April 23-29, 2007: Kristofer Koerber and Laura Davies Foley

week of April 23-29, 2007

Kristofer Koerber and Laura Davies Foley



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Kristofer Koerber
kmkoerber@gmail.com

Bio (auto)

My name is Kristofer Koerber I live in Brunswick Maine Currently I am working to earn enough money to concentrate on writing I worked my way through a small college in MA earning money on lobsterboats during the summer .

The following work is Copyright © 2007, and owned by Kristofer Koerber and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.

My Morals

I smiled to myself
b/c I thought that I was a good person
for driving all that way to the ocean
to deliver those starfish back to their watery world I think that at least one other person
would have agreed with me But to the lady
and her
three dogs,
two children
and one stroller
parading down the middle of the road
I was a horrible person for driving
over 25 mph
on their road She corralled the dogs to the side of the road
Clutched her children close
and threw up her arms But I had no time to slow down and apologize
Only enough to put my window down
and give them all the finger I was saving lives,
couldn’t they understand?

Decisions

I’ve got time in my life
to make bad decisions I figure I’ve got time
to sing off key
and trip over my feet when I dance Some time to skip out on my tab
at skeezy undertoe bars I’ve got some time in this life
to practice the art of intoxication,
get a degree in one night hookups
with peach legged women
who giggle between puffs of their cigarettes I tell myself I’ve got time
to wrestle with a hundred hangovers
and shake my fist at the stars There’s time enough to build my coffin
and time enough to sit in it and laugh to myself

About all the good I’ve done.

Sunday Night

The wine never got drunk,
the girl who whispered in my ear
about hair pulls and purrs
never showed up,
The music never got turned up
and
that book never got opened
But
My loneliness decided to stay
to keep me company,
And this madness is here staring at me
from under my coffee table
as
these words continue to waltz lazily
Across my paper.


Laura Davies Foley
laurafoley@VALLEY.NET

Bio (auto)

Laura Davies Foley received the Grand Prize in Atlanta Review’s International Poetry Contest She is the author of two collections of poetry: Syringa (StarMeadow Press) and Mapping the Fourth Dimension (Harbor Mountain Press) She has been the Featured Poet on the NH Poet Laureate’s web page Her poems have appeared in Inquiring Mind, The Georgetown Review, The Newport Review, in the film Milk of Many Years, and Syringa, and in the anthologies: In the Arms ofWords: Poems for Disaster Relief, and TheStill Puddle Poets Her work has been featured on Gratefulness.Org and on Care2.com She holds graduate degrees in English Literature from Columbia University and is the honorary Poet Laureate of Valley Insight Meditation Community, and of the Insight Prison Sangha, of Berlin, NH She lives and writes on the wide banks of the Connecticut River, in Cornish, NH She welcomes visits to her website: www.lauradaviesfoley.com

The following work is Copyright © 2007, and owned by Laura Davies Foley and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.

The Scars We Live With

That time you left me near the restrooms
of the Charles de Gaulle airport
and went to retrieve our stored luggage,
I stood in one place
for three hours
with two small children,
while our plane for New York was announced
and departed When we found you
laden with luggage, looking for us,
wandering up and down
the silver stream of escalators,
you were angry that I had not been where, actually,
I was It was one of those odd tears
in the fabric of a life A fatal mark
on our marriage A scar torn open and
when you left here, you left it–
here with me.

On the Coldest Night

These words we spin from darkness to
define a mind

or try with chords of thought,
well-wrought surfaces of speech, to speak

the limits of a time and place,
to cry its own self into it

and break
beyond the sadness of a single sun,

is to speak the words of despair as thought:
how we sat

in silence together at a desk
and the stars spun round us on the coldest night–

those stars I thought were signs of sight, yet
over and over I make the same mistake

over and over to believe
the sun reflected in your eyes is real.

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