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 words.com/

LARKS

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.



SIGNATURE MOVES

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)



TOUCH

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.



SOL

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.