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| Fiction: XenErotica |
| StarPoet Newsletter Vol. IX, No. XXXIV |
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| Written by Lisa Jain Thompson | |
| Sunday, 24 August 2008 | |
 The StarPoet Newsletter
Vol. IX, No. XXXIV Come morning, bright sunlight
Defines the treeline Saturating the sky Brilliant green against rising blue A faded cardinal
Early from her nest Ruffles her dull feathers As she sits on the fence Drives night's memories From wing and flight Breakfast will be pleasant
Sitting beside you Lisa Jain Thompson c. 2008 C. E.
  August drifting into September, handfuls of poems
more biography
Cracker Jack
An oh so American of poets,
Grounded in her Whitman and Melville, Embraced by Ginsberg, Captured by Dylan, Touched by Sappho and Shakespeare. I am a daughter of Robert Heinlein,
A child of Asimov and Clarke, Sam Delany was my youthful lover, King James, my soul, Bobby Kennedy, my brother. I believe in The Declaration,
Jefferson and Lincoln, And would defend both Both Constitution and my children Until my last breath and bloody drop. I may not be able to hit
A major league curve ball, But I can cook a damn good Apple pie. Lisa Jain Thompson
August 2008.
Oh dark thirty in the pentagon
Brassicaceae
Along the chilly, oh dark hundred corridor,
A floret of bright green fresh broccoli Lies before a tightly closed office door; What tales might it tell of vegan rodents Gathering for some Of festive mousarian celebration To honor the muroid gods of vegetable and salad. It would seem that the ever present cockroaches,
Such that they are, are far too carnivorous To bother with so dainty a treat from Lisa Jain Thompson
August 2008 Support Your Local Renaissance
 looking around
Foundation for a Practical Theology
I like to think of god as an instinctive engineer
Who is not very good at the details; A lot of thought obviously goes into creative invention But he seems to pay little attention To life cycle costs or preventive maintenance: Zero Defects has never been one of his strong points. Lisa Jain Thompson
August 2008 day to decade, a lifetime
Anniversary Day
Canadian gees grazing in the soccer field,
Summer drizzle stead down; Bright sun glares behind gray clouds, Chilly drops on warm humid skin. Above all and one, the stars remain,
Their light begun when the universe was young, Waiting for our long delayed application For membership in the Traveler’s Club Of the Greater Milky Way. Lisa Jain Thompson
August 2008 You know how at the end of [the film] Tombstone Wyatt Earp
goes to Doc Holliday's deathbed and hands a him a copy of a book, "My Friend Doc Holliday" by Wyatt Earp? Well, that never happened. Hollywood made it up. But we were inundated at the bookshop with demands for the book. So I stayed up for three nights, each time with a pitcher of Martinis, and I wrote it myself. Here, let me go get you a copy. -- Jack Fiske
Tombstone, AZ the way things are
Shelf Date
The sun is out,
The thunder’s gone, Life goes on. A young squirrel learns
To safely cross the grass, A small bird discovers The safe distance from the cat. A second difference
Between success and failure, Failure’s unacceptable, Death an unwanted outcome. Eyes closed,
The sun sets; Eyes open, The world continues. Stopping by the woods,
Where the dirt path separates The trees from the wetlands, I watch the small raptors watching For an uncareful Target of opportunity.
Circle,
Swoop, Dead and gone. The raptor lives,
I watch,
Life goes on, Doing what we must
To see the sun rise. Lisa Jain Thompson
August 2008  arguing with the muse
The Notebook
I’m filling leather bound notebooks
As fast as I can, a captured star exploding In a rush of words across the page That wanders only vaguely within the lines. A blot there, an edit here, Jesus, I’ve used that word twice before. Does any of this make any sense? Don’t give me just the words
-- I know the words are right -- I write them down after all. I need to know what everything means. All of it, what does it mean?
Lisa Jain Thompson
August 2008 Groom Arrested for Getting Too Close to Bride at Wedding
A. P. Monday , August 11, 2008
A New York state man has been arrested for getting too close to his bride on their wedding day.
Timothy Cole quarreled with a wedding guest at a party Friday after wedding his ex-wife in Batavia, police said. Officers knew the 45-year-old Cole from previous arrests and realized his bride had an order of protection against him. Cole was charged with first-degree criminal contempt, a felony, and ordered jailed without bail.
Cole was convicted of criminal contempt on July 1, the Daily News in Batavia reported. The Genesee County public defender's office said Cole hasn't been assigned an attorney.
the state of the arts
The Messenger
If I hear voices
And write their words down, I am an author or a poet, Possibly of some note. If I hear voices tell me
I must lead an army into battle, I am Joan of Arc or George Patton, My effectiveness limited outside the war zone. If I hear voices tell me to murder and torture,
I am a serial killer, intermittently sane, A threat to all those around me. The problem does not appear to be
In the words themselves, Only how we choose to act on them. The words are neither
The cause nor the effect, Their impact fully dependent On our will and intellect. We must choose wisely.
Lisa Jain Thompson
August 2008 instruction and observation, author unknown
Preface to the Poet Manual for Dummies
Geospatially, a poet should float freely in space and time,
Anchored only by our humanity, our past, and our future, The day to day existence of love and family, The possibility of death and the seemingly random decisions Of the gods. There are no poets in the classroom,
Only dead words imprisoned on the page, Petulantly enhanced by the well learned thoughts Of those who would rather teach. A poet needs to be socialized with both the factory floor
And the country club backrooms where decisions are made. Her muse must devour both science and the rainbow, Then fuse them with the slippery desires of this monkey body In which we find ourselves. Above all, the poet must understand that at any moment,
She might lose it all, And linger barely silent until the end. Lisa Jain Thompson
August 2008  for Sharon, obviously
Huckleberry
I'll be your huckleberry,
Just like Doc and Wyatt, A life long holiday riding your bed, Watching your back each night; I’ll wake you when ancient nightmares
Shatter the quiet of your sleep, Stirring you gently until your breath Becomes a slow soft cadence beside me; I will sit at your side each morning,
Eating the breakfast we have made, And cook as much as you let me When dinner brings us home again; I’ll gladly ride shotgun, letting you drive
While I watch for the correct highway exit, We’ll share the discovery of all the new restaurants, Deconstructing how the chef did what he did; I'll be your huckleberry,
Red, white, and blue, You're stuck, I'm not leaving, Not never gonna quit you. Lisa Jain Thompson
August 2008   © Lisa Jain Thompson 1995-2008. Further distribution of this newsletter in its entirety is authorized. Email your letters and postcards or visit her contact page at the Starpoet website |
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