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 The Pauls Valley Poets
are not an official organized body per say.
They consist of poets, musicians, esoterics,
bohemians, and winos.
They tend to gather on or
near the last Friday of the month to share
work and projects with each other for
constructive criticism, and the
opportunity
to be in good company.
There are no dues to pay,
no time to volunteer, just good people and
good times. Newcomers are always welcome,
just contact Cole for more information
on when and where the next event will be
held. The Pauls Valley Poets are found
on myspace at
www.myspace.com/paulsvalleypoets
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Selections
Steam by Debra K. Wall |
A Song for Betsy by
Dean Wall | Me by
Brian Spencer |
Selections of Cole Gallup |
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By Debra K. Wall
As they stand
against the sky
The zero mile does
draw nigh
Beacons flashing for
those to see
We who travel the
island seas
These twin towers I
speak of now
Are stacks of refuse
power
Useless who no one
needs
Now has been
converted to steam
Steam to supply the
ship yard you see
The one that has
been here since 1673
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By Dean Wall
On the hillside, I
heft my clergy eyes skyward well past vesper
light.
Nearly nude in the
dim light breeze I see another task yet left
undone.
As a military
veteran it is an ultimate shame to disrespect
the ensign
Still, there the
fabric waves,
An amorphic candy
cane, floating, undulating in slow motion
against and assisted by another equally
undulating broad field of rich blue peppered by
white stars.
This dim yet
profoundly beautiful moment causes me to wonder
if the ancient edict about sunset lowering was
proclaimed by one who missed an opportunity to
behold something as beautiful as this.
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By Brian Spencer
Why when I hear the
voice
Do I run from its’
commands
Why when I see the
light
Do I turn to find
darkness
That blessed spirit
call
The sound ever sweet
My desire to obey is
out weighed
This imp, this
demon, this devil
His contending I try
to contest
Though the light
beckons
I still find myself
in darkness
If only I could kill
this demon
Whose hand is so
powerful
But in those all too
brief moments
Standing within the
light
I know why I flee
For in those moments
my eyes are open
The demon is only
me
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By Cole Gallup
I lie in the cool
comforting soil
With my breath still
and quite
I finally get to
rest
Forever free from my
toil
I can feel the
larvae tickle from within
While I become a
part of the humus
I have the roots of
the acacia consume me
And live and die in
the plant kingdom again and again
I am carried by the
winds
And adrift in the
sea
I am purified by
flame
With each adventure
returning me, to my beginning and my end
I observe the four
sessions as if they were nothing
And I am beyond love
hate and greed
I am even beyond
memory
For I am truly
unending
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Wow
By
Cole Gallup
It’s so warm
And surprisingly wet
I think this is more than I can handle
If I can just calm down, keep my composure
I hope she doesn’t notice
My breath is short
It’s too fast
I can’t slow it down
Maybe if I think of something else
No
Nothing can dull this sensation
It’s just too much
Too much
My eyes well with tears
I don’t think I can take any more
Was that a spasm?
Pleasure consumes me like a cascade
Slowly I can catch my breath
The rhythm of my heart finally becomes steady
As I nervously look at her
She holds my face and giggles
I feel like such a fool
That is the last jalapeño I eat
Or maybe, the first of many
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a night after
the bar
By Cole Gallup
Other than seeing a policeman
pull over a lady in a wheelchair and only a
wheelchair on
a desolate highway at 3am this night was fairly
uneventful.
A night at the Wynnewood bar
with too many toos, too many beers, too many
cigarettes,
too old to still be living like this.
Well uneventful until we passed
the Paoli Cemetery in a perpendicular manor.
A field of stone that housed my
ancestors all of them perfectly spaced and planted
to
await there physical resurrection and the second
coming.
Where by order of the full
moon, and the assistance of the exterior lights, our
passing
reflection was cast in all of that solemnly polished
granite.
It was abstracted yet still
discernable
We were reflecting their death
and literal representation of mortality, and they
our life
and refusal to acknowledge such a notion.
For that very brief, strange,
and beautiful moment, the living and the dead
reached across
that eerie threshold, and acknowledged each other
with indifference. |
Winter
By Cole Gallup
I used to think of winter as this cold dead thing,
the cold associated with a lack of life, therefore a
lack of
caring, but the wonderful thing about being biased
is that every now and again you are proven wrong.
The winter is not cold because it is dead, the
season is cold because it is purifying. After the
warmer
months have been allowed to run amuck with there
unchecked chaos, it is the winter who steps in and
resets the clock. Even the names of the months have
a reasoning of archaic fathers from long ago,
September, October, November, December, and by what
seems to be Devine timing when they know that
the world has almost had enough the new sound of
January steps in for the closing step of the
purification. One final thorough sweep of the chill,
followed by a genteel slow return to the green
sprouts of spring.
Winter is like a father, his hands are soft when you
stumble, yet they are stern when you fail, because
like
a true father he knows that you did not fail him,
but yourself. For truly the hardest part of love, is
withholding it. |
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Her
eyes
By Cole Gallup
her eyes are like honey... comforting, fortifying,
like something that you consume, and it leaves you
empowered.
Yet they are refreshing at the same time,
like sipping a mojito in high heat and humidity
no... not quite, that’s not it
they are like drinking sweet tea on a Georgia
summer,
the sweet is the wholesome part, reminding you of
fleece sweaters in December,
and the crisp kick of the tea is the welcomed uplift
delivering us from the sinfully comfortable
complacency
both qualities on opposite sides of the spectrum
amalgamate intrinsically to for the perfect blend
and all of this in a fraction of a second, in a
moment that feels endless, just the fleeting glance
of her eyes. |
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So there I was driving down the road
By Cole Gallup
So there I was driving down the road, with the
windows down, listening to KOMA, when
Crimson and Clover came on, and I was like "what a
bad ass song" so I asked my slave
driver Audrey "who sings this?" she said she would
find out, and the next day she
presented me with a burned compact disc of the above
title, I promptly put it in to the
shop's CD player and began to enjoy the psychedelic
harmonies that came forth. Then I
looked over to see two old junkies stop their
browsing of incense, turn to each other,
embrace, and sway clumsily back and forth as
toddlers would. At that moment it occurred
to me that a junkie is very much like a child, the
drug has became their new parent, it
rewards them, eases their pain when they are
hurting, it disciplines them by withdrawals,
and no matter what becomes of them it will never
turn them away.
I find it very intriguing to observe people who feel
a void in there lives, and search
desperately to fill it, no matter the cost.
May we all find our way home one day
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Stripper
By Cole Gallup
Lo, there is nothing more
sorrowful than a stripper watching the reflection of
her own
dance
Trying so hard not to think of the hairy obese sloth
ogling at her once closely guarded
secrets
Every time she dances she puts her mind back to a
time when she was a little princess
who only danced for sheer joy.
Well that is what she tells herself any way; in fact
the dance was not for enjoyment
It was a distraction, something to take her mind by
taking her body away from the pain.
The pain of a neglecting mother
The pain of an abusive, but far too affectionate
stepfather
The pain of being an innocent with out the luxury of
innocence
Through all the heavy makeup, pushup bras and body
spray, one can still see the pain in
her eyes
The pain that lingers
It would take the form of tears, if she had any left
Indeed there is nothing more sorrowful than a
stripper watching the refection of her own
dance
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Selections
printed with permission of the authors. |
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