August 21-27, 2006: Ellaraine Lockie and Jordan Brown

week of August 21-27, 2006

Ellaraine Lockie and Jordan Brown

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Ellaraine Lockie

Bio (auto)

Ellaraine Lockie lives in Sunnyvale, California and writes poetry, nonfiction books, magazine articles/columns and children’s stories She is a well-published and awarded poet who has received nine nominations for Pushcart Prizes in poetry and has four published chapbooks: Midlife Muse, Poetry Forum; Crossing the Center Line, Sweet Annie Press; Coloring Outside the Lines, The Plowman Press; Finishing Lines, Snark Publishing Ellaraine also teaches a poetry/writing workshop on the creative process for schools, writing groups and libraries Her nonfiction books are All Because of a Button: Folklore, Fact and Fiction, St Johann Press; The Gourmet Paper Maker, Creative Publishing, and The Low Lactose Kitchen Companion and Cookbook forthcoming in 2007
See more from Ellaraine on the web here

The following work is Copyright © 2006, and owned by Ellaraine Lockie and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.

Vacation Violation

Her body sprawls bare
across sweat wet hotel sheets
in East Berlin’s hottest heat wave in history
She sleeps sound in pseudo security
under the four stars
bestowed the establishment
Their shine not as bright
as a flashlight on a moonless night

Instrument of invasion
for visual violation
By the intruder standing
at the edge of her bed
His unzipping unheard
over Leipziger Street sounds
In her hibernation state
after thirty airline hours

He knows now her closed eyes are brown
Precisely where she lives
The location of each of her 130 pounds
He’s privy to her month’s net worth
when he diminishes it by $950 in bills
Before he places the purse
on her pillow and slips away
Sadist who steals her sleep
for the balance of her Berlin stay


How could I know
you’d be so upset
about the dead bird
on the dining table
Just a teenager
Probably out imbibing
Slugging down
pyracantha berries
Then drunk diving
the window
I kept its carcass
to share the sadness
and the beauty
Close, you could see
the red breast
bookended in black
Still, you could feel
the oil slicked feathers
Steal a sensuous stroke
Silent, you could hear
the harmony of death
But you didn’t
see the sadness
or observe the beauty
You felt the fear
of a drive home
after eight
bottles of beer
Of hands shaking
in a sales meeting
Of the plastic bag
that held the bird

Edge of Night

Black with blue swollen veins
He sits in stained denim
on the train station bench

Elbows on spread-eagled knees
Sparrow hands on head hung low
A plastic produce bag for a hat

pulled over his ears
Preserving the rising heat
The fragile lobes from frostbite

As winter eats its way
into the San Francisco Bay
with butcher knife teeth

In Honor of Giovanni Malito*

News of his death
traveled over the electronic grape vine
Heavy hearts hang in clusters
on the lines of lyrics
that linked poets to publisher
The omnipotent packager
Promoter of their ripe fruits
Preserved in permanent black on white
by bibliophilic angels
Trumpeting far into the ages
from the infinity of archives
No more aptly exemplified
than in His own posthumously
published words
with your strong arms
around me it doesn’t matter
that I can no longer feel
my legs under my dress
for we are exactly where
we want to be, forever **

*Late poet and editor of The Brobdingnagian Times and “palmtop” chapbooks in Ireland
** “Lovers at St Jean,” Moon Reader, No 9, 2004

Jordan Brown

Bio (auto)

Jordan Brown will soon be squeezed into a dorm at Washington College, MD to study Environmental Science ad Creative Writing

The following work is Copyright © 2006, and owned by Jordan Brown and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.

Summer Plots

Summer stops for long love
a midnight walk of whispers
(glance at ruined castles in the sand)
that lasts an eternal second
while the stars send endless
delayed light
illuminating the truth-
an approaching morning Bare legs in glass granular rumble
of bodies in effortless passion filled
(blankets for warmth and proximity) You can assume care in slumber
by an unintentional placement of
wandering limb, or unscheduled
firefly filled locks
resting on respirations
(salty shared air) He said in early night:
He couldn’t believe our luck,
a meteor shower and us
I pursed my lips in smile
the dark dunes protected our plot I knew a blink would slice blissfulness
so my eyes were dry,
He knew he’d never kiss me again.