No Regrets Journal
Summer 2013 !
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No Regrets, a journal of poetry, prose and images about the twists and turns in the search for love, meaning and community.
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Clayton Medeiros, Editor, Poet and Collage Artist.
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Neil McKay (Johnny Trash), Webmaster.
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Submissions are by invitation of the Editor.
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claymedeiros@aol.com Epublishing site with all issues
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http://issuu.com/claymedeiros/docs
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Facebook fan page With No Regrets issues, haikus, poems and photographs
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http://www.facebook.com/NoRegretsJournal
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! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! Reading Tomas Transtromer
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Constantly confused, the eyes see Borders between dreams and waking, Past and present boundaries Impinge one on another in The dim light of refined memory.
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The dim light of refined memory, We know an inaccessible reality As tactile and factual as our today, Forever glimpsed, but never seen, A crossing point among probabilities.
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A crossing point among probabilities, Immanent and ephemeral beings, We become “the place where Creation is working itself out,” Participants commissioned in time.
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Participants commissioned in time, A dissipated past, a pregnant future, In a city’s newborn block’s buildings, The sun crowds through windows, No one stands ready to see the light.
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Clayton Medeiros
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Alone in America
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America’s loneliness, not that of the long distance runner, peculiarly disconnected between flurries of activities and a presumptive solitude, becomes a desperate drift, empty at the edge of whatever’s been done. A circle with no center, yet ever hopeful of salvation, if only in the early morning expectation of a better day.
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Clouds
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Clouds strewn over the bay As if a magician doing a trick Lost control of his deck of cards Scattered kings and queens From horizon to horizon After all bets were made
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Clayton Medeiros
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Reading John Banville
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An end of day walk at the edge of dusk, the woods lean into the path, trees and wind confer, a rustling dialogue beyond me. The dog easily trots along, uninterested in the language of leaves, nose to the earth. The day’s mixture of weather, has not chosen a season, confused by memory, lost in revery at the edge of an ever darker pond. Shadows, on the way ahead, lengthen, creatures from another world struggle to become part of this one.
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Dimitri Shostakovich
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Shostakovich, who composed his own requiem with the first four letters of his name captured in the music of String Quartet Number Eight with its funereal cello followed by quotes from other of his symphonies, stitched together a farewell; he escaped the censors in a musical catharsis, slept by the elevator, protected his sleeping family.
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Clayton Medeiros
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A life of increments requires a leap, delirious, unexpected, a tumble down a grassy hill side where a shoe might be lost.
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Clayton Medeiros
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The Sigh
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The sigh flutters across the room, I turn, expect to see its author, but I see no one there now, just a small lamp, its tasseled shade glows, an almost sun set, on a diminutive wooden table. The amber light as if it were in the corner of a painting, carefully hung in a distant past, a wall of famed impressionists with significant, well deserved words from an authoritative audio guide, but, no sign of the sigh’s flutter.
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Clayton Medeiros