Gerald Locklin, CSULB teacher, writer, poet, dies at 79

Gerald Locklin, a legendary local teacher, writer and poet who helped shape the literary landscape of Southern California for decades and was friends…

Gerald Locklin, CSULB teacher, writer, poet, dies at 79

A poet I admire and always enjoy reading

Merry Christmas

Pages have been silent , poetry settled hibernating in its own nest of growing existence , other words have escaped beyond borders and territories dramatic arcs to be filmed on flickering silver screen those words I am embracing , those words are my life blood.

I sit back this Christmas morning and think of you all

An Owlet Calls

hospital sounds occurred as

limp wires stretched to where she lay

quiet

body traumatised by the crash

she would scar , she would heal

away without him

her abuser,possessor , nightmare husband

a moth glimmered in her eye

how did it get in

then seemed to grow

expanding into something larger

she managed a smile

as it settled upon her

she sighed

it’s body pressing on top

a noctuidae

face bearded wise

antenna folded, she wanted to touch

trying to speak intubated

a gargling slur of nothing

I will protect you

it seemed to say

a fair exchange would be

probiscus probing pressing

her vein rich neck

flowing with oxygenated life

it pierced her flesh gently

a soft penetration

unlike others experienced

she would be safe

the owlet moth said so

quiet

she slept

Owlet moth copyright Daniel Kaliko

#PWpoetryprompt

Corona Flare

fables of pandemic unfold

more monsters than gods

take to visual stage

casting blame stones

impaled on their own arrogance

desperate to be seen

as the one

not concerned with people

fleshy pulp of the continent

oozing red into their eyes and hearts

more pledges of gold

in coffers in pockets

skin slaves toil

frontline fodder

without health armistice

broken promises

soiled memories

of what was and still

could of been

when it’s over

people will rise

staves and torches

battering the ivory towers

hoping this time

it will change

Fields Ploughed

I look at my penis

skin collar

lychee tip

then piss

a long straw stream

you are not a memory

you are a gift

finger folds

and soften furze

we know we belong

but until when

the scythe decides

Chris Lawrence

Whistle Me Away

when apes discover genocide

I wonder how long I will linger

on the verdant green and blue

insulated by my own sickness

that brackish bile

of human contempt

apes will sing not our mythology

but one of burnt forests

and dried out lakes

human carcasses so vile

carrion crows refuse

to dine without the thought

of consequence

and I will lie down

human leaf litter

becoming fertiliser of the new

season a generation

or era where the truth of nature

will win

Chris Lawrence

Mystery Apex

Concussed by mornings

sharpened light

grasping cotton silence

each breath was tentative

alone

without the other

that shadow fragment

of a once upon a night

recalling synaptic responses

she knew

he had departed

but to who

or where

tears where of no consequence

why shed them

fuck memories

and fuck those

who fucked them

Mercury Drops

paper cuts once

more painful

than the striating

marks on the heart

each ventricle incised

life a blood force

poured as if from

an unblessed chalice

closing eyes

cannot make you hide

slow each breath

coax intuition

to help

it is going

yield and go

fear of life

the greater threat

even with her

whisper kisses

Matopulas (2019) Murder…Power…Deceit

From the city of Liverpool in England , comes a an epic tale from Peter Sinseeya and his studio , featuring a stellar cast that I am proud to be a small part of .

I look at the trailer again and marvel at the depth and scope of the story , a Liverpool fable or dream with deep undercurrents anyway watch the trailer follow Matopulas on all social media and give Peter a follow he will appreciate

Lean Against The Letting Go

Lean against the letting go by Christopher Lawrence

like pressed garlic
creamy crushed
husk blown away,
i held her
forgetting the argument,
forgiveness and
playing with that
blonde hair
thinking of tomorrow

A poem that got put published in Rusty Truck 25 March 2012 in memory of Richard Brautigans birthday 30th January 1935