February 26-March 4, 2001: Carol Ann Lindsay and Scott Ferry


 

week of February 26-March 4, 2001

Carol Ann Lindsay and Scott Ferry

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Carol Ann Lindsay
clindsay@earthlink.net

Bio (auto)

Carlsbad, California author CAROL ANN LINDSAY is recipient of numerous short story and poetry awards Her poetry has appeared in both literary (Old Hickory Review, Mobius, Kit-Cat Review etc ) and commercial (USA Today, Leatherneck, Cornucopia, etc ) publications Cader Publishing gave Lindsay’s poetry book SONGS FROM A SAN DIEGO MORNING an Honorable Mention in their 1993 Poetry Book Competition Lindsay was guest author for Lynx Eye at the 1996 LA Times Festival of Books and she was host/producer of “Carlsbad Corner” 30 minute CCTV television shows featuring local artists and writers on KDCI During National Poetry Month,1999 Lindsay was featured poet for a segment of local (KDCI)CNN headline news Her poem “Floral With A Rose” hangs in the Drawing Room of Todd Lincoln’s former home in D.C Lindsay’s poetry was part of month long Art/Poetry Exhibitions at the Poway Center For the Performing Arts, 1998, 1999, 2000 and at the East County Performing Arts Center in April 2000 As President of the Palomar Branch of the National League Of American Pen Women, Lindsay was presented with the “Woman of Achievement Award” in Laguna Hills, May 2000 Lindsay is a member of the Academy of American Poets and Letters Member of the National League of American Pen Women Her book SANDWALKER was published in November 2000 and she is currently working on the sequel

The following work is Copyright © 2001, and owned by Carol Ann Lindsay and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsover without written permission from the author.

The Gray Marble Buddha

There is no pulse on the gray marble Buddha
she bought from a thrift store and put on worn lace
made with gold threads by an old lady
The silent rock sits on her dresser,
blind to the night and
dayís mystic light
rays aimed through the window
Buddha is cold
when memories defrost on my fingers
as I take away dust on a counterfeit god
embraced by teen treasures

Buddha once faced her with friends
and alone during minutes that slumber
in yesterday’s dream Sometimes,
loud music girdled the Buddha
with big ears sealed on stone Sometimes, 
the room scented with popcorn
or candles burning in old brass holders, 
quivered with life, 

but the long nose of Buddha
stands as sterile as the ICU
where I guarded a piece of my soul Today, 
I hold Buddha in my hand
and there are no miracles I put Buddha down
and think about how far away planet earth is
from any perfect place

For Candice Andromeda Lindsay 1980-1997

One Gift

A flower grew from seed,
soft and pungent smelling,
and it’s free
for the mother hiding
truth about a shining
dandelion being weed.

A Snail

A sneaky snail
with fatal feelers
slithered sly
in the dark to feed on
my Creeping Charlie,
and when I picked it up,
it hid
in the shell,
as it did
in daylight:
a gift that France
did bestow
on the New World
— escargot.


Scott Ferry
FottScary@aol.com

Bio (auto)

Hello, my name is Scott Ferry and I will soon stick needles into people for money Now I do it for free I substitute teach and am really quite calm I live in Seattle, Washington with my fiancee, Robin I have been published, but still love string cheese, regardless People with large chins scare me Here are some poems.

The following work is Copyright © 2001, and owned by Scott Ferry and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsover without written permission from the author.

Water, Under and Around

The girl down the street said she’d seen a ghost,
that he was a boy who used to live near here, 
before the swampland was filled in
with sand and asphalt, before canals
were the only remnants of the wide water
She told us that he drowned, fell off his boat,
his dog barking and splashing foam and slow darkness She said he was fond of scaring her as she slept,
climbing into bed with her and turning into bone She would run downstairs during dinner parties,
my parents said, hysterical My sister and I
believed the girl, and her house was only five houses
down from ours How long does it take for ghosts to walk?
Don’t they fly or float? Or did he have to stay
where his last air escaped? His boat slept under their floor My father explained that the girl’s mother took too many pills,
that she was not in her right mind But then why
did you tell us the story, father?
Didn’t you know that no place has a clean
history? Every home, every family has black canals
below its foundations: the twisting shells of talk
and the slippery tar of fear I could hear
it my parents’ voices as they fought,
or in the silence
after.

5:59 AM

when you wake up
one minute before
your alarm,

how does your body
know?

do you keep
one eye above
the water?

the rest of your body
remains submerged:
bright-gilled, enameled
with phosphorus
or is it the eye
under the water
which sees?

in your dream
does the moustached cat
glance
at his watch
between sips of nitro-
glycerine, slapping
you with his
glove?

or does the silver
swimmer (who looks
like you without skin)
hear the tide
rolling in through
the second hand
of your heart?

does he slip
into your wet fingers, 
does he slowly
tug at your hips?
he turns your head
towards
the lighted dial, 

hoping it is in time, 
knowing that you
will be amazed,
again.