Saturday, June 02, 2007

Bernice Lever

Bernice Lever, a techno idiot of the first rank stumbling about the e-world and searching for a reader, asks "Are you here today?" She has been infected with writing poems since Grade 9 when her 2 poems appeared in Rossland High annual. Now writing on Bowen Island, BC, after a long exile to Ontario and other countries, she is still reading, editing and writing as she "gets high" on words. She has read poems on 5 continents and is an active member of writing organizations. Her main prose book is "The Colour of Words," and her 8th book of poems, "Never a Straight Line" is by Black Moss, 2007. More info at
  • http://www.colour of


    Little things aren't important;
    they hardly create any G.N.P.;
    some don't eat / some don't sleep
    yet their effects are catastrophic
    more than tropical, even volcanic.

    red lipstick on his collar
    used condoms in her purse
    red numbers on bank balances
    red buttons for bomb crater curse

    Little things aren't important;
    they rarely create works of art
    none can smile / none can sing
    yet their uses foil truces
    evaporate, vaporize life's juices.

    Bacteria in flasks
    viruses in canisters
    personal land mines in parks
    atomic warheads land on their marks

    Yeah, hit the babies' eyes!

    Little things aren't important.


    She in black stockings,
    snug fitting, tan sweater dress,
    reads her paperback silently
    and slides her left foot softly,
    slowly in and out
    of her dark leather clog,
    stroking one ebony knee
    and thigh against its mate,

    sending shivers up
    to moist mouths - hers
    and others , furtively watching
    from plastic patio chairs
    in this cool fall air,
    this small area warmed
    by this simple female friction
    responding to her book's plot or pacing
    as she nods black bangs
    at each carefully turned page
    unaware of what riotous
    emotions she is unleashing

    (published -- QUILLS, Lust issue, 2004)


    Somehow you live on your surfaces:
    textures are all;
    sensations everywhere heightened:
    a fine cross hair;
    colours sharpen:
    a kaleidoscope tunnel, then blur
    blending one into each other;
    footsteps and waterfalls
    echo your heartbeats
    as you breathe
    in one another.


    Our two-faced friend is
    cancer searing
    our blond northern sisters,
    while scorching crops
    of southern brothers.

    We raise our faces towards
    your glowing hopeful dawns;
    we bow in praise
    to your blazing sunsets,
    thankful for another
    of your days.

    O perpetual radiation,
    we cannot control you;
    O terrible necessity
    with earth, air and water
    for our bodies;
    Outliving us all, yet

    not feeding our soul,
    you cannot control
    our spirit.


    Blogger Sylvia Barta said...

    Loved your poem Signature Moves.

    9:46 AM  

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