August 28-September 3, 2000: Christine Elaine Lennon and T.L. Stokes


 

week of August 28-September 3, 2000

Christine Elaine Lennon and T.L Stokes

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Christine Elaine Lennon
Celain@theeclipse.net

http://stas.net/poems

Bio (auto)

Born in 1968, in El Paso, Texas, Christine Elaine Lennon has been writing poetry and prose for more than 20 years She has had several poems published, and is currently writing a novel The poet resides in the foothills of the Blue Ridge Mountains of Virginia (Harrisonburg) She is the editor of “The Eclipse,” a web designer and freelance artist Previously, she has also been a magician’s assistant, an “extra” in a few movies, a computer operator, a soldier in this girl’s U S Army, a baker, and a student of all things interesting.

The following work is Copyright © 2000, and owned by Christine Elaine Lennon and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsover without written permission from the author.

Climate of Despondence

God, you tug me
in all directions at once

pulling at my limbs
making me dance
at your whim

Unclothed and without
the will to resist you
my hands and feet ache

where you nailed home
the chords upon which
I dangle from your
chiseled fingers

a sigh escapes me
and fills this void
with ethereal temples
in your honor

dedicated to your
greatness

hard marble constructed
somehow; from my vapor
this has become my stage
and I hear the audience
as if from some great distance
whispering about us, and the way

-you manipulate me


The Long Walk Home

Incongruous images plague me Flashes of empty doritos bags
and overturned kegs; the lingering
stench of pot and cigarette smoke
I roll over, twisted in wet sheets
that bind me to the memory
I had gone there with my friend,
the one who lived two doors down
in the dorm Some frat party
in another rattling old house
converted into a party zone
for Thursday night
She secretly hated me, I think,
because I was thinner; but,
at eighteen, you’re only thin enough
in the dark; in a fantasy; all alone
So she brought me beer and shots
of something that made me cringe
on the way down; until I was too
far gone to feel it burn anymore
And then she left me to the wolves I can still feel the regret running
down my legs as I stumbled home.


The Pass

The narrow road
clings like kudzu
to four thousand feet
of rock and soil
that rises in a great
ancient swell

slicked with rain;
masked in whimsical fog
so dense it might
be solid matter

hairpin turns; unlit;
no guard rails
to mark the edge
of a sheer drop

White knuckled,
I grip the steering wheel
and suck in a sharp breath
desperately seeking
the double yellow line
that peeks from behind
the cloak, occasionally
to guide me


T.L Stokes
pongee7@yahoo.com

Bio (auto)

The author works as a full time writer in the Pacific Northwest (North Bend, Washington) publishing poetry in various online literary magazines, in printed form in the Ancient Wind Press, NC, was honored as poet of the month by the StarliteCafe, published two pieces for the Tyson Act Committee and currently has recorded a cd of poetry in California and is working on a second cd
The following work is Copyright © 2000, and owned by T.L Stokes and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsover without written permission from the author.


The Hands of August

Within the cold steel walls
there is writing
waiting to be read
scrawled in the last moments
amid the flooding hold
of a dying submarine
clutched by the Barents Sea
held locked against
the frozen breast
of ocean floor
she sleeps

The world above
in air so pure
we filled our lungs
with great gulps of sadness
waiting for the tap and ping
of survival
fading as gale winds
hurled waves
over bows of uncertainty
while a government
moved as if in a dream
afraid the asking
to be a sign of weakness
holding secret pens
they whisper
among themselves

The rage
is growing
as winter storms
of grief
gather
those who held back
may lose their positions
as others are chosen
to lead a people
who will not stand by
watching
as over 100 men
gasp for breathable air
some prayed some begged
and one man wrote
with hands of the dying
‘fear not, seek freedom
wherever she may be found’
can you see it there
dragged through condensation
drips on the window
of last hope
the ocean claimed them
one by one
into the silence
death the only song
of deliverance
submariners
sealed
in the immovable tomb
of fate

In honor and memory of the 118 seamen aboard the Russian submarine Kursk which sank in the northern Barents Sea on August the 12th, 2000.