Embedded Files
In The Middle
In The Middle
By Michael Shane Love – Lake Stevens, WA
By Michael Shane Love – Lake Stevens, WA
There is one way or another.One side or another.One view.....yadda yaddaand then there is you somewhere in the middle.
Which way do you go?Which way should you go?Or maybe, just maybeyou should not go at all.
Sometimes we all find ourselveshere, there or everywhere.We are like a conduit.We are being charged and “they”, whomever “they” may beare trying to attract us any which way they can.
“Come to my side, our side,” they say.“Our side is the right way.The only way.”And so there we are,looking back and forth, back and forthlike some human pendulum swaying,unable to decide which way is best to go.
“Tick tock, tick tock.”
Maybe we should tell them all to go to hell.Maybe we should decide for ourselves.Decide which way is the best way,the right way for us if either or any of them even are at all.Maybe we should concentrate on our own way.
Trust ourselves?
And also, maybe we should let others decide for themselves as welland not put them in the middlebecause in the middle tends to be the worst place for one to be.
“Tick tock.”
--msl2020
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
He is that one who always seems to know you.The one at the store.The one who says he went to school with youand though you do not recognize him you pretend like you doto be polite.
He is that one at the family get togethers.The picnics.The weddings.Who is he?He just.....shows up.
He knows you.
He is that one in the photo albumsa friend or a relative points out to you,that you swear you do not know,have never seen, never met.
And doesn't he seem to look awkward in the photo?Smiling?
--msl2020
Which way do you go?Which way should you go?Or maybe, just maybeyou should not go at all.
Sometimes we all find ourselveshere, there or everywhere.We are like a conduit.We are being charged and “they”, whomever “they” may beare trying to attract us any which way they can.
“Come to my side, our side,” they say.“Our side is the right way.The only way.”And so there we are,looking back and forth, back and forthlike some human pendulum swaying,unable to decide which way is best to go.
“Tick tock, tick tock.”
Maybe we should tell them all to go to hell.Maybe we should decide for ourselves.Decide which way is the best way,the right way for us if either or any of them even are at all.Maybe we should concentrate on our own way.
Trust ourselves?
And also, maybe we should let others decide for themselves as welland not put them in the middlebecause in the middle tends to be the worst place for one to be.
“Tick tock.”
--msl2020
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
That One
That One
By Michael Shane Love – Lake Stevens, WA
By Michael Shane Love – Lake Stevens, WA
He is that one who always seems to know you.The one at the store.The one who says he went to school with youand though you do not recognize him you pretend like you doto be polite.
He is that one at the family get togethers.The picnics.The weddings.Who is he?He just.....shows up.
He knows you.
He is that one in the photo albumsa friend or a relative points out to you,that you swear you do not know,have never seen, never met.
And doesn't he seem to look awkward in the photo?Smiling?
--msl2020
The Path Taken
The Path Taken
By Tamara Fey Turner – Mission Hills, CA
By Tamara Fey Turner – Mission Hills, CA
My father would remind anyone else of Loki, the giant, but I looked upon him as Prince Charming. He was a man of God, every day that I knew him. He was thankful for all that we had and committed to believing that what we had not obtained was not in the will of Him. When my father did not wish to smile, he had a face of stone, and it was difficult to believe that a smile would not break his face. Yet, he was a man who loved life and laughter and hugs. Every day my father arose, prepared for battle with the demons and dragons of the world and within himself. He fought fiercely, honorably, passionately. Slowly, gracefully, and with stealth precision, the cheetah crept and eventually claimed my father. When the time came, even though the defeat was sooner than hoped, he smiled. He knew, that the animal should have devoured him long ago, but had waited. It was a good fight, and it was his time.
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
Like caged tigersPosturing ancient respectGrand society
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
Bringing life to another piece of paperas I scatter images of the darkest corners of my mind onto the intestines of the dead forest beneath my scoring swordthat puts fear into the pages of all tablets with a single #2 mark and the only relief is when its pink pearl eraser slides across pulling away some of the wounds. But that is only a tease! This sword of darkness is encased with madness of destruction as it continues to kill itself to bring devastation to its enemyby shoving its head over and over into the blades of death. All so the humans can finally see its pain! Don’t all trees deserve death and torture. The sword seems to be in denial that it is part of the tree.Does it realize it is driven to murder itself? Perhaps the dream of immortality makes the suicide worth it willing to sacrifice its current insignificance for lasting beauty.
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
TKD
TKD
By Tamara Fey Turner – Mission Hills, CA
Like caged tigersPosturing ancient respectGrand societyBy Tamara Fey Turner – Mission Hills, CA
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
Survival or Death to Trees
Survival or Death to Trees
By Tamara Turner – Mission Hills, CA
By Tamara Turner – Mission Hills, CA
Bringing life to another piece of paperas I scatter images of the darkest corners of my mind onto the intestines of the dead forest beneath my scoring swordthat puts fear into the pages of all tablets with a single #2 mark and the only relief is when its pink pearl eraser slides across pulling away some of the wounds. But that is only a tease! This sword of darkness is encased with madness of destruction as it continues to kill itself to bring devastation to its enemyby shoving its head over and over into the blades of death. All so the humans can finally see its pain! Don’t all trees deserve death and torture. The sword seems to be in denial that it is part of the tree.Does it realize it is driven to murder itself? Perhaps the dream of immortality makes the suicide worth it willing to sacrifice its current insignificance for lasting beauty.
EDITORIAL
EDITORIAL
FOOD FOR THOUGHT
FOOD FOR THOUGHT
by Milo Rosebud – San Antonio, TX
by Milo Rosebud – San Antonio, TX
“Poetry Publishing:A prompted poet’s poems Pursing poignant perspectivePosing past paragraphs Pending prior posterity.”By Terry Lee
A poet must write. Writing is the poet’s first step into the reality play of real life as an artist. Writing is the poet’s form of artistic expression. Writing is the poet’s acceptance of their responsibility; as an educated person; to their art, for their audience and for posterity. It is, in fact, the simple act of thinking ahead. Whether the poet is prone to write lyrics, prose, free, blank or rhymed verse: the process of writing becomes a procedure of history. And only in the study of history can we begin to understand the future. The gift of poetry may be different in each individual poet; but I surmise, that when taken as a whole concept, these differences are likened to no more than a poet’s personal preference to a favorite color. And, a poet must seek. This is the second step a poet must take on the stage of real life. The poet must seek a publisher; and in doing so; the poet will find an audience. In much the same way that a poet seeks inspiration to find understanding of the past, present, or future: the publisher’s subscription base of readers and contributors will define the artist’s credibility in the drama of reality. An edition’s progress in style and direction is defined by more than just the artist. This is where you, the reader, comes in.
(Milo Rosebud is a freelance writer and critic)Copyright 1991 Milo Rosebud
BLAST FROM THE PAST - Conceit Magazine, January/February, 2016+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
It's as easy as one, two, three for me: When I stop to think about what you see.
First: I get an idea; and I begin to pace the floor,As I wonder why I've never thought of this before. I stare out the window, go for a walk, or take a ride; As I do, I roll it over and over, again, in my mind. And, the lines come one by one, as the time passes by.
Second: Is where I stop, and then begin to write;Reaching for anything handy that I can find.The verb is a half note and the comma is the rest; With each new verse, I think; this will be my best. But; the proof is in the song; that's the real test.
Third: At last, but not least; when I'm all by myself;With an unexpected vision or an inspiration for help:I begin to sing it out loud; and as I try;That's where I laugh, and sometimes I cry.It seems that they all bring a tear to my eye.
(BLAST FROM THE PAST) Published: Amulet – November/December, 2017; Conceit Magazine - September, 2018
A poet must write. Writing is the poet’s first step into the reality play of real life as an artist. Writing is the poet’s form of artistic expression. Writing is the poet’s acceptance of their responsibility; as an educated person; to their art, for their audience and for posterity. It is, in fact, the simple act of thinking ahead. Whether the poet is prone to write lyrics, prose, free, blank or rhymed verse: the process of writing becomes a procedure of history. And only in the study of history can we begin to understand the future. The gift of poetry may be different in each individual poet; but I surmise, that when taken as a whole concept, these differences are likened to no more than a poet’s personal preference to a favorite color. And, a poet must seek. This is the second step a poet must take on the stage of real life. The poet must seek a publisher; and in doing so; the poet will find an audience. In much the same way that a poet seeks inspiration to find understanding of the past, present, or future: the publisher’s subscription base of readers and contributors will define the artist’s credibility in the drama of reality. An edition’s progress in style and direction is defined by more than just the artist. This is where you, the reader, comes in.
(Milo Rosebud is a freelance writer and critic)Copyright 1991 Milo Rosebud
BLAST FROM THE PAST - Conceit Magazine, January/February, 2016+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
The Poem (a Song)
The Poem (a Song)
By Terry Lee – San Antonio, TX
By Terry Lee – San Antonio, TX
It's as easy as one, two, three for me: When I stop to think about what you see.
First: I get an idea; and I begin to pace the floor,As I wonder why I've never thought of this before. I stare out the window, go for a walk, or take a ride; As I do, I roll it over and over, again, in my mind. And, the lines come one by one, as the time passes by.
Second: Is where I stop, and then begin to write;Reaching for anything handy that I can find.The verb is a half note and the comma is the rest; With each new verse, I think; this will be my best. But; the proof is in the song; that's the real test.
Third: At last, but not least; when I'm all by myself;With an unexpected vision or an inspiration for help:I begin to sing it out loud; and as I try;That's where I laugh, and sometimes I cry.It seems that they all bring a tear to my eye.
(BLAST FROM THE PAST) Published: Amulet – November/December, 2017; Conceit Magazine - September, 2018
A Poem for Our Times
A Poem for Our Times
By Jon Bush – Belmont, MA
By Jon Bush – Belmont, MA
Death walks amongst us nowwith her dark musicand sultry charms.
Hold me to the mastlet me not go or I will surely drown.
We are robbed of simple pleasuresas well as the big ones.But we must survive,there is no other option.Alone I can'ttogether we can.That is surely true,More than ever now.
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
I was like them once, lungsscreaming for oxygen. Inthe old days I puffed up a storm.Until I realized I could hardlybreathe. I just wasn't gettingany pleasure from it. And ifnothing else, enjoyment isfirst on my list. It's abouthaving fun. And for me,smoking is kind of a horriblechore. When I smoked, everyyear I got sick. That wonderful day I putsmoking aside was a miracleof my lifetime. The greatestgift I could give to myself andthose around me. Somethingmore precious than all the goldon Earth, that I claimed with ywhole heart and mind. Thereare so many amazing things inmy life now, some that I thought Ihad lost forever, others I neverdared to dream.
Jon BushLexington Street
Hold me to the mastlet me not go or I will surely drown.
We are robbed of simple pleasuresas well as the big ones.But we must survive,there is no other option.Alone I can'ttogether we can.That is surely true,More than ever now.
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
Smoke Free Now
Smoke Free Now
by Jon Bush - Belmont, MA
by Jon Bush - Belmont, MA
I was like them once, lungsscreaming for oxygen. Inthe old days I puffed up a storm.Until I realized I could hardlybreathe. I just wasn't gettingany pleasure from it. And ifnothing else, enjoyment isfirst on my list. It's abouthaving fun. And for me,smoking is kind of a horriblechore. When I smoked, everyyear I got sick. That wonderful day I putsmoking aside was a miracleof my lifetime. The greatestgift I could give to myself andthose around me. Somethingmore precious than all the goldon Earth, that I claimed with ywhole heart and mind. Thereare so many amazing things inmy life now, some that I thought Ihad lost forever, others I neverdared to dream.
Jon BushLexington Street
Thistle
Thistle
By David Sapp – Berlin Heights, OH
By David Sapp – Berlin Heights, OH
A single weed,Audacious thistle,(The Greeks adorned Temples with acanthus)So foolish on my wont,I admire its pluck,Overlook the arrogance,Postpone its massacre.I’ll pull it tomorrow in gloves.Then, obstinacy and impulse,I reconsider, eyes narrow.My fingers get dirty, warilyDigging around its plinth(The vivid color of rhubarb)Eluding spiny rapiers,Resolving to tug the taprootEntirely, “that’s that,” but I hearA little, subterranean snap.I may see its charming, Violet flower sculpted In marble after all.
It’s not quite September and stillThe transformation comes,A well-balanced watch,A predicable train,The crimson arrives right
On time, everywhere a stain.It is futile to dwellUpon inevitable decay;There’s no postponement,There’s no agenda
Save the contrast of theseIlluminations of retina,Two trees, two particularChroma, tints, shades,Specific saturations of red:
The sassafras, its leavesCurving silhouettes of bosom,Pointing in vivid, scarlet nipples,Blushing, thoroughly embarrassed,Florid at how lush and greenIt grew over the summer.
And the maple, the aficionado,Dipped in wine, sweet tangOn the tongue perusing hues:Carmine, ruby, cherry, vermillion,Crimson, the arrival of crimson.
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
The Arrival of Crimson
The Arrival of Crimson
By David Sapp – Berlin Heights, OH
By David Sapp – Berlin Heights, OH
It’s not quite September and stillThe transformation comes,A well-balanced watch,A predicable train,The crimson arrives right
On time, everywhere a stain.It is futile to dwellUpon inevitable decay;There’s no postponement,There’s no agenda
Save the contrast of theseIlluminations of retina,Two trees, two particularChroma, tints, shades,Specific saturations of red:
The sassafras, its leavesCurving silhouettes of bosom,Pointing in vivid, scarlet nipples,Blushing, thoroughly embarrassed,Florid at how lush and greenIt grew over the summer.
And the maple, the aficionado,Dipped in wine, sweet tangOn the tongue perusing hues:Carmine, ruby, cherry, vermillion,Crimson, the arrival of crimson.
The Writer
The Writer
by Marlon Jackson - Bronx, NY
by Marlon Jackson - Bronx, NY
I'm under pressure, but I maintain focusThe purpose is to continue to be potent,because it's important.I'm dedicated to my skill and it's beautiful andreal as a writer I believe that persistence ispotent.I'm under pressure, but I maintain focusThe purpose is to continue to be potent,because it's important.I'm dedicated to my skill and it's beautiful andreal as a writer I believe that persistence ispotent.
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
Imagine staring at a corner and your mind twists.Your imagination soon then drops unto an abyss.You feel finicky, panicky, inward, turned like cyclone,where pressure invokes and a headache rises.You can't sleep or think, and you feel like you can't breathe.You seem to see things and you ask yourself to them, "Why are you looking at them?""Then who?" They replied.My eyes, my face, my expression...They replied, "They look just like me. Everything before me isn't equivalent, but uncanny.Come and look closer and you'll see.Yet, all around me is dark...then suddenly it illuminates.Then it becomes closer.Not a shadowy reflection, just myself in distress at the mirror.
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
The past was back then.The present is now, our future is our destiny.What we do during our present is the count of our individual selves.There's all to prove to ourselves and others to set examples.Our future is what counts and it's all what we must grow to young men and women fullyprepare for everything we consort.In the future that lies ahead of us.
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
Twisted
Twisted
by Marlon Jackson - Bronx, NY
by Marlon Jackson - Bronx, NY
Imagine staring at a corner and your mind twists.Your imagination soon then drops unto an abyss.You feel finicky, panicky, inward, turned like cyclone,where pressure invokes and a headache rises.You can't sleep or think, and you feel like you can't breathe.You seem to see things and you ask yourself to them, "Why are you looking at them?""Then who?" They replied.My eyes, my face, my expression...They replied, "They look just like me. Everything before me isn't equivalent, but uncanny.Come and look closer and you'll see.Yet, all around me is dark...then suddenly it illuminates.Then it becomes closer.Not a shadowy reflection, just myself in distress at the mirror.
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
The Future Lies Ahead of Us
The Future Lies Ahead of Us
by Marlon Jackson - Bronx, NY
by Marlon Jackson - Bronx, NY
The past was back then.The present is now, our future is our destiny.What we do during our present is the count of our individual selves.There's all to prove to ourselves and others to set examples.Our future is what counts and it's all what we must grow to young men and women fullyprepare for everything we consort.In the future that lies ahead of us.
Mojave
Mojave
By Thomas Donovan Murphy – Van Nuys, CA
By Thomas Donovan Murphy – Van Nuys, CA
The horned toad bored into the sand That still retained the daylight's heat Where slept that night but with the dawn Sought out a palm grove's frond retreat Where shaded fed on flies and bugs While sheltered from the heat of day Then licked the dewdrops right up till The Bobcat pounced and snuffed its prey But life, still takes an Age or two To sharpen evolution's skillAnd some evolve, but those who don't Will usefully become their kill
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
How sudden, silent gliding wingsFell 'fore the moon's full faceWas horned and caped the silhouetteThat pounced the orb lit space
Where bawling, clutched a tiny mouseAnd slowly popped it's talons throughA final shriek, then raised red beak,Raw meat, and chanting "Whoooo?"
How horrid when first Nature didEmbrace predacity.Unless of course the predatorJust happens to be me.
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
Predators
Predators
by Thomas Donovan Murphy
by Thomas Donovan Murphy
How sudden, silent gliding wingsFell 'fore the moon's full faceWas horned and caped the silhouetteThat pounced the orb lit space
Where bawling, clutched a tiny mouseAnd slowly popped it's talons throughA final shriek, then raised red beak,Raw meat, and chanting "Whoooo?"
How horrid when first Nature didEmbrace predacity.Unless of course the predatorJust happens to be me.
Anxiety
Anxiety
By Joyce Gage – Chadwick, MO
By Joyce Gage – Chadwick, MO
If you don't know what it's like, you never willI can't shut it off with some magical little pillSleepless nightsBut dreams are better when reality bites I can't focus, forgot to eatDidn't do a thing all day but damn I'm beatThoughts running aroundLike an unchaperoned kid on the playground My eyes are heavy but sleep doesn't comeAll these years you'd think I'd be numbIt haunts my mindEverywhere I look, it's there for me to find AnxietyIf you never had it, you wouldn't understand and never killSometimes I don't even know if what I'm seeing is real AnxietyDon't you dare tell me to just get over itBecause anxiety doesn't give a shitIt's always there like an unwanted friendWaiting with me until the very end © Joyce Gage 2020
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
The day you died,I was feeling blue,Lost in emotion,I didn't know what to do.Tears stain my pillowFrom many nights of cryingAnd if I said I'm fine now,I'd just be lying.I miss the sound of your laughI miss your face,Without you hereMakes me feel out of place.The day you died,I was feeling blue,For when you died,A part of me died too.
© Joyce Gage 2014
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
The Day You Died
The Day You Died
By Joyce Gage – Chadwick, MO
By Joyce Gage – Chadwick, MO
The day you died,I was feeling blue,Lost in emotion,I didn't know what to do.Tears stain my pillowFrom many nights of cryingAnd if I said I'm fine now,I'd just be lying.I miss the sound of your laughI miss your face,Without you hereMakes me feel out of place.The day you died,I was feeling blue,For when you died,A part of me died too.
© Joyce Gage 2014
THE OLD MAN
THE OLD MAN
By Eve Blohm – Staten Island, NY
By Eve Blohm – Staten Island, NY
The painting of the old manIs the image of a prospectorWho haunts the mountainsIn the state of ArizonaThe San Francisco peaks,Snow-capped and theRed Rock of SedonaHe is also the grandfatherThat I have never knownOr the old man in the seaWho fights the elementsAnd the turbulence in the Story of Hemingway+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
No matter how far we travel We are happy to come home
No matter how you may search Our treasures are right at home
Someone’s treasure will glitter Brighter until we come near
We have to find ways to save In a world of constant change
The road is always the same While our needs, wants and dreams change
My expenses are always out Of step with my income
Our dreams will not always match The income we receive in life
When we want to have some things Income will determine the choices
Not Always Easy
Not Always Easy
By Eve Blohm – Staten Island, NY
By Eve Blohm – Staten Island, NY
No matter how far we travel We are happy to come home
No matter how you may search Our treasures are right at home
Someone’s treasure will glitter Brighter until we come near
We have to find ways to save In a world of constant change
The road is always the same While our needs, wants and dreams change
My expenses are always out Of step with my income
Our dreams will not always match The income we receive in life
When we want to have some things Income will determine the choices
The Outsider
The Outsider
by Victoria Hunter - Clairton, PA
by Victoria Hunter - Clairton, PA
The less I speakwhen I am pushed to fall skinlessinto the brooding sunbeam
My bright voice falls spiritless on its tonguethe skirt of it tears and tearsand seems unsure of its reflectionIt seems to rise up into the suns mouthand turn there to a muffled sigh
Slowly it begins to purposely let itself goyou see nothing of the air can seem to stroke itwithout breaking it upward and awayand right when it's just about readyto lose its sensitivity to the salty windit sees your face as salvation the heart of it burst openit sees the ground as a giant god like fresh dirt it meets the ground gladly and gladly and gladly
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
You had enough shoes to line the entire edgeof 1 room in our apartment or a concrete surfaceused to line up suspects you would assumeyou know their crimes with colors you find morein films of Africa bold hunter greenthe desert night sky and the mud bled
Before the public eyes through a long rough winteryou worked to keep them without cracksas if you were their attorney before trial
Just looking at how stiff they satI knew how hard they must have feltwhen first grasped and first pushed in
Before you were kept more inside fighting cancer youngthey were fixed discovered steady in the spotlightyou would never put them down until all their surfacewas well-polished as a fresh headstone
My bright voice falls spiritless on its tonguethe skirt of it tears and tearsand seems unsure of its reflectionIt seems to rise up into the suns mouthand turn there to a muffled sigh
Slowly it begins to purposely let itself goyou see nothing of the air can seem to stroke itwithout breaking it upward and awayand right when it's just about readyto lose its sensitivity to the salty windit sees your face as salvation the heart of it burst openit sees the ground as a giant god like fresh dirt it meets the ground gladly and gladly and gladly
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
Remember Father When We Lived In Oakland
Remember Father When We Lived In Oakland
by Victoria Hunter - Clairton, PA
by Victoria Hunter - Clairton, PA
You had enough shoes to line the entire edgeof 1 room in our apartment or a concrete surfaceused to line up suspects you would assumeyou know their crimes with colors you find morein films of Africa bold hunter greenthe desert night sky and the mud bled
Before the public eyes through a long rough winteryou worked to keep them without cracksas if you were their attorney before trial
Just looking at how stiff they satI knew how hard they must have feltwhen first grasped and first pushed in
Before you were kept more inside fighting cancer youngthey were fixed discovered steady in the spotlightyou would never put them down until all their surfacewas well-polished as a fresh headstone
THE BLESSING
THE BLESSING
By Karen R. Springer – Williamstown, NJ
By Karen R. Springer – Williamstown, NJ
Forsythia's yellow fireDowny pussy willowAzalea's red desireSweet dreams on my pillowFlowering fruit trees bendingStrawberries in my bowlBirds their babies tending;Spring has kissed my soul.
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
From the perspective of her porch,it is as if the world is wretchedly wrappedin a dank, gray gossamer shroud;unearthly and all encompassing.The sky resembles a blank chalk board,absent of the gods' starry nouns and verbs;adorned only by the slender grace of a scimitar moon.
She is lost in the frost,Nothing stirs.Even the beat of her heartseems but a silent reverberation;a voiceless protestto the hoary, still horizonless morning.Winter is like a dietof stale breadand vinegar to her; the the hours before dawnits cruelest time.
Then the paper mandrives by and misthrowshis wares like some missile gone awry;and her stray catsaunters ups the drivewayfor its morning meal of dry Friskies and ice water.
One more day beginswith six more weeks of winter to go.
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
FEBRUARY FOURTH @ 4:00 AM
FEBRUARY FOURTH @ 4:00 AM
by Karen R. Spring - Williamstown, NJ
by Karen R. Spring - Williamstown, NJ
From the perspective of her porch,it is as if the world is wretchedly wrappedin a dank, gray gossamer shroud;unearthly and all encompassing.The sky resembles a blank chalk board,absent of the gods' starry nouns and verbs;adorned only by the slender grace of a scimitar moon.
She is lost in the frost,Nothing stirs.Even the beat of her heartseems but a silent reverberation;a voiceless protestto the hoary, still horizonless morning.Winter is like a dietof stale breadand vinegar to her; the the hours before dawnits cruelest time.
Then the paper mandrives by and misthrowshis wares like some missile gone awry;and her stray catsaunters ups the drivewayfor its morning meal of dry Friskies and ice water.
One more day beginswith six more weeks of winter to go.
The Judgment of Paris
The Judgment of Paris
By Ciara M. Blecka – Gilman, WI
By Ciara M. Blecka – Gilman, WI
if it’s beauty we can judge by what we seethen we’ll endlessly compete to see who the fairest will bethrow flowers and sing a songno kind of bribery could ever be wrongstrip down your clothes you have nothing to hidesuch boundless vanity I cannot abidebut we all want to be the prettiest dameand we all want immortal famebeing valued for your looks does not make you freedoes anyone else realize or is it only me?All the great goddesses gather in a tight throngthey’ll be sketched out in oil paintings before very longCezanne might catch them in a dainty poseAll the while their ego growsno one cared if they were smartthat doesn’t make very good artbetter for a woman to be a tender thingonly those that are get offered a diamond ringand if the situation arosewhere a woman was empowered, well, only heaven knowsjudge her ugly and she falls apartpit the ladies against each other from the startwhat will the Judgment of Paris bring?something so legendary the bards will all sing
Truth
Truth
By d. n. simmers – British Columbia, Canada
By d. n. simmers – British Columbia, Canada
“My name is truth and I am the most elusive Captive in the universe.” Chicago Poems Carl Sandberg
Build beside the sky and hold the heart of concrete in Each gloved hand as the day rolls out in thunder Silence is for the dead who lay in the gutters After hours on a Saturday night.
Strike the tongue of morning with the beast of the night Hold tight as they wash the sorrow out of each eye Stinging as wasp would sting and swollen with Grief from the edge of death.
Flies and bees come up and touch the flowersAs the come out in bursts and the rain Collects used petals at the rootsWhile a storm comes hard into the eyes.
Illusions are around so scoop them up and feedThem to ponds and lakes so the creatures there can Crush them and make them meals for the Next birth that comes out as moonlight leaks Into the flesh that is moving in the shadows Death has four legs that run inside moonlight.
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
Ask why, but there is no answer.Tell a tale, then there is only silence.Reasons. None. There is just angry mob.Now some have died in a placethat is hard to pronouncein an area, so old, that bones ofcivilizations are burned andburied beside new ones.We did not know the recent dead.We are told theywere all good people.Loved by so many, A few who hate without wanting to know the truthhave killed thosewho have begun,making a change.Why does this have to happen?Whey cannot changes come, blood letting be stopped? But then, wearing right or goodness has never stopped death.Somewhere in the desert there is old lands thatthe sands have covered.Did they, too, go through this chaos?Their stories cannot come out, onlywhen sands shift a certain wayat a future forgotten year.Before or after a blue moon shineson them at night. There!or is that just the sands glisteningby unusual light?Is it just a moonlit trickplaying with our eyes?
Build beside the sky and hold the heart of concrete in Each gloved hand as the day rolls out in thunder Silence is for the dead who lay in the gutters After hours on a Saturday night.
Strike the tongue of morning with the beast of the night Hold tight as they wash the sorrow out of each eye Stinging as wasp would sting and swollen with Grief from the edge of death.
Flies and bees come up and touch the flowersAs the come out in bursts and the rain Collects used petals at the rootsWhile a storm comes hard into the eyes.
Illusions are around so scoop them up and feedThem to ponds and lakes so the creatures there can Crush them and make them meals for the Next birth that comes out as moonlight leaks Into the flesh that is moving in the shadows Death has four legs that run inside moonlight.
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
So what will be
So what will be
By D. N. Simmers – British Columbia, Canada
Ask why, but there is no answer.Tell a tale, then there is only silence.Reasons. None. There is just angry mob.Now some have died in a placethat is hard to pronouncein an area, so old, that bones ofcivilizations are burned andburied beside new ones.We did not know the recent dead.We are told theywere all good people.Loved by so many, A few who hate without wanting to know the truthhave killed thosewho have begun,making a change.Why does this have to happen?Whey cannot changes come, blood letting be stopped? But then, wearing right or goodness has never stopped death.Somewhere in the desert there is old lands thatthe sands have covered.Did they, too, go through this chaos?Their stories cannot come out, onlywhen sands shift a certain wayat a future forgotten year.Before or after a blue moon shineson them at night. There!or is that just the sands glisteningby unusual light?Is it just a moonlit trickplaying with our eyes? By D. N. Simmers – British Columbia, Canada
(untitled)
(untitled)
by Simon Perchik - East Hampton, NY
by Simon Perchik - East Hampton, NY
*You whisper as if smokestill follows some planethat left it behind –mourners understand thiswave goodbye to your wordsby leaning closer the way fires startthough each stone left herewill collide with the sun –no one would noticeit’s two in the afternoonand all Earth is warming itself lighting up the skyno more than everhears you talk louder say where in your moutha kiss can be foundcame for you and stayed. ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ *How could a moon so dimsee the room being taken away–the door was closed from behind as if nothing will returnexcept to light the starswith evenings though the bed stays empty, was uprootedpulled further from the wallno mined for its darkness where each night pours sandlittle by little through the blanketover a room that died.
LIVE TO WRITE
LIVE TO WRITE
by Marc Carver - Basingstoke Hants, England
by Marc Carver - Basingstoke Hants, England
I walked into the coffee shop told the young woman I only came in here to see her,I will be here every day from now on she said.See you tomorrow I said.A sat in the sun for an hour then went to another coffee shop.I told another young woman I only come in here to see her.I am here every day she saidEveryday I said everyday she said.++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
I read two books in four days on holiday, one was a masterpiece the other told me of a man's decay through drink and that you can never really help others. The masterpiece wouldn't let me alone, made me think, woke me up made me see women a new way, made me doubt her. But really told me what I already knew.
Contempt and tender is the night
Contempt and tender is the night
by Marc Carver - - Basingstoke Hants, England
by Marc Carver - - Basingstoke Hants, England
I read two books in four days on holiday, one was a masterpiece the other told me of a man's decay through drink and that you can never really help others. The masterpiece wouldn't let me alone, made me think, woke me up made me see women a new way, made me doubt her. But really told me what I already knew.
JUST LIKE THEM
JUST LIKE THEM
By Stephen Philip Druce – Shropshire, United Kingdom
By Stephen Philip Druce – Shropshire, United Kingdom
They wished for a baby boy :tall,handsome,polite,clever,precocious,virtuous,noble,successful,triumphant, butthe boy turned outto be just likethem.Damn!damn?damn fools!who else goes into the mix?.
I knew I wasn't crazy when I sawthe real crazy people in action.I once saw a guy marching downthe road wearing trousers that wereten inches too short, with a self-assuredswagger as if they were a good fit. Presumably he'd chosen not to return to the clothes storeto exchange the trousers for a pair with a moresuitable size, but instead to parade the streetswith the adopted fashion persona of a circusclown.
"I'm going on a skiing holiday" I heard somebodysay. A novice skier that doesn't walk with any measure of grace and style, let alone fly off an icemountain at a high velocity on a pair of sticks, surely has a high probability of inflicting self-injuryon the slopes. Yes there's something a little forebodingabout the rock-solid jagged terrain that can really messwith your no-broken-bones holiday policy. Olympicstandard skiers get injured don't they?. So what makesa rookie skier exempt from such severe risks whenthey're perhaps a manager of a launderette?.
Bungee jumpers are crazy too. Why not leap off a highbridge tied to an elastic band and experience the irresistibleopportunity to suffer spinal damage and whiplash?. "Motorcyclingis the freest way to travel" they say. Yes free to travel over a roadsidefence and three fields in a high speed post-impact scenario. And whatabout the crazy people who have no fear of flying in an aeroplane?."You have more chance of getting struck by lightning than crashingin a plane" you hear them say. Well I'd rather be hit by lightning thannosedive from thirty thousand feet into an ocean bed that is so deepthere are creatures living there with spaghetti-shaped teeth and oneeye.
Then there's the crazy people that undergo plastic surgery.Why not put your blind faith in a bogus surgeon, who mayconsequently render you with half a chin and no nostrils?."Why did I go through with it?" they say in the post-op catastrophe.It's because you were hasty, cheap and crazy. You entrusted a 'surgeon'with credentials that extended to that of pottery class teacher. They dida botch job, scarpered with your cash and now you breathe through yourears.
The crazy people, you know the type: train spotters, astrologists, footballhooligans, picnic enthusiasts, owners of dangerous dogs - "It's ok he won'tbite, as long as you don't breathe". The ocean surfer who lost all his limbsand torso from numerous Great White shark attacks, but will not be deterredfrom going back into shark-infested waters to surf again. "I can still roll myremaining head onto a surfboard" he says. Of course there is nothing moreaesthetically pleasing to a beach lady than watching a human coconut on a giant pitta bread riding a wave.
How about the crazy participators of body tattooing?.you know the best way to pamper your soft, elegant,silky skin?. Deface it with ink. Ink! - a substance thatif spilt over your coffee table would spark a majorhousehold crisis. But your precious velvety skin?. Screwit!, you're good to go and vandalise it all with tackymeaningless ink stains. Plain old crazy.
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
'PLAIN OLD CRAZY'
'PLAIN OLD CRAZY'
By Stephen Philip Druce – Shropshire, United Kingdom
By Stephen Philip Druce – Shropshire, United Kingdom
I knew I wasn't crazy when I sawthe real crazy people in action.I once saw a guy marching downthe road wearing trousers that wereten inches too short, with a self-assuredswagger as if they were a good fit. Presumably he'd chosen not to return to the clothes storeto exchange the trousers for a pair with a moresuitable size, but instead to parade the streetswith the adopted fashion persona of a circusclown.
"I'm going on a skiing holiday" I heard somebodysay. A novice skier that doesn't walk with any measure of grace and style, let alone fly off an icemountain at a high velocity on a pair of sticks, surely has a high probability of inflicting self-injuryon the slopes. Yes there's something a little forebodingabout the rock-solid jagged terrain that can really messwith your no-broken-bones holiday policy. Olympicstandard skiers get injured don't they?. So what makesa rookie skier exempt from such severe risks whenthey're perhaps a manager of a launderette?.
Bungee jumpers are crazy too. Why not leap off a highbridge tied to an elastic band and experience the irresistibleopportunity to suffer spinal damage and whiplash?. "Motorcyclingis the freest way to travel" they say. Yes free to travel over a roadsidefence and three fields in a high speed post-impact scenario. And whatabout the crazy people who have no fear of flying in an aeroplane?."You have more chance of getting struck by lightning than crashingin a plane" you hear them say. Well I'd rather be hit by lightning thannosedive from thirty thousand feet into an ocean bed that is so deepthere are creatures living there with spaghetti-shaped teeth and oneeye.
Then there's the crazy people that undergo plastic surgery.Why not put your blind faith in a bogus surgeon, who mayconsequently render you with half a chin and no nostrils?."Why did I go through with it?" they say in the post-op catastrophe.It's because you were hasty, cheap and crazy. You entrusted a 'surgeon'with credentials that extended to that of pottery class teacher. They dida botch job, scarpered with your cash and now you breathe through yourears.
The crazy people, you know the type: train spotters, astrologists, footballhooligans, picnic enthusiasts, owners of dangerous dogs - "It's ok he won'tbite, as long as you don't breathe". The ocean surfer who lost all his limbsand torso from numerous Great White shark attacks, but will not be deterredfrom going back into shark-infested waters to surf again. "I can still roll myremaining head onto a surfboard" he says. Of course there is nothing moreaesthetically pleasing to a beach lady than watching a human coconut on a giant pitta bread riding a wave.
How about the crazy participators of body tattooing?.you know the best way to pamper your soft, elegant,silky skin?. Deface it with ink. Ink! - a substance thatif spilt over your coffee table would spark a majorhousehold crisis. But your precious velvety skin?. Screwit!, you're good to go and vandalise it all with tackymeaningless ink stains. Plain old crazy.
“Oh, I Know”
“Oh, I Know”
By Craig Rondinone – Allentown, NJ
By Craig Rondinone – Allentown, NJ
I know.Oh, I knowOf a placeYou can findThrough a spaceIn your mindWhere the kindPeople careAnd there isNo despairThat I know.
I know.Oh, I knowOf a world So surrealWhere the numbCan go feel.Where the sunDoes not setBut the mind Can forgetAll it knows.
I know.Oh, I knowOf a timeAnd a base Where the badCan save face.Swim a brook,Climb a tree,It is yourScenery.Chew the fat,Do not speak,It’s your choice,Strong or meek.In a flashIt is yoursA new world’sOpen doors.Step right up.Walk this way. Nice to smile,No dismay.Here to live,Not to die.Time to wake From this lieNo one knows.
I know.Oh, I knowOf a world So surrealWhere the numbCan go feel.Where the sunDoes not setBut the mind Can forgetAll it knows.
I know.Oh, I knowOf a timeAnd a base Where the badCan save face.Swim a brook,Climb a tree,It is yourScenery.Chew the fat,Do not speak,It’s your choice,Strong or meek.In a flashIt is yoursA new world’sOpen doors.Step right up.Walk this way. Nice to smile,No dismay.Here to live,Not to die.Time to wake From this lieNo one knows.
Page updated
Google Sites
Report abuse