September 22–28, 2008: Don Kimball and Marc Ladewig

week of September 22-28, 2008

Don Kimball and Marc Ladewig

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Don Kimball

Bio (auto)

Don Kimball is a retired family therapist who lives in Concord, N.H , and a long- standing member of the Powow River Poets He loves not only to write his own work but to read and listen to the work of other poets He currently hosts the monthly poetry reading series at Borders Books in Concord, NH Don is the author of Skipping Stones (Pudding House Publications 2008) His poetry has appeared in The Formalist, The Lyric, Edge City Review, Iambs & Trochees, Blue Unicorn and various other journals His poems also appear in five recent anthologies, including The Powow River AnthologyThe Other Side of Sorrow, Fashioned Pleasures: 24 Poets Play Bout Rimes With a Shakespearean Sonnet, and The 2008 Poets’ Guide to New Hampshire In 2007, Don’s poem – “Prayer for My Father” – was nominated for the prestigious Pushcart Prize; three other poems won two first prizes and a second prize in national contests sponsored by the Poetry Society of New Hampshire.

The following work is Copyright © 2008, and owned by Don Kimball nd may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.

Milk Can
As if she’s heard intruders at the door,
but would not trust the lock to keep her safe,
should they come bursting in – who knows what for –
the widow, clutching at her flannel robe,  
takes hold of an old milk can – like her kitchen,
a handy catch-all; this object that cannot
object to her unladylike abuse –    
tilts it back and slowly wheels it sideways
(as she once saw her husband deal with barrels),
steers it through a narrow passageway,
between a closet, some unforgiving stairs,
clear to the entry, where she lets it go,
wedges it tight against the door, says, There! –
as if she’s finally got that big old house,
with all its rooms, secured against desire;
as if, by blocking doors, she’s doused the fire  
originally printed in The Formalist.

       mmmmmMaki          Making Charcoal
I hear those rubber boots galumph through snow;
My father makes his way back toward the kilns Drawn to the beat of old ways, like Thoreau,
I hear those rubber boots galumph through snow Charcoal is all he knew, at war’s end; so
My mother worked – wood’s all he had to kill I hear those rubber boots galumph through snow;
My father makes his way back toward the kilns
originally printed in Iambs & Trochees.

No Need to Call a Taxi

When it’s time, he stops at your table
and you find you’re finished – time to settle  
Whom you know, on this night, is of no
consequence, nor the size of your tip  
Time, now, for the bussing of tables,
and time for weary waiters to end   

the evening’s languor, to usher us
through the door No use in unctuous
farewells or haggling They don’t take checks No credit cards accepted It’s

strictly cash – and you ought to know.   
Time to settle Time to go
Published in Skipping Stones
(Pudding House Press chapbook 2008) 

Marc Ladewig

Bio (auto)

Marc Ladewig is a native Californian and the father of two grown children He is a swimmer, veteran, world traveler, mandolin player, language teacher and life long lover of poetry He has written an original novel length, narrative poem entitled, Odysseus- The Epic Myth of the Hero, published by Infinity, available on

The following work is Copyright © 2008, and owned by and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.

The Large Hadron Collider

The greatest wizard of all fantasy
once claimed that when you break a thing in hopes
to understand it you have left the path
of wisdom We are bold apprentices
of nature, smashing bits to tease a truth
from mysteries exploding out of clouds
But if you were a stranger to this world
and never knew the grace of music played
and walked the blackened streets of lonely night
recording every strange new lovely sound,
you’d never guess the grand piano pushed
from high up on a roof by vandals could,
just from the crash below, make music sweet
as Bach rejoicing in a prayer to God.

Young Devils Who’d Be Gods

His mother cried nine months alone until
she bled him out and died before he reached
her breast He grew with strangers passing him
from floor to floor, all budding tears kicked dry The muscle in his chest pumped bile for schemes
and playgrounds left ambitious knuckles skinned His teeth grew chipped and jagged with revenge
that sought to be ground zero for a plague
He only held destruction holy in
the constant ache between his ringing ears He claimed achievement of his appetites
his education, hazarding it all
upon a single, self-made gamble that
young devils who’d be gods must kill old gods.

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