The October poetry theme touches on ancient lore and myths. I enjoyed reading through all of the poems, thank you everyone who sent work in.

Joy Yourcenar JOY YOURCENAR lives and writes in Halifax, Nova Scotia with her life partner, the photographer Eric Boutilier-Brown, and her daughter, Zoë-Genevieve. She has two personal websites: Mythologies(her own site) and icon/graphy (a collaborative visual poetry site with Eric). Her first collection of poetry, Nattering on the Sublime, with an introduction by the American folk singer, raconteur and labor activist Utah Phillips, will be published by Newton’s Baby in Spring, 2000.

Moonmist & Shadow © Joy Yourcenar Dreams are prophecy to those who rarely frequent Morpheus' adamantine halls. Wandering alone, I stopped to stare at tapestries and masques of love But then a darkman came luminescent, dividing my night into moonmist and shadow Diana, sheath your silver arrow. I am already pierced. Does it matter whether it is yours or Eros'? Sceptical of virgin birth, your soulson offers the sensuality you fear. Drenched in jasmine, he strews rose petals in my path and I stop, afraid; you are never kind to those who love your chosen. No chaste priestess, I would lie down with him by self-reflecting pools, take him on a verdant caress of moss with my siren's watermagic streaming over the darkman, consciousness overflowing. taking down first his hair, intertwining my alabaster hands with the onyx of his mane, as I let him unbraid mine. Baring passion's breast to draw my own bow, you are not the only huntress in the woods. Diana, his words are ambrosia for a starving soul too long hungered for the kindred honey, spirit of affection Bees do not resist nectar; why must I when a darkman comes, luminescent, dividing my night into moonmist and shadow? Cursing Pomegranates © Joy Yourcenar When you descend into Hades hellbound by ancient promises, look up through root and rock and picture me, a lonely goddess, duty bound to move through green and gold, dance through to harvest sadness, waiting impatiently for Charon to ferry my heart back to me. I give the Earth the life I once gave you, cursing the pomegranate but never the beloved eater. Six Seeds of Separation © Joy Yourcenar Myths never finish the story. Giddy Persephone, dancing ambiguously through Olympian meadows right up to the edge of womanhood, desired Hades tentatively in her thoughtless, childish way. Little girls ripen like corn into goddesses, and become summer heavy. Swaying before Cerberus' master, half begging, half afraid. Demeter's wayward daughter flirts with raw passion; Persephone plays a breathless game, captive and captivating, nubile and mutable, taunting the Lord of Hell with her budding breasts, nipples like blossoms, caressed by carelessly woven daisy chains. Onto her pomegranate stained mouth Hades whispers love and the grown up secrets she craves but cannot fully comprehend. Pendulous breasts heaving, Demeter, left alone in her despair, draws back fertility into her womb, clinging to it like a stillborn child. Fully ripened and oft harvested, she understands too well the double entendre of plowing and planting, the excruciating pleasure of godflesh on godflesh. Her primordial maternal heart was not prepared for the sudden adolescent fecundity, the precocious bloom of rampant sexuality on Persephone's roseblushed childcheeks. Zeus spared her the sight of braids taken down and unplaited in preparation for the bridal bed and hymen's exquisite sacrifice. But whose loss of innocence does she mourn in a wild extravagant grief, splashy as red poppies in a verdant field? Demeter regains only partial vibrancy when Persephone returns as Spring, never able to forget the pomegranate seeds which, once consumed, became the six seeds of separation between a goddess and a girl. Myths always end without telling you the entire story. [email protected]

Jerry Jenkins JERRY JENKINS, has been writing poetry since 1993. He is a member of the Academy of American Poets and the Science Fiction Poetry Association, where his poetry has been nominated for the Association's Rhysling Award. His poetry has won numerous awards in individual and chapbook competitions, and has appeared in printed publications and anthologies such as The Formalist, The Lyric, Mobius, Echoes, Harp-Strings, Amelia, Cicada, The Piedmont Literary Review, Mail Call Journal, Poetry Monthly (U.K.), The Devil's Millhopper, The Fractal, Dark Planet, Pirate Writings, and Star*Line. His online publication credits include work in Octavo, Eclectica, Pyrowords, Avalon, Poetic Express, and Deep South. His chapbooks include AVIAN, Helionaut, Hamadryad's Passage, Candle, Monks' Wine, Our Own Loving Kind, and Confluence (in collaboration with Rosa Clement). He is a former Marine Corps officer with 26 years of service, including service in Vietnam. He recently retired from George Mason University in Fairfax, Virginia, where he was Assistant Vice-President for Information Technology. He is a Sysop of the Poetry Forum on CompuServe, where he is the editor of the Compuserve Poetry Anthology.

SIOUX TALE © Jerry Jenkins Out in the Maka Sicha where the badlands and prairie meet, there is a secret cave beneath the world's feet. Despite all the tourists and roads, no one has learned it's there. An ancient woman lives in it, wizened and wrinkled. Her hair is white and her face is shriveled, scored like a walnut, and brown. She's been there thousands of years, deep in the underground. For all those thousands of years she has worked on a blanket strip made of dyed porcupine quills. She puts them up to her lips and chews them. Her teeth are flat, worn from the chewing she does. A huge black dog in the darkness watches wherever she goes, licking his paws in silence at the edge of an age-old fire. His eyes are deep as the cave, and he never sleeps or tires. Old Woman is feeble and never sees the dog's watching eyes. Sometimes she feeds the flame. It takes her a while to rise. The moment her back is turned, the dog pulls out every quill. She never makes any progress, but works on the blanket still. The quillwork is never finished because of the dog, our best friend. It is well. When the last quill is woven, the world will come to an end. A WALK IN THE SUNSET WOODS © Jerry Jenkins You always loved the autumn woods, and so when it was time for you to say goodbye we thought how fitting it would be to go among the umber trees. The sunset sky was filled with floating leaves whose whispering assured us they'd be back again in spring. Something moved invisibly in the air. The squirrels stopped their squabbling, to wait within their high domain of twigs and cones. The twilight glowed in incandescent flare and kindled sudden gold fires in your hair. Through lucent skin, your silhouetted bones burned brief and black. I saw your eyes dilate, then you were gone, and where you stood was bare, Except for this: a filigree of gold lay on the ground, its minute tracery and brittle fretwork all you left for me, this leaf whose thin fragility I hold, trembling in my palm, alive and warm: the forest's gift, and your eternal form. [email protected]

detail from "Disgustibus" by Jan Sand JAN SAND, poet and illustrator from New York, is a regular contributor to Poetry Life & Times. and the newsgroup alt.arts.poetry.comments. A great deal of his work is about animals, or science fiction. To see more of Jan's poems and illustrations, visit the November '98 issue of Poetry Life & Times, and scroll down past the Editor's Letter.

MAGICAL MYTHICAL MYSTICAL MONSTERS © Jan Sand There exists a territory Where the Chinese often worry Whether there's enough to eat and drink. Ive heard it said that its because God said, Go be desert! and it was. Skulking through these rocks, ravines Sneaks the creatures known as tweens. It chomps up circuit boards Discarded shoes, electric cords Hub caps, soap stubs, gears from old machines. You must be careful, extra cautious Its horrid smell makes you nauseous Especially if you are wearing jeans. It dotes upon the color blue And eagerly would chew on you. So run! So flee the vicious Gobi tweens. Back before the USSR Had dumped the overbearing tsar They told the tales of the awful cow That gobbled children by the schoolful. It came, by prophesy to fullfill Threats against kids, bad til now. If the kids messed their rooms, Refused to clean with mops and brooms, Pushed aside their beets and soup, The beast, all green with moss, would come, Hoist them up by the thumb And gather them into a milling troop. Then, with whistles, snorts and growls It tied them up in dirty towels And slung them down, deep into its cave. The kids would scream, the kids would shout For somebody to get them out But nobody came to save The bad bad kids, no one knew how To fight the thing, the hideous moss cow. In mountains north of India Where weather is more windia Than in the fields of lower climes, The terrain is more rockia The climbers are more cockia According to the latest New York Times. There is a beast thats never stirred A funny kind of granite nerd, It sits forever with its head on chest. Stock still, it waits, Not eats nor mates Quiescent, its the ever rest. Have you heard of the adder With a most humongous bladder So it pees for hours at a time. Its urine generates great floods Surmounted over all by suds. Local people often loudly sing With genuine veracity Of the snakes capacity, Formidable, invincible pee king THE OLD WAYS © Jan Sand The gods have gone adventuring. From tall pedestals In the Metropolitan Museum, Out of secluded corners In tasteful wealthy living rooms, They beam their malevolence. Their gold power Is undiminished. They have, With sure strength, Moved into the world From ancient lost Aztec temples, And the rain forests of Cambodia. They sit now on glass topped coffee tables And speak, not with sky thunder, But in tinny tones From cell phones. THEY SPIT NULLS AND UNITS INTO THE INTERNET. THE MIND OF MAN Has not changed. It is as good as ever A conduit of god thought. Hearts, these days, Rip as easily as before From living breasts. The gods cold jade eyes Glitter before television screens Depicting Ruanda and Kosova. [email protected]

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