May 19-25, 1997: Neca Stoller and Richard Lynch

week of May 19-25, 1997

Neca Stoller and Richard Lynch

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Neca Stoller
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I am the owner-manager of a cattle farm in south Georgia, USA For many years we lived in a metro area Upon moving to the country,  I began writing Most of my poems feature using natural images to portray emotions and moods Other interests are golf and occasionally painting

The following work is Copyright © 1997 and owned by Neca Stoller and may not be distributed or reprinted in any manner whatsover without written permission from the author.

Hurricane Watch

Throughout that long day, storm clouds gather,
slowly darkening the sky as its winds stir
sharper with each new squall: turning, churning
to sea, our leaping dolphin weathervane,

Surging against her tether, a furled sailboat
with dark waves colliding in frothy spumes
across her deck, drenching all hands as they
hasten to fasten down rigging and hatches

With these building gales, the neap tide sweeps in
ungoverned breakers, fiercely crashing our shore
to engulf all jetties, crush all seashells-
vanquishing sand castles guarding the coast

Reaching into freed surf, a fading dock,
and there, alone on one end, his arms crossed,
my uncle-implacable-faces this sea,
as gusts sculpt the dunes into an abstract


one early morning
I walked the soft hills
at Andersonville-
past the narrow creek,
soon surrounded by
massive monuments,
encircled by graves
in the hot afternoon
I roamed the rock paths
at Kennesaw Mountain-
the tall grasses, withered
in late summer,s heat,
are all that remain
of the long, gray line
just before twilight
homeward bound traffic
slows .grinds to a halt there in the sunset,
high on Stone Mountain,
the gray generals, eyes
are once more ablaze

Forgotten, but Sometimes a Memory
(villanelle for the Vietnam War)

Forgotten, but sometimes a memory
A dark, shiny wall of long lasting fame No Valkyrie will be coming for me
Like a streaming ribbon, I can still see
The mob of boys run, as if in a game Forgotten, but sometimes a memory
Made of spare planks from a hickory tree
Above their heads, a coffin with no name No Valkyrie will be coming for me
Still the boys smile goodbye, and so do we Then waiting, we making plans that have no aim Forgotten, but sometimes a memory
Returning home at last- no victory
On the wall their names etched to great acclaim
No Valkyrie will be coming for me
I write of nature and truths that I see,
But never these images though they came Forgotten, but sometimes a memory No Valkryie will be coming for me.


a ring of ruined oaks
become a signet
against the sky
as a rune of crows
imprint the moon


In a wild gallop, behind reaching fetlocks, 
the mare’s streaming tail flares-
Then collapses over shorten quarters
into a leaping jackrabbit In another long moment, dissolving, 
becoming just a passing cloud Again the magician’s wand sweeps
and suddenly emerging a laughing Buddha As, the spectacular show above
my head goes on.

The Tether

a flock of gulls
trails to the open sea
behind a wide wake-
surging against its tether
a furled sailboat

The Tornado

bouncing down
at the high school gym
a tornado
taking the roof
but leaving the boys

The flag

leaning on his cane
old man waves at passing trucks
along the clay road
stretched against the sky
the stars and stripes

Richard Lynch


Richard Lynch considers himself a fictional character, and finds it very difficult to write about himself in the first person — he never knows who he is In order to have a biogrpahy, one must have lived No one really “knows” a Lynch, especially not themselves

He thanks his father for his talent On a trip to the Springfield Zoo at the age of one, his father removed him from the car and placed him on the hood The father forgot that he had waxed the car The son zipped down the hood The short trip ended with his head being introduced to the pavement Richard saw stars Later,  he was widely aclaimed for his paper ball ceiling art Generally,  he finds much of his humor so amusing that he refuses to share it with others.

As far as other people know, Richard is Senior Editor/Designer for Amherst Media (an honest to god book publisher), does freelance editing and publishing, and teaches college English [Niagara University] He has published stories, poems, graphics, and electronic art in literary journals Recently he appeared in the following: [TNR] the new renaissance,  vol 28; and (between actual, non-paid hardcovers) in Legality and Illegality (Peter Lang)

The following work is Copyright © 1997 and owned by Richard Lynch and may not be distributed or reprinted in any manner whatsover without written permission from the author.

And to make matters worse .Divots
If TV Is for the Birds, Why Do We Keep It Indoors?
(published in cathedral of Insanity)

I recline in my bath water
wondering if there’s a similarity
between this
and steeping tea–
silent and colorless
taking the opportunity, 
through osmosis,
to leave me
I’ve found myself curious of all those things
that won’t go away, like–
like an history, or
a letter mailed with food stamps, or
the robin
who bangs incessantly against his reflection
in my kitchen window
In the light of that window
under his thumping
I calculate
using an abacus
because it doesn’t require that I replace the batteries and
I brew my own beer and
study canning to avoid botulism

These baths are a healthy meditation, 
though I was told in lit class–the teacher
annointing our foreheads–
that water was symbolic of death In my porcelain puddle, faking buoyancy,
I feel I’m a pickle, 
then it comes to mind that
pickling is
an anaerobic situation, 
and there, 
but for clean cucs, 
the deadly bacillus C might thrive

The miracle of bath salts might make me smell better, 
but, to me, I’m always the same, 
like TV on weekdays:
I didn’t pay the cable bill and
on the channel I get now, 
they only do the wrong weather
till the day after it’s done
Makes me realize TV’s really for the birds;
Maybe that’s why they try to fly
through my windows, 
beating themselves silly
I hear the daffed bird thumping now
slamming with gusto into his favorite square of glass, 
like the reflection will change,
or go away
if threatened, or
things would be better if he could just get to my side I don’t get up to chase him
I just sit here,
The pep of steam long lost from the chilling water,
because I can’t stop parting the ivory suds with my hands to look Is there anything coming out of me?

Parts of Trees

I The snow damped our laughter
as we lay in a bed of coats and clothes
reading innitials
carved in hearts
on the bark of a beach tree,
imagining names
to fit the letters–
not noticing January, or the cold;
not seeing none of the letters paired our names

II Between waking
and realizing there is cereal
in my mouth,
events slip by Spaces and gaps
in time
with nothing to mark them:
hours of shaving, flipping light switches, 
and drinking cups of coffee
vanish somewhere, 
though I know
looking at myself in the rear-view mirror on the way to work
that they’ve happened

iii Looking out my window
(loostening Alphabits from my molars with my tongue),
I see the woods
and can note spaces
where trees have come down
or branches were removed
Over years spaces never dissappear,
they fill and empty

like breaths

iv Finding myself again
at the base of the beach tree, 
hearts have stretched
and swelled in the bark
as the tree has grown Innitials have been added
though some
are scratched off,
their absence
the space
they occupied

I take out a pen-knife
to do what we didn’t
years ago,
but stop
and think, instead, 
I might
write our innitials
across the milk of my Alphabits
some morning
looking at the trees, drinking coffee,
to fill the space

but, folding the penknife
I turn away
our letters occupy
impressed as coats
in snowfall
under branches
in the milk
and bark
of time.

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