In the Glass Upraised

His children paid the fare
and flew with him to the town
in Messinia where he was born
when the century was in its infancy.

From a rented seaside room,
he hobbled to the water’s edge,
recalling when a barefoot boy
had built sand castles on the shore.

The teenage girl employed
by the motel brought him
a folding chair, retsina wine,
and helped remove his shoes and socks.

The man who’d sweltered forty years
in a Gary, Indiana steel mill
chuckled as he wiggled his toes,
the water lapping at his feet.

“Were you born here, Mr. Samaras?”
the adolescent asked the aged one.
“Yes, but I am an American,”
he insisted, and in the glass upraised
captured the setting sun
and drank of the sea and light.

---

On Sepember 11, John Manesis read from his new book entitled
Other Candle Light which was published in September 2008.

Rebecca West reading her poem

The Great Winter Crow Show 2008

CROWS ON THE ROAD KILL

In a brittle fall Minnesota morning,
I sit in our on-the-way-to-make-a-dollar car
At a red light which never seems to change.

Four wonderfully sullen men
Trudge by with their homes on their backs.
One glances at the sliver of icy moon.
The others search the road for two-bit clues
To find the thief of million-dollar dreams.

They are about 15 feet from me
With the green light.

About 150 feet from me is a president's house
On the properly manicured corner of his world.

I imagine him breaking his fast
With his credibly lovely wife
In fluorescent-god-fearing light.

The eye of a hurricane squints on the east coast
And she whirls her naturally murderous arms.
On the west coast, the earth shrugs one shoulder
And bridges and buildings and beauties fall.

I am much closer to the men
With their homes on their backs.

In my rear view mirror, I watch the crows
Bouncing about a freshly killed squirrel
Avoiding cars in an attempt to survive.

Jim Fawbush

THE CROW AND THE CROSS

Last Sunday
A fat black crow
Perched on the top
Of the cross on the steeple
Nodding
He cawed three times

People sat in the church
Like the crew of a brick submarine
Unaware of something black
On their periscope

Jim Fawbush

WHILE WALKING MY DOGS AT RIVERSIDE CEMETERY

Ancient ravens and
Iron Jesus
Above
The silent city

Warm arms of the sun
Clutch me
(I have each moment)
But the muskrat skull in my hand
Frightens me

In the corner of my eye
A quiet messenger
The great mother of next moments
Clad so nicely in snow robes and wind
Did move naturally to the river
(The ice must know about spring's fresh children)

Sparrows sing of January
My dogs dance among the graves
As I lie on my back
And breathe

Snow and the Rose

Robert Surmotto wrote the following poem for the the Spirit Room's first annual event,
the Snow and the Rose, December 21, 2002 (shown here with Patrice Marvin)

Snow and the Rose

In this bleak season
memory climbs a ladder of thorns
in search of the rose
that burned in the house of summer.

Under unanimous shadows
where moon defeats sun
and winter's slumlord
allows no familiar flower to be born

we can only imagine your velvet touch
your full-blown whisper of passion
the fragrance that casts a spell on lovers.

Paused like dancers in crystal light
we wait for the music to begin again,
for the magnificent storm of your return.