|Gene Barry is an Irish poet who sidelines as a Psychotherapist He is a past Poet of the Week on PSH and has been published alongside Seamus Heaney, Matthew Sweeney, Knute Skinner, Paul Durcan, Desmond O’Grady, Ileana Malancioiu, Theo Dorgan, Gerald Daw, John Liddy and John W Sexton His poetry can be found in The Stony Thursday Book 2007 and 2008, Revival issues 3, 6, 7 and 9, Under The Radar, Euphony, University of Chicago, Cyphers, Irish Examiner USA, Origami Condom, Douglas Post, the Ranfurly Review, Mad Squirrel, Poetry Super Highway, Five Words, Emara, Dark Stream, Poor Mojo’s Almanac(k) Rebel Poetry published Gene’s Chapbook No Family Tree in 2009|
The following work is Copyright © 2010, and owned by Gene Barry and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.
When the Prophetess Passed
His arid throat,
‘the written word is the most powerful tool we have
She asked me ‘who are you’ quick as
saw her perched on a Persian rug her
those eyes again had lit a smirk that
was her and doubled on the puck that
Mary ElizaBeth Peters
|Mary ElizaBeth Peters lives in Waltham, Massachusetts, and holds a MA in Theatre Education from Emerson College, and a BFA in Performance Studies from the University of Illinois at Urbana-Champaign Beth is a theatre artist and educator throughout the Boston area Currently awaiting a double lung transplant for cystic fibrosis, Beth hosts CysticGal.blogspot.com to chronicle her experience, and that of the hundreds of 20somethings with cystic fibrosis who are living through dying each year|
The following work is Copyright © 2010, and owned by Mary ElizaBeth Peters and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.
Eleven: Evenings and Endings
You don’t want to talk about sadness.
I deliver a hand back to your thigh from mine
You don’t want to talk about the past.
I listen to words from your mouth to my ears
You want to tell me about happiness.
I see your eyes shift from my face to my chest
You want to tell me about your future.
When my sad, precise but desperate grace
I don’t want your touching; or your talking;
Three: Afternoon Assessment
I’m out of control, so I’ve been told that I am controlling Do you mind? Tell me
We will pass that bridge when we come to it, so we should keep building Don’t you agree? Of course you do
Or make those faces like you don’t approve, so they reword and rephrase but say the same things Don’t you hate that? I hate them, I mean that
I’m all over this research assessment, or am I so over it? I don’t want to read it, whichever
Or when metaphors become science or math I don’t care if the line breaks and syllables don’t count out correctly and I don’t care to hear how a scientist feels People don’t pay him for feelings and they don’t pay me for science
But I’m still in control I feel like I’m in control