ​Dave Ludford and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.

Silent Movie: Waking Still Dreaming

2am: I wake and know
I will sleep no more but still
I close my eyes
A film is running
A waking dream
This one I’ve seen before
A different time, a different place but
The plot is the same
It starts with you and me
Waltzing foxtrotting
On sleek rain-washed city streets
It’s night and as the music stops we stop
You lift your face look into my eyes
And say, say words mouth words
But there is no sound all I hear is
The hiss of static as the reel flips to the finish
And the movie has ended.
The kitchen clock ticks its slow applause.

 

 



⁣James Robert Rudolph
jbobrudolph1424@gmail.com

Bio (auto)

⁣James Robert Rudolph is a retired psychologist and teacher having returned to old haunts in northern New Mexico after a busy career in Minneapolis. He is attempting a resurrection of poetry and playwriting interests and finds Santa Fe a rich, if not always willing, muse. Creatively he aspires to the crafting of work that expresses honest experience in beautiful language, complex or simple, as serves the work’s purpose. Recent poems have appeared in The Artistic Muse, Mad Swirl, and Bewildering Stories, among others.

The following work is Copyright © 2016, and owned by ⁣James Robert Rudolph and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.


Built to Last

for Pete Seeger

Cast from stony ground and
river water, an elemental man.
Troubadour by trade, pluck
of heart and banjo he
subverts with song.

Hardly there but everywhere
a bony slip on the land
come from a Spartans’ camp.

So on a clear-water sloop
he crosses over, the prow proud
for its ferry, a sweet ballad
skimming the wake back to us.


Going Home to New Mexico

Soft walking woman
lay me on a tabletop mesa
dry my disease alongside
your squash seeds.

Blown volcanoes circle
black rock field
sere pan draws dry creatures
draws me.

I am returned to red ant,
night blooming flower.
Coyote feigns, mica glints,
fingers stain chamisa yellow.


The March to Water

Up ahead, limned dimly
a line bluer than sky or land,
a peek-a-boo stripe,
blink it’s gone, then it’s back,
ribbon growing to band as we near.

Yes, it’s the sea, the blue sea,
no mist heralds, no mollusky trail,
still we know.

Steadying gaze and step,
the drawing of water to water,
salt to salt, we’re expected.
It will churn us,
the white of foam and bone,
the green dress of seaweed,
time’s cloak.