Denis Garrison

Denis Garrison, an Iowa native, lives in Maryland after several years in Japan, Germany and North Africa. He lives with his wife, Deborah, in northern Baltimore County. He has published a chapbook, Port of Call and Other Poems. Three short stories and an essay on the modern novel appeared in Talisman. His poetry appears in Talisman, Nightingale, Verse Libre Quarterly, Water Blossoms, Stirring, Rustlings of the Wind, Poetic Voices, World Haiku Review, Poetry in the Light, Haiga Online, World Haiku Association, and others. He edits the magazine/webzine,Amaze: The Cinquain Journal, and is rolling out a newmagazine/webzine, Gunpowder River Review. Garrison also edits the Haiku Cycles e-books collaboration with the World Haiku Club. His website is at http://www.denisgarrison.com/.

"A Poet's Anthem"

Blessed be those who
strip off their scalps and skulls and pants
and stand bare-assed and bare-brained
on the steps of City Hall,
where they sing and weep and
dance naked for the gaping crowd
because the price of truth is blood.

Blessed be those who,
among the debris of twinkies and quarts of beer,
their hearts broken by imagining with a purpose,
write with pencil stubs on used pizza boxes
lines that burn.

Blessed be those who
hold high the banner of mellifluity
above the talons of the prosaic hordes,
who know that, if screen doors were not so named,
something else would have to be,
and who know banana and Mombasa and sillion
as gifts from the gods.

Blessed be those who
wake up sweating in the January night
and scribble with erasable bics
on the cracking window shades
dreams of foxfire and neon streets that breathe.

Blessed be those who
eat their own blood and share it
because they are the slaves of words
and sacrifice their firstborn
for the masters that they love.

Blessed be those who
expose the secrets of
the flickering synapses of their souls,
compelled to sky write them
in the guileless blue
above puritan villages
and cities that work.

Blessed be those who
can hear when they are sung to,
and who wait in patience
and pray that the poet
does not die intestate.

"Larks Die Too"

Just for laughs, he joined me
astride the running board of the Hudson as I drove,
headstrong, headlong and reckless, over
prairies, drifting dunes and granite heights.

Racing the sun but losing,
we tore down those blacktop trails,
that wore him and me and the Hudson
as a grindstone blunts a blade.

Across three States, afire, we blazed
until, in the shrieking twilight,
his face burnt crimson in the pagan flames of day,
his red and salt-rimmed eyes fixed in an empty gaze
and registering absolute zero, against all sense,
he took one step, arctic and northerly,
and spilled into the soft Mojave
and foundered in the waiting, famished sands.

"Riding the Bell Curve"

When the alcohol kicks in and releases me from me,
How borderless am I.
With what endless arms my poor reach extends
To embrace earth and sky.
Fallen to childish grace, seeing kin in strangers,
I'm prey to every lie.
Given to unchecked praise, I certify as victor anyone
Who gives anything a try.
Compassion-soaked, for any grief recounted, false or true,
I am primed to cry.
With consequences blurred and senses dulled, for any cause,
I am anxious to die.
But when the toxin's sway fades and the piercing pain
Gathers behind one eye,
And sorely abused guts convulse and complain, and
Set me to heaving dry,
Then, huddled in the john, so pasty-faced and cold,
Small and alone am I.

"Topanga Love Dream"

Songbirds rhumba in the monoxide night,
coughing like nails on slate.
Pneumogirls with trick knees
stick to your all alone sliding sweat,
telling tenspeed lies and
bleeding apricot chandelier tears,
breaking your borrowed bones
on the culture rack.
The church key is melting now,
right through your trembling hand.
Your dry and empty throat
craves the bloodsoaked beaches.
Your bruise burnt tongue
cannot testify to anything that happened.
Settle back into your coma comfort and
dream your solitary love.

"Jumper"

Scarecrow standing on the rail
thin dress flapping in wind
eyes only for blue below
veins popping arms hold tight.

Stopped traffic shouting - do it now!
cheering ocean diving angel on
shouting - go on jump, you freak!
chanting courage in the angry air.

Poppy eyes round and terrified
dart over shoving throng
see the loss of some last thing there
she loosens grip on the cables.

Push by commuters standing close by
hopping over bumpers pulled close
almost get hit by a moped
as I sprint across four lanes.

Sharp hurt in knee shoved into van
little pain flaming up in my chest
got to get to the far sidewalk
and pull the lonely scarecrow back.

Broken soul sees me plunge across
final fear fills empty otherwise eyes
lets go of the cables just then
and leans out into the wind.

Leaning way out over the rail
I see the pale dress whipping down
tiny white foam where she hits
and then nothing left to see.

Crowd's cheers die of a sudden
cars start up and take off
angry eyes peer out of LTDs
and no one comes over at all.

Don't know why I tried it
don't know if I could have helped
didn't seem to do anyone any good
I might just as well have cheered.