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  November 2013
volume 10 number 2
-table of contents-
  home   (archived)
  featured poets
  Rose Mary Boehm
  Merrill Cole
  t. joseph dunn
  Alex Johnson
  John MacKenna
  Robbi Nester
  David Scriven
  John W Sexton
  G. Murray Thomas
  toren wallace
  Alicia Winski
  mailing list
David Scriven November 2013



photo by dave scriven

    David Scriven is an environmental engineer who lives with his wife Lynn in the hinterlands of Western Riverside County. He does volunteer work for a non-profit religious organization, takes pictures, and plays harmonica in a band. He has two grown-up daughters. His photographs have appeared in the book Weird California and in several publications dealing with bugs.



The Last Supper

His lightning hair you have neatly brushed and trimmed;
His earthquake claws you have scrubbed of the stains of uncouth history;
And you have clothed Him in the latest of flattering and fire-proof fashions;
Regal, radiant, and eminently presentable.
You have set His place at the table
With a silver spoon,
A crystal goblet of tepid water,
And a freshly laundered napkin.
At the sound of a knock, like a collapsing mountain,
You answer and graciously bid Him enter;
Wiping his floody feet at the threshold.
You sit decorously in your rickety chairs;
You say your solemn grace--
And under the rushing clouds of that calamitous, oceanic gaze,
You bid your domesticated God
To eat what you have served.

copyright 2013 David Scriven




I root for the little hero
Holding up his little sword,
With his uneasy delusions of independence,
And his self-conscious need for approval.

I cheer him on
In his struggle to wriggle free
Of the truth-bondage of his blank destiny;
And cheat himself of the blissful peace
Of acquiescence in the inevitability of his irrelevance.

I put my bottom dollar down
On his ridiculous, fictional narrative
Of glorious exploits, and wonderful conquests,
Of honor, and justice, and redress of wrongs,
And triumphant, eternal love.

Time is my gigantic enemy as much as his
And we are both fated, ultimately, to fail;
Our puny echoes lost in the endless, crashing waves
Of cosmic noise.
We will at least fail together, as brothers.

copyright 2013 David Scriven




I walk in a different land, and my peculiar sustenance would wither your flesh. A different moon shines an alien light on my strange hair. My tread falls on an earth that speaks in a language of tiny creatures that have no truck with the pill-bugs and centipedes that occupy your soil. My sky and yours are divided by a great wall, and do not mix. The colors I see are not the same colors that you see. My tongue tastes flavors that cannot be measured by your instruments. I hear sounds in my ears that comfort me; the same sounds would terrify you. The voice of my mother would bring hard rain from your clouds. If I raised my hand to the sun of your land, my shadow would grow blood-purple crystals in the center of your mind. If you were to stop looking into my eyes right now, it would be best.

copyright 2013 David Scriven