FALL GHAZAL
ALM No.64, June 2024
POETRY
Fall Ghazal
Hot cider, mead, ale, and beer in the fall.
We toast the moribund year in the fall.
The spent sun’s too weak to warm. We sleep long --
no noisy birds interfere in the fall.
Earth stripped of her adornment of flowers.
Naked trees look more sincere in the fall.
Ground hogs, scurrying squirrels, a quick glimpse
of fox. Too many starved deer in the fall.
Odd rustlings, whispers we can’t place. The veil
between the worlds thins, grows sheer in the fall.
Halloween mixes sweetness with monsters,
bids us welcome what we fear. In the Fall,
Adam and Eve lost their innocence. Our
post-Eden landscape’s severe in the fall.
Some tire of the message, Let go now.
Sun-starved, they lose their good cheer in the fall.
Stone’s mother sickened in September. Is
that wind or her ghost we hear in the fall?
Discouraged Pantoum
So much is not the way it ought to be.
These crumbling leaves never made it to red.
Gallons of oil pour into the sea.
Things slip out that shouldn’t be said.
These crumbling leaves never made it to red.
Our love cools but the weather stays warm.
Things slip out that shouldn’t be said.
In our home, in the world – so much harm.
Our love cools but the weather stays warm.
I feel like a ghost, so long unseen.
In our home, in the world – so much harm.
Careless injures as deeply as mean.
I feel like a ghost, so long unseen.
I imagine that you feel the same.
Careless injures as deeply as mean.
The wounds are far too numerous to name.
I imagine that you feel the same.
Gallons of oil pour into the sea.
The wounds are far too numerous to name.
So much is not the way it ought to be.
Anything Could
The pier is dangerous tonight,
a waning moon too thin to light
scraped- off scales and oozing condoms.
Anything could grab from the shadows.
A waning moon’s too thin to light
the walkway fetid with dead fish.
Anything could grab from the shadows –
a mugger, a memory.
The walkway’s fetid with dead fish.
Soon, the emergence of
a mugger or a memory.
The water’s stirred by intractable currents.
Soon, the emergence of
the night’s first stars.
A hippy couple comes to watch
the water, stirred by intractable currents.
The night’s first stars
are faint in the thick sky.
A hippie couple comes to watch
clouds hold, then release, the blade of moon.
Faint in the thick sky,
a too-low plane, or possibly Mars.
Clouds hold, then release, the blade of moon.
There’s much to see once eyes adjust.
A too-low plane, or possibly Mars.
Scraped-off scales and oozing condoms.
There’s much to see once the eyes adjust.
The pier is dangerous tonight.
Split
The body susses lies the mind believes.
Clench in the shoulders, flutter in the chest.
Will we listen? Go when it’s time to leave?
A con artist cons. A spider weaves.
Though vows are spoken, loyalty professed,
the body susses lies. Dumb mind believes
a pair of pretty lips. Slick words deceive.
The first slight or slap offers a test
that hurts to pass. Go when it’s time to leave,
our gut instructs, but hard to cleave
from love gone stale or dangerous. Undressed,
the body susses lies the mind believes.
We cling like autumn’s final stubborn leaves,
spin ruin into It’s all for the best.
The body susses lies the mind believes,
but we don’t heed. Stay when it’s time to leave.
Romantic Ghazal
To shared values, add a dash of romance.
Drape commitment in a sash of romance.
One suitor is an heir. One writes songs. Should
she choose the dazzle of cash? Of romance?
After kids, fatigue, and disappointment,
bright as spring’s first bird – a flash of romance.
He journeyed from flower shop to bar to
religion, spurred by the lash of romance.
Room strewn with empty wine bottles, torn clothes,
dead roses, condoms – the trash of romance.
Come here. Now go away. Sharp words. Kisses.
Her neck aches from the whiplash of romance.
When bills and boredom dampen ardor, pull
happy memories from the cache of romance.
A slinky dress, a rhinestone crown. Eyes rimmed
with Smoke. On each wrist, a splash of Romance.
Let stubborn shoots push through cracks in stone. Let
nascent love rise from the ash of romance.
Alison Stone is the author of nine full-length collections, Informed (NYQ Books, forthcoming), To See What Rises (CW Books, 2023), Zombies at the Disco (Jacar Press, 2020), Caught in the Myth (NYQ Books, 2019), Dazzle (Jacar Press, 2017), Masterplan, a book of collaborative poems with Eric Greinke (Presa Press, 2018), Ordinary Magic, (NYQ Books, 2016), Dangerous Enough (Presa Press 2014), and They Sing at Midnight, which won the 2003 Many Mountains Moving Poetry Award; as well as three chapbooks. Her poems have appeared in The Paris Review, Poetry, Ploughshares, Barrow Street, Poet Lore, and many other journals and anthologies. She has been awarded Poetry’s Frederick Bock Prize and New York Quarterly’s Madeline Sadin Award. She was Writer in Residence at LitSpace St. Pete. She is also a painter and the creator of The Stone Tarot. A licensed psychotherapist, she has private practices in NYC and Nyack. https://alisonstone.info/ Youtube and TikTok – Alison Stone Poetry.
