LAUREL LEAVES POETRY


Monthly Poetry Magazine



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POET AND POEMS OF THE MONTH


MS. TANYA JOYCE




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poetandpoemsofthemonth

APRIL 2018

RICHARD ANGILLY

 

1515 Poplar Ave., Richmond, CA 94805-1662

(510) 235-0361 richardaei@aol.com www.dancingpoetry.com

 

Richard Angilly is President of the Ina Coolbrith Circle (founded by California’s first Poet Laureate), Treasurer and Poet-in-Residence of Artists Embassy International (AEI), and coordinator of the annual Poets’ Dinner, which celebrated its 92nd year on March 24, 2018. As a Laureate Man of Letters, honored by United Poets Laureate International (UPLI) in 1986, he is a co-founder and performer with NaticaAngilly’s Poetic Dance Theater Company, and has performed for over thirty years in many national and international events and ceremonies. They bring poetry to life annually in the Dancing Poetry Festival, now in its 25th year, which will be held at the San Francisco California Palace of the Legion of Honor on Sept. 15, 2018, and were recently honored by the state of California. He was also one of the first to research and computerize the American language for teachers, while working at the Southwest Regional Education Laboratory. His books of poetry include: APOEMS OF ILLUMINATION@, AORGANIC MUSIC@, ACHANTS@, AMYSTIC ROOTS@, and many other poems in current anthologies.

 

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Bon Voyage

 

Winds of strange born destinies

range my limits.

Immortals dine

amidst the stars’ banquet.

I give them my feet

my earthbound dust

to be resouled.

 

I fly —

upon the fog’s carpet

above the trees

above the ridges

out past the Channel Islands.

Lightness commands

my body’s density.

 

I welcome

this new trick

this unearthly flight.

My voice is lifted

to lessen my weight.

 

— bonvoyage!

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Poets of the Call

 

We answer the call

sung out in all ages.

We follow that call

which flows from moon to sun.

 

We are here, sparks of life,

poets of the call, its song.

We sing out our calling —

our song from one to all.

 

We sing in all voices —

sing with our rhythm, our form.

We come from many nations

— a rush in our river of song.

 

We break into all silence —

sing praise in many names.

We are that truth, carry that light

— we sing, we echo our call !

 

We are all truly poets of the call!

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Ghosts In The Village

 

Many centuries of grain

grinding, stooped-over work

humans& rice glow in the sun

steady, back & forth polishing

pictures framed in archways.

 

A girl washes her hair

along the stream, lotus blossoms

water buffalo, chickens, pigs

encaptured in earthy charm

along the slowly moving water.

 

Tropical lushness hides

walkways arched in walls

ghosts in the village

cemeteries, monuments

people continuously alive.

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Midnight Sky

 

Going beyond these points of light,

I journey within this web, this wonder —

visioning through all these pinholes in space,

transitioning myself into a brilliant channel

— splashing light!

 

I travel upon its sinews, its clues,

coating it with every color I need.

 

Beaming my senses beyond dreams,

I transmit myself into very unusual documents.

 

I become an envelope which never seals,

flashing strange stamps and foreign addresses.

 

Light years away, I reappear —

wearing a mask of feathers and bark,

dancing to a rhythm I alone hear.

I turn these pulses onto my back,

paint my body with unseen sounds

— then vibrate into myriad incarnations.

 

So, I become a dream-walker, sailing in time,

watching all beings, these marvelous delights,

play with their chorus, their dance, their emotion.

 

Ah, caught within this bright beam, I gladly ride

— looking at the midnight sky —

I surround myself with all this presence,

touch so many places I cannot name,

follow its patterns until my consciousness subsides.

 

Then, opening again into a magic wand,

I gradually disappear within the starlight.

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The Weeding Women Of Kaohsiung

 

Lost under wide Chinese hats

they squat beside their black bags

slowly, patiently weeding across the park

 

Lost amidst the swarm of motorbikes

they sweep & sweep with their straw brooms

cleaning out all the garbage in the gutters

 

Lost alongside colorful political parades

they roam through alleyways seeking trash

dragging their thickening bags behind them

 

Found beyond the labors of the day

they drink healthy soup beside their TVs

watching Jackie Chan clean up devils from the world

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Send Out More Birds

 

Let’s put that on the other side of the waves

behind the cloud silhouetted in flame

the country with no name.

 

I send my birds to find it.

They bring back fruits —

their wings are bathed in exotic perfumes

their eyes tell me stories.

 

Our nights welcome strange dwellers

the mist is on the land.

Responses are ghosts, dance around us

entertain new shapes, shadows

form intersecting patterns across your body.

 

You swing down, under, thru me

our legs become vines,

play with the trunks.

Fast spiders, our lips, our nose.

Our mind runs backwards, slows,

enters, swarms thru us, out our toes.

We are quiet, our raft flows.

 

The night has no answers, passes

turns our questions into patchwork.

We need to send out more birds.

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