August 13-19, 2001: Mick Moss and Brendan Wiebe

week of August 13-19, 2001

Mick Moss
and
Brendan Wiebe

.BECOME A POET OF THE WEEK
click here for submission guidelines

Mick Moss
kmo7@btinternet.com

Bio (auto)

Mick Moss is a 48 year old art school graduate and ex music industry drop out Originally from London he now lives in Liverpool Visit his website here.

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

It could’ve been me
Next to the painting it said
“Mother washing baby in sink”-1953
the year I was born
we bathed one after another in a tin bath
which was kept outside on the coal bunker during the week
on Sunday nights, bath night, just before supper
it was dragged into the scullery
which is what you now call a kitchen
and filled with scalding water from the copper
which you call an immersion heater
and scrubbed from head to toe with Wrights Coal Tar soap
you don’t have that now
you have herbal body wash from the body shop
and use a nice soft natural sponge
our mum used a wooden scrubbing brush
that took your top layer of skin off
these days its called exfoliating
and is supposed to keep you looking young
we called it torture and it made us look like burn victims
you smell like the scent of a summer breeze
we smelt like disinfectant
you have organic pizza, low fat chips and sugar-free juice
and watch satellite TV
before going to bed in your own centrally heated room
under a cozy duvet
we had toast and as a Sunday treat
cocoa made from condensed milk
and slept head to toe under sheetless blankets
when we eventually stopped shivering.

The Tiniest Bit

Even the tiniest bit
of men
that was still useful to women
no longer is

Scientists –
I don’t know their gender but I have my suspicions
have discovered that an egg
can be fertilised
by any old cell
not just a sperm

I phoned my mate
to talk about this alarming development
he sent me this joke to cheer me up:

“The man said; Shall we try a different position tonight?
His wife said; That’s a good idea, you stand doing the ironing
while I sit on the sofa and fart “



Brendan Wiebe
soulone17@hotmail.com

Bio (auto)

My name is Brendan Wiebe I am 17 years old, and I live in Surrey, British Columbia
Poetry is an art, not therapy It doesn’t constitute the idea of venting feelings for intrinsic purposes Rather, poetry is an art form with words, not paint It is done, or should be done solely to articulate emotions and images Any therapy gained from such writing is purely extrinsic
Good poetry constitutes good communication This is attained by clarity of language, provocative and concrete imagery, poetic turns of ideas, as well as the presentation of the language Imagery is likely, but arguably the most important Imagery plays on the imagination of the reader, it involves the reader with the words on the page This is communication Effective imagery evokes emotions as well, which emotion by human standards is an eternal truth- unchanging and constant regardless of cultural or societal change
Visit Brendan’s website here: http://souledone.homestead.com/

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

Scent of Orange

Her arms wrap
around my waist,
like a gentle fruit bat:
with fingers that pace
across my rough rind,
never to tear away
and question the soft
texture of my insides
She sheds her husk
of clothing before me,
her flesh
hairless and white,
and asks me not to
turn away my eyes
Hungry enough to look,
too naïve to want
the sweet entry of flesh,
while her bitter rind
lay on her bedroom floor.

Dripping Glass

One must possess
a mind of winter,
to see what others
do not,
when looking through
the framed window
of your Grandmother’s cottage
Your eyes travel
the flurried landscape,
envisioning faces caught
on shifting snow
Play your finger
along the window’s frosty surface,
making a clear trail
for other fingers to follow
Powder piles upon
rolling hills,
creating dunes of ivory
Snow pulls away
from the nearby creek Ice melting,
into dripping glass.