Richard Garcia
"Five Sevens" consists of five Sevenlings. I was shooting for seven and may get back to the poem. The Sevenling is a form invented by Roddy Lumsden. It actually works, something that cannot always be said for newly invented forms. It results in a sort of imagistic, list/haiku. You can read about it here on the site of the American Poetry Journal.
"Ace of Wands" is a Pantoum generated by a Tarot card.
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Ace of Wands
A hand extended towards us out of a cloud.
The way you touched my arm, slight, tenuous.
A stream meandered, good for sleeping.
Out of a staff, new leaves.
The way your hand touched my arm, slight, tenuous.
I recalled who I was going to be that night.
Out of a staff, new leaves.
Or at least, that's what the moon claimed.
I recalled who I was going to be that night.
That's when a distant hill became fortifications.
Or at least, that's what the moon claimed.
Although the stars, fading fast, did not concur.
That's when a distant hill became fortifications.
Just the two of us on the world's slowest elevator.
Although the stars, fading fast, did not concur.
But we were only pretending to be lost.
Just the two of us on the world's slowest elevator.
A prototype of an iron stairway to outer space.
But we are only pretending to be lost.
A hand extended towards us out of a cloud.
Five Sevens
A black tablecloth billowed from a black ceiling.
An army surplus bomb casing painted black.
A night parade, seven grocery carts.
Chance reunion, a purse held upside down in Mexico City.
Screaming at La Plaza de Garibaldi.
Followed by thieves, changing cabs.
Living on the beach, pavement sways like the sea.
Missed a turn, but kept driving down an embankment.
Rear lights, red torches winding through distance.
Woke up entering a factory gate at dawn.
Stars tended to move around.
Mountains appeared where there were none.
Scorpions around my legs, too tired to care.
Return with one dime for a phone call-I thought-well done.
Seven sorry siblings. Seven missing sisters.
Seven brides, seven brothers, seven sawhorses.
Seven houses to build. The seven cities of Cibola.
Seven missing years of Jesus.
Seventh son of the seventh son
born on the seventh day in the seventh hour.
Three and three makes seven if you add one.
On the other side of the wall, Grand Canyon.
Spires, cathedrals, ancient dwellings of the future.
Drifting over the ocean, my hands lead the way
A playground in San Francisco, a hedge,
on the other side of the hedge, Colorado
Shacks on hills, the hills have stairways.
Always nighttime somewhere, the place where the past goes.
One pilot over shot the runway.
One stopped too soon-
blown tires, odor of burnt rubber.
Standing on the landing dock at two in the morning
I didn't know you a child, here, in Iceland.
How much to see the future of the Aurora Borealis?
Just those few coins in the palm of my hand.
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Richard Garcia is the author of The Persistence of Objects, BOA Editions. His poems have recently appeared in The Georgia Review, Crazyhorse and Ploughshares. He is the recipient of a Pushcart prize, and has a poem in Best American Poetry 2005. Richard's website is www.richardgarcia.info.