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New Poetry, Fiction, Essays

Poetry by Alfred Booth

Alfred Booth is an American professional pianist who lives in France. He folds origami; its patience often inspires poetry. When he not at the piano learning new arcane repertoire to stretch his horizons, he teaches would-be amateur musicians to put enough bread on the table. He has studied extensively harpsichord and the cello. Currently he has an 82-poem volume journaling a recent dance with cancer and a 34-poem chapbook of ghazals looking for a homes in the professional world of rhyme. A large handful of his poetry can be found in the e-zines Dead Snakes, I am not a silent poet and Spring Fling. He keeps an online portfolio at: https://www.writing.com/main/portfolio/view/troubadour.

 

 


.

pleats between words that have always failed

.

now watch the pen soar, hear it scratch
blue miles of words from the night

Ursa Major fills the void of black holes
with hieroglyphs and mathematical

symbols, then honed into Postmodern Jukebox jazz
or kitchen ware to sustain eons with peace

that squeezes out cancerous ulcers feeding
on hate, that power-hungry demon present

because every god second-guessed
its creation, so let only rain and thunder

release hailstone-sized balls of smudged
paper to clear stratified layers towards discovery

imagine the death of uncountable sonnets
never outlived by as many unique voices

.

.

months before the last housewarming 

.it’s that season
we can sweep away
the dead wasps
old pots of dried honey
rotten beams holding out
unexpected storms scattering
early dying leaves
the lark, a melancholy soundtrack
dwindles, both have no more to say
many aftermaths of this disease
daunt my light with dark painted veils
they beg to creep on my skin
and allow these unusual times
to slow
what will replace my youth
if not longing?
.
.
Full moon, August 2017
D
Dearest Cat,
We watched the full moon impersonate the planet orange looming over the Alps with friends. I drank apple cider, which did not swell the slow-receding sensitivity in my throat. The tonight’s shimmering helped me forget the after effects of radiation. Momentarily is becoming addictive. The list of things I have not begun draws out like early morning mist on the mountains. I joke, calling it snow. Pure childishness. I think often of you and The Asking Boy and wonder if he would refine my questions. Writing Petrarch sonnets will wait. As will memorizing Rachmaninoff. Here I have 360 degrees of never ending awe. Suggesting occupation is senseless. I’ve discovered healing starts with the eyes. The work of an archaeologist.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ words drown
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ in weeping summer beauty
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ frogs croak
Yours always,
le souris bleu.

.

photographing people as they leave

.

.elevator music
lost its over-ripe sincerity & now
found in vending machinescaustic blue atmosphere brakes
health, rainbow bright pills
jog sporadic memories of weather& offer sensational honey-coated cures
radio continues to pedal ultimate realities
brainwave implosionarrhythmia & cancer, all have
finally conquered love dreams
we force life’s ooze from cracksamble among throngs of the dying
the umbrella people, spin-doctored
from the final Asian importfashion a trendy Geisha-like praise
for slowness, cocooning
themselves inside each shellfabric screens
broadcast an airtight list of whatever
used to soothe, poetry

fairy tale cartoons
& reruns of Every Country Has Talent
personalized playlists value Nashville

or New Orleans
freedom & gimmicks
exploded knowledge

in mass destruction, vexed
it has retreated & refuses to barter
metamorphosis

birds don’t whistle or hover
no one knows if whales
still exist

.
Ekphrastic poem based on the cover of The Blue Nib n°9

.

.

a slight introduction to fur and beards

>

.I am one
(undoubtedly
there are thousands of us)
a man with a cat
like linguini and Italian
not to be defined
as his human
any more than Joyce
a writer of haiku, naming
a cat Ulysses needs gumption
(he had no suggestions
many opt for “meow”)
every morning
puffed in red and gray
pillows and relentless glares
anticipating the day’s
non-Morpheus activities
we pose for self portraits
twenty-two hundred wallpaper
the bedroom walls, autobiographies
of odd assorted lovers
(I have a second who goes beyond
the foreplay of subtle purring
and kneading)
one carnivore, one vegan
one prefers butterflies and swallows
one Mozart and Mahler
we agree TV and writing
poetry was better
before we bonded
..
Ekphrastic poem based on the cover of The Blue Nib n°4...


 

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