week of June 26-July 2, 2006
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Beth Stolar Kehayes
Born and raised in northern Ohio, I have written since childhood. I have a Bachelor of Fine Arts degree from The College of New Jersey with an emphasis in water color painting and photography and currently reside in New Jersey My poetry has been published in True Poet Magazine and Alone Together.
The following work is Copyright © 2006, and owned by Beth Stolar Kehayes and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.
Fingers dance over keys, hand skates across
ribbon of my spine Broken in fragments of Judaic melodrama,
shiksa I might have been,
blue and green eyed monster gathering dust
while Hatzi Kiddish sings The Jewish Book Of Why collects momentum in eternal
wandering souls A heart lets go Mildewed books,
slammed on tables in disgust Our baby, wrapped in my heart
like a triumphant black swan,
embraced belatedly Why, I don’t know Cygnet of us Please speak to me while
I pour your proverbial glass of iced tea,
lemon wedged Sugar spiced Oneg Tall glass with straw Suck till ice cubes tinkle in swirls The sound empties your cheeks Feel the inside of your cheeks get goose bumps Ahava, I am your beauty.
I live in the easternmost town in the US, Lubec, Maine, a tiny fishing village with no traffic lights and lots of eagles Not far from my hovel stands one of those candy-cane lighthouses My poems have been published or accepted recently by Main Street Rag, The Blind Man’s Rainbow, The Iconoclast and Subtle Tea
The following work is Copyright © 2006, and owned by Chris Crittenden and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.
Journey of a Tomato
swollen orb, sunset red,
soft as a breast and eager
for savoring, you perch
in a ripe pyramid, watch
a traffic of purses,
summer blur of skirts,
the lollipop mouths of children
while guitars cleanse you
streams of strummed music
over a plump bloodstone.
a woman’s hand cradles, inspects,
then wicker sways
as you ride its rim, seesawing
through a marketplace
on sarong-blue strides.
you glide in a sine wave
as vendors hawk their treasures:
rainbows of vegetables,
open chests of beef,
their yellow eyes
catching the crimson part
of your stare.
through village streets
of eroded cobblestone,
into a sun-flecked kitchen,
you loll on a cutting board,
staring at twirling silver,
the flutter of its sharp wing
waiting for momentary contact,
the bite-kiss that will spread you
for the feast.