Oct/Nov 2004 Poetry

e c l e c t i c a  
s p e c i a l   f e a t u r e


In an ongoing series, the editors, former contributors, and readers of Eclectica have been invited to write a poem containing four pre-chosen words. The words for this issue are frontier, pool, rhubarb, and pulse. Below are the resulting selected poems.

If you would like to participate in the next special poetry assignment, please check the Eclectica Home Page after February 1, 2005, for the new four-word list.

(Click on the title to view the whole poem!)


Two Word Poems
The trail, a dusty scar cut into flanks
of lupine verging blue to purple, scarlet-
bugles, and Indian paintbrush
Taylor Graham


Donít Let It Die a Virgin

We imagined scenarios in which our fathers
Would be slain in their suits by flocks
Of wild geese
Kevin McGowin


Don't Count Your Chicks

Her once endearing dumbness,
Bird Brained Bantam, now seemed twisted
Jenna Rindo


Check the Thesaurus for: Light

The pulse of a dimly lit
bulb ticks through the night,
insisting in a pool of silence,
Here I am! See me?
Nick Contreras


Down Below
Roots drive down,
subsonic micro-thunder from the race to food.
Richard Walker


No one ever writes an ode to Taos
German women preparing rhubarb kuchen,
swimming pools set in purple-pansied yards,
O's rolling from old farmers' mouths.
Julie King


The Woman in a Painting by Chagall
When I step naked
onto the porch, my pulse
is a lone musician
Jennifer Finstrom


The End of Normal: a mirror cinquain
The pulse
of family
measured around the pool.
Deborah P. Kolodji


Leviathan, rising
The pond, a dark fathomless pool,
pulls the house into its wild
fishy frontier
David C. Kopaska-Merkel


Another Story
beyond the pulse
of carnival music, past the merry go round's
merry go round, past the tilt a whirl's tilt and whirl
J.D. Heskin


Your palsied
cat curls on the sill, white
with black symbols.
Rosemarie Crisafi


On Paper
Years after, the rhubarb still
blocks the driveway.
Arlene Ang


The Nature of Things
my grandfather taught me
to question the restraint of frontiers
that hindered spontaneity
Barbara De Franceschi


plane plains
their pulse will wake again
each early morning
to a stone bell
Dorothy Lang


Dry Summer in the Last Frontier
The season should have ended a month ago,
the fire crews been on their way south
to protect expensive California homes.
Eric Heyne


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