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To believe or not to believe

By David Thorpe

 
To believe or not to believe
that is the question.
A question we find ourselves
asking daily, the answer
to be caught in the wind
 
Yet more questions join the queue.
how gullible have we become,
to follow leaders blindly without
weighing up the deliberations
or heeding our own conscious
 
The time is ripe for the harvesting
of evidence and proof of facts,
rather than running like hens in circles
to feed on scattered grains,
the consequences better to understand
 
Dizzy on the carousel of promises,
time to alight and take a stand,
no longer to dance to misguiding tunes,
decisive reaction is indispensable
for memories are oft too short

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Hela (Hel)

Goddess of Death and the Lady of the Underworld


By David Thorpe


The heavens of the North roared with anger,
lightning struck the sentinel turrets of Asgard,
the Nordic gods in fear and discontent announced the birth of Hela,
daughter of the trickster god Loki and the giantess Angrboda
 
Later to be known as the goddess of death,
her skin, of normal and blue-black tints
covered her skeleton and human body,
half a young woman, the other half a cretin
 
Banished from Odin´s Asgard court,
Hela, founded her own underworld realm, Helheim,
a kingdom populated by dead souls of warriors,
 not accepted to enter the halls of Valhalla
 
Although the stench of rot and decay accompanied Hela
within the walls of her castle, Elvidnis,
in which the rays of sunlight never penetrated,
her belief was ever that death should not be euphemised
 
The after-life of her subjects was her concern,
rejection of necromancy her conviction,
her credence was that despair and pain be sacred states,
for only after suffering could true happiness be appreciated 


David Thorpe ©® 2019

​Save the World


By Alexandra H. Rodrigues


I decided to stay away from any competition
No way can I make saving the World my mission
I am not even certain how I want the World to be
Sure, less tragedies, hate and wars I’d like to see.


It is hard for even two people to meet and have no fight.
So how could it be possible for millions and millions
To one and the same rules and believes to abide?
We forfeited in paradise for World peace our right!


Not till and only if we are re-born,
When conscience and soul from our guilty body are torn,
Will we possibly enter a peaceful sphere?
Free of fiendish competition for power to fear.


On earth it will have to suffice
To do what is humanly possible to be nice.
Love your neighbors, your family and your friends.
All else must remain in the creator’s hands.

Of Fly Traps and Other Monsters
 

Poetry Collection 

By Alan Catlin




Cthulhu


The Lurking Fear comes to mind
first off. This is the kind of stuff EAP
would write with a nasty hangover.
Or after a cocaine binge and a three
day spontaneous camping trip without
a tent in the New Jersey marshes that was
a periodic result of his alcoholic blackouts.
Apparently, old Edgar would sleep with anyone ,
if she were female and part of his family,
and if he had incest babies, which luckily,
he didn’t, they would grow up to write stuff
that starred creatures like Mr. Cthulhu.
Mr. Poe would write this stuff while staying
with the prototype for the proprietor
of the Bates Motel Days Inn and not remember
any of it which explains some of his later fiction.
The best part for Edgar was he could write it all
off on his taxes. Even the dead bodies. Though,
Lovecraft, the actual author, probably never
slept with anyone, though he had an unhealthy
relationship with His Mom (see Bates Motel)
that no doubt factored into his musings on
paper, if not elsewhere. We had better not
go there. Cthulhu is bad enough without
imagining a sex life, or a Mrs. Cthulhu.










Crab Monsters


Remember all those black and white
movies in the 50’s? The ones that
came out in the wake of the atomic
bomb? fear of the red menace?
like every two weeks with a different
giant something: Attack of the 100 Foot
Woman, giant ants, shrews, cats
(though, as I recall, in that one, they
shrank the people so the cat just
seemed huge but it amounts to the
same thing). No giant dogs, though.
I wonder why? Maybe the shrews got them?
That was a joke, son. Anyway, those giant
crabs were scary, man: a bunch of dudes
(scientists) and dudettes (assistants)
on this deteriorating island ( kind of a
locked room mystery only outdoors
and the island keeps getting smaller…)
all these guys and gals getting chomped
to death by these hordes of ravenous
land crabs. Who really knew how they
got this big other than it had to do with
radiation, and there was always some
flimsy plot twist that led to the monster’s
demise. All of it completely ridiculous
but kind of scary while it lasted.
What was really scary was the idea
of what radiation might do to all creatures
great and small. The whole bad scene
should have been enough to make
real scientists stop monkeying with
atomic power and bombs and stuff
but it wasn’t.












Venus Fly Traps


Remember that original Star Trek episode
where the Enterprise has rescued a tribe
of inter-stellar hippies? Not sure where
they came from, or what the thinking was
behind this truly insipid idea, or what
made someone think it would be a good plan
to transport these folks to some Eden place,
being hawked by the incredibly obnoxious
charismatic leader. When the hippie tribe got
to their destination it was supposed to be all
peace, love, and fornication, the latter being
what Kirk was all about, so off they go
searching for the planet. Maybe there were Di-lithium
crystals involved, there always were, somehow.
( and what were Di-lithium crystals anyway?)
It must have been the last season when everyone
knew the series was going to be cancelled:
scripts and idea were getting pretty thin
(remember “Trouble with Tribbles”?) Let’s face it,
there was just so many times Spock could raise
that eyebrow and look skeptical and he was clearly
straining facial muscles during some of those episodes.
What was absolutely clear was: Mr. Roddenberry’s
opinion of the youth culture and social upheavals
of the 60’s, which was neither here nor there,
really, and ultimately, maybe he was right.
Naturally, when the hippies find their planet
and everyone is beamed down, it doesn’t
take but a minute to find out that Eden is
actually a snake pit. First an apple poisons the
eater, one bite is all it takes, then the inviting,
sparkling stream, turns out to be acidic, burning
all who touch it, and all that lush vegetation conceals
huge Venus Fly traps, and, maybe, worst of all,
there are no electrical outlets to plug in all their
musical instruments for impromptu Woodstock
Music Festivals. Everyone is complete bummed
and then they die, just like in real life.












The Monster


They were a matched set,
animated living room furniture,
dressed in soiled denim,
his facial hair and deep blue
tattoos, the distinguishing
feature between these evil twins,
his predilection for Tall Boy
beers, and hers for crushing
empty aluminum beer cans
between her tits, long afternoons
that became nights, and hazy
mornings thereafter, interrupted
by this Thing, this insistent
Object, that yelled, and screamed,
and complained, always wanting
something. It was a curse, some
kind of visitation, something alive
from outer space, and it had to be
taken care of, kept quiet, locked
away in a drawer somewhere,
or in a closet far, far away from
where they lived, in front of the tube,
with the beer, and the nachos and
all the little things in life that mattered.










The Monster (2)


Like the Arbus Jewish Giant
head bent, shoulders hunched
near the ceiling, a freak,
long arm extended from his waist,
gesticulating as he speaks
over the heads of his parents,
or the woman without a face,
hidden by layered veils,
speaking in muted whispers,
of nightmare worlds without end,
or the man whose mutilated skin
is burned beyond healing,
features melted away, a hole in
his throat for breathing,
so hideous to look upon,
he has no hope of living;
any of these or none,
the monster lives within.

A reception at the Neoptus palace

Belonging to the Sons of Atlantis


/ excerpt from Divine Choir, in a form of loosely sonnets /


By Thaddeus Hutyra





In the Neoptus palace, the sons of Atlantis welcome noble guests, male and female archangels  as well as the daughters of Atlantis. Earlier they all met in the palaces belonging to archangels and the daughters of Atlantis: Yphela, Ydron and Ornea.

In one row seated male archangels: Michael, Gabriel, Rafael, Fanuel, Symiel, Orifiel, Zachariel, Erazm, Ezechiel, Astorch, Hugo and Jehu

In the second row opposite female archangels: Annabell, Lenora, Esther, Elenais, Athena, Kloche, Faustyna, Astarte, Hermancja, as well as Axis, Asis and Lea Sylwia Maria.

In the third row the daughters of Atlantis: Daria, Oktavia, Harmonia, Patrymonia, Margareta and Victoria.

Opposite them all the sons of Atlantis: Apolonius, Marcelius, Askaniusz, Florian, Alexander and Oktavian.



First they listen to a song about Atlantis:


Song of Atlantis
/sonnet/

Where do you go to, Atlantis, you, the home to divine choir
that you are pushing angels away with your arrogance
who gave you books of wisdom, engraved in a font
glowing with rays up to the very vault of Heaven.

You rejected those who were a fountain of wisdom
and with Ambrosian balsam healed you, your elixir
You would be emerged with their help, miraculously
but for blind faith only, you foolishly gave yourself up.

You are old, dying now, you, once enlightened Atlantis
no balm will help you, you wither before our eyes
and your fate is sealed in your doomed destiny, irretrievably.

Know that you would shine like a thousand divine chariots
if only you would had listened to the voices of the sages
and sown seeds of freedom instead of blind faith.

____



Echoes of the song reverberate in their minds.
Moment later Apollonius, son of Atlantis, welcomes honorable guests:



Venerable archangels, brothers bathed in eternal light

Sisters, goddesses of amazing grace, Amazons of Heaven

And dear Atlantis daughters, with all our hearts loved

Welcome in our Neoptus palace, feel yourselves at home.



Your presence is holiest gift to us, sons of Atlantis

Like these constant drops of endless divine love

Coming from everywhere and enriching us

Purifying even more with their holiness beaming from us.



Look at those waterfalls of light, in the divine aurora

How they radically penetrate in the multiverse of paradise

Creating paradisiac music, the same as for the Creator Himself.



Look and amaze yourselves with miracles of Divinity

They constantly reach us, refreshing us with their drops

Life-giving, in the sense of divine multiverse of the Lord’s music. 

____



Archangel Michael says:



Dear Apolonius and the brave sons of Atlantis, bravest ever

Thank you for this invitation, how nice to be here

We have come here with great pleasure, our souls rejoice

That we are all together, in the Lord's union, our one.



Complicated times have arrived on the worlds' planets

They require special care from us all, all the time

The more such meetings as this one, the better, very needed

So to be able to meet the challenges, shoulder to shoulder.



For though the beauty of paradise, pristine, captivating us

Though the drops of the Lord's Spirit are continually within us

Those who in mortality in immeasurable needs, matter factly.



Look at this Earth, planet oasis, it would seem, unspeakable beauty

From the perspective of the distant cosmos and our paradise

But when we’re there, we discover to our horror how vulnerable!

____



Archangel Ateneia:



That's it! Earthlings need change, in all areas of their lives

What is happening among them is a complete chaos

One spark and ... they can blow themselves up

and with them their planet, no trace of life anymore.



An extreme prophecy it is but hanging above them like a pest

Look more carefully, clearer fractures can be seen

Foundations of Earth weaker,  various collapses on horizon

Climate change intensifying, human discords too.



We need clear decisions on how to address all of it

How to intervene and what to leave to them to act on their own

They have though their own minds, they are not rams nor geese!



We need this all the more because the status quo is running out

They are more and more rushing to their eyes

Nothing good can come of this. Alarm needed, for God!

____



Victoria, daughter of Atlantis, says:



We have mourned our Atlantis for too long

We have poured too many tears, turned to oceans

Not only earthly but also cosmic ones

To do nothing now, not counteract. How futile would it be!



Too many disasters we saw, unfortunately

Too many atrocities as in hell, devilish to the highest degree

Too much violence, even on women and children

To keep silent now, cover our eyes with our veils.



No! The answer is to join, join the group of amazons

Get with lightning bolts in every corner of the Earth

And not let the evil intensify. For God! For God! For God!



We wish to join you, beloved sisters, Amazons of Heaven

Join you together with your brothers, archangels

And our brothers, the sons of Atlantis. So help us God!

____



Archangel Lea Sylwia Maria says:



Many thanks, dear Victoria, complete my admiration to you 

That you identify yourself with us, amazons of Heaven

It is only our honor to hear, knowing what you did

You, daughters of Atlantis have always been admirable to us.



And you're right, we're all right by choosing approachment

To what is needed to counteract evil on Earth

We have already an exit plan up our sleeve I guess

On what to do, how to counteract the negative effects on Earth.



Because, obviously, dominoes there are getting stronger

Increasingly faster chain reactions, no longer in control

What will happen tomorrow I fear the most. Time to act now.



Everything is possible, every scenario, because of these dominos 

They can not help themselves without our help

Now or never. I daresay that right now. Now and only now.

____



Alexander, son of Atlantis:



That is why we have invited you here, venerable guests

In order to make rightful and only rightful decisions, together

The fate of this planet depends to the greatest extent on us

We must go between them and change the course of their fate.



Because the hands of their clock are ticking mercilessly

There will be no mercy if they do not face it right now

The cataclysm will follow the cataclysm, chain reaction

Millennia of their work, of their achievements lost, for nothing.



Everything shall lie in ruins, the last breath of the planet itself

Will become a fait accompli if we do nothing

So let’s get to the ultimate fight to change the fate of humanity.



The last bell is already heard, last resort concluded, further just abyss

Although they do not know it yet, and even though they feel it

In faulty perceptions imprisoned, their minds playing tricks.

____



Archangel Erasmus:



I totally agree with you, dear sisters and brothers, it's high time

To decide something, intensely step in into the action

Enlighten them in some way, they do not need to know it

Let them think they are fully in charge of their own affairs.



They have already suffered many defeats, more than one apocalypse

Atrocities so horrible that it chills you in your veins

So ghosty, so merciless, cold blooded, on a massive scale

But… as you can see, the Creator has given them yet a chance.



Let our strategy be to stimulate them with holly drops

Such as determination to reverse these chain reactions

And send the domino beast back where it belongs, to hell!



Let our strategy be to enlighten them, again and again

Making them aware that the only right way is to fight back

For the spirits of multiplicity and purity, and freedoms.

____



Octavian says:



For this purpose, we must descend to Earth and teach them

What should be done to accept each other, in their diversity

And at the same time what exactly to do 

To stop the catastrophic climate change.



The first step, perhaps, has been made, that their Union

But this is only a limited number of humanity, on one continent

We need something bigger, on the scale of the entire planet

And here is a big problem, they are too fragmented!



When I look at all of it, I see mostly self-destruction

They compete with each other intensely in this, knowingly or not

My brothers and sisters, I'm afraid we will not make it.



How can it be better if at all, when even such Donald Trump

The leader of their most powerful state, just with one hand movement

Rejects their joint pact, combating climate change?! That is madness!

____



Daria, daughter of Atlantis:



What an irresponsibility! What rudeness! Stupidity!

I am sorry for this, tears are falling in my eyes

After all, America is the cradle of modern democracy

And as example should shine for the rest of the world!



Well, but it has happened,  time to do something, counteract it

The more we are needed, the more indispensable

Light of wisdom implant in them, wake them up

From that lethargy or even stupidity, let's them wake up!



For, as we have already mentioned, the hands of the clock are ticking

Already at the final, finishing line, unfortunately

Either they take the right step or fall into the abyss of the Apocalypse.



I admit honestly, it's bad, it's very bad, absolutely

The more so because they do not realize it

The worst Apocalypse ahead of them, hopefully prevented.

____



Archangel Gabriel:



You're right, the irreversible domino of climate change

To this end, preventive steps should be taken

Enlighten them, suggest this or that, structurally

Right now, not a moment of delay, let's fight, so help us God!



In the first place, they must transform their energy

Into clean one, drawn from the Sun and from stars

They do not even know how much free energy they have around them

A real revolution is still ahead of them, hopefully now!



At the same time, they have to change their attitude towards each other

Not confrontational one but mutually supportive one

Their revolution is yet awaiting them, philosophical and political one.



All areas of their lives have to change, without hesitation

Transforming, in a sense, on a mode of the European Union

But on a global scale, what is their real challenge. Now or never!

Gerard Sarnat is a physician who’s built and staffed homeless clinics as well as a Stanford professor and healthcare CEO. He has been nominated for Pushcarts plus Best of the Net Awards and is widely published in academic journals, including those by Stanford, Oberlin, Brown, Columbia, Virginia Commonwealth, Harvard, Johns Hopkins, Wesleyan and the University of Edinburgh. His writing has also appeared in Gargoyle, Main Street Rag, New Delta Review, MiPOesias, Margie, Blue Mountain Review, Danse Macabre, Canary Eco, Military Experience and the Arts, Cliterature, Brooklyn Review, San Francisco Magazine, The Los Angeles Review and The New York Times. His piece KADDISH FOR THE COUNTRY was selected for pamphlet distribution nationwide on Inauguration Day 2016. His poem Amber Of Memory was chosen for his 50th Harvard reunion Dylan symposium. He’s also authored the collections Homeless Chronicles (2010), Disputes (2012), 17s (2014), and Melting the Ice King (2016). Gerry’s been married since 1969, with three kids plus four grandkids (and more on the way).

RIP-ROARING WINTER SOLSTICE MISHIGAS [5+]

​Feel free to omit visuals

By Gerard Sarnat


1. Hawaiʻi Vacationland’s Chanu-Christmas Eve


Taking advantage of gifts of winter solstice convergence,
a Jewish husband plus Catholic spouse -- perhaps enhanced
by dollops of holiday season good will -- for the most part
respectfully, respectively veto past family of origin ritual brisket
or ham. That leaves turkey as the celebration’s compromise
default component which also includes their Chanukah bushes
and non-kosher gobbler as other keys to preparing his first feast.


Given we are away from usual Yule snow, everything appears
to proceed surprisingly smoothly following her directions to
“drain/ rinse well, paper towels to pat dry, rub with extra pure
olive oil then paprika, coriander, garlic powder plus pepper,
cover before placing in pre-heated oven for forty-five minutes,
reduce to 350 degrees, lodge thermometer from Hilo market
deep in flesh of the thigh; I’ll remove the bird after Mass.”


Thusly Sunday went reasonably smoothly. Except there’re no tiny
spigots Hubby expected in the rental house’s hidden littlest glass
jar he finally finds deep in a bottom drawer. Which turns out to be
red hot Hungarian smoky paprika, not a regular type of seasoning
his daughter had put near her child on the Pacific kitchen island.
Dad dumps the former all over the fowl; instead of using the pot
on the counter top, he discovers recycled disposable aluminum foil.


Which is groovy until it becomes clear there’s a hole in the pan’s
bottom allowing torrents of innards left in the carcass to ooze through
just like roaring Big Island lava flows along with fat that catches fire
but seems unnoticed ‘til smoke alarms go off. Middle son takes over
in advance of the wife staring at a hanging oven thermometer (not
a dishwasher-safe tissue kind) coated with scorched juice tucked above
our dinner’s drumsticks as hook and ladder lights flash, sirens sound.








2. People Are Strange


When you're strange
Faces come out of the rain
When you're strange
No one remembers your name
When you're strange
When you're strange
When you're strange.
-- The Doors, Strange Days, circa 1967


Back then I was strange
in LA crossing paths
with Jim Morrison


who four years before’d
opened doors performing at
our roaring high school


as it were (or not),
within UCLA’s pastures, on
Venice Beach, in


Silverlake where
drugadoso parties were
Vanilla Fudging


-- I just happened to
encounter a fourteen
year-old acid head, we


hitchhiked north country
toward Petaluma,
grabbed all that egg


money earned real
hard on her parents’
poultry farm


left in some big hurry
they returned
unexpected when


she and I slept
in their bedroom and
the daddy pointed a rifle


on the road pronto
her Faberge egg legs
flagged down a trucko


took us up to Vancouver
soz I could avoid
Vietnam draft


but this isn’t the end
moi enrolled in
Stanford Med


where learned
to dissect wings
off monarch butterflies


which exacto knife skills
turned into Manson clan
torturing Mommy in


Los Angeles during Save
My Jewish Lord & Savior
Christmas vaca, or maybe


with what she’d call “alien”
friends who celebrate Dong
Zhi, Juul or Kwanzaa


fifty years on the nose
before strange lady
of sorrows who gave


birth to me thusly
making it all possible
passed on in Westwood


got buried at Hillside Cemetery
in a greatest hits deluge
where the few mourners


who showed (102-plus
she’s the end of an era)
characterized Mama


as strong warm comforting
unerringly not the adjectives
moi would have used


precisely like when
dearest daddy – many things
to his family including


coldest of fishes’ eulogized
by total strangers as kindest
most generous of men – life’s


complex peeps are strange faces
lookin’ ugly when you're alone women be wicked if youz unwanted.

​
3. Hogwild On Approaching Three Score And Ten Plus One


December gloom Redondo Beach evening, bifocals half on, septuagenarian
catches a glimpse from the condo window of a son plus his prized
girlfriend toasting each other. I reimagine when we and a sleuth of Cub
Scouts puked our guts out on the boat ride from San Pedro Harbor
before Troop 17’s navy blue shorts plus gold-topped socks topped off
by snazzy chartreuse neckerchiefs disembarked and were set free
to set foot on then roam unexplored boar domains of Catalina Island…


Afternoon on wilderness high plateau, we’re startled by a hawk’s moral fervor
dive-bombing to devour a newborn hare. Slinking back to the pup-tent alone
at dusk, lost among miasmas of wild bore forest floor mazes, unglued,
I’m reflected in a black lagoon chocked full of doomed horseshoe crabs.
I gather them up in a makeshift butterfly net, carry to roast in a rip-roaring
campfire which anticipates tonight’s shooting star show and looks forward
to what’s promised during vaca pyrotechnics if I don’t wish, Merry Xmas!




Bonus Reflection


Roaring stomach and defunct brain way full of Thanksgiving
-- anticipating onrushing winter solstice celebrations,
unapologetically
I throw shade on soon-to-be Hanukkah light
plus Christmas tree excessive holiday gatherings.


My solitude feels associated with freedom, creativity,
intimacy, Grace -- aloneness reduces some need for
“ impression management”*
rather than imposing any particular pattern of behavior
to which one (me) seems pressured to conform
taking part,
or maybe not, in the wars about whether it’s kosher
to just wish friends and colleagues Happy Holidays.




* https://www.washingtonpost.com/news/wonk/wp/2017/11/22/people-who-seek-solitude-are-more-creative-study-finds/?hpid=hp_hp-more-top-stories-2_wb-solitude-1045pm%3Ahomepage%2Fstory&utm_term=.4f9ab5b1b6a5

Christmas Songs

By Patrick Bryant Michael




​
Christmas Songs


Christmas is coming... as an old song goes,
red sashes blaze, greenery entwining,
blue bows, silver wings, white angelic flows,
snow coming down, children's hearts are pining.


Twas the night before... a Christmas story unfolds,
children waiting impatiently, cast in its spell,
get this party rolling fits the mood, warmth enfolds,
a night for preparing gifts, older folks hearts swell.


Santa Claus is coming... down the chimney with care
kids sneaking a peek, mom and pop watch twilight fare
off to bed, sleep comes slow as the devil may dare
to wake early, jump out of bed, Santa's been there.


We wish you a merry... starts the day off right,
children running, screaming, hearts filled with delight,
people laughing, talking, making spirits bright,
giving, receiving, kissing, mistletoe in sight.


Chestnuts roasting... begins another song,
fire in the fireplace to warm the old bones,
table set for the feast, it won't be long,
time for fond memories, full bellies, groans.


I'll be home for... makes it all seem just nice,
a song that brings me senses of my youth
a time for Children, old folk too, some spice,
and for wishing Merry Christmas forsooth!









Christmas Scapes


Glory and shame color the seasons scene
Christmas scapes displayed both bright and obscene
some steal the heart, others make the stomach weak
the future is bright for some, for others bleak
for some it is sunny, other places cold and dreary
if Poe were living here today, his eyes would go bleary.


Children laughing and playing, wishing for all the best
parents busy with shopping with little time to rest
tinsel, greenery and colors decorate the house so blest
mistletoe hung in passageways for kisses without protest
trees with all the trimmings for gifts to be stowed beneath
a Christmas scape for those whose health and wealth would bequeath.


A soldier takes cover under a bridge, in a park or a car
his heart and mind are left in a darkness for a war fought afar
cardboard makes for a degree of comfort and sometimes is their home
tattered clothing is airy in Summer, in Winter chills like chrome
thoughts of the holidays wear on their minds, tear at their hearts
a Christmas scape for war veterans not on anyone's charts.


Christmas is coming, as jobs are scuttled in the economic morass
to add to duress sickness takes hold of someone dear as if to harass
cheer turns to fears of what may well come next for no reason
minds wondering what happened to the beautiful holiday season
hearts falling into sadness, as giving spirits are killed like treason
a Christmas scape that many will see and feel this year in mid-season.


A good soul travels far to aid others in discomfort
giving their holiday for others their love to exhort
taken in by homies who keep the holiday spirit bright
giving of what they have with heart and mind, never any spite
bits and pieces shared, but nothing meant for material gain
a Christmas scape too rare in a world shaped by greed and disdain.





Christmas Songs


Christmas is coming... as an old song goes,
red sashes blaze, greenery entwining,
blue bows, silver wings, white angelic flows,
snow coming down, children's hearts are pining.


Twas the night before... a Christmas story unfolds,
children waiting impatiently, cast in its spell,
get this party rolling fits the mood, warmth enfolds,
a night for preparing gifts, older folks hearts swell.


Santa Claus is coming... down the chimney with care
kids sneaking a peek, mom and pop watch twilight fare
off to bed, sleep comes slow as the devil may dare
to wake early, jump out of bed, Santa's been there.


We wish you a merry... starts the day off right,
children running, screaming, hearts filled with delight,
people laughing, talking, making spirits bright,
giving, receiving, kissing, mistletoe in sight.


Chestnuts roasting... begins another song,
fire in the fireplace to warm the old bones,
table set for the feast, it won't be long,
time for fond memories, full bellies, groans.


I'll be home for... makes it all seem just nice,
a song that brings me senses of my youth
a time for Children, old folk too, some spice,
and for wishing Merry Christmas forsooth!






The Christmas Tree


For some Christmas will not seem to come
hard times and discontent to succumb
the symmetry of the tree runs plumb
even in the woods are never glum
starlight and moonbeams add to their sum
it's where the heart is that warms like rum
nature's beauty holds a Christmas plum
gifts of love overcome feeling numb
sharing warmth, finding but a small crumb
mean more than bangles and bows to some
as well lit trees don't take a green thumb


the light of love may thrive in a slum!

Up to Us

By Alexandra H. Rodrigues


It is up to us what we see in words of others
We are free to eliminate if some us bothers
Although it is the idea which stranger or friend
Tries well-meaning on us to impress
We are not always sure and often we guess.
N o matter what the other wants to impose
It is up to us if to agree we chose.!


Our own version is what we accept
This helps to believe that it was up to us to accept
When things do not go our way
“We had nothing to do with it” we say.
If it had been up to us
All would have worked out
The other interfered without knowing what about.


Of course the other party feels just the same
This is the reason from which many wars came
So many nuances in all and everything can be seen
Is it possible that two people when of different opinion been
Can still agree and both be right?
No, it will most often come to a fight!
It is up to us if an argument will be solved.


Tolerance is what is required when dealing with doubt
Give it time and truly think about
Make believe that you do go along
Use logic not moods to convince others if wrong
In the end do what your conscience does tell to do
The fact remains always the same and true
You act this way because it is up to you!

for those who don't know the chocolate!


written by: Amirah Al Wassif


for those who don't know the chocolate
the children of poverty
and the sleepers in the corners of the ancient streets
for those who survived from the famine but still hungry
for those boys who never dream
cause they never sleep
for those who don't know the chocolate
and heard more news about its sweet
the people with half soul
and lack food and the imaginary house


for those who crawled on the sharp platforms in the mid-night of every day
seeking for the warmth living
for those babies who never taste the milk
with wide eyes looking for any help
for the hands of charity
and the sensitive hearts which cry and bleed
for those who gathered in the torn tents around the world
waiting from a long time
for those who don't know the chocolate
and haven't the ability to imagine it


the innocent faces washed under the rain
the seekers for the smell of humanity in each alley, place, and content
for those who kiss the sun through their contemplate glances
for those who write with heavy heart and smashed dreams
the climbers of the existence shoulder
looking for the justice face


for the dancers with bare feet on the top of Everest
who do their best to bring the joy and the peace
for the sun of tolerance which touching our bones
for the bloom of the flowers
and the skies gloom


for those who never taste the chocolate
but they still hearing about its magic
the crawlers on the earth with a great desire
to make the difference between the past and the future


for those who draw on the sand
with belief in the friendship with the waves of the sea
for the killed persons in every battle
for the injured soldiers in every war
for those women who haven't the right to vote


for the fishermen in their ships
for the highest star in our sky
and for the rainbow
for those people with disabilities
and for those players with the wool ball
for the little boys who sell the water
for the little girls who feed the roosters


for the nations which suffer from dry
for the victims of racism
for the dead from the terrorism


i write these poems for those
who don't know the chocolate

​The November Sun

By Meg Smith 



The pretty green thorns


In the fall,
they stay faithful --
I rush to them, 
and the wind
collapses over us.
We laugh, or, only, I,
laugh.
Their laughter is paid
in dark, ruby drops.
None of us are cold.
We'll remain here,
so do not think of us.
You are the only one
burning in flowers. 
Come spring, we still stand.





Blood, Fog, Fire

Leaves, ragged and dry,
scrape across the road,
ushered by the frost. 
But, for wings,
I dance among them. 
Something comes 
to cover us, 
and the space of your ghost -- 
something burns, bleeds.
Something to comes to 
swallow us --
great cloud ushered
from the cold ground,
and your ghost
is consigned to space.




The November Sun 

Cold light swept
across the fallen trees,
silver and green,
immersed in the new life
writhing like a great city. 
There, our breath dithered,
frozen, in tendrils,
across the bog.
Silence is like falling.
I am walking in 
my finest sleep.
Summer cannot hold me. 
Those still awake,
the winter
will surely
catch them out. 

Golden Chalices

By Holly Day


The Giants
 
the giants sleep as the snow comes down
covering their slumbering bodies in sheets
of frozen white. their warm breath
carves holes in the unbroken
rolling hills, melts snow into runoff.
 
the giants sleep as the village children
come to explore the new snow-covered hills
drag heavy sleds up to the highest peaks
perch on broad shoulders, rounded hips, the tips
of bulbous noses, before hurling themselves into the air
crashing against the stunted trees down below.
 
when spring comes, the giants will awake
shake free the last bits of melting ice
before pushing up against the ground to stand.
they’ll see the fires of the nearby village
hold serious, heated discussions on whether to destroy
the tiny houses, the tiny people, or just ignore
the miniature urban landscape entirely
 
and go back to their own colossal homes, their monstrous families waiting
in the mountaintops, hidden by banks of billowing clouds
far, far away.
 
 
 
 
 
 

Strength
 
Light pours in through a thin slit of a window
blood-red sunset illuminates silver
bells, golden chalices, the empty
half-orb of a sterile baptismal font, black robes
casually tossed over the back of a chair,
a pair of wool slippers half-hidden by folds of cloth.
Faces of concrete angels strain against the walls, echoed
in smooth porcelain, glistening oil on cracked canvas.
Worn Persian rugs cover hard
stone, fibers holding still the ancient trace
of sweat from hands straining to hold the threads
in place on a room-sized loom, invisibly
imprinted by knees crawling after dropped things
wanted things, lost things. Tiny piles of mouse droppings
in the shadow of a lost corner, they want things, too.
 
 
 


 
 Alive
 
they found her small body wired into the heart
of the church, small LEDs sprouting through her skin
blooming like tiny red flowers
too far deep for sunlight to reach.
 
she was sheared clean through to bone
by claws big enough
to belong to the God hanging
over the spot her mangled body lay.
 
 
 


 
The Impossibleness of Abstract Representation
 
where are we now? one man asked
we shone our flashlights around the cave
 
saw only stone, tall ceilings, dark passages
darting off in every direction. The map
 
showed us which random tributary
would take us back to sunlight, although it was hard to believe
 
that we were somewhere on that flat piece of paper, a cluster of flies
in a network of blue spaghetti loops. But yes, there was the pool
 
right next to our path, just like it was on the map, tiny white fish
darting about in the light of our flashlights, blind as the furry brown bats
 
circling overhead. So when do we start going up? asked another
man who looked too tired to go on. Are we almost there?
 
 
 




 
 Daffodils
 
he walks among the dead
walks stiffly to
the bar, orders
an ordinary beer
from a menu that
specializes in drinks
with names like Corpse Fuck
Brain Hemorrhage
 
the leather-clad sow
in the corner blossoms at
the sight of his teeth
he glides across the room, slipping beside her
into a red plastic booth
her cheap perfume reeks
of dirty sex, dying things
“my place, ” he smiles, he says
and kisses her blood-clot lips
 
they walk out to the night
she holds his arm with
both hands and talks too
loud he pulls her through the
gates of the cemetery
locks the gate behind them.
 

Truth
By Alexandra H. Rodrigues


All of us are searching for the truth
Daily we argue, debate or accuse
The naked truth is seldom a pleasure to hear
Before we accept it might warrant a tear.


Truth can hurt both giver and receiver alike
One should try with kindness a soft note to strike
Truth! Oh why is it so hard to digest
It so often can stab the heart when put to the test.


This is why we resort to the little white lie
One we even ourselves to accept may try
Yes, truth can be good, real white and clean
It always depends from which angle it is seen.


Truth should not be doubted, shaped or bend
With it all make believe will come to an end
It may hurt but does never deceive
It is what it is and not what we try to believe.

Blood Thirsty Savages

Poetry Collection by Alan Catlin



Blood Thirsty Savages


Every Halloween
the neighborhood kids


dressed up as
ghouls and vampires,


something that best
expressed their inner


cannibal. Zombies
were popular for


awhile especially when
they learned that huffing


glue and computer
keyboard duster, added


a natural effect to their
already lurching gait.


After awhile, dressing up
became superfluous:


they were blood thirsty savages
and everyone knew it.


As far as anyone knew
there was no actual


uniform for that role.








Dream with Richard Scally in It


The dream is of those
dressed-like-children of
the damned, lockstep kids,
on conveyor belts in Pink
Floyd video but instead of
chanting, “We don’t need no
education, we don’t need no
gun control ” lyrics, the sound
track is another cut from
“Dark Side of the Moon”,
“Brain Damage”, and when
the kids fall off the edge,
the scene becomes another,
amalgam movie, part, “Brave
New World Revisited”, part,
black and white, “Invasion of
the Body Snatchers” part,
“Frankenstein” operating theater,
surgeons removing limbs from
still-conscious bodies, making
them into alien life forms that
will threaten the world as we
know it. And Scally is there,
still bearded, stocky, improbably
30 years old, and he’s leading me
to escape vehicle where Clancy is
waiting to drive us somewhere
remote and safe but, really, none
of us are sober enough to drive
the Celica Scally drove like a
Ferrari until clutch plate fused
with the housing and Clancy says,
“Did you know all of Scally’s best
lines come from movies?”
And, I say, “No, I didn’t know that.”
“Yeah, crap movies. The kind they
show after all the bars close and
no one is watching except for stoned
drunks who can’t sleep.”
And, somehow, knowing that about him
seems important, almost as much as
escaping being body snatched by
Zone 1 Zomboids with scalpels.
And, it’s like a Halloween remake
without a guy in a hockey mask
but everything else and Scally says,
“Badges, we don’t need no stinkin’
badges.” And even if we had them
there was no way we were going to escape.







Halloween on the Main Ward




Dress the non-violent younger patients,


IQ 49 and under in plastic masks, give them


colored paper bags and send them trick or


treating the ground floor; older patients


patrolling outside the pale, dropping their


presents into outstretched bags, practicing


their concealment expertise; weapons can be


hidden anywhere, razor blades in anything,


especially packaged chewing gum; strawberry


flavored bubbles of blood










Subnormals Dressed for the Halloween Masquerade
after Diane Arbus


"The photographs appear to be documents of a world we've
never seen or imagined before-one with its own ritual and
icons, its own games and fashions and codes of conduct-which,
for all its strangeness, is at the same time hauntingly familiar and,
in the end, no more or less unfathomable than our own."
Doon Arbus


They are the children of God, not quite
forgotten in their late, adult confinement,
all old and young forever, before their un-
natural time, dressed for the Untitled Halloween
Dance, the Fall Ball 196- whatever, princesses
and ballerinas, cowboys and athletes, women
decked out in taffeta gowns and dime store
lace, those confined to wheelchairs clutching
their evening tote bag in one hand and
the masquerade mask in the other, only their
smiles fully revealed. The ambulatory holding
cardboard strap handles, paper bags against
their waists, full face masks adjusted slightly
askew, as they stand or sit for group portraits
in dull grey afternoons in the institutional
courtyards, the males fully uniformed, as well,
no weapons or implements of play war or games
nearby to interfere with the primary function
of this dressing up: Trick or treating door to door,
in the community or the open ward, it makes
no difference.






The Vampire


"There was this guy that
hung out in school who always
dressed up like Bela Lugosi.
You know: complete vampire deluxe
attire including white face and
cape. Rumor had it, he slept
in a coffin and went to class
always dressed in black.
Someone told me, they saw him
drink a glass of blood but I
thought that was a bit extreme
even for Ithaca. He was weird
though, no doubting that.
No matter how late you staggered
back toward the dorm you might
sort of see him tinkering with
the hearse, of course, he had
a hearse with wall to wall carpeting
and quadraphonic sound.
God only knows where he got it all
because it was like new.
I guess his people had money,
old money, if you know what I mean.
Let me tell you that was one campus
that didn't look forward to Halloween."

A whim of fate


By David Thorpe
​

 
Treat or trick they repeat, disguised
as ghosts and envoys of the living dead
but we were not children of October,
playing innocuous pranks of Halloween
 
A whim of fate brought us together,
in silence our eyes spoke  sensuous promises
whilst our lips with  lustful eagerness
in an intimate eclipse embraced
 
The darkness of that moonless night,
dissipated by a flame of such intense
it burned my heart into ashes of ecstasy,
to be blown away by your susurrus
 
Yet seduction arouses inbred fears,
ofttmes passion an imposter´s masquerade,
to appease desire and banish reason,
readily usurped by an ephemeral frivolity
David Thorpe ©®

Her Voice in the Autumn Wind 

A Poem by Tom Kraft 


(suggested by a poem by A.S.)
-----------------------------------------  

I didn't hesitate her name,
When I called it down the valley
She echoed back with tongues of flame --
Her voice in autumn winds to me.

I stood in trembling bondage
As every breath she breathes, I felt --
My lover's voice on autumn's page
Had struck me right there where I knelt.

Occurrence? Yes!  Her fire burned
This helpless soul.  To see her face,
The autumn sun she quickly turned
And melted me into her grace.

Her voice in pouring love came through
And took me where I can't explain --
The autumn wind, a night for two,
And all I did was call her name.

---for her---

© 2018 by tom kraft

Bilingual Poem

​
OTRO OTOÑO

By Daniel de Culla


Estoy en Tosantos
Localidad de la provincia de Burgos
Sentado en un “Otomano”
Especie de sofá
En mi habitación a ras del suelo
Escuchando la lluvia caer
Que me pone nervioso.
¡Ya ha escampado¡
Me levanto
Y me dirijo a la ventana
Para admirar
La segunda yerba
Que producen los prados
Y el sazonar de la tierra
Que se pone en buen estado.
Me asomo a la ventana
Y veo a Autilla y Otoción
Mujer y hombre mayores
A quienes les escucho:
El: Mujer, brota la hierba en el Otoño
Ella: ¡Ojalá brotara la tuya¡
Iban a echarse a reír
Cuando callaron al ver
Dos enamorados que discutían
La moza con un cántaro de leche
Debajo del brazo
Y el mozo con una losa a cuestas
Y parlando que los días
Se iban sin sentir.
Me volví al “Otomano”
Y me puse a escuchar
Pues tengo, en alguna parte de mí
El recién mojado Otoño
“So Feel Autumn Rain”
De Lake of Tears.




ANOTHER AUTUMN


I'm in Tosantos
Locatlity: the province of Burgos
Sitting in an "Ottoman"
A sofa
In my room at ground level
Listening the rain falling
Getting on my nerves.
"Just stop raining!" I say.
I get up
And walk to the window
Admiring
The second grass
That produces the meadows
And the earth's seasons
Put in good condition by Mother Nature.
I look out the window
Seeing Autilla and Otoción
An older woman and man
Listening, I hear them say:
He: "Woman, the grass sprouts in Autumn"
She: "If only it would sprout yours,"
They were laughing.
As they stopped talking,
Seeing two lovers arguing,
The girl with a milk pitcher
Under the arm, walked by,
And the boy with a slab in tow
Talking about the days
Spent without sense.
I turn toward my "Ottoman"
And listen:
Somewhere inside me
The new and wet Autumn:
Invites me to the Lake of Tears
And I feel the Autumn Rain.

The tree
(with a hat of autumn colours)

By David Thorpe




Fearlessly enduring the harshness of winter
bearing stoically the continual arctic attacks
it patiently awaits milder winds
a longed for liberation 
 
Clothed majestically in a gown of green
swaying in spring and summer breezes
it proportions shade to embracing lovers
whispering their secrets 
 
It wears with pride its hat of autumn colours
a melody of ochre, red and tinges of gold,
tuning each year its prevailing optimism,  
a perennial strength of endurance


David Thorpe ©®

Autumn Trilogy
​

By Jennifer Lagier




Before the Fall


Illicit evidence of promiscuous summer
scatters fading grass upon flaking stone.


Like Alice, I tumble headlong,
stumble onto mysterious roads.


Emerald velvet wraps bay laurel limbs,
forked branches masquerading as horns.


Scattered runes of fallen buckeyes predict
emerging ferns, impending lupine.


An untouched meadow bursts with jays,
seductive light, falling cottonwood gold.





Cesura


Overhead, silver squall rumbles,
spills its payload.


Storm winds whistle, deconstruct dunes,
buffet yellow oxalis, lavender iris.


Agitated chimes jangle in astonishment.
Flying cypress debris accumulates.


The relentless rain we prayed to anoint arid earth
batters white sage, pounds coast chaparral.


This sodden day begs exception
from domestic expectation.


I take up notebook and pen.
Sleeping daffodils shelter deep underground.




Fall


Indian summer wanes.
Blazing foliage expires,
drops from bare limbs.
Orange and gold shrouds,
ghosts of past seasons,
litter fog-dampened ground.


Spent marigolds
snap their own necks.
Fading geraniums yellow and shrivel.
Chill winds slash ashore,
spread exploded puffballs’
feathery suicide seed.


Daylight diminishes.
Icy night replaces blue sky
with yawning black heaven.
Frigid lunar orb rises, releases
squeaky bats, primal fears.
Emerging stars glitter.

Autumn Moments 

By Harjeet Singh


I


“Son of a shoeshiner”


An opulent district businessman
lunched in a restaurant,
After lunch, he tipped the waiter five rupees
It boggled the server's mind and he spoke,
“Sir, a few days ago on this desk your son lavished me with one hundred and fifty rupees after lunch.
Now, the businessman broke his silence
and uttered: "Of course he would pay such cash
because he is the son of a rich industrialist.
But I am a son of that poor shoeshiner
Who on many occasions used to
polish the shoes of affluent class
for nothing, gratis.
And he kept struggling to earn 
five pennies a day.





II

"When someone asked the lover"


According to you: what is lengthy?
Spoke he, extended: the black tress of the beloved, 
Besides, drawn-out, black night is more 
long  term to meet her moment.
The most tedious spell
of a waiting moment 
while yearning for her.



Attachments--

Moments---indefinite time although it is brief.

An Autumn Sonata

By Alan Catlin




Composition in White and Gray


Curled on sand around
two flat, well-rounded gray
stones, a half eaten blue stripe
fish, exposed ribs and tail,
upper body, whole, sun dried
this late autumn afternoon.










An Autumn Sonata



for a summer through smoked glass,
darkly, all the empty lawn chairs,
deserted chaise loungers, blackened
cooking pits, wrought iron rusting amid
scattered ashes; all the metal hoops
of the abandoned croquet court:
wooden mallets, striped balls, painted
stakes signifying the end and the smell
of low tide by the Sound, mother's last
cigarettes burning in a glass ash tray,
the dead floating in Styrofoam coffee
cupping dregs, milk scum and spent
stick matches; the smoking, matched sets
of horse hair recliner chairs, canvas covered
gliders and rattan end tables on the screened-
in, against the elements, porch; all the black
holes of the frayed oriental throw rugs,
generations old, the scattered piles of
living room leaves, burning refuse, cracked
sticks and wadded newspapers, Sunday sections
and all the other days of the week kindling
for the lasting fire of her days and nights
here, working on a new classic repertoire
for two hands, piano with sprung wires
and disconnected pedals, broken chopsticks for
that infernal night, when smoke gets in your eyes.









End Time in the Lake District May 2011


Like the Millerites, 7th Day Adventists,
witnesses of all kinds, the Jonestown
believers, followers of Koresh, the ones
who found End Time and the ones who
did not, those who sold their possessions,
resigned their positions, wrote new wills,
anticipating The Rapture that never came,
not asking themselves, “If I am going to be
in heaven tomorrow, why bother with earthly
concerns?” A matter, no doubt of habit or
hedging their cosmic bets in case the unforeseen
happens again. So when the day of reckoning
passes and no one has risen, nothing resolved,
the latter day doomsayer, leader, proclaims
the actual calendar day for End Time has been
more accurately recalibrated, as in, rescheduled
for some time in Autumn, careful to note that
the process has already begun: the planet poisoned,
the fires, the floods.










In Memoriam


How close were they? This brother
and his sister, Dorothy, the poet’s scribe,
occasional contributor of reason and of
a rhyme. She, the explicator of his speeches
and his texts, telling a curious Keats,
“No one interrupts Mr. Wordsworth.”
Earning an epithet from the young ,
former acolyte, who referred thereafter,
when he referred to him at all as,
“Mr. Turdsworth,” an appellation coined
by Byron and a favored notion, no doubt
of younger poets. Dorothy, the laureate’s
close, live-in companion, even after he was
married; extant, shared double sinks,
His and Hers for personal hygiene. Recipient
of intimacies, letters, when elsewhere, abroad;
no clear intimations of immorality.
Inseparable even in death, buried close by in
Lake District, not far from Dove Cottage home;
the scent of wildflowers after a hard Autumn rain.








Autumn


Feel them pressing
their thumbs against


your lips, attempting
to leave an impression,


feel them stealing
your breath, the cold


air from your lungs,
everything is absence,


you can hear them scraping
ice from your windshield


with their long thin nails
as you pump the gas pedal

​Night Sounds

By Patrick Bryant Michael




The night is filled with wonderful sounds to hear
croaking
cricking
noises that make mouths grin, letting go of fear
sitting
humming
wondering what will break the silence, so queer
chirping
lapping
sounds seem to come out of nowhere, to endear
twirling
squealing
tires of motorcycles and hot-rods, bring fear
singing
screaming
of young ones, playing in the twilight, all clear
running
rushing
around, making all kinds of noise, disappear
ringing
hooting
owls attract the eyes, being a sightseer
crackling
washing
the dinner dishes, playing the puppeteer
crashing
banging
on the pots and pans, like drums, shouts may adhere
prancing
wincing
at the sounds coming next door, be austere
crashing
breaking
glass on the pavement, some baddie drinking beer
going
coming
in and out, slamming the screen door, to appear
yawning
sleepy
when making love, creaky bed springs, your worst fear
listening
sensing
the sounds as they happen, not a good career
laughing
smiling
at each other, being ever so sincere
romance
downtown
is brought about better in the evening vigor
singing
sensing
love in the air, wander like a connoisseur
laughter
awareness
of the self, feeling a sense of a buccaneer
embracing
mature
actions, sensing love like a tragic Shakespeare.


(c) August 5, 2015 by PBM







Summer Dimensions

By Patrick Bryant Michael


Summer begins with the end of the Northwest rains
shining
sunlight
gets bright, sunbathing has its beach for heatwave brains
springtime
ending
is brighter and sends waves of love like it has chains
sunburns
early
come on easy with light skin as it seeks skin plains
bar-be-quess
lighten
the Summer load, light hearted fun runs in our veins
exercise
begins
to help any aches and relieves all of your pains
running
along
the street gives you exercise for some useful gains
resting
awhile
helps the heart and soul regain from the fruitful strains
exposure
angles
may make sunburns more probable in the sunlight
hotter
horizons
begin in the heat of passions in the spotlight
factors
betraying
your heart begin affecting you as an insight
failures
open
old wounds, if you are burned without an appetite
heatstroke
develops
over time as the heat beats down to make your plight
higher
temperatures
make heat unbearable, as sunshine finds its height
heatwaves
engage
the sweat glands, as the heat becomes more water tight
having
parties
is a summer event that leads to drunks in sight
ocean
ferries
are fun to ride as an excursion that is floating
music
playing
makes Summer more fun, as the streaming is flowing
reverie
becomes
memories to hold onto, few regrets growing
respect
allows
equal opportunities for overflowing
dismissing
rumors
that seem like more gossip can become exploding
universal
rulers
have limits on what they can be used for gloating
cooler
nighttime
brings sighs of relief from heat, be easygoing
thinking
frosty
the snowman is not common for Summer glowing
dancing
around
in the twilight is a Summer event, one kind
midnight
swagger
is common for men, not wanting to get behind
meditative
moments
give time for peace and becomes respite in the mind
lazing
about
is common in the Summer, as one is inclined
Summertime
carries
with it a time for memories of love not designed
caring
loving
Summertime not to be easily declined
basking
easily
in the Summer sun can drive you out of your mind
labor
working
up a sweat is common as one becomes aligned.

Great Pieces


Poetry Collection by Alan Catlin



The Idea of Glenn Gould


'music is my ecstasy'
G.G.


Hot water must be provided in clear
basins for ritual soakings before each
performance on stage.


Dressing rooms must be sealed as tight
as possible to prevent drafts, unwanted germs,
carriers of disease.


Environments must be self-contained like
a sauna, a steam bath even in summer.


Attire must be scrupulously maintained:
all weather wool scarf and cap, full length
coat and gloves with the tips of the fingers
cut off in case of the urge to "tickle the keys".


Performance medium must be reduced,
privacy maintained, not exactly a complete
withdrawal into a glass cage in a wild, in a vain
attempt to avoid death like a Howard Hughes
but a retreat into a padded, sound proofed
room with his voices and his notes, conducting
silently behind thick glass a symphony
of signs only he can hear.














Glass Pieces: an impression of a ballet


1-
Dancers are invading
a Central Park that has
no boundaries, no trees
just graph paper charts
of pedestrians compelled
into motion by centrifugal force.


Light propels them
mixing rush hour street people
with a classical ballet troupe
gone berserk in the lulling heat
of a summer of ideals.


Standing out amidst the crowds
means a pirouette, a fanfare
of air horns, a pax de deus
that originates in a subway
station that does not exist.


Dancing, they are a perpetual
motion machine that makes no sense


An urban renewal project that
invades the mind.


2-
A new Metropolis begins this way


In darkness


The drones are a living frieze,
a background upon which
a three dimensional chess game
will be played.


The music suggests a world
out of balance that begins
and ends in a twilight zone
of contrasts;




a passion play
of epic dimensions grieving lovers
act out their lost emotions in
the drones turn into nightmares,


moving like a living skin
against the night.








3-


A plague of light infests
the stage.


A ritual that began as a silent
meditation has become a permutation
of dances emanating from a carnal noise:


on stage it is the world
and everything is coming apart.


Chaos is the coming of the next age
and its voice is a contra-tenors
calling out a cadence for the phases
of a changeling moon.


Music hypnotizes us into believing
the sun is a brittle object
we are forced to hold in
the cups of our hands, fracturing
pieces we are forbidden to see.


New music transforms.


Inside another ballet is being
conducted. The artists are always
in their prime in the imagination
and everyone's ideas are new.


The heart beats and stops with the music.


A plague of light has left the stage.






“Just a pile of rusty little words, all linked up to
make a chain of horror.” David Peace


All night the classical station plays
seven symphonies by Sibelius,
Finlandia on the rocks, the woman
dreaming in the bed in another room,
not mine, not anyone’s, not even herself.
In the silence between notes, a car alarm,
distant sirens, the stench of rubber tires
burning in the street. Drunk, dozing into
something like sleep, a dream of seagulls,
statues of women all the same, faces pale
as the wind, blue ice and a convex mirror
reflecting up at nothing, an Arctic sea below,
bodies of water held together by frozen
bones, hellish compositions made aural,
neural, as death images painted into a
nowhere sky, slowly revealed as a score for
predawn music of Dmitri Shostakovich’s
Russian winter, the one in the camps beyond
The Urals, on the edge of the earth.












Ralph Steadman's Dmitri Shostakovich


The rift in Stalin's brain
is a symphonic line of musical
notes, an allegro moderato,
Dmitri S. in chains known to
Uncle Joe as a mere composer
of incidental music, movie scores
though Dmitri's daily life remained
a well-monitored house of pain,
100 Days That Shook the World
forever flickering in his buckshot
eyes, scores savagely jump cut
to keep him from a firing squad,
one strong quartet away from KGB
killers, a silent garrote; notations
in his score book written in blood.














A Composer Contemplates Last Call


He thought
that if


he put
Death in
his music


if he
played
his heart


and soul
out in
every dis-
sonant


note &
chord


that he
could
borrow time


& not have
to pay back
the loan


slow those
sharks
swimming
in ever
tightening


circles


in all
those high


above stage
spotlights

Together shall we dream
 
By David Thorpe


No exultation in this sky
of mourning clouds, whose
tears form landscapes on my window,
leads me down a path of remembrances,
where once my days no sorrow knew,
inebriated with fragrances of you
 
Alas, not to be a bliss of continuance,
yet a love so poignant in its beauty,
that poets would have rhymed with zealous passion,
composers´ written music of unequalled inspiration ,
to bless our nights with music
 
Aray of sunlight my countenance delights,
my shed tears have long run dry,
your extemporaneous farewell of sorrow deep,
a brief endurance, for life itself is ephemeral
compared to love ingenuous, transcending pain of grief,
for together shall we dream, beneath our sacred cross.
 
David Thorpe ©®

Sunset Boulevard

By Anna Maria Dall'Olio
​

Walking alone along the moonlit street
(‘twas such a deadly day)
the big buzzing Beehive was far behind,
the gentleman came up for air.


Crimes clashes wars battles & bombs
the tallest towers fall & crash on & on
our twin Earth is nearly choking
sisters & brothers are dying on a bloody floor.


“I squeezed & hurt the best of myself
I did so little for mankind
may men & women be nearly equal now
I’m afraid the sun won’t shine.”


Suddenly surged a long gasp of wind
from far Ghana ‘twas a mother’s voice:
“Boy, your tongue married your best heart.
“Boy, go. ‘Tis time to move on.”

Light and Air


Poetry Collection by John Grey





A REFLECTION NOT TO BE MISSED


Your reflection in the pond
is like soft words.
On hands and knees,
you bow your head
as branches do,
drawn to water
and the images therein.


You wonder if the rippling surface
will hold onto your expression
even when you’re gone.
You know a mirror cannot.
Its glass is cheap and condescending.
But this is nature, not some script.


It’s light and the properties
of clarity on a dark background.
And it’s where you are
at this particular time,
a pose like a mantra,
repeated in your eyes.


You don’t admire what you see.
But you embrace the likeness.
A fish slithers between your nose and mouth.
No problem.
You’re willing to share.




EARLY MORNING DEER

On the other side of the lake,
a herd of deer nibble on dew-tipped grasses,
light brown coats,
swishing white tails,
emerging through the gauze of morning mist,
from skinny trails in the surrounding brush.
I thrill to syzygy in the threads of being,
the moment that does not stray from itself,
perpetuates through instinct and reverie.

My canoe balances on a gentle ripple,
as if it too is pecking at the waters,
one symmetry in imitation of another.



RED ADMIRAL

It sups.
Propped high on a billowed wildflower,
brownish-black back bordered by a wide-orange semi-circle,
so much knowledge of bud and petal filched from senses,
a flutter, a flay, a reversion to the sipping mean.
Its task is the entire meadow which awaits it,
that, emboldened by the warm,
the color, seduces instinct,
opens it to air that lightly infiltrates its soft inside as it discreetly purifies.

Candles on the Tables


Poetry Collection by Alan Catlin




Candles


They all think that
when I've got nothing
to do, that I've got
no place to go, that
when I'm standing
behind a bar, staring
at a wall that I'm
bored, that I'm
smoking cigarettes.
They don't know
about Zen, think
it's a funny sort
of foreign word
you can't cook out on
like a hibachi.
They don't know
anything about the
candles on the tables
between me & the wall
& what they might contain.
They don't know what
I see inside them.












Our Lady of Mass Hallucinations


hawks love beads and scented
candles by day on street corners,
a tambourine instead of a begging
cup for all donations gratefully
received. After dark, she exchanges
her hippie duds for an all black
ensemble, from Andy Warhol like
fright wig to real leather riding boots,
false eyelashes and press on nails,
eyebrow studs and lip rings, her
constant companion a fetish doll
for sticking pins in or for warding
off spells, two caresses and the right
words said, insurance against bad vibes
and undercover cops, law enforcers
and nonbelievers who have no need for
the homelab potions she sells in colored
bottles, eyedropper dispensers for the dose
of a lifetime, small amounts make you
high, larger ones, take at your own risk,
no return trips guaranteed, the natural
world dissolving into clear puddles of
reflective light where they go, so bright
no one dares to look after.










Street Theater NYC
after Amy Arbus


Their outfits suggests
dressing up for street
theater/festivities such
as the mermaids of Coney
Island though what their
theme might be is open
to serious questioning-
inspiring a sheer dress
made from locks and keys
held in place by decorative/
bicycle chains or the mandarin
length press-on nails a kind of
Boy George clone, out of place
and time. Nearby, the key lady,
could be seen as a turn of the last
century love child, spawn of 60's
hippie-diva, Melanie, in search
of the mythical repository
of lost bike locks and all-
weather-wicks for holding
candles in the rain at the next
bogus Woodstock revival while
Boy/Girl George & his/her
culture club/crew would arrive
to the event/ costume party
too stoned to notice much
of anything not part of this
all too soft parade.










Double Feature During the Depression


The way he staggers is a kind of
drunken tango with Death, practiced
steps between delicate objects laid out
for display in front of market stalls
on Los Dias de los Muertos like Albert
Finney as the Consul in the opening
scenes of “Under the Volcano” on a
binge that began in another geological
age and would continue as long as
this man was allowed to roam the earth,
unshaded eyes containing rows of lit
candles like spirit lamps placed there by
primitives as in the black and white
movie of “Treasure of Sierra Madre”,
glimpses of Bogart inside the shadows,
losing his grip in a lawless state of confusion,
a desert waste where his brain should be
flashing forward to a processional of
penitents bearing torches after dark in full
descent down the winding, switch-backed
path where the souls of the damned and
the soon-to-be-damned reside, praying for an
end to this ruthlessly textured night, carnivals
for the possessed and their infernal machines,
mescal dreams and peyote button mornings,
all the overlapping inner movies of life in
death, even the strongest drink cannot wash away.








Still Life with Ghost of Angry Ancestor


One place is set at the head
of the antique formal dining
table, white lace cloth draped
over an embroidered with coats-
of-arms, heraldic imagery, a fading
powder blue coverall, bone china
and golden cutlery slightly out of place
as if used and set aside, a hint and
a smear, a stain on the plate, a suggestion
of a ring about the cup, decanted wine,
full bodied and breathing, the snuffed
candles, blackened wicks bent, forced
down near the hardened, melted wax,
a shimmering, indistinct figure hovering
just above the thickly padded, high backed
chair at the table head, desiccated fruit
in a crystal bowl on a side board nearby:
Anjou pears, blood oranges and apples,
withered grapes, hard as rock dates
and figs, blackened berries; what the old
one once touched, now lies dead.

Candles 
 
By David Thorpe
​


A silent remembrance for some dear friend 
A religious thank you for a granted prayer 


A speechless companion of the buried,
a flicker being the only movement,
a slight wind, occasioned
by the passing of some fugitive spirit.
 
Once a glimmer of hope
in some isolated crofter’s window,
a haven for lost and weary travellers,
stranded in the mist on wuthering heights,
in search of abode
on some dark and stormy night.
 
The burning clock of ancient Rome,
its slowly melting minutes
trickling away the hours to a Caesar’s betrayal.
 
The stage illumination
for King Arthur’s feast of Pentecost,
a gathering of his chivalrous knights,
players of equal rank
in Camelot’s Celtic tragedy.
 
David Thorpe ©® 2018

THE CANDLE IN THE WIND

 By Daniel de Culla
 
This is the story
​Of a light
Back when there were few
Men on Earth
Light and electricity industry
And Wo/Men
Took great care of their candles.
 
Using in their defense
To face the mysteries of the night
To place by the day
At the foot of prints and imagery
To help them
Carrying their heavy load
Of daily life.
 
It happened, one day
that a certain Zaguan
He was a farmhand
And worked by the herd
For a gentleman from Requena de Campos
In the Palencia’s province
 
He came to a covered place
On a street or square
Built on pillars
Bringing a candle in his hand
To walk or to get rid
Of the Moon of the shadows
 
When, suddenly, from somewhere
An air came to him in movement
 
Even if
It was at rest
That brought smelling as a trace
Leaving the hunting pieces
Or the bullet's gap
 
In the bore of the firearm
It turned off the candle
And it turned it off again
 
When he tried to light it
And that suddenly touching his nape
As it usually does
In the bone that dogs have
Between the ears
Said inside his mind:
- To whomever goes out at night and watches the wind:
Nothing is revealed
At night all cats are brown
And what is done at night
In the morning seems
Only a thought.

-Daniel de Culla


LA PALMATORIA
Es el cuento de cuando no había en la Tierra
Industria de luz y electricidad
Y el hombre y la mujer
Cuidaban mucho de su palmatoria
Que usaban en su defensa
Frente a los misterios de la noche
O colocaban por el día
Al pie de estampas e imaginería
Para que les ayudasen
A llevar su gastosa carga
De la diaria Vida.
Sucedió un día que un tal Zaguán
Que era gañán y trabajaba en el hato
De un señor de Requena de Campos
En la provincia de Palencia
Se vino a un lugar cubierto
En una calle o plaza
Construido sobre pilares
Trayendo en su mano una palmatoria
Para pasearse o para librarse
De la Luna o de las sombras
Cuando, de repente, de alguna parte
Le llegó un aire en movimiento
Aunque estuviera en reposo
Que traía ese olor que dejan como rastro
Las piezas de caza


O el huelgo de la bala
En el ánima del arma de fuego
Que le apagaban la vela
Y se la volvían a apagar
Cuando el intentaba encenderla
Que tocándole repentinamente el cogote
Como suele hacerlo
En el hueso que tienen los perros
Entre las orejas
Diciéndole al oído:
-A quien sale de noche y vela
Nada se le revela
Que de noche todos los gatos son pardos
Y lo que de noche se hace
A la mañana parece.
-Daniel de Culla

Beauteous Whisperer

by Thaddeus Hutyra


Mary the Witch was a beautiful girl
Although she was only 13 years old
she was already quite good in magic.

The boy she met at school, John was his name
was also a clever and smart wizard
as talented as his father, Monrod the Wizard.

John the Wizard eyed only Mary the Witch
and once when all the school was empty
he used his chance
with a support of his iron-clad magics.

So what you hear in the following verses
was deep from his blossoming heart.
Here is what he whispered
to the girl he loved.


Beautiful birds, my gentle whisperers
on all the Earthly meadows
and my own meadows
in my heart 
how I tribute you!


O’ white-chested emeralds, rainbow lorikeets
shoe-billed storks, blue-chinned sapphires
my beloved, gentle whisperers!


O’ white-tailed tropicbirds, Indian peafowls
golden-backed weavers, American flamingoes
my sweet, tranquil whisperers!


O’ ruby-topaz hummingbirds, house sparrows 
southern cassowaries, restless flycatchers
the nature’s finest, noble whisperers!


Yet believe it or not
there is one special whisperer, beauteous one
in my Earthly life
you, my Mary!


In the mornings shrouded by mist
you are there!


In the afternoons shrouded by Sun
you are there!


In the evenings shrouded by twilight
you are there!


In the nights shrouded by dreams
you are there!


Always there, O’ Mary 
on the meadows of my life
you, the very special whisperer, beauteous one!


What else can I say, O’Mary
as just thank you
for you are it all
you, my only love
my beauteous whisperer!’

Now, are you curious
what was the answer from Mary the Witch?
She simply giggled, laughed him aloud
and then said in straightforward words:
‘ My dear John the Wizard
forget your magics, they don’t influence me
you’re far too young for my heart
as I also am too young for your one
Let’s simply stay friends


and play our magics
No need to bother about future for now!’

The last days of summer

By David Thorpe

 
The sun lingers longer in the wings
and leaves the stage sooner each day,
the mid-summer heat loses intensity,
whilst evenings begin to shiver
 
To the warmth of the south
the swallows already took their leave
without entering her dream
to bid her farewell
 
Awakened by the early morning dew
dampening like orphan tears her cheeks,
she is greeted by a fugitive ray of sunlight 
escaping from the bondage of dispersing clouds
 
The lustre in her eyes
reflects the encroaching light,
as the last days of summer
with calmness Autumn await




David Thorpe ©® 2018

Settling of Scores

​By T.S. Hidalgo


Dawn breaks,
On our way
Out of the after hours club,
Over an avenue downtown:
Melted asphalt,
Neon that proclaims supremacy and friendship
(Also “Disappear here,” or “Even amazing”);
A Western story,
Seen from the sidelines:
A mass of uniforms, everything shines under the light of chaos,
And the ambulances roamed, at night, this urban shipwreck.
A woman.
Cold and dark silence.
There she is,
In front, stationed.
She shivers slightly, looking at us.
Hidden beneath a golden apron.

She came.
The syncopated rhythm with which this woman flies with the bongos, ehhh ...
Where does it come from? what ancestral song drives it?
She sings, hardly singing at all,
She recites a tribal rhythm.
She says: “Listen to the organ that touches you,
The melody terrible, but you like it, don't you?
It’s a requiem, composed for your sordid memory,
 A lovely ditty.

“They're going to auction me off, in dreams.
This is no longer our world: it is not the world of war, or even a post-war era.”

Everything is here, in a short scene, barely two minutes long.
Not much more is needed to fall in love, or fall dead.

​That Other Paris
 

Poetry Collection 

By Lyn Lifshin





MONA LISA  
 
I think it's in her eyes and
smirk, a way to thumb her
nose, but politely, at
the other Da Vinci beauties
like Ginevra de Benci,
true arm candy which Mona
knows she is not. And
from a wealthy family.
Mona's dark skin can't
compare to Ginevra's
milky white porcelain,
with her juniper emblem
standing for chastity.
And those tiny, perfect
features.  Mona's nose can't
compare in delicacy.
Mona is massive, not likely
to inspire the erotic
poems Ginevra has.

As
Leonardo
said 

If the poet
can inflame men with
love...the painter can
place in front of the lover
the true likeness of
the one who is beloved
after making him kiss
and speak to it. 

Mona
takes all this in, refusing
to let you know who
she is or what she
is thinking,  knows
she i more than an
insipid smiling doll, will
keep you guessing



 
THAT OTHER PARIS
 
in a mini skirt,
high heeled boots
dazed by the light,
the sun dappled
narcotic of Tuileries,
I watched the young
Japanese girl
lost in Monet's
lilies, rose and violet,
surrounding like arms,
magical ovals,
the ripples
of reflected light,
that small beauty
in a trance so
long ago she could
have her own
daughter as
transfixed




OFF ON MY OWN, THAT OTHER PARIS
 
my body, a flower
twirling petals, my
heart, a half opened
trillium. Just weeks from
the Breadloaf Writers'
Conference, when the
man who could become
famous and now dead
said, "If I don't get out
of here I'll become
alcoholic or gay,"
packed in the middle
of the night and slunk
away. Even in Paris I
longed for him, packing
and other men, not
the ones I should.
Men's eyes followed
my tights up my micro
mini suede fawn skirt,
heels that would be
worn to nubs before
I was back in the states.
So of course I said "oui"
to the young boy who
brought me a coke and
then said, tho we never
spoke the same language,
he wanted to take me to
meet his sister. Not quite
ready for the whole
flower in me to open,
I told him I'd meet him
Rue Saint Florentin as the
light turned raspberry
over the Seine and
flew back to the arms
of the one I knew
loved me

 
 


REMEMBER THE BEAUTIFUL GIRLS
 
always with something
in their mouths? Luscious
dark hair and pert, sweet
asses? Who knows their
dreams? If owls visit them,
white owls? The ordinary
and mysterious juxtaposed,
strangely magical as the
tears of horses. Past
Montparnasse, maybe
she dreams of the man
she met in the shadows,
then gave him a fake
phone number tho his lips
will haunt her, awake
and those nights she can't
sleep, remembering
his skin




THAT JUNE IN PARIS DAHLIAS WERE LARGE AS DINNER PLATES
 
I walked from a dream of
longing, always for some
one ghostly, untouchable.
I walked thru the roses
like some woman driving
in the dark, from the
prairie, dazed by wind
strong enough to tilt trees.
The musky amber and
umber, stained glass and
jewels. The cool baths,
a massage. I could have
been, half felt I was the
Lady with the Unicorn,
delicate and pale,
pulling him in with the
sense of taste, hearing,
sight, smell and touch.
A Mon Seul Desir,  my
one desire, that jeweled
box, one, someone,
said, would change April,
and then I left like a
ghost, like dust
in the morning light


 
OFF ON MY OWN, THAT OTHER PARIS
 
my body, a flower
twining petals and my
heart a half opened
trillium. Just weeks from
Bread Loaf Writer's
conference when the
man who would become
famous and now dead
said, "if I don't get
out of here I'll become
an alcoholic  or gay,"
packed in the middle
of the night and slunk
away.  I longed for
him, packing for Paris.
Men's eyes followed my
thighs up my micro
mini suede, heels that
would be worn to nubs
before I was back in the
states. So of course I said
oui to the young boy who
bought me a coke and then
tho we never spoke the same
language, wanted to take me
home to meet his sister. Not
quite ready for the whole
flower in me to open, I told
him I'd meet him rue
Saint Florentin    or rue de Rivoi
as the light turned raspberry
over the Seine and hurried
back to the one I knew
could hold me for years

 
 

AT DEUX MAGEUX
 
burgundy dripped
on white linen
 
a slash of crème de
cassis with white wine
 
cool dreary
 
the clouds haven't
lifted for days
 
still the outside tables
are full, scarves
 
pulled tight as
brash birds
 
are having a picnic

 



OFF ON MY OWN, THAT OTHER PARIS
 
my body, a flower,
petals budding and
my heart a half opened
trillium. Just weeks from
BreadLoaf Writer's
conference when the
man who would become
famous and now dead
said. "if I don't get
out of here I'll become
an alcoholic or gay,"
packed in the middle of
the night and slunk
away. I longed for
him, packing for Paris.
Men's eyes followed my
thighs up my micro
mini suede, heels that
would be worn to nubs
before I was back in the
states. So of course I said
"oui" to the young boy who
bought me a coke and then
tho we never spoke the same
language, wanted to take me
home to meet his sister. Not
quite ready for the whole
flower   in me to open, I lied,
told him I'd meet him at
rue Saint Florentine or
rue de Rivol as the
light turned raspberry
over the Seine





WHEN I SEE JOAN OF ARC DRESSED IN ARMOUR PRAYING
 
I try to imagine
other teenagers as brave,
Malala, maybe, standing up
to the Taliban, almost
murdered for wanting to
go to school. I think of Joan's
vision. She was 12, in her
father's garden and saw
a vision of figures she
identified as St Michael, St
Catherine and St Margaret
who told her to drive
out the English and bring
the Dauphin to Reims for his
coronations. She said she
cried when they left, they were
so beautiful. When I think of
other 16 year olds, then
think how Joan, at 16, asked a
relative to take her to the
nearby town of Vaucouleurs
visit the royal French Court.
Their sarcastic response didn't
deter her. It is said she told
one of his soldiers, "I must
be at the King's side--
there will be no help for
the kingdom if not for me.
Although I would rather
have remained spinning
wool at my mother's side.
Yet I must do this thing, for
my Lord wills that I do so.
Finally, allowed to go,
believing it was Divine
Revelation, dressed as a
boy for protection, armor,
with a horse, sword,
banner and placed at the
head of the army.  When
Joan arrived, she turned the
conflict into a religious
war. To prove she wasn't
a witch or a sorcerer she was
put thru a theological
examination. Despite many
military successes, Joan was
part of a truce with England.
This left Joan with little to do.
On March 22, 1430, she dictated
a threatening letter to the Hussites,
a dissonant group that had broken
with the Catholic church on a
number of points and had defeated
several crusades against them. Joan's
letter promises to "remove your
madness and foul superstition,
take away your heresy or your lives."
The truce with England came to an
end and a skirmish on May 23, 1430
led to her capture. Joan was imprisoned
by Burgundians at Beaurevoir Castle.
She was chained by the waist, wrists
and ankles to a heavy beam and
watched by three soldiers day and
night who tormented her with nasty
and insulting remarks and threats.
She tried several escapes, once jumping
from a 70 ft tower, landing on the soft
 earth of a dry moat. Joan stupefied the
court with her grace and intelligence.
Cross dressing was a crime but Joan
said she was not taken prisoner with
female guards or nuns. She wore the
male clothing to protect against
rape. A few days after adopting a
dress, she told a tribunal member
"that a great English Lord had
entered her prison and tried to
take her by force, to rape her.
Still, at that time, she was
condemned and sealed to die.
Eye witnesses describe the scene
of the execution by burning May 30,
1431. Tied to a tall pillar, she
asked two of the clergy to hold a
crucifix before her. An English soldier
also constructed a small cross
which she put in front of her dress.
After she died, the English raked back
the coals to expose her charred
body so no   one could claim she had
escape alive. They burned her body
twice more to reduce it to ashes
and prevent any collection of relics.
The executioner Geoffrey Therage,
later stated that he "greatly feared
to be damned"
                                          

 
PERE LACHAIS CEMETERY
 
rain already, a pewter
sky. Dark jade shadows,
almost licorice moss.
The stillness,
the dampness
 
a bottle of gin
on Jim Morrison's grave.
Oscar Wilde and
Gertrude Stein buried
under the dripping
leaves. I imagine them
 
swimming under the darkness,
tangling under the black
oaks to drink a toast
when the cemetery
closes at 18:00, to Moliere
 
and Chopin, whose piano
music, some say, on a night
when the owls are still
and fresh flowers are
just laid on the graves,
drifts to them thru the willows. 

The Free Prisoner

By Karen King



​

He was in prison,


But he was free.


Don’t get me wrong,


He was behind


Thick iron bars;


Sheer concrete roof


And floor.


A tiny toilet


Stood, bravely,


In the corner,


But his mind


Was elsewhere.


He studied books;


Books on philosophy,


Anthropology and


Spirituality


And his mind was free,


For these books


Took him out of his prison cell,


To other cultures


And places of the world.


He travelled the world in his mind


And escaped the confines


Of his physicality.


He taught his soul to travel


During waking hours


And his soul grew as he visited


Other dimensions and met


Ethereal beings who taught him well.


He travelled back in time,


To a place where it all began.


He learnt about the depth and breath


Of a world newly-born.


He travelled forwards in time,


To a place our brains


Cannot yet comprehend,


A place where science fiction writers


Could not even imagine.


But, his body was still trapped behind bars


For a wrong-doing he didn’t commit.


Yet, he escaped the shackles of his “life”


As his soul showed him the way.


If this prisoner can do this,


So can we escape


The self-inflicted prison of our lives


By imaging and then filling our souls
​
With more love and more life.


We are all “free”, but are we really?


The way forward isn’t to


Buy more worldly goods,


For they will not satisfy the soul


And will never bring lasting happiness.


Try stepping into the bliss


That is already waiting inside you


By imagining only love, peace,


Joy and freedom


For us all, all over the world.


And make a better “reality” for us all.


Only then, will we all know true freedom.






Karen King Copyright 10 July 2018

Time Travel

By Daniel de Culla


As H.G. Wells "The Time Machine"
Travels with philosophy and fiction
Outside sense & perception:
An arbitrary travel in space-time
Connects with quantum mechanics
And wormholes,
Einstein-Rosen bridges,
Surely celebrating
The feline sense of traffic.




VIAJE EN EL TIEMPO


Viaje en el Tiempo
Como la Máquina del tiempo de HG Wells
Con filosofía y ficción
Fuera del sentido y la percepción:
Viaje arbitrario en el espacio tiempo
Conectado con la mecánica cuántica
Y los agujeros de gusano-
¡Puentes de Einstein-Rosen¡
Celebrando sin duda
El sentido felino del tráfico.


-Daniel de Culla

THE BOOKCASE OF IF

By Delashwood Sudsey


Dance with me tonight, I am lonely,
Lost in time where clouds drift in pockets,
Breathing in the light, so translucent,
Moments fade as candles flicker softly,
We are a story that is yet to be written,
A photograph without substance,
Time is the essence of this beating heart,
Hands are at distance but eyes sparkle,
Thoughts are wandering in the bookcases of if,
Home is a kiss in the silence of tears,
Thought of you for many years,
The ships have passed and letters are sent,'
Your nails they sparkle with soap scented fingers,
Love is a reason and life is one purpose,
I lay down gently in dreams that fill my heart,
I hear you but I am without a face that pleases,
Wait for me as the sun goes down on a Sunday,
as boredom becomes a friend that never speaks,
Love me as the morning breaks a heart that bleeds,
And walk with me as whispers fade to Winter.

As You Like It

Act II, Scene VII

"All the world’s a stage"

William Shakespeare

1564 - 1616

​Jaques to Duke Senior


All the world’s a stage,
And all the men and women merely players;
They have their exits and their entrances,
And one man in his time plays many parts,
His acts being seven ages.
At first, the infant,
Mewling and puking in the nurse’s arms.
Then the whining schoolboy, with his satchel
And shining morning face, creeping like snail
Unwillingly to school.
And then the lover,
Sighing like furnace, with a woeful ballad
Made to his mistress’ eyebrow.
Then a soldier,
Full of strange oaths and bearded like the pard,
Jealous in honor, sudden and quick in quarrel,
Seeking the bubble reputation
Even in the cannon’s mouth.
And then the justice,
In fair round belly with good capon lined,
With eyes severe and beard of formal cut,
Full of wise saws and modern instances;
And so he plays his part.
The sixth age shifts
Into the lean and slippered pantaloon,
With spectacles on nose and pouch on side;
His youthful hose, well saved, a world too wide
For his shrunk shank, and his big manly voice,
Turning again toward childish treble, pipes
And whistles in his sound.
Last scene of all,
That ends this strange eventful history,
Is second childishness and mere oblivion,
Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything.

Celia
 
​By David Thorpe
​

To the rhythm, the emotion, the fire 
and the passion of Salsa and Mambo
she dedicated her life, they were
the beat of her heart  and the
blood in her veins
 
From the streets of Havana,
where she danced as a child,
she brought Salsa and Mambo
in performances to New York,
Latin America and Europe
 
Her infectious aura engulfed
the fans in Berlin at a concert
on “The stage in the forest”, (Waldbühne),
from where the Salsa germ contaminated
the rest of Europe and even Tel Aviv
 
On one of her last albums “Siempre viviré”
(I will live forever), she included
the song “Por si no regreso”
(In case I shall not return),
yet this Queen of Salsa returns
each time her songs are played
and thus she will live forever,
the irreplaceable Celia Cruz


David Thorpe ©® 2018

Stunning Them Senseless

Mambo Poetry

By Alan Catlin



No Country for Old Men


Touch of Evil border town,
dressed all in black, hipsters


Reefer running, murder for hire,
grand theft auto employments
opportunities-family members only


Switchblade scarred, stiletto heeled,
short skirt, mesh stocking, heavy
mascara, too red lipstick wearing
women of the night


Hot salsa, fiero chilies, red meat
tamales, corn stalk containing wraps


Worm in the bottle, drink at your own
risk, made from cacti, mescal


Desert rat, death valley days survivor-
extreme heated, sun stroked, dehydrated
skeletal, barely alive, human remains


Left in the desert to die:
broken finger card sharps.
two timing vig skimmers,
product sniffing, adios cabron,
powder pushers


Oasis mirage, mariachi band
and dance contest marathons,
prizes galore for those who survive;
for those who don’t, the desert is
its own reward.











Mambo Kings Play Songs of Love


They’d been to the top: a night
with Desi on I Love Lucy,
to down and out. Last days spent
in rat trap hotels, welfare checks
instead of royalties, funds held on
account at brown bag bodegas.
Surviving brother recalling time
spent with Tino Puente, at white tux
Palladium Ballroom gigs serenading
a bonita mujeur, Delores or a Maria.
The song: “Beautiful Maria My Soul”
the one brother endlessly revised,
eschewing fame and fortune for an
unobtainable dream of half notes
and up beats. The surviving one
pissing off a high board, fast lane
foolish, on his own, in hock to payola
priests of the hit parade, vinyl adepts
with their walls of sound that reduced
his work to a barely audible refrain
beneath an insistent bass line.
A has-been in his thirties, a nostalgia,
novelty act with nowhere to go: a windup
Victrola and a scratched 78 rpm record
from the gone cat that he once was.














Zoot Suit


In Spanish Harlem they were
out-of-place warriors, gang bangers
who got lost in East LA and woke up
in no-license jazz joint in NYC,
getting down with the locals, high
in reefer madness and some big band
sounds. Dug the low neck, leg slit
gowns on the babes, tried to avoid
knuckle duster boyfriends, trying to
keep high waisted, flared pants and
loud shirts pristine once the violated
turf action came down, the knives
were pulled, tire chains brandished.
Those who survived pulled down their
wide brimmed hats, got down to business
in smoking hot after hours clubs for
speed freaked weeks always on the go.
Once turf invasion word of mouth
hit the streets, once the look the other way
cops increased their freight, it was only
a matter of time before a serious bust came
down. The kind that made the back pages
of a Daily News under headlines that
suggested the bust of the century.
Not one of the fancy suit guys unmarked,
their blood pooling by paddy wagon wheels
just as gruesome in black and white as it
was in real life. There are no good guys
in this story.










Black Magic Macho Man


He played the sax as if he’d
stood at the crossroads of
yesterday and tomorrow.
Sold his soul to Satan for
the kind of gift that made
Robert Johnson immortal.
Failed to read the small print
on the contract he’d accepted
that said he’d play like a man
possessed by devils, one
who couldn’t distinguish one
note from another. Reveled
in his perceived power, taking
whatever rare gig came his way
like part of backup band to strippers
in firetrap clubs with names like
The Inferno that would burn down
with a full house of stumble bums
and sideshow geeks lit on homemade
gin, white lightning in a bottle,
that stunned them senseless,
left them blind and immobile as
they listened to signature bump
and grind swan songs of a pickup
band of the doomed.

TANGO BLACK

By Lyn Lifshin


pull on some skimpy skirt
slink into a silk skirt
slit up you thigh.
Do doesn't your blood ache
to be pressed against
a hard thigh, a
hieroglyph of the night.
Liquid and silky
intreting the music
with his whole body. When he
lets you come.
for now the whole world
is his body. When he
lets you come into  his
hips, the pass words, ds.
the escape. What can you
say about tango that
you can't say about sex

Taco Salad

By Lucinda Berry Hill 


Lettuce, tomatoes,
Chips that go crunch.
A big taco salad
For dinner or lunch.

Some use chicken, 
Some use beef.
Anything tastes good
With that warm melted cheese.

Olives, peppers,
Sour cream or not,
Beans and salsa 
Served fresh and hot.

Thank you, dear God
For the food that we eat,
Like a big taco salad
With warm melted cheese.



Lucinda Berry Hill Author of "Coffee with Jesus" AND "A Second Cup with Jesus" ©

 https://www.facebook.com/#!/pages/Coffee-with-Jesus/355060321207311

http://lucindaspoetry.webs.com/index.htm

The Spanish Rose

By Carlos Sanchez



Rosita wore her favourite dress, 
As red as the hot spicy blood of Spain, 
And she sprung up on the dance floor, 
Clicking her heels on the parquet floor
To the sounds of Romeo Santos
As the castagnettes between Julio's fingers slip-slapped
And the dishy gents sipped their 2017 red Rioja
Heating their pallets with peperonis. 
The stage drenched in yellow lights, 
Rosita swirled around thrice, 
Throwing up her arms, 
Filled with amorous bliss. 
Rosita was the rose,
As Spanish as the dusty Madrid road beneath her high stiletto heels, 
As firey as the De Falla music emanating from the twelve string Flamenco guitar. 

Lust for spirit was hers to keep forever. 


***


Rosita usaba su vestido favorito,
Tan rojo como la picante sangre caliente de España,
Y ella surgió en la pista de baile,
Haciendo clic con los talones en el piso de parquet
A los sonidos de Romeo Santos
Como las castañuelas entre los dedos de Julio se abofetearon
Y los dishy gents bebieron su Rioja roja 2017
Calentando sus paletas con peperonis.
El escenario empapado de luces amarillas,
Rosita se arremolinó tres veces,
Lanzando sus brazos,
Lleno de dicha amorosa.
Rosita era la rosa,
Tan española como la polvorienta carretera de Madrid bajo sus altos tacones de aguja,
Tan brillante como la música De Falla que emana de la guitarra flamenca de doce cuerdas.

La lujuria del espíritu era suya y la mantendría para siempre.

Wine, Women and Song

By Karen King



I’m not into women, but I do like wine,
It’s something that makes me feel so fine,
This is a taste for which I always have the time
And it makes me feel sublime.


Wine might make you want to sing a song,
Make sure you don’t get the words wrong,
You will be the merry-maker amongst the throng,
Celebrations become a party that lasts so long…


Wine, women and song are part of the arts,
Perhaps poetry and painting are part
Of what opens your heart?
If not already an artist, it’s time to make a start!


Karen King Copyright 27 May 2018

Portrait of a Lady


Poetry Collection by Alan Catlin 











Women


I’ve lived with more than my share
of glass widows, the kind that could be
picked up in bars flipping through
the pages of the bar top jukebox song
selector and always playing the same one;
the ones I would watch the light slowly dying
in their eyes every time I disappeared for
days at a time without explanation then
arrived home stinking of the worst kind of
sewer rat poison, cheap perfume and ten
dollar a case red wine, half-dead from some
self-incited beating after bad mouthing
a bar room full of hostiles as if on some kind
of Operation Phoenix mission, not remembering
a thing, saying, “Alcoholic blackouts, man’s
best friend.” Once the interrogation starts
you can honestly say, ‘I don’t know, I can’t
remember a thing.’”Most of those women
long gone before the hangover wore off, leaving
me to resume my former routine of self-loathing
and abuse, two thirds of the way through Project
Derelict, an information gathering process that
could take years or a lifetime, whichever came first.
All that note taking and the transcription after,
one long novel, written with the fervor of the best
of them. God, it was great!










Diary of a Mad Housewife


If the truth be known, she took all those,
Visiting Poet/Writer in Residence gigs,
just to get out of the house.
Her old man could have cared less what
she did with her writing as long as she
gave him space for his true passion: making pots
of money designing Brutalist buildings
and screwing all the nubile interns who came to
worship at his drawing board.
Every semester on the road for her, promised
potential new bedmates, as sex with her husband
was as dismal as it was rare, generally a farce
of nature after too much wine, good food, and
occasional recreational drugs.
Of course, they had children, conceived in what
appeared to her now as: forlorn hope disguised
as love and a deluded optimism for a future neither
one of them believed in.
They had grandchildren, as well, kids she spoke of
often to convey to her listeners that she was
in a committed relationship but she was willing
to be flexible as long as it went no further
than a brief, but memorable, affair.
Maybe there would be a body builder among
the latest acolytes, this occasionally happened,
even established poets worked out, as she did,
every morning to clear her head and flex muscles
she might need later on for more intimate
encounters. A Martial Art expert would be a
refreshing change; the poetry was awful but
the sex was great.
Most of the hopefuls would be women.
There was no avoiding that.
She had tried one or two out for trial runs but
they were unsatisfactory as she just couldn’t swing
that way.
All of them shared one trait: unrealistic expectations.
There was no avoiding it and most of her job
entailed letting them down gracefully and with tact.
Hell, you never knew when a great line might sneak
into a dreadful poem, a line she could steal and
pretend was her own.
If someone complained, who were they going to believe:
a neophyte nobody or the visiting writer in residence?








Portrait of a Lady


Everything about her screamed: disgraced
aristocrat, all of the airs but none of the money.
Had Moet tastes on a Cold Duck budget,
claiming to like all the best things in life
from Bach to Beethoven and beyond.
Said, “You know that piece Bach wrote
for his insomniac patron? The one where
the guy is so into playing he was humming
along on a live recording and played so well,
they released the album anyway? The ones
not scandalized by the sacrilege thought it
was the greatest record ever and it sold like
crazy. You could buy it today of you wanted to.”


Somehow, you just knew she only referenced Bach,
as she was overly familiar with fugues, not the
kinds he wrote, but the ones you experienced
after a three day binge on white powder and
tequila azul, stuff she copped from two Mexican
mules willing to share on a run they ended up
two kilos light of a full load on.


Having survived the civil wars between two states
of mind, she seemed to think everyone she met
should kneel down and kiss those gold plated rings
she wore, ones that were trying to pass themselves
off as the real thing. Dressed in consignment shop robes,
looking as if she was a few IQ points north of brain
dead, following her last vision quest dream where
she was a hand maiden to one of the three Christs
of Ypsilanti, a vision like a caustic solution that
melts all the silk fabrics of her mind.







The Hunger


“ What do you do?” She asks.
“ I take pictures of dead people.”
Nick Seeley, Cambodian Noir


It must have been the correct answer.
She says, “Psychedelic Furs make me
feel warm all over like Ketamine and
Coke.” Leans in close, French inhaling
some local loco weed like it was a
mentholated Kool long, eyes like laser
pointer lights on mine.
“I’m more of an Insane Clown Posse
kind of guy. Anarchist rapping to the
apocalypse. Just a jugalo, everywhere I go....”
“Want to go some place more private?
I know all the secrets of The Ages.
The ones I don’t know, I’ll make up
as we go along.”
“Sounds great to me. What’s the catch?”
“Just keep an open mind.” She says,
seductively smiling, ”Let me write
the instructions to my place for you.”
I watch her write, hand the paper to me
and turn. See her long legs disappear
into as denim mini-skirt, tank top tight
and inviting. Shoulder length black hair
sweeping across her shoulders as she walks.
Everything about her says, wine, women and
song; sex and death and not much in between.
The written instructions to her place
are simple: Follow the long, narrow
two lane until you arrive nowhere.
Turn left and keep driving until you
can’t go on.”
It would be a place so remote even
vandals, door to door rip off experts,
and Murphy artists wouldn’t go.
It would have a five stool counter diner
no one ever went to with daily breakfast
specials with names like: Death Warmed
Over and you would order one just to see
what it would look like. It might not be
the last thing you ever did but
awfully damned close.





​
Education of H. Adams


scion of
presidents,
ambassadors
& generals:
all the holy
rollers, power
brokering
insider clique
Washingtonian
elite, he
the historian
of an American
Age, described
as 'sensitive as
a poet', self-
doubting, honest
to a fault, self-
absorbing,
'dapper little
man', his trophy
wife's final
attention getting
ploy a vial
of poison, a glass
of wine & death
forever more

---

Love and Age
By Alexandra H. Rodrigues


It has turned into an enticing, sensuous treat
To talk with you about many a need.
About dreams we had when we were a teen
Or what love and lust to each of us mean.


I would like to make love to you for hours
Enjoy necking with you surrounded by flowers.
Each age has the right to its very own value
At every stage, sensuality itself does renew.


At any age, we are showered with fresh nuances
Ours is the challenge to grab hold of the chances
The joy of sharing is what does matter
Like good wine, its depth with age gets better.

If not I

By David Thorpe


If not I,
who is then worthy of her love?
too often did I ask myself,
yet an answer remained elusive
in winter´s frozen sanctuary
 
My feelings were the most sincere,
never did I have a doubt,
together with the shortening days
her eyes of autumn shades,
lost their warmth midst nights of frost
 
Snowflakes bury my bruised pride,
morning mists hide my foolishness
to believe I played a leading role
in the theatre of love´s carousel
 
Neither, to let oneself  be loved,
nor to believe in one´s own vanity
are requisites for lasting harmony,
but rather as a vintage wine,
to first be treasured
ere delighting in its bouquet
 
David Thorpe ©® 2018

"Eternal Companion"

By Harjeet Singh

from

Hoshiarpur (Punjab)


She is such a great companion
When she holds someone’s hand
She never leaves, never leaves.

If he wants his hand to be freed
Her grasp is ever so tight
That one cannot be unshackled.
She brings him in high flight
Often keeps her owner awake
While it’s midnight.

As pleased as punch in his paradise

But almighty (greatly) saddened in his heaviness,

Like a ghost cannot be touched

Like a saint’s halo lives with him,

No liaison is immune to inurnment.

But true to type in lasting her link,

Though pages remain

Yellow.


Attachment---



Men die but writings ... never.


When someone begins to write and he becomes popular.He can't abandon profession.

After death writing keeps link with dead person.
So I used 'she'
on the behalf of writing. 




Grasp--grip

Paradise---happy writing as comedy

Heaviness--sadness as tragedy

As pleased as punch--so much pleased

Owner--writer

Liaison--link with people


Yellow--in libraries books are with yellow pages as has been so old and writers are not alive physically but still they exist in yellow pages.

The Wonders of Motherhood
                                                                                         
by
                                                                          
Gerald Arthur Winter

 
Rejoice for the wonders of motherhood! 
The Lord’s gateway opens,
fulfilling his promise.
 
Sing praises!
Her nurturing bears fruit
from ripe orchards.  
                                                     
Give thanks!
Her love is selfless,
having no bounds.
 
Bear your resentfulness.
She corrects you
with good intent.
   
Forgive her.
She’s only human
as yourself.
 
Assert your will,
but with kindness
and gentle understanding.
 
Love her
as you would yourself,
mindful of her sensitivity.
 
Give time to her,
for time is measured,
her presence fleeting.
 
Imitate her 
when time has purified
all remnants of her inequities.
 
Remember her always.
Her pain is likened to the Lord’s
as a sacrifice for others.
 
Sons and daughters, 
honor her name and soul 
with tales to your children.
 
 Rejoice for motherhood!
 She is the essence of
God’s mercy towards mankind.


                                                                 

ELLA'S ROUTINE

By John Grey



Atop Ella's dresser, reflected in the crystal-sided mirror,
sit the components of her face.
Not just the usual paints and powders,
but tape and elastics for pulling skin back like hair,
tying it in an unseen knot.


Her gray weary locks arc beyond dye and shampoo.
Only a wig will do, preferably red,
to hold the attention of others' eyes,
prevent them from wandering.


No problem with the dentures.
They look more like teeth than teeth do.
The lipstick's job is to match that hair-piece
hue for hue, create a balance
and a frame for talc to fill.


She slips her nails on,
smothers her hands and arms in cream.
By this, what she really looks like is suitably buried.
A long dress overrides the purple veins.
Shoes squeeze onto misshapen feet.
She has created the best Ella possible.


Next stop is the park, her usual bench.
She presses her back hard against the wooden slats,
stretches her shoulders until they touch
something solid.


This is the portrait she has put together
in the morning hours.
She's hung in a tree-lined gallery.
Patrons walk the paths.


"Prom Queen 1956" it could be labeled.
Or "Belle Of The Ball 1959."
Some smart kid says out loud to his parents,
"Look at that old witch."
A witch! She snarls at the boy.
Yet if she could cast a spell,
she'd accept the position







MY SNORES


By John Grey


It's my snores that keep you awake.
Such is the selfishness in which I sleep.


To blanket, sheet, pillow,
add antique car engine,


adenoidal noise, ugly as ten live geeks,
nightmares for those wide awake with me.


They provide no insights, if that's what you're thinking.
It's just oxygen and nasal passages getting their wires crossed.


But remember, you love the man who makes these sounds.
You've a stake in this club-footed breath of mine.







EYE MAN

By John Grey



I've followed thighs
and I've traced behinds back to their source.
For years, I was a breast man,
thumbing through newspapers and magazines
for the latest updates on mammary glands.
And I have been a connoisseur of lips
since the cradle.


But eyes crept up on me.
The nose seemed to hold the face together
and was always such
a natural object of attention
Then those orbs began to,
more and more, pop out
of the shell of their lids,
fasten upon me,
hypnotize my vulnerable brain unknowingly.


It's got so
I can't even talk to somebody
without aiming my speech
somewhere between the cornea
and the anterior chamber
and cocking my ear
where the lens and pupil
most make themselves clear.


I know all that guff
about the eyes being windows to the soul.
Windows?
With an entire house going begging?

The Oyster Bay Pearls
By Alexandra H. Rodrigues


A big white shark had come to the Oyster Bay
There most Oysters have pearls, they say
Till now a mermaid and Poseidon the Ocean God
Had been in charge of the Oyster lot.


The pearls had been stored on a fisherman’s barge
Resulting profits were big and the properties large
“Your reign is over,” declared the intruding White shark
“This turf is now mine, the pearls a gift for Misses Shark.”


The mermaid cried, her tears made the Ocean rise
Poseidon was furious, the shark he despised
Out of algae, coral and a dropped fish line, all wet
They knotted a quilt that would serve as a net.


Then, on a moonless, stormy, low tide night
They lured the shark close into their sight
The quilted net they threw all over him
Poseidon cheered, “See, it is us who win!”


“Not yours but ours is the turf and the pearls
To disturb our peace you had quite some nerve
We have decided we will let you swim free
Death awaits you if ever again we you see.”


“You are monstrous, mean and quite in form
Yet you cannot take our Oyster Bay by storm
You are lucky that we are peaceful creatures
Ours resemble the pearls’ modest features.”

It Joyfully Catches the Light 


Poetry Collection by Jessica Goody



Northern Lights

The pack ice resembles a mosaic of broken tiles where 
pups croak and croon, rolling playfully, enjoying the
sensation of snow. Mothers plump and banded nurse
pups who expand balloon-like as their fur gradually

darkens: ice-white, butter-blond, and dappled silver.
They swirl in greenish water, trailing auras of bubbles 
behind them in a serpentine interpretive dance, joyful,
reveling in their element. The silent fireworks of the 

aurora borealis flash overhead like searchlights, mint,
mauve, cobalt, barium green and methane blue, glowing
while above them, polar bears stalk the icy plateau like 
wardens, waiting, tints glinting in their colorless fur.



Images

I am a treasure hunter,
eager as a wildcat stalking silent prey.
Captivated by texture and those precise accidents

known as serendipity, my subconscious
links details into patterns, finding synchronicity.
The human eye is clouded, overstimulated by detail.

The black box of the camera parses the scene, 
sweeping away the nimbus obscuring the view, 
deepening the revelations caught by the mirror 

of its eye. I thrive on these discoveries, the explosion
as a thought breaks the surface of the complex
rivers of neurons and joyfully catches the light.



Amazon

Green vines as thick as ropes drape the trees,
winding among the boughs like power cords
concealing the snakes that lay within. 
Its mossy bark the texture of crocodile hide.

The colors here are an amazement of riches:
curious parrots streaked like sunsets,
the gradient rainbow of the scarlet macaw,
and the sudden flash of passing butterflies.

The tousled lilies and vivid flowers I cannot name, 
the rosy lips of the hibiscus, lushly red. 
The very trees seem to sweat in this humid green swamp,
a green too bright and strange to be believed.

A toucan stares with his bright cocked head,
his banana-beak weighing him down. 
The heavy heads of flytraps nod, 
their spiky maws tasting the air.

Through the fronds burns the steady obsidian gaze 
of the prowling jaguar, elegant and intense, mottled with gold.
The shriek and screech of marmosets rings out,
their amusingly ugly faces invisible among the boughs.

A Sense of Wonder


By Karen King





You create in him a sense of wonder.


When he was a little boy,


He ran through your field of tulips,


Up and down the paths,


A free spirit, untied by daily demands.


Now, a teenager,


You continuously create in him


A sense of wonder.


He stops, still in admiration


And holds you gently,


Gazing at your face within.


You are like the sun, one of the planets


And holding your special place


Upon the earth.


Karen King Copyright 7 May 2018

Waiting in Wonder


By Karen King 



​

You have all been waiting in wonder,


Forming a queue of patience


As seasons pass you by.


You leaves coloured,


Your beauty became a multitude of colours,


Receiving admiration from passers-by,


Then fell, wasted and forgotten


On the greedy ground below,


Yet you fought for a new beginning,


Patiently and waiting in wonder


Before you burst into leaf once again.






Karen King Copyright 7 May 2018

Lucinda Berry Hill


Church on the Farm


I wonder if at night,
When everyone's asleep,
Do the animals assemble;
Do they have a meet and greet?
.
Do they gather to have church?
Do they sit on stacks of hay
And listen to the lamb's good word?
Do they bow their heads and pray?

Do the donkeys carry animals
In from 'round the farm?
Do they praise by the light
Of the moon and the stars?

Do the birds lead in worship,
Singing praises to the king?
Do the horses stomp their hooves
While others clap and sing?

Do the ravens bring in bread?
Do they drink a sip of wine?
Do the eagles guard the meeting place
With their keen and watchful eye?


Do the doves carry branches
Of hope and of peace?
Do the animals listen?
Do they trust and believe?

I wonder when the sun comes up
And they leave their bales of hay,
Do they carry Christ in their hearts
And show Him through the day?

Lucinda Berry Hill Author of "Coffee with Jesus" AND "A Second Cup with Jesus" ©

 https://www.facebook.com/#!/pages/Coffee-with-Jesus/355060321207311

http://lucindaspoetry.webs.com/index.htm

Alan Catlin


Zen in the Art of Basketball




Zen in the Art of Basketball


The hand and the rim
The hand and the ball and the rim
The hand and the ball and the rim and the net
The hand and the ball and the rim and the net and
what the ball falls through


The hand and the mind that impels the ball and the rim
and the net and what the ball falls through
are one








What I am seeing now


is not involved with basketball
it may involve rims and hoops and nets


Shots that come off metal long
and it may seem like basketball
It might involve zones and presses


Or it may be something else
off court like death


There may be time outs
A seizure at half court, an ultimate decree
that changes the course of the game
We might bend down at half court,
breathless, called for a senseless personal foul
and look up at the score board and see nothing


That's how easy anyone could be wiped out
of the game


A soft rim can be a blessing in a close game
but two misses from the charity stripe
is nothing in the long run.


What we missed in the long run changed everything
and it could be fatal down court
Still there are other Sports in season
like baseball


But that's not what I'm seeing now


I'm seeing basketball


And I'm afraid of what I'm seeing now










Russian Basketball


The point guard brings the ball up court slowly
studying the defensive set, up against
a half court press, looks towards the net,
backs his man toward the top of the key,
cross court passes the ball into the right corner,
breaking inside toward the hoop;
the shooting guard arches his wrists,
cocks, unloads the shot. Stricken, the point
guard falls over the end line, the blood
stained stripes, onto the frozen, wasted
Gulag yard. The referees, remove his identification
tags, whistle the dead ball in play; the offensive
team crosses the crucial ten second line
in nine, a new point guard calls out the defensive
signals, the game must never stop.








Super John


"The world is round, man. What goes around
comes around." John Williamson to Peter Vecsey


The phrase:"He never saw a shot that
he wouldn't take" should have been
the byline of his obituary, still
"Williamson fierce as they came"
hit the mark dead center as one of his
incredible off balance jump shots.


What the byline didn't suggest was
Super John's antics off the court,
binge drinking and eating that left him
out of shape and prematurely dead
virtually forgotten by all but the most
diehard ABA fans and teammates like
the immortal Dr. J: "Supe was a little
different. It made him the warrior he was.
It was a curse and a blessing at the
same time."


Every time you were about to hate him for
taking one of those ill advised j's with
no one under the basket to rebound a miss,
he'd swish nets with that multi-colored ball dead center
starting an outpouring of incredible offensive
moves and shots that could only have happened
in a maverick league. But in the end, it was
what he did off court that killed him.


"He got caught up in the salary problems
and that hurt him. It affected him as much
as any player I've ever coached. Obviously
he felt he was underpaid."Coach Loughery said.
In the end, age forty five, he paid the piper.








Nabokov Blues


Hard to
imagine now
the author
of Lolita
frolicking
about Albany's
Pine Bush
in short pants
pith helmet
with a large
butterfly net,
his stern
wife Vera
likewise attired
in tow, chasing
rare New Karner
butterflies
in this
environmentally
unique area
nearly malled
to death, prime
land, a developer's
dream involving
heavy construction
equipment,
super highway
disasters,
modern American
sprawl, last of
the known
Blues disappearing
down mountain
bike trails
pursued by
dune buggies
off-road motor-
cyclists, hard
riding suburban
Hell's Angels.

The Ego Dictates
By Alexandra H. Rodrigues
 
Quite bluntly stated and honestly phrased
Our egos desire to be stroked and praised.
Better than anyone else we want to be
The goal is a rather selfish: “Me, Me, Me.”
Some specifics are hard to mention
Different ways of writing, different attention.
 
A humorous experience it could be
Or a deep thought that sets conclusions free
Some extroverts put emphasis into their voice
To relate by sound not by word is their choice.
Bold authors open their souls to us wide
They conquer shyness and personal pride.
 
While others camouflage with a satirical flair
What to proclaim they do not dare.
Writes do not produce equal emotions in us all.
We all listen to a somewhat different call
Allow the listener to be touched in their own way
From pedantry make sure to stay away.


​

Fall In Love

By Lucinda Berry Hill

​
When life’s winds are getting strong
And your steps are unsteady,
When you think you’re ‘bout to fall,
Fall in love, fall in mercy.
When your foundation starts to crack,
When your world begins to shake,
When you feel that you are sinking,
Sink in love, sink in grace.
When everything looks dark
And you cannot find your way,
When you’re starting to get lost,
Get lost in love.  Get lost in grace.
When you feel you’re being pulled,
When you’re starting to get dizzy,
When you think you’re ‘bout to fall,
Fall in love, fall in mercy.
  Fall
In the net of Jesus.

Author Lucinda Berry Hill of Coffee with Jesus ©

 https://www.facebook.com/#!/pages/Coffee-with-Jesus/355060321207311

http://lucindaspoetry.webs.com/index.htm

IN ALEPPO


Poetry Collection by Lyn Lifshin



​


LIFE IN ALEPPO


a day without bombs,
is good. You can
leave your apart-
ment, wander thru
small oasis of color
and light. No words,
only the sense of
loss. No color except
for an plot of green
and one plum tree,
not turned to drift
wood. One man who
has not left, says you
must live on the lower
floors to try to escape
airstrikes, shells, rockets,
phosphorous bombs,
cluster bombs. Dreams
blend with nightmares,
ghosts rise from the ruins.
Stark white bones litter
the streets. No more
dancing, no more violins.
No flamingos or pelicans.
Terror blooms under a
blue moon. When a small
bomb lands on top of
a building, it often takes out
just the top 2 or 3 stories.
Lately Basha al-Assad and
the Russian military have
been using a new kind of
bomb that demolishes the
whole building. People
stay out of any rooms near
the street. There’s no electricity.
Families rarely leave the apart-
ment, prefer to die together





THE LAST GARDEN IN ALEPPO


this small oasis of color and life
as cluster bombs, barrel
bombs, missiles rain on houses,
hospitals, schools in this
hazardous, unpredictable place,
a gardener was able to grow
flowers, vegetables, broad
leaved plants. Roses, gardenias,
bougainvillea. The gardener’s
whole existence dedicated
to the beauty of life, a small
courageous attempt to promote
peace. Dust and smoke blur
the stars, the watered ferns and
lilies in the shadows. Shivering
thru the raids, dreaming of
his dead wife until eventually a
barrel bomb lands near his
garden, kills him, his dream that
the “essence of the world is a
flower,” the color, smell, how it
can inspire. But in the time
since his death, Aleppo seems
mostly defined by another
floral attribute: fragility






THE CHILDREN


in Aleppo have to stay
off the streets or they’ll
be killed. Their parents
listen for sounds of war,
planes or shells, or cluster
bombs. “We try to live like
underground rodents,” one
father says. There are some
underground schools but
many parents find them
too risky. Some families
who live close to the school
let their children go if its
not too long a walk, one man
opened a school called al
Hikma which means wisdom





IN ALEPPO


if you have a car
you’ll have a hard
time getting gas
for it. If you’re
hoping to keep it
from being blown
up or damaged
by shrapnel, you
might store it in
an empty garage or
shop. Open the
windows too. Other
wise the glass may
crack from the pressure
of bombs exploding






LISTENING FOR SCOUTING PLANES




they sound different from
fighter jets on bombing
runs. The scouts fly lower
and they make a constant
buzzing sound. If you hear
them, you’ll know that shells
will be falling soon, bringing
death with them. If you go
outside make sure you don’t
end up in a group of more
than 20 people one man says
or you might attract a plane.
Scouting runs are especially
dangerous in summer when
there aren’t any clouds to
obscure pilots’ vision. But
they’re also bad on clear
days in winter. Going out at
night is especially risky because
you can’t see planes coming over
head and you have to drive with
out headlights. One man said
he suddenly felt pressure in
his ears and the windows of his
car cracked. It was an air strike
less than 100 meters behind him,
reminding him he was still alive





WHEN THE BOMBARDMENT IS AT ITS WORST


you start to worry you
might lose more of your
friends, call them to
check in. If you see them,
when you say goodbye,
you tell them “take care
of yourself. Maybe I
won’t see you
again”





IT’S EASY TO LOSE YOUR MIND IN ALEPPO


you might go one day
to look for food and come
back to find your building
is destroyed and your
family killed. People stand
in front of bombed out
buildings screaming and
crying in disbelief. More and
more people have lost
their homes and now are
living on the streets asking for
money. Before the war, they
never imagined they would
be beggars. Even people who
still have their houses, struggle
to cope. One man killed him
self with a machine gun
after another died. He shot
himself in the chest. Tho
more common in the west, in
Syria it is very rare. In Islam,
suicide is a terrible sin



​

ALEPPO


if you are not killed,
your next worry is
food. Now many
don’t have enough
money to buy any
thing to eat. There
aren’t any jobs so
every neighborhood
has young volunteers
whose responsibility
is to get food and
other supplies. Families
that still have a father
are lucky. His mission
is to get food and
other supplies
every day





MAYBE YOU’LL TRY TO GROW VEGETABLES IN YOUR GARDEN


some grow eggplant,
parsley and mint. Many
gardens have become burial
grounds because there
isn’t room anywhere else
to bury dead bodies after
four years of war. But
if the alternative is starving
to death, you might not mind
eating food that’s been grown
among corpses





ONE MAN SAID PRAY YOU DON’T HAVE TO GO TO THE HOSPITAL


they’re absolutely
miserable. I don’t
know how the doctors
and nurses can stand
all the blood, bones
and bowels all over
the floor. The smell is
awful. Patients who
can’t leave are constantly
screaming in pain. This
man says, “several
weeks ago I was shot
in the hand by a sniper
and I have some broken
bones. So I go to the
hospital once a week to
change my bandages.
I can’t bear to be there
more than half an
hour.”





EVERGREEN, PEARS, TEREBINTH, HAZELNUTS, ROSES, MAQUIS, ROSEMARY


in the last garden of Aleppo. For
resistance, not remembrance.
The gardener, father of the flowers,
and his son. He thinks of the garden
as music. One flower was hit by
shrapnel but it is still alive. Some
buy plants and scatter them around
the city. Many leave freshly cut flowers
around the ruins. Then a bomb landed
near the garden and killed the gardener.
His son is lost. He doesn’t know what
to do. The chameleons are dust. To live
here is to live with grief. But in time
he will remember how his father
described the cycle of life. This one dies
but another grows. It is the beauty
from god




IF PEOPLE ONLY KNEW HOW BEAUTIFUL ALLEPO WAS


the most beautiful
buildings reduced
to rubble. The lost
houses, the lost
flowers. You get
used to the bombs.
One man, 53, says
he’s seen enough.
He doesn’t want
to get to 60





ALEPPO, A WORLD HERITAGE SITE


the camera was the
worst enemy. One poet
whose whole family was
killed sings to the pigeons.
My heart is broken, my
eyes can’t sleep. Fly away
and reassure me. Tell me
about yourself. Don’t
forget the beautiful words




IN ALEPPO, A HAVEN OF BEAUTY


in the middle of
hell on earth. But
it was more than
the jade abundance
and the brilliant
colors that made it
an oasis of tranquility
and repose for those
who chose to stay
in Aleppo or can’t
leave. Barley wind
from Yarmook River.
Abu Ward, whose name
means “father of the
flowers,” fought to
preserve beauty in the
rubble of what has
been from the
last remaining garden
center in the once
bustling liberated area
of Aleppo. “My place
is worth billions of
dollars,” he told
a video journalist, “it
soothes like Mozart.”





LATER AS THE GARDENER GENTLY TOUCHED A FEW GREEN LEAVES


growing out of
the top of an
otherwise barren
stick of a tree. “This one was hit
by shrapnel but
it is alive. The tree
will live and we
will live.” The
essence of
the world is
a flower





ABDULLAH, HELPING WITH THE FOOD SHORTAGE


runs a small garden
on a blasted out
patch of ground
that was at one
point attacked by a
bomb dropped by
a helicopter leaving
3 people dead. After
the bomb attacked
the patch of ground
he started planting
tomatoes, peppers,
potatoes, Middle East
grain. He says his 250
square feet of produce
is his way of saying
he won’t be brought
down by terror. “My
garden,” he says, “is a
message to the Assad
regime and those who
support it. We will stay
in our city even if they
bomb it to smithereens,
we will resist no matter
how long their siege lasts”







SYRIAN BOY


cries for Dad
after losing
both legs in
a blast. “Pick
me up Daddy,”
he cries “pick
me up, pick
me up”







BEKAA VALLEY, LEBANON


ramshackle tents,
children playing
in garbage. Young
boys and girls,
nephews, nieces,
huddled together
on the tent floor.
In the dry dust and
wind of dead roses
the tents catch on
fire. Refugees from
Syria’s civil war wait
for something to
change but nothing
does. No jobs, no
hope. Flamingos in
rubble. Crying babies.
Men staring into space
most days. One stays
hungry when the
man doesn’t work






ONE FAMILY HAS BAD FEELINGS FOR THE NUMBER SEVEN


one man says his brother
was disappeared on the 7th
of April. Another brother
on September 7th. A fellow
government employer was
taken, tortured and electrocuted,
his family got the corpse back
on the 7th day of the 7th month






ISRAELIS HELP GERMAN AID WORK WITH SYRIAN REFUGEES


after taking the dangerous
journey from war torn Syria
to Berlin, refugees are
surprised to be greeted by
professionals from the Israeli
Trauma Coalition. One man
says the long scar on his left
cheek is not very heroic—it
was from barbed wire on the
Macedonia-Serbia border.
He’s 29 years old but the marks
of exhaustion on his face are
from someone much older.
11 years ago he started working
for the Red Cross then protests
were banned. “Every Friday
we’d go to the mosque and after
prayers we’d start rioting and
protesting. Hidden among the
masses we could protest in
relative security until Asad’s
people starting planting under-
cover agents in the rallies to
identify the protesters and
arrest them. Soon the noose
tightened so they paid a smuggler
who hid them in a car and took
them to Beirut, then he got
to Greece, then Turkey where
they left from Izmir on a small
boat with 40 other refugees. It was so small they weren’t
allowed to sneeze because any
small movement could have
flipped the boat and cause every
one to drown









ONCE IN GERMANY


the refugees are
treated for trauma.
Israelis know a lot
about trauma and
how to treat it be-
cause of the terrorism
in their own country
and organizations
that treat Holocaust
survivors. Politically
this is an interesting
experiment: Israelis
are coming to aid
refugees from enemy
countries on German soil







SURREAL


helping the trauma
victims among the
Israeli professionals
is Vivian Reuflinger
in the settlement Oranit
where Mohammed, a
Palestinian social worker
who moved from Qalgilya
to Berlin 4 years ago and
is now helping refugees.
In the past, Vivian and
Mohammed were on
opposite sides of the
conflict and hadn’t come in
contact with each other. Now, she’s instructing one
how to help Syrian refugees
deal with the ache of war.
“I have nothing against the
Israelis, I accept all people,” he says during a coffee break
as a way for two people on
two different sides of a
conflict, to say “ hello” when
they meet far from the conflict
zone”






IN THE TRAUMA CENTER POLITICS IS SWEPT ASIDE


dozens of children raised
in the belief that Israel is
as bad as Satan are receiving
life saving treatments at Ziv
Medical Center in Safed after
escaping the pain and suffering
of civil war in Syria. “I was
afraid of the Jews, but now I’m
not afraid at all,” says a ten
year old boy whose hands were
saved by Israeli doctors







THE REFUGEES FROM SYRIA


have been thru three
life shattering experiences.
the war, the journey which
is often horrendous and
immigration which is
considered one of the most
difficult experiences
of a person’s life







IN THE REFUGEE CENTER


the food is halal,
adhere to Islam’s
dietary laws. But
many of the refugees
have grown tired of
Islam, with some
often seeing it as one
of the reasons for
their situation. Many
even let their children
eat local gummy bears
even tho they contain
gelatin produced from
pig’s meat. “God,” they
believe, “is looking the
other way”


THE REFUGEE HILTON


there are signs in
English and Arabic
all over the building.
Small windows are
decorated with small
German flags, leaving
no doubt as to what
country the refugees
want to live in. Jugs
with drinking water
are everywhere while
large rats run around
the trash cans outside
enjoying the piles of
left over food





ONE OF THE BUILDINGS FLOORS IN A REFUGEE CENTER


has a room strictly
for women designed
by female refugees
using donated fabrics.
In large bags they can
find knitting needles
and balls of wool. On
the table are bottles
of nail polish to give
the women some link
to their old lives






AT THE GERMAN REFUGEE CENTER


the Israeli therapist
finds the exercises
awaken many demons.
No one knows in weeks
she will go back to Israel
to work with Holocaust
survivors. “Coming in
contact with the German
street, the accent and
the buildings is not easy
for me,” one woman
would say later. “Berlin
is not my favorite tourist
destination. But working
in the center is like being
in a bubble encompassing
past, present and future.
Here I can do what was
not done for my family
and my patients—perhaps
minimize the trauma,
silence and pain that are
passed down with the
generations






THERE ARE MANY CULTURAL GAPS BETWEEN THE REFUGEES AND THE AUTHORITIES


the refugees are frustrated by
the fact that the Germans don’t
understand what they went thru
and their response is not always
the right one. The Germans
misinterpret the refugees’ action.
They think if they are yelling, then
they are displaying violence or
aggression but this is pain. A therapist
says “we who came from the Middle
East understand this emotionality better
than the Europeans. Our work is
that of Tikkum Olam (the Jewish concept
of repairing the world) a way of coming full
circle nights the refugees huddle under flannel,
listen to night birds unlike any they’ve
heard in cities they hate to see torn
to rubble in streets they don’t expect to
see again or listen in their old beds
to the sound of mulberries thru
where once those leaves
were a magical, mysterious






WE DON’T SEE POLITICS




we meet people all over
the globe whose world
was taken away from them.
Everywhere similar stories
of sorrow and pain. Every
where young women
weep for those sunny
afternoons sipping dark
coffee under the shade of
Terebinth branches.
In all these places, therapists
committed to dealing
with crisis. They leave politics
out of it. Some say it is
the Israelis who understand
pain well. Here there
are no “us” and “them”
only what we do together








THERE IS A CLOSENESS


You understand the area
and the history one
woman says. This is
a sort of tikkun because
we’re doing something good
for them. There are people
who have never seen Israelis
so we’re doing a kind of PR.
In their wildest dreams they
didn’t think they’d be sitting
next to an Israeli.”






SYRIA TV ALWAYS SHOWS THE ISRAELIS STEALING LAND


murdering Palestinians, poisoning
the water. One man says, “but when
I meet Israelis here I see they are
humans. There are many countries
that choose to remain silent seeing
the horrors in Syria. Israelis not only
help the wounded in Syria but they
also help us here.” “Perhaps,” a young
man who fled Damascus says, “the
world is not such a rotten place.”







SYRIAN REFUGEES IN CANADA’S NORTH


it’s not warm in weather,
but in emotions. In communities
such as Yellow Knife the
temperature can sink to -40, a
dramatic change for refugees
who had never experienced
anything like it.


After a rocket hit his sister’s
house and killed his brother
and nephew, Mustafa knew
he had to leave Syria. He says,
“I was not expecting to end up
in the kind of place where snow
blankets the ground for months
at a time and temperatures drop
to -40. As refugees from Lebanon,
the family took courses to prepare
for the move to Canada. They were
warned it would be cold but just
how cold would depend on where
they ended up. When they arrived
in Yellow Knife that was a surprise.
Within hours, Mustafa, his wife and
four children were taken on a
shopping expedition to stock up
on winter gear. The trip was the final
detail in the carefully planned operation
to bring the family to Yellow Knife
as privately sponsored refugees. They
arrive in Canada, stopping in Montreal.
“Don’t go to White Horse,” they were
warned. Not many people and it’s freezing.”
Soon after getting there however the family
realized there was little truth to what
they had been told. “People were so good
to us. Yes, the cold is really cold. Luckily
even the cars have heat.” They saw Northern
lights for the first time and were thrilled.
“Here it’s not warm in weather but
warm in emotion and feelings.”






SYRIAN REFUGEE GIVES BIRTH IN CANADA
secretly entering labor en route


Ibtesam Alkarnake had already
started the hard 24 hour journey
from a temporary home in Jordan
to asylum in Canada when her water
broke. Nearly six years after they
fled the war in Syria, safety seemed
finally in reach as the family made
their way to northern Alberta to
begin new lives as privately sponsored
refugees. Dreams of dates and barley,
roses in the dust of bombs, plum
wind from the Yarmouk River still in
her dreams, Alkarnake said nothing,
enduring hours of discomfort in silence
as they made stopovers in Frankfurt
and Calgary. When the family landed
in Fort McMurry she posed for pictures,
trading hugs and smiling at the dozens
who showed up at the airport to greet
the city’s newest residents. Only when
the family was she taken to their new
home did she reveal to one of the
sponsors, she was about to give birth
and just hours later her son Eyad was
born at a local hospital, a month early,
making, for the whole town, a memory
magical as the print a leaf makes
in amber or stone

Web of Dark Intrigue
 
By David Thorpe



A birthday feast for Herod`s pleasure,
his wife and queen a devilish plan conceived
to revenge her tarnished pride on a vagrant prophet,
imprisoned for condemning her  illicit marriage
 
Her means, her daughter, Salome,  
to ensnare her husband royal
in her web of dark intrigue
 
Her gift, Salome`s dance of seven veils,
a salacious performance for honoured guests
who, captivated by every veil discarded
their hunger they forgot,
their eyes by her beauty feasted
 
The last veil fallen, her charms for all revealed,
Herod in ecstasy bid her to name a desire,
half his realm would he forfeit
 
To his displeasure, her wish her mother`s prize,
the prophet`s head, served on a golden charger plate.
the bond was honoured that very hour,
the severed head, an offering of bloody  aspect
 
This saint, who had exhorted his followers to be baptized,
a sacrifice of Salome`s female seductiveness;
she later to rule as Queen of  Chalkis,
on the Island of Euboea



David  Thorpe ©® 2018

Photo courtesy of Jérome Coppo

Just Move


By Lucinda Berry Hill

​

Move and take some action.
Don't stall and don't delay.
Let the Spirit move you.
Let Him lead the way.

Move a little closer
To the Lord above.
When you hear Him call you,
Move quickly in His love.

Move right in to his presence.
It is glory at its best.
Move into His mercy. 
His grace will give you rest.

Move deeper into prayer
When you feel the spirit move.
Take it to the Lord above.
Pray, believe, and move.


Lucinda Berry Hill Author of "Coffee with Jesus" AND "A Second Cup with Jesus" ©




 https://www.facebook.com/#!/pages/Coffee-with-Jesus/355060321207311

http://lucindaspoetry.webs.com/index.htm
 
Ask me about fundraising ideas!

Loneliness of the Long Distance Runner


Poetry Collection by Alan Catlin




Kinetic Researcher 1930


He could be Running Man-
Hair-on-Fire if this were a
modern art installation instead
of a vain attempt to render life
as it was between two world wars.
Add some napalm jelly, some black
skin peeling right to the bones
and he could have become a
metaphor for modern life and war.
Some day there might even have
been a music festival in his name
honoring the unnumbered dead,
a movement started in his honor,
the sort of gathering that attracts
thousands for all the wrong reasons.
As he is seen here, clad only in
a loin cloth, running like one of
those perpetually in motion Muybridge
models, acolytes will wear Speedos
and not much more, high on everything
they can find. It will all be about
the man then, not about what he is
running from. Or is it toward?












Our Lady of the #55


She is the caretaker of the barely sentient,
prone to incoherence, babbling, skeletal woman
of indeterminate old age, guiding the wheelchair
into a secure place on the overcrowded, already
running late bus. From the folds of the old one's
shawl she extracts pamphlets, scripture, citing
chapter and verse in a determined monotone
to the assembled, trapped by circumstances
and assurances that Jesus is the one true love
on the crowded highway of life, on this journey
where the reward is on the other side, a point
she emphasizes by tearing carefully folded strips
of tract as she speaks, no necromancer's tricks
up her short sleeves, just a magician's basic
origami folding, transformation of the torn
into a unified whole, a cross, "Like the one
Our Lord died on for our sins. "We, the unawed,
the not converted, travel onward, condemned
to remain as we are, sinners in the hands
of the Capital District Transit Authority,
riding an uneven highway to hell.














Letter to Church in Providence on a Monday Night


It’s raining and cold this April night
after a ridiculously warm Winter.
This is one of those nights that makes
you think of that impossible-to-forget-
but-not-in-a-good-way Harry Chapin song
you must have hated. After awhile, driving
hack, it isn’t about making your night with
a tip but making it through the night.
What might seem like cheap sentiment
has a lot of truth in it when you are behind
the wheel and you never know what you are
picking up next. Maybe the next one is the
ride that will punch your ticket. It happens.
We both know the feeling. Working Monday
nights in the bar was like that for me.
After I wrote “A New Year’s Eve Bash” about
the bartender who got stomped to death in
Albany you were one of the few who never
bothered to ask if that really happened.
Why would you make something like that up?
Slow nights I locked up early, double checked
the place was secure and did some serious drinking.
Nothing was running then. Not even the milk
train. I’d just have to wait it out alone.
After all there was plenty of hooch and a jukebox
if I needed something that was louder than the
silence of 4 A.M. Even now, years after you’re
gone I think it is still about making it through
the night. You’re way beyond that now. I have
so much catching up to do.












Loneliness of the Long Distance Runner


Being here
night after
endless night
watching the
moon change
phases within
the dead eyes
of the drinkers
thinking of the
loneliness of
the boundless
track that
spins by in
my head as I
run from place
to place
ringing sales
touching bottles
rinsing glasses
making drinks
as if I were
some kind of
dread machine
as if tomorrow
I wouldn't
be ready
to run again
into those
same dead eyes

A phenomenon of nature


By David Thorpe
 
Sudden is the change
in haste a sun sets,
usurped by a grotto
of darkness, illuminated
by a myriad of stars,
Venus and Selene in attendance
 
A silence and gelidity
of tombs encroaches
over the desert,
sleeping soundly,
yet as dawn drenches sand
with rays of heat,
the mollifying peace,
like the images of deceit
this desert conjures,
camouflages its rage
 
A whimsicality filling its lungs
gives birth to a furious force,
obliterating a startled sky, and
shadows of dunes are reorganised,
whilst the desert moves,
breathes and lives
as a phenomenon of nature


David Thorpe ©® 2018

Swallow Falls


By Karen King





Visit the Swallow Falls in Betws y Coed


Where the thunderous waterfall deafens you.


The waters flood down


In a cascade of beauty as,


Step by step,


More is discovered.


This rush of water


Speeds through the gorge,


A cascade of loveliness


That the trees embrace.


Each ripple forms a mark on the landscape.


Some of the water looks as solid as snow,


Until it moves on,


Forever surging on,


Cleansing and bringing life


To a seemingly dormant landscape.


Look further, look deeper,


For fresh buds of Spring


Are forming,


Showing themselves


After the hard winter.


It is time to move on,


Like nature does.


Do not dwell on the past,


Move on to a bright, beautiful future,


For you never know where life will take you.




Karen King Copyright 2 April 2018












Llandwyn Island


By Karen King


​

From Snowdonia to Llandwyn Island I have been,


For so long this journey has just been a dream.


I have been stuck on the ring road,


In my humble abode.


It is time to move on and turn the page of the book,


To embrace the air, to stay and not just look…




Karen King Copyright 2 April 2018

Ghost Women
by
Teresa Ann Frazee
 
Tired, abused with marred bodies we stumble out of rusted beds
Dehumanized, with barely enough sensation left to feel pain
Now with our heads lifted high we resurrect our wounded pride
Undefeatable, link by link, we begin to break the chain
 
Like paper dolls, our integrity's toyed with and discarded
Forced into warped gender roles, identity losing its way
Subordination restrains our voiceless, idle bitten tongues
But without haste, we rise for our revolution today
 
We stand in sisterhood's solidarity, where power breeds
Shaking the world over with our shout,  as we are rising
Out of the shadows, ghost women march into visibility
Illuminated, our unyielding limbs step out of hiding
 
Only God knows how long we've been not where we are meant to be
Ghost women on every front fighting not to bear the cross
Arm in arm, mothering the light of day, we finally break loose
Free from the hold of subjugation, we become our own boss
 
Began an escalating call to action around the world
There's strength in numbers, do you still ignore our potency?
We won't quietly fade away, endangering our existence
We'll continue to shine a light on rampant impunity
 


Acrylic Painting by Teresa Ann Frazee titled, "Through the Palms" 24"x48"

Branching Out
by
John Frazee


I love your work, but I feel it’s so dark and foreboding
                             It seems to me there are always comments being made
The faces change, the recommendations stay the same
     This one needs a bit more color while this one needs more shade


My sister makes roosters from coffee beans and dried flowers
     Everyone loves them she sells them at the county fair
We are all quite naïve at home when it comes to the arts
     So in our family she is considered the long hair


Kittens with balls of yarn may be more to your liking
     What about a bowl of fruit, nobody doesn’t like fruit
Can you paint children playing in a field of bright sunlight
     If you set your mind to it you might create something cute


What makes you think you know me better than I know myself?
     I just can’t figure out what all the fuss is about
“You have such talent if you only used it for good”
     Is everybody happy now, this is me branching out    

Darkness

By David Thorpe

 
With eagerness this night her presence I await,
to feel her silken gown attire my mind and soul,
I long for her gentle balm to relieve my tenseness,
for entering through my pours her tenderness
sweetens the bitter taste of the day´s deceptions
 
I lay awake my senses not wishing repose,
her hour of appearance draws nigh,
as she gradually dims the welkin´s lights,
clandestinely passing ghostlike through my window
into the apprehensive stillness of my room
 
Her creeping shadows cast over the stoic walls,
the ceiling, the floor, even taint my sheets
with promises of serenity and calmness.
I peer into her depth and embrace her peace,
banishing by degrees the telluric tumult
from my tormented thoughts
 
I sense her presence and feel her touch
upon my weary countenance,
offering no resistance to repel the insurgence of slumber,
filling the sails of my man o´war,
sailing to conquer the hoard of aggressors,
daily laying siege to my endangered fortress
 
Roused from sleep a captive of the usurping morn,
obliging a tactful retreat of my nocturnal visitor,
who left me enforced to face life´s battlefield,
yet she a true companion will return on ´morrow´s eve,
for on my brow her kisses linger,
a token of the  faithful Darkness
 
David Thorpe ®© 2018

Lips, Blues and Blue Lace

Poetry Collection by Lyn Lifshin



FROM LIPS, BLUES, BLUE LACE: ON THE OUTSIDE




Born in Russia, my father had many qualities
typical of Vermonters: he was quiet, frugal, taciturn.
Maybe it was that lack of warmth, that withdrawn,
brooding, often depressed mood, a dark coldness
that endeared my father and Robert Frost to each
other. I used to see Frost wandering around Middle-
bury in baggy green pants, carrying strawberries. He
bought those pants in Lazarus Department Store, my
grandfather’s store, and he would only let my father
wait on him. Afraid to take a creative writing course,
I submitted two of the only poems I’d written and
one was published My father, without telling me,
got a copy of that poem and showed it to Frost who
wrote on it, “Very good sayeth Robert Frost,” and
told my father he liked the striking images and
wanted me to come and visit him, bring him more








THOSE LONG JUNES IN THE LAVENDER ROOM OVER OTTER CREEK


Otter Falls blurring every
thing else, I could curl
into the first book of
Frost’s my parents got
me. It was years before
my icy father who I
never knew what to
say to if I ran into him
in the kitchen before
it was light, who never
told me I was pretty
or loved, brought me
little since a black
shaggy dog I don’t
remember except in
photographs, suddenly
appeared with my only
published poem, with
Frost’s “very good
poetry sayeth Robert
Frost..very good images–
bring me some more,”
like a bracelet from
Tiffany’s. Or all the
ungiven kisses and
hugs, words I held
carefully as if I was
holding the button to
blow up the world. I
Gazed into the black
whirlpool where a young
girl with a baby
plunged to her death.
I was already under
Frost’s spell, it was how
Vermonters talked, the
rhythms, the plain
language. It was those
cold winters, closed in a
house with the dark
coming too early.
I already knew how he
lived for years without
a word to his wife, his
daughter’s suicide. Was
it Vermont with so little
bright sun and the wind
always blowing that gave
me his sense of doom,
that dark wondering if
some other road should
have been taken? His
words won me scholarships,
grants but even earlier, his
sense of walls, of separation
and loss, sadness, the
blackness, how “nothing
gold stays,” I line I just
quoted in a poem about
the tragic beauty of a race
horse, Ruffian. Was it how
everything in the green
mountains seemed
miles from anything close?
Did he point that out to me
and how in small towns
even death is closer?
Like my father, what was
diminished pulled Frost in
and I think I was tagging
along with them,
wrapping in the dark
they shared, in the
plain language
like an SOS







THE NIGHT ROBERT FROST DIED


I was riding around Albany
in an always breaking down
sports car, as if I could get
away from those Vermont
doom filled hills, the green
pastures of Frosts coming back
so many years later in my new
book of horse poems, his leaves,
leaves in the first poem I wrote.
I thought as the dry leaves
blew thru out red car how
Frost made himself a part,
hiding behind a face of tearing
words, mourning the agitated
heart. I tried to escape that.
I’ve got a good mask too.
That night I was probably
laughing, looking for a new
place to try to make home.
Part of me never leaves
Middlebury, Robert in his
baggy green pants carrying
strawberries, letting only my
father wait on him in Lazarus
Dept Store. Two cold quiet
men who could sit years
alone in a house of people
never saying a word. Sliding
thru Albany, looking for a
place for a beer, the Boulevard
I was thinking of a first poem
I wrote in 3rd grade and how
my poems have filled with
apple boughs, blossoms,
apple trees, how I’ve lived on
Appletree Lane, Rapple Drive,
had apples on my glasses
and of course apples in
the horse poems. “No joy but
lacks salt that is not dusted
with pain,” Frost said and I see
that staining my poems. Was
it his Cows in Apple Time, the
cider syrup, the sweet fruit after blossoms
or the fruit rotting, the darkness, the ache, the
ice the snow and the snow in each kiss
or lip or finger that hooked me?







WHAT MY FATHER GAVE ME


not kisses or hugs, few
mostly I remember:
“Don’t wear pink
lipstick, makes your
teeth look grey.” I
heard how he glowed
I had Ann Miller legs
at bird, read stories to
me each night. I
remember nothing
tho what he didn’t say
made a chasm between
us. Even at dinner he
hardly said a word..
But the time he climbed
up the stairs, probably
a hot afternoon in
the department store
with no air conditioning
and handed me a poem
of mine I didn’t know
he knew existed with
Robert Frost’s words
“very good poems”
saeyth Robert Frost
and how he liked the
images, wanted me to
bring more, something
shifted in those hot
apartment over Main
Street where I’d see Frost
in those green cotton pants
he bought only from
my father who’d climb
up the dusty hall stairs,
maybe with a nitroclycerine
under his tongue: two men
with hearts that never
worked right, to shorten
for the poet. Did they
exchange dark gloomy
thoughts? Taciturn men who
didn’t know how to express
feeling except for one
on paper and the other in a
little notebook on stocks and how
much he paid or a doctor’s
appointment, some theater tickets
for a musical on Cape Cod
that he probably thought was
to expensive. Did they
talk of woes past, women,
wives, of how beautiful
light was on lonely Vermont
hills with no one around.
Their language, in some
dark code. But for me, it
triggered an early poem
about how everything
dissolves, elusive I said as
“his shadow to a child”
which made the man who knew
nothing gold stays, like some
thing he wanted to see more of.
I knew in that moment
tho I wouldn’t write
much more for years
I would




​

UPSTATE NY, IN THE HOUSE I’M IN RARELY THESE LAST 12 YEARS




a box of notes from
Robert Frost to my father,
ticket stubs from when
my father, estranged from
his family, as Frost was
from his, hitch hiked
to Amherst for a memorial
celebration. What linked
these two men, links me,
wondering what they talked
about as my father sewed
green cotton pants as if
linking the straw farm in
Russian where chickens
slept in the house to
Frosts house of alien
women. My father, who
never went to school but
read, to Frost’s green
pastures, his aloneness in a
house where no one talked.
My father with his notebook
of grievances, the cost of
life with a family, always
worrying about money,
stingy with it, with love as if
like Frost “Love of the lips
was touch...(and that)
seemed too much.” Two
bitter and burning men,
sorting thru stacks of simple
cotton. No fancy clothes,
no fancy words, who might
have been as happy being
tramps in mudtime. A life
pared down, a separateness
from those they could touch
but wouldn’t, choosing “to
scare (them) selves with their
own desert places,” trusting
trees, the dark trees, and
as I have, the words for them

God's Shadows

By Lucinda Berry Hill
​

Even with the shadows, God creates His beauty.

Do you feel your life's a shadow;
Dark, damaged, and unnoticed?
God can still make good with you
 And put things into focus.

He may just use your spirit,
Your wisdom, or your hands.
But be assured He'll use you
In the place in which you stand.

From ashes He makes beauty.
From mourning there is cheer.    
He uses the weak and lowly ones
To make His message clear. 

Even with the shadows,
His beauty, God creates.
For He can make a blessing
From a life full of mistakes.

Author Lucinda Berry Hill  ©


 https://www.facebook.com/#!/pages/Coffee-with-Jesus/355060321207311

http://lucindaspoetry.webs.com/index.htm
 

Light and Shadow

By Alexandra H. Rodrigues


Guided by our limited understanding
Of it All
Our perception between Light and
Shadow does fall.

In our World
Day and Night do meet
Good and Bad glide along
Black and White do compete.

What was before we try to dissect
Re-Incarnation to what 
Might have been, does us direct.

Only a hint of the possibilities
Earned in history books a place
Found in ancient relics space.

Shadowed by memories of the dead
Some of us with ghost have met
Any pursued of their origin leads to defeat
To no proven conclusion it does lead.

Till one day the Heavens will open 
We will be allowed see the Light
No longer will we be blinded
Questions will find their answers

All will be just right!

Sheet of Snowdrops


By Karen King 





The snowdrops spread across the ground,


Like a sheet, brilliant white and


Sparkling in the sun.


Shadows from nearby trees


Cast darkness across the light,


Like the shadow of winter


Against the hopeful light of Spring.


I wait for the shadows to fade


As the winter darkness dispels,


And the bright sun warms the ground


Welcoming the Spring.






Karen King Copyright March 2018












She Saw His Light


By Karen King


​

In a world where there was darkness


And dark shadows, like gruesome fingers,


Dragging only a dimly-lit wall


Her soul was like an abyss,


A void waiting to be filled.


She saw no way forward,


Just a life she wanted to avoid.


She felt she was falling into


A hole with no beginning


And a hole with no end.






She was no longer whole,


For she had lost herself on her journey,


Her soul starved.


She served everyone else’s needs,


Forgetting her own.


Her soul sat unwanted and forgotten,


Like uneaten plates of dinner.


She tried to be strong


And move on with purpose


As her dreams sat waiting


At the back of her mind.


Her soul burnt brightly once


As she tried to make her dreams a reality,


But it was not to be.






It all came crashing around her,


Weighing her down and she felt


She was being buried alive.


She turned away, closing her heart


To a better, brighter life.


She sunk her head in despair


As she continued to exist


In a lonely, forgotten world.






Out of the corner of her eye,


She saw a light flicker


And she felt a flicker of hope.


This beacon of light called to her


As it lit her dark ocean of a world.


It beckoned its light of encouragement


And she glided over the vast expanse of darkness


To the warm light in the distance.










The coldness of the water alarmed her


And the salty sea threatened to engulf her


And she felt herself slowly sinking.


Seagulls squawked aggressively


As the signalling became more frantic.








She pushed on and found herself


At the lighthouse of her dreams.


South Stack shone brightly,


Lighting the way


As she staggered onto the rocks,


The wind buffeting her,


Threatening to send her back into the sea.






She scrambled up the rocks


And started toppling as she stood.


A strong hand steadied her on her arrival.


He gave her a warm smile


And took her into South Stack cottage.






He made her a cup of hot tea


And offered her some Bara Birth.


His warm smile and eyes


Burnt into her soul and


She found the magnetic attraction


Impossible to resist…


He put his arms around her


And gazed at her and


Tentatively touched her lips.


She gazed up at him and


Lightly touched his lips with hers.






The warm, salty taste of his lips,


The softness of his kisses,


And the electric current running through her


Became overpowering


And the kisses on her neck became insistent…


His hand traced her spine,


Then lowered until he was impossible to resist.






The temperature increased and the tiny, old windows


Became steamed up.


The candle burned, sending shadows on the wall


As the newly-acquainted couple celebrated


The wildness of the night.




He was a stranger, yet he was strangely familiar,


His rough, workers hands caressed her




As he explored long-forgotten places.


She drank him in, desperately,


As if drinking strong, Welsh cider,


Never quite getting enough…




The wind buffeted the windows


And the smell of sea salt


And muskiness permeated the air.


The darkness turned to sunrise


And, eventually, the satiated couple


Fell asleep in each other’s arms.






The warmth from the sun streamed


Through the tiny windows


And they started dripping with condensation,


As if crying tears of emptiness.


She awoke to the smell of fresh flowers


And, smiling, walked over the earthenware jug.






She saw a hand-written note.


She had to choose.


The light of Anglesey


Or his light.


She felt sick.


She felt empty.


She turned.


He had gone!






The cottage had a feeling of emptiness


And she felt herself falling


Into another abyss


As a mixture of emotions


Threatened to engulf her.






She looked out to sea.


There was no light.


There were no boats.


The sea was empty.


The seagulls cried,


As if echoing her heartbreak.


The seagulls cackled,


As if laughing at her predicament.


She felt numb.


Her dream had become a nightmare!






She had hoped for both,


But he would not move


And she had to make a choice.




Shaking, she shook her head.


Yet, still the freedom of the sea called to her


And she climbed the lighthouse,


Like a pirate climbing the rigging.


She would be the captain of her ship.


She slowly smiled as she looked out to sea,


Seeing the brightness of the big world


As it called to her


And she expanded her horizons…






Karen King Copyright September 2017

​The Art Collection
 

Poetry by Alan Catlin




Nocturne 1872-78
after Whistler



Indiscernible
land scaping


in less than
half-light;


variant shades
of black,


only the sleepless
stirring






Nocturne in Blue & Silver 1872-78
of James McNeill Whistler



Dark foundering
landscape


where all
the rivers


of the mind
converge


in shadows;


a clock face
without


hands in last
discernible


light




Nocturne in Blue and Gold: The Falling Rocket (no 50)
after J.M. Whistler



Nightsky alive
with colored


showering the white
light and the gold


What was once
propelled free


falling now;
darkness


crowding in





Waterloo Bridge: Effect of Sunlight in the Fog 1903
after Claude Monet



Dull blue
grey night


in the after
noon; a


blistering
ripple of


water colored
by sun;


in the mist
human shadows


formed remain
incomplete







Houses of Parliament: Effect of Sunlight in the Fog 1904
after Claude Monet



Epileptic light
fits a dark


shaking glove
over the bent


towers of night;
a suffocating waft


of fog envelopes
the fading-fast


pied beauty;
the sun's


last engorgement,
heatdeath in


the afternoon

Impact of Technology on Relationships

By Patrick Bryant Michael 



Children love the latest technology to have fun
shooting
gamesmanship
is what young boys like, thinking of holding a toy gun
actions
follow
words that can lead to violence that will always stun
ages
making
a difference today cause video games to go mum
raising
children
today is crazier than ever, parents feel glum
leaving
cellphones
at home causes a quick turnaround, beating the drum
music
playing
through the cellphone, texting causes others to see dumb
microwave
ovens
cook food faster, the waves may kill flavor on the run
alliances
burden
minds of the gamer, it bothers the gamer's growing
watching
evokes
bad practices when the mind yearns for wilder crowing
waiting
without
any intent is not what young folks want for shaping
rapport
develops
over time, if love and friendship begin some flowing
factors
open
to good gamesmanship is like candlelight love glowing
building
relationships
is not a game, even when games are played for showing
interplay
overcomes
the shyness barrier with mental strength of knowing
contact
beyond
the normal touching is like the heart overflowing
calling
texting
on cellphones to stay in touch to feel with the heart
affairs
begin
with holding hands, then games of love begin to take part
Netflix
series
can hold the attention of young and old, a la carte
linking
faculties
connects the cosmos with galaxies coming apart
internet
exposure
can be risky if you go to far, love to impart
faster
computers
may make dating sites easier to use by some chart
functional
solutions
use cellphones with new capabilities to jumpstart
technical
advances
are happening all the time, try being a good sport
newer
innovations
capture the attention of the young who see the light
couples
tending
to each other need love, light incense and candlelight
technology
relates
to the science world, opening our worlds to daylight
practice
provokes
entertainment in the world today, in the moonlight
relationships
invite
holding hands, hugging, gamesmanship for loving insight
kissing
avoids
technology until the cellphone rings to incite
laughing
induces
a sense of love in your life, with a good appetite
loving
caring
need a relationship for a true love to ignite.


(c) February 21, 2018 by PBM

Our theatre of silence

By David Thorpe

  
In the darkness we grappled,
stealing each other´s breath,
to merely throw it away.
ignoring on purpose its fall
into the dust of indifference
 
The time was ripe to quit,
to finally lower the curtain
on our pitiful performance
never again would applause resound
within our theatre of silence
 
The line of diaphanous hues,
the one between love and hatred,
became too nice to differentiate,
we seeking behind veils of egoism
excuses for our obdurate pride


David Thorpe ©® 2018








Actors on a mundane stage

By David Thorpe
 
​
You and I we spend our time decoding,
a glance, a gesture, a gaze,
deciphering words for meanings,
camouflaged
 
A game of losers we play
masquerades of pretence,
a charade of hidden feelings
to be guessed or ignored
on purpose
 
Life they say
is not for beginners
both ever apprentices
actors on a mundane stage
never learning our roles by heart

David Thorpe ©® 2018

Three Motion Picture Poems 


By Jessica Goody





Offending Shadows

Inspired by the film “Dead Poets Society”


Possibility leapt in the air. 
Anything, everything, lay at your feet.
You danced in the sheer sensation of it, 
rapt and open, your eyes lit like commencement candles.

Magic lived there.
The enchantment did not reside in the painted backdrop, 
but in your eyes: so seldom did such freedom 
fly its flags upon your face.

Every movement was deliberate. 
At any point you would be discovered
in the dark, yet time seemed loose and limitless,
It shone there on the desktop, against the precise clock, 

the blotter, the fountain pen, 
the calendar of blank and useless days.
Your final, and only rebellion:
If you could not choose your life, nor live it deliberately,

then you would choose its end.
For your golden moment onstage there was only awe.
Your intense face for once lit with a joyful grin, 
your lean body capering manically, electrified.

That night the gun fell from your desperate hand.
Your Puck-wreath was a symbol of defiance,
its twigs and berries woven in your dark hair:
king of the forest glen, the magical fairy-grove.





Ode to Katharine Hepburn

The gleam of stark black and white
on architectural cheekbones.
An Artemis, statuesque and poised, 
a thoroughbred, soldier-straight and Puritanical

in the uniform of white camp shirt 
and unpressed khakis, loafers and white socks.
Your auburn hair is a wiry thatch of copper,
a mare’s mane flowing as you run.

You possess an intelligence 
even sharper than your bone structure,
or that determined Yankee indomitability,
that Taurean stubbornness, earthbound and pragmatic.

A force of nature, as freckled as a tiger lily,
diving undaunted into the wintry Atlantic.





Blue Rhapsody

A flicker of the keys, a rising skirl.
Notes unfold like flowers:
The clarinet trills a glissando,

a sweet twisting strain.
The horn rolls like a woman’s hips,
like running water, fresh and blue.

Violinists cradle the polished curves 
of their instruments like swaddled infants,
a melody like the breath of sleeping children.

Chords twinkle in the air like stardust.
Fingers scuttle like crabs over the keys,
meeting the joyful trumpet’s lazy drawl. 

​
Jessica Goody

Award-winning author of "Defense Mechanisms"
Available now on Amazon!

[email protected]
www.JessicaGoody.com

Kunta's Dream

(Black Musical History)


By Charles E.J. Moulton

​

1 - The African Beat


Kunta had his goat,

His family and drum,

Singing happy songs

That friends of his would hum.


Africa was hot,

Kunta hunted deer,

His life it was not too bad

Honest, true, sincere.


In the evenings, Kunta's chats

Mingled into stars,

Aching muscles forgotten,

His nears bigger than afars.


Kunta loved his beat,

Stamping syncopated feet,

It was what it might seem,

Music was Kunta's dream.


Dancing syncopation,

Rhythmic escalation,

African excavation,

Musical elation.


Kunta sang his songs,

Writing all the wrongs,

Africa was great,

But then along came fate.


Cataclysm followed,

Generations borrowed,

Humans learned to cope,

Made music out of rope.



2 - Spirituals


Kunta had a son,

Kidnapped by the Brits,

Shipped to cotton fields,

Payed in miserable hits.


Forbidden ways to talk,

Prohibitions in where to walk,

Africans they sang,

Songs of God and man.


Songs with syncopation,

Tunes with Africanization,

Dancing happy feet,

Songs with a joyous beat.


Later years would call

The music of the tall

Negro Spiritual style,

Africa, worthwhile.


Songs about the child,

Swing Low and the wild,

Classic songs from slaves

Who loved how Jesus saves.


Abimbola sent

Secrets heaven bent

Singing codes to friends

Unknown to Massah's offends.


His songs they rang of home,

Africa on loan,

In America so soon

Would shine a new Blue Moon.


Off-beat dancing Jive

Kept Africa alive,

In America, music of a slave

And Blues would Rock's wave pave.



3 - Ragtime


Lincoln broke the chains,

With segregating remains

Scott Joplin timed his Rag

New music in a flag.


Africa in America,

Jiving joints in lyrica,

No more slaves! Creatica!

Tremonisha: Dance Galactica!


Scott played the piano

Fast and high and low,

No more iron chains,

Just a list of ingenius names.


Kunta's long-time descendant

Was Joplin, Africa's remnant,

Composing classical beats

Based on African treats.



4 - Jazz


Based on Joplin's bounce,

Adding syncopation one ounce,

Trumpets and pizzazz,

On came the birth of Jazz.


Grandsons of African slaves

Creating musical waves,

Those courageous musical braves

Arising from unmarked graves.


Satchmo, our King Louie,

Played as if he knew me,

Jelly-Roll Morton's dance

Gave joy and love a chance.


The world 'tween wars was torn,

White Jazz, Swing, was born,

Big Bands sailed the seas

Storming musical trees.


Couples falling in love

To tunes from Jazz above

Inspired by working men

Whose inspiration was heaven sent.



5 - Blues


Ragtime, Jazz and Swing

Gave birth to more than just ring-a-ding,

It started in the South,

Created from ear to mouth.


They called out, great, the news,

"My soul is singing the Blues,"

East Tupelo's black and white cruise

Inspired two hot blue suede shoes.


Gospel, Spirituals, Jazz,

And Rags from long years past

Created a three phrase wail

Born from of a painful trail.


Elvis picked up the Blues,

And knew he just couldn't lose,

A white guy with a black lock

And Blues turned into Rock.



6 - Rock


Kunta's descendants cheered,

For black music was now revered,

A simple African soul

Four centuries became Rock and Roll.


Heavy Metal, Techno and Pop,

Grunge and Vegas won't stop,

AOR, Disco and Rap,

All came from that African snap.


You turn the radio on,

Hear a superstar so long gone,

Grooving to a beat

That makes ya stamp your feet.


You hear decorated grooves,

Popular music soothes,

Beyond that, Kravitz is told,

His music is 400 years old.


Realize but only this:

It's all a melodic kiss,

Rock and Pop in time's stream

Was born out of Kunta's dream.

​Sing A New Song 

By Sir Francis Bacon


O sing a new song, to our God above,
Avoid profane ones, 'tis for holy choir:
Let Israel sing song of holy love
To him that made them, with their hearts on fire:
Let Zion's sons life up their voice, and sing
Carols and anthems to their heavenly king.

Let not your voice alone his praise forth tell,
But move withal, and praise him in the dance;
Cymbals and harps, let them be tuned well,
'Tis he that doth the poor's estate advance:
Do this not only on the solemn days,
But on your secret beds you spirits raise.

O let the saints bear in their mouth his praise,
And a two-edged sword drawn in their hand,
Therewith for to revenge the former days,
Upon all nations, that their zeal withstand;
To bind their kings in chains of iron strong,
And manacle their nobles for their wrong.

Expect the time, for 'tis decreed in heaven,
Such honor shall unto his saints be given. 

Evolution 
 
By David Thorpe



Our terrestrial existence
a result of evolution
from amoebae to homo-sapiens
to what we know as humanity,
this double edged knife
busy destroying itself
through inhuman acts of aggression
 
Restlessness has become our characteristic
either for need or obligation to be in movement
every day migration and emigration of countless numbers
coming from or going to somewhere else
networks of spider-web roads spanning our planet
traffic chaos and irredeemable losses of time
air congestion with waiting lists
for take-off  and  landing permissions
 
An ever faster development of human robots
in a technological stampede
to create technological waste,
with exhausting consequences,
a race for survival of the fittest,
the weak falling into an abyss
of unemployment and poverty
destroying a myriad of souls

David Thorpe ©® 2018

Do Androids Dream of Electric Sleep?

Poetry Collection by Alan Catlin 

***

Do Androids Dream of Electric Sleep?


"For in the world, where everything is small,
all one could do is die."
Magdalena Tulli


Once the coffin lid drops dreams begin,
redolent as an undead baby's breath,
then wild rose light, porous as sun screens,
silken threads laden with misery, insectual
life, burrowing seals, a tapeworm's multiple
heart, shot stars streaking the empyrean
as images of unearthly light like flying fish
skirting waves of globular flesh, fired works
exploding eels are moved from each one an
implosive sonic bomb some dread difference
engine is threaded through, arriving at some damp,
cold blooded place, some unholy night, some
aerie cave untended bones reside within,
the flesh the damned are heir to.


***



Fruit seller's produce is ripe


with flames: cherry pits, recumbent
eggs, white fleas and death watched
beetles are born within; their neighborly
birth breeds colonies, like ants,
shorn of legs, sprouting wings that
flower as apricots and figs, trees
whose leaves are conical as cancers,
tent caterpillar laden as beasts of
another culture, experimental in form
but not of substance; look up, the sky
is full of them.


***


"non-beings pedaling along"


power mowing their lawns
after dark, between rows of
carved pumpkins, acorn squash,
zucchini vines, ornamental gourds;
the clippings baled as hedgerows
to deter neighborly prying, chain
linked fencing topped with rolled
wire, sharp as scything blades, a fallen
axe in rotten stump of sumac and
blue spruce, their one stroke engines
stalled on rippled vines of cadaverous
roots, superheated, seized motors
burning black oil, huge plumes of
it overwhelming the newly planted
and the old growth, the smell of
the fresh cut grass.




***




Van Gogh Cup with Walking Skull


on the out of proportion table,
this work place amid the left-
overs: dinner plates stained by
smeared yolks of eggs, rinds
of bread, stale crusts and a
Museum of Art coffee cup;
Vincent, that blue scene in Paris,
cafe tables and fire lighted stars,
a spilled bottle of India ink on
the yellow cloth, not the Escher
spill unleashing a phalanx of
mobius strips, of dream creatures,
lizards and snails, optically elusive
but of another craftsman, mad maker
of demon figures like a Village
of the damned by a Hieronymus
Bosch, deformed-by-sin peasants
set free from a stomach of a mythical
ox like grotesque human ants to scurry
about the ruined doilies, soiled napkins,
matching condiment shakers, souvenirs
from a furtive War of the Roses,
their false bottoms containing secrets
of miniature worlds so easily lost in
the general confusion of warring elements,
uneasy minds, the undeniable presence
of the small, walking skull, its unhinged
jaw dropping small black pellets
like stones, like birdshot on the table
as it walks.


***



"I am no longer human in the rain"
after a line by Gabriella Gutierrez y Muhs


but something discarded,
part animal part beast,


a freak empowered with
the wisdom of fears,


shunned,
battered,


worn,
and made effiguous


after all the burning rites
are completed,


the bad medicine,
gris-gris gone awry,


savage mojo misapplied,
a fetish the voodoo woman


to clamp to her chest
with stick pins and razor blades,


casting unthinkable spells,
plagues of unreason,


reading futures in
the entrails of


the sacrificial requires
six senses and a third


eye for seeing
the butcher's reward,


beheaded chicken flocks,
blood spurting dreams,


an alien rain turning
cloud births into dust


***



Replicants Dream of Blade Runners on the Prowl:
a recovered memory




Underground, subway tunnels flooding
poured concrete circles of hell, platforms
darkened, powerless islands in a fetid stream
whose fingers extend everywhere, meeting
in a terminal, a pool, dead center under a
wasted city like LA; an impenetrable
pool, thick as used motor oil, scum forming
gangerous skins, thickening like melanoma,
like pus or infected blood pushing against
tissue waiting to explode. Underground,
white chipped tiles covered by slime, mutant
growth like tumors, animated new life forms
engendered by radioactive masses,
white skin leeched of life, clinging mucous
coatings over outer membranes thin as cellophane,
webbed feet and fins, the eternal night they
inhabit, breathing swamp gases, inert fossil
fuels; their half lives incalculable, eyes
feral wounds, chemical reactions igniting dark.

​3 Poems by Lucinda Berry Hill



Getting Your Attention


I wonder if God has a cell phone,
Reading glasses, or a TV.
'Cause I swear sometimes I hear Him
Saying these words to me.

"Can you hear me now, my child?
Can you hear me now?
I'm trying to reach you, I have something to say.
Can you hear me now?"

Do you ever come to a speed bump,
A block in your pathway of life?
Sometimes it's only God trying
To get you to a place that is right.


He might want you to slow down a bit.
He might want you to be near.
He may be wanting attention.
He'll do what it takes 'till you hear.

A speed bump, a roadblock, a red light,
A back that makes you scream "ow!"
Sometimes it may be God saying,
My child, can you hear me now?

Author Lucinda Berry Hill   of  "Coffee with Jesus"  and "A Second Cup with Jesus" ©




Pull Out a Chair


Claire walked in.
Just like last week.
With a paper-bag lunch
And no one to meet.

Her eyes scanned the room
That was filled up with chatter.
Friends were with friends.
None looking at her.

One table was empty.
She pulled out a chair
And sat with her self,
Her lunch, and a prayer.

Day in and day out
She sat all alone
Eating her lunch,
Wanting her home.

One day someone new
Stood out from the bunch.
Holding on tight
To her paper-bag lunch.


Claire pulled out a chair,
Gave her a smile,
And said, "Come sit here
At this table a while."

Not much was said.
They both were quite shy.
But comfort was felt. 
I'm sure you know why.

So pull out a chair.
Put down your phone.
No one should ever 
Eat bread alone.


Author Lucinda Berry Hill of Coffee With Jesus ©




Turn Down the Noise

Did you ever turn down the radio
So you could see a road sign?
Did you ever close your eyes when eating
Like they do when tasting wine?
Did you ever turn on a bright light
To hear someone on the phone?
Did you ever turn down the TV
To make sure you didn't smell smoke?
Funny the things our mind does
 When something important's at hand.  
We should intentionally do the same
To hear our Father's Plan.
We should let His light shine
And turn down all the noise,
So we can feel His presence,
So we can hear His voice.


Lucinda Berry Hill author of devotional "Coffee with Jesus." ©


 https://www.facebook.com/#!/pages/Coffee-with-Jesus/355060321207311

http://lucindaspoetry.webs.com/index.htm
 

Sex Robot


By Karen King 





He picked her up on the internet,


All his friends had placed a bet.


They said he’d be lonely after his wife died,


But he said he’d buy a sex robot – he hadn’t lied!






He took her on the floor and on the table


And sometimes standing up when he felt able.


He still had to clean, he still had to cook,


But she was well worth it, she had the looks!






The house was quiet, she couldn’t speak,


But her perfect figure made him weak.


He made up for the lack of sex over many years,


His wife’s condition had brought frustrating tears.






The months passed and he felt empty inside,


His emotional needs he couldn’t hide.


He missed their arguments, he missed their talks,


He missed their relaxing evenings, he missed their walks…






He grabbed the sex robot and took it to the dump,


He felt angry, yet, in his throat, there was a lump.


He’d formed an attachment, but it wasn’t real life,


The loss of his wife cut like a knife…






He went home and started to clear her things,


And to see what real life would bring.


He took her clothes to a charity shop,


Once he started, he just couldn’t stop.






He tidied the house, he cut the grass,


He completed task after task.


He cleaned the windows, so he could see


How clear and amazing life could be.






How wonderful to feel the warmth of the sun,


His new life had only just begun.


He took a deep breath and walked out the door


And crossing the road was a woman he couldn’t ignore.






His neighbour said her husband had recently left


And she was feeling quite bereft.


She said he’d had to follow his heart,


He’d found another woman – they’d had to part.






She asked about his wife, for it had been a year,


He said he had overcome some of his loss and fears.


He took her hand and guided the way,


To the start of a new life on a beautiful day.




Karen King Copyright 20 February 2018

!~Read My Lips~!
​
*********************

By Durgesh Verma


"Lips of time
tell a
beautiful rhyme. 

Rhyme which flows
with the waves 
of the sublime. 

Sublime 
which spills gently 
from the eyes of emotion.

Emotion
which is fully affected
by high & low tides of the teary ocean."

©Durgesh Verma (11/02/18)

Words to Chew On


By Lucinda Berry Hill


Taste test your words
Are they perfectly sweet?
Are they soft on your tongue?
Are they smooth on your teeth?

Do they taste like the food,
The kind that you like?
Are they mild and tender,
Tasting just right?

It's good to taste test
The words on your lips.
Make sure they are pleasant;
A life lifting gift.

Author Lucinda Berry Hill   of  "Coffee with Jesus"  and "A Second Cup with Jesus" ©




​


Words of Truth


By Lucinda Berry Hill


The words you speak.
If they are true,
Will stand the test of time.

They can be read.
They can be said.
The truth you'll always find.

But tell a lie
And cause a pain
And one day be exposed.

Big or small,
Part or all
Lies should not be told.


Author Lucinda Berry Hill   of  "Coffee with Jesus"  and "A Second Cup with Jesus" ©

Lips Still on Fire

Poetry Collection by Alan Catlin



Southern Gothic: A Romance for Ambrose Bierce:
Cemetery Still Life


Rusted open wrought iron
cemetery gates, memorial
Celtic Cross atilt bent low
to the mounded earth, soldiers'
graves: an infantry man's
rifle, crossed cavalry swords,
mariner's anchors for shipmates
lost at sea, overgrown marble
arches where the victorious never
walked at dusk, shimmer of last
light on shallow wading pool,
lily pod leaves afloat, heads of
sculpted nymphs covered by
lichen, molds, water spouting
through parted lips and the lone-
ranger masks about their blank
eyes, one white, the other black.







Turner's Death Mask 1852


New skin flush
with pale fluids,


the sunken cave
at teeth's remove,


that sad, wasted
place where death


withdrew and left
pinched lips as


portals to the other
world, those crusted


eyes that glimpsed
hell's nascent flame


beyond the cloistered
walls.






Poster People for the Village of the Damned


In the gas lit village, all the faces
are painted white, greasepaint for
unspeakable people, unnatural acts,
stumbling down slick wet cobblestones
arm in arm, the half-dead and the naked
along with the might as well be dead
impelled by an inner music provided by
a hopped up jazz time band improvising
never heard before notes, sight reading
sheet music for the deaf and the blind,
they lead into dead ending alleyways,
covered storm sewers, all the night shelter/haunts
of the improvident: those that wish to be
and those that are, rented by the hour-bodies
and beds, above ground and below, poster
people for the village of the damned,
their unnaturally wide eyes effecting
a sinister glow where the candles are
burning from both ends meeting at
the middle: that's where you'll find them,
rising from the ashes, their lips still on fire.


“the doors of hell have numbers on them upside down”


In this life like a Mexican border
town of the mind, halfway between
noir and surreality, deep dreaming
rainbow colored neon in thick polluted
haze, nothing concrete, especially not
the buildings, the rolled up pavement,
these jails without bars, and the bars always
packed with hombres muy borracho,
brain dead but fat happy on a strict diet
of bloated worms found floating in bottles
of tequila azul, their habits supported by
soul sisters, acolytes worshipping at the altar
of Our Lady of Too Tight Mini Skirt
with the blood brother pimps, peyote button
pushers, each entreaty from the rubio rouged
lips an executioner’s song, satanic verses,
for a candlelight processional of saints
and sinners; in this hour of dire need,
every day is the day after the last one.










On the Plain of the Suspended Ships


those once magnificent full scale
models of great sailing ships:
schooners and frigates, men at
war ships, ironsides and plates,
one man submarines buried nose
down on bare plains, others held in
place by high tension wires-smaller
boats: the kayaks, canoes, overland
barges, Conestoga wagons canvas sails
rent to strips, baling wire holding hulls
intact; small birds from nowhere nest
in topside lookouts, behind mastheads,
carved figureheads weather worn, their
bandaged faces, mummified, desiccated
skin abraded, revealing bare teeth beside
pinched lips; a death's head navigating
an inland waste in search of long dead seas.








“Are you homesick for the House of Cards?”
C. Simic


She asked, leaning on
one elbow in our bed,
facing me, lips so close
I thought we might kiss.


“No,” I said, “not since
we found this cold water
flat.”


“I’m glad.” She said.
And I was too, though
I wasn’t sure why.

Read my Lips


By Karen King





She asked him to read her lips,


For he could read few words


And write even less,


But he could always read her.


He gazed at her, adoringly,


As her luscious lips


Spoke the words,


“I love you”.


He felt like he was floating


On a cloud of candy floss,


For life was sweet.






He became obsessed


And hung around,


Throwing his weight around,


Like a rotten bag of potatoes.


Yet, he was kind and helpful,


A fun and practical man.


They dated for seven months,


But still he had no plans with her,


“Maybe in five years’ time


We can live together”.






He made no agenda


And laughed his way


Though life.


It was frustrating


And she was stagnating.


One day, she turned to him and said,


“Read my lips” as she mimed,


“It’s over”.






She turned away


And loaded her bow.


She aimed higher


And further afield.


Her arrow landed


In a patchwork of fields


On a distant island.


Her friends were waiting for her


And she started again.






Karen King Copyright 6 February 2017

Read my Lips


By Alexandra H. Rodrigues

​

Sorry for the air as thru the valley it does glide
It will have to miss my carbon dioxide
Sorry for the Ocean that will rise just a little less
Missing my swim as I feel its caress.
Inaudible my lips form your name!


Sorry for the earth of my resting place
Disturbed to cover my body leaving no trace
Sorry for the birds I keep feeding each day
That they find another good soul, I pray.
Inaudible my lips form your name!


Spare your tears, when I get the final call
I won’t see them, so they serve little at all
What is all the above about?
Guess I am just thinking aloud!
Inaudible my lips form your name!


At this moment, for how long, who knows
I am still within your reach as this poem shows
Good reason as any to celebrate I am here
It calls for a toast and lots of cheer.!
Inaudible my lips form your name!
Feb.2018










Via Words


By Alexandra H. Rodrigues

​

Your words give me a sensation
Which for the longest time I missed
Once it came as part of an elation
When by the right guy I was kissed.


Words now often the same trick do
Your citations make my vibes go out to you
That we are an entire lifespan apart
Does not appear to scare my heart.


Secretly my heart gives itself to you
With romance it suddenly is filled anew.
Lately I have subconsciously stagnated,
Not much socialized, for sure not dated.


Then out of the blue you entered my life
For your attention I have begun to strive.
Every word of yours does touch a cord
Of which I had long forgotten of sort.


In hours of my open-eyed dreams
We talk, I walk with you, feel you it seems.
With the intimacy of want
Wishing back of what I once was fond.


This YOU at play is not the actual you
It is what your words to my psyche do.
I wake and look for a sign of you
Yet how as person you are I have no clue.


Your words do put me under a spell
About how to make thoughts true, they tell
By your words you stir my deepest core
You are the phantom I do adore.

Sowing the Seeds of Compassion 


Poetry Collection
​

By Indunil Madhusankha

​

I am Scared of the Night


As the dusk creeps
through the summit
the once luscious sun
dips below the rocky mounts
And flocks of birds soar away
weaving intricate patterns
in the grayish sky

Thus the goddess of darkness,
the night
wielding her power
right throughout
while the crickets creak
in their shrill monotonic tune

Hovering round a towering tree
the giant bats
striking their huge wings
with the ghostly shadows
that look like gothic spectres

The stagnant silence long – standing
A silence that has diverse faces
A silence that prickles the souls
immersed in deep sleep
A silence that makes me scared of the night





Sowing the Seeds of Compassion

More than a hundred times
I had wished I would die early
Before I could no longer
look after myself

If I ever happened to be
that old grandma
at least for a moment
I would rather die
than hearing the incessant
insult of the mistress
and its sharp boom
piercing the ears
almost like a wailing trumpet

The old lady was
perhaps in her nineties
Yes, the grey hair and
the pale skin
that wrinkled loose
from the bones
were a credible indication

One day I paid her a visit
and I couldn’t help me asking
why she would bear up all that cruelty
Then, despite the infirmities
she managed to stand up
and gently held my hands
I could well feel the slight
trembling of her chilly fingers

Then she caressed my head
and pointed towards the altar
that bore the sacred Buddha statuette
with the scent of the incense sticks
spreading everywhere
I saw how her feeble eyes
still gleamed with compassion
as she quoted from a Pāli Gātha,
“Nahi werena werāni”
and translated,
“Hatred never ceases by hatred”

From that day onwards
I have been wishing
If I would also be blessed
with such a heart
So pious a heart
sowing the seeds of compassion!


Glossary

Gāthā – A verse or hymn in Buddhism






He is Just Asleep!

The metal huts built in the compound were all crowded
with his relatives, neighbors and fellow soldiers in the army

In the midst of the verandah, there was the sealed coffin,
a stylish wooden box with pale embellishments

His wife was seated there, leaning against the casket
All she wanted was just to be close enough to him
as she had always craved with all her heart,
and as they had both promised to each other
It had been more than half a day now
and she would not cease to leech

Then her mother came towards her
and caressed her head for a while saying,
“Come, my dear, it’s already the afternoon,
You have to eat something now,
You must be very hungry.
Let’s go, my dear!”

She replied in an uneasy tone,
“No mom, no, he’s still asleep, isn’t he?
You know mom, he’s just asleep!
They told me, you know, the fortune tellers!
There was nothing wrong with his horoscope.
So, how come?
Wait, I’ll come together with him to lunch.
He’ll knock when he wakes up.”

As she laboriously jabbered these words,
a few tears that had been struggling so far
rolled up from her reddish eyes
and fell on the floor thus bursting into droplets

Ticking Clocks


By Karen King 





I walked into the clock museum,


To the sound of ticking clocks.


The sound was deafening


As each clock sung to its own rhythm.


Some chimed their old-fashioned beauty,


Others quietly passed the time,


Whilst others stood in dead silence,


Their song on this earth lost forever.


Some modern, LED clocks gleamed a bright red,


Working with no tick, yet quietly efficient.


Some wind-up and some battery-driven,


Some microscopic, others monstrous.


Grandfather clocks, cuckoo clocks,


Alarm clocks, digital clocks,


All were on display.


There were wooden clocks, plastic clocks,


Golden clocks, ivory clocks.


White clocks, black clocks,


Multi-coloured clocks, silver clocks.


People gazed in wonder and admiration


At the amazing array of clocks,


Quietly smiling to themselves.


I stopped dead in my tracks


As I thought, “If only people accepted


Each other’s diversity as they accept the


Diversity of this group of clocks,


Our time on this earth


Would be so much happier.”


I felt sad as time stopped for me.


We each have our own chimes


And our own time schedules.


Isn’t it time that we all ticked together


As one, accepting each other’s tunes


And relished our differences


In wonder and love?






Karen King Copyright 23 January 2018

 I’ve Been Waiting
 
by

Teresa Ann Frazee



I Sebastian Kane stand before you with neither
    Disease of the flesh nor warpness of mind
For ultimately inside I belong to all of you
    Yet many will question within me what they may find


If you could physically see the pain inflicted
    By society, my scars would be gruesome
You did all you could to make me invisible
    When I move among you, that is when I’m most lonesome


The blame does not fall on you alone, for even my own
    Father cannot turn a favorable eye towards me
Sometimes he pretends I had never been born
    I must admit these are the only times we agree


My father waited for the male in me to take a stronger hold
    How slowly time passes through the malignant sludge
Of the judgmental minds of those closest to me
    Yet, so quickly love is morphed into the deepest grudge


So pardon me if I don’t fit neatly into the typical
    Role of a perfect son, classmate or husband
And blend into the exiled landscape of the deniers
    Where they heard my hybrid scream but never listened


I’ve been waiting for everyone around me to change
    Lost trust in the people I most cared about
Frustrated living in a world intruded by liars
    Like Father Mark, whose blessings wished in vain, lured in doubt


And so I have begun to question my weakened faith
    Am I still offering childhood prayers to anyone?
Does God really exist? If so, has He forgotten
    My whereabouts and are His watching over me days, done?


Does He ever wonder what I dream about?
    Those darkest thoughts with which I am most acquainted with
Am I the perfect one, whole in a divided world?
    Or is my orphaned heart broken by one more myth?

                                                                                                                                 
I will not hide behind a desolated mask
    Stumbling through menialities to fall nameless
Into the majorities accepted reasoning
    Confusing faith with wandering among the aimless


My change in these matters did not surprise my mother
    She sees with causeless eyes that cannot withstand truth
Watched mother’s disappointment turn into nurtured neglect
    In isolation , is where I resided in my youth


Forced to inhabit her world and succumb to oppression
    All the while her mother’s instinct longed to stray
At times I tried to be free and behave as myself
    That’s what finally sent her transient love on its way


Daily driven to blot the past from my memory
    Nothing is more uncomfortable than remembering
The obituary of passions and affections
     By now, only mere shadows gradually dissolving


Still, I recall my sixth grade teacher’s demand
    “Sebastian, please file into the boys line, now”
Never did I truly fit into either line
    I began to think perhaps it was my fault somehow


Girls on the right, boys on the left, and there I was
    The target of teasing from both sides, not knowing
At the time, this would eventually make me stronger
    Puberty had planted a seed someday I’d be sowing


When I wish for the feeling of happiness, I pause
    And gather thoughts of my beloved cousin
There was a few months difference in our ages
    I believed we were kindred spirits without question


Even this waned after he made some solemn choices
    Suddenly our solid friendship was left behind
An iron wedge divided us by difference
    I confess to ignorance, I must have been blind


A considerable period of time elapsed
    Before, in my weakest moment, I took a wife
Watched the threads of our tired sanction become
    Tightly wound about the reality of my life


It is not fair to my wife to stand the strain
    To come to know all this frivolous pretence
With love and high hopes, she gave me her worthy hand
    I lived life from afar, pleasing others at her expense


So at what sacrifice or what cost should I be
    Satisfied by the illusion of this place called home?
Where stagnant disharmony ferments in the blood
    And discontentment oozes into the bone


Do you still fear the fractal balance of power
    Which breeds tenderness and toughness inside my soul?
Am I not your child, the benefactor of mankind?
    Or merely a contagion you have under your control?

Hourglass

by 

David Thorpe



Hourglass,
weary of somersaults
repetition continual,
no headway gained,
yet constant looks of cowardice
to take the first step,
postponed to compunction
frustrated silence,
passive tolerance
a kiss, a smile,
to light the dreary corners
of a lame relationship,
nights of incessant tic-tocks,
counting minutes,
attired in mourning apparel,
for a love long buried  
in a sempiternal  sepulchre,
to remain, painful,
 turning
into ashes of indifference
 
David Thorpe © ® 2018

Two Time Pieces

by

Durgesh Verma



1.!~A Blocked Journey~!

"Who has closed 
the gateway of my life?
I inhale in the pin-drop silence of ignorance. 
I breathe out in the shiver of chaotic night.
The outcome shows -
I live twice.
In this hope that a day 
I'll rejoice.
But the 'ABCD...' of my eyes
is out of sight. 
My books of refined thoughts seem hidden. 
Yet, the blur of odds is unfolded page wise.
Till now I don't know 
the real meaning of 'Life'. 
For you- Maybe it's bed full of roses. 
For me- It's fake, fade & sigh.
I've simply become the portrait 
of Racism & Illiteracy.
Where there isn't any home for pride.
Only exist the borders of blind walls of lunacy.
The so-called dictators, literates 
& laureates have imprisoned my future. 
Even I find no place for my confined thoughts. 
Have my rights been ruined as like as 'Mother Nature'??"

©Durgesh Verma (22/01/2018)


​
2.
~!~Soldier~!~

"Pride of Soldiers shed 
infinitive drops of blood.
To prevent Nation 
from the situation worst.
O 
Daring Youths! 
Don't belittle 
their sacrifice!
Let come ahead 
to show courage.
Join the Army 
to take revenge."

©Durgesh Verma (24/01/18)

Time

By Lucinda Berry Hill
​

We have time
But it's not lasting,
We have fun
But time is passing 
Us by.
I wonder why
We cannot know the secret
Of when life won't be here
To live.
Someday there'll be
No rising sunshine,
And we won't have the time
To live the dreams
That we dream of every night.
Let us only fight
The time that is leaving,
And not the time that's giving
Us a chance
To share each day,
And laugh away
The years together.
For the day will be upon us
When life won't be around us
On this land,
So take my hand,
And let us share each day together
With the love, we've built for each other
Until the end
Of time.

Author Lucinda Berry Hill ©






86,400

By Lucinda Berry Hill
 
 
86,400 dollars.  
86,400.
Where would it go?
How would you spend it?
86,400.
 
86,400 seconds.
86,400.
Where would they go?
How would you spend them?
86,400 .
 
86,400 seconds.
The time that fills one day.
A day for sharing
And tasks completed.
 A day for smiles and praise.
 
86,400 seconds.
A day to "try it again."
 Teachable moments,
 Love and forgiveness,
Opportunities without an end.
 
 
86,400 seconds.
A gift God gives us each day.
Show Him your thankfulness
By using them wisely-
86,400 ways.

Author Lucinda Berry Hill ©




 
 https://www.facebook.com/#!/pages/Coffee-with-Jesus/355060321207311

http://lucindaspoetry.webs.com/index.htm

Inside the Clock Tower 

Poetry Collection 

By Alan Catlin 


​

Casino


Whatever happened to all those hip,
young people in TV ads for casinos?
You know the ones, the people who
are all starry eyed, and focused, hyper
and happy as hell, usually some young
studly with two hot blondes in skimpy
evening gowns, placing bets, rolling
dice, taking a hit and celebrating:
“Yes this is the life when your high
addicted and well paid!” What other
message could you possibly come
away with? As they skip down the green
carpeted, attached hotel complex hallways,
in this timeless place with no windows,
no clocks, nothing, that suggests any place
but here, or an exact replica of here,
somewhere else. Like a reverse image
Dorothy in an Ozworld at the end of
the rainbow after all the gold has been
stolen by the monitors in their 24 hour
observation control rooms. After
the exhilaration of the tables, the floor show
of some gaudy, glitzy, formerly well-know
something or another, still high on unlimited
booze and speed, this magical trio retires
to their room/suite for some enthusiastic
three way sex, on camera, to be sold later
as a hedge against losses at the tables
under the title Foxy Woods because sex
always sells. Even thirty years later,
the videos can be download because,
well, debauchery never gets old, even
after the performers do. They who are
now so far past their prime, they have
begun, second, even third careers, as
bona fide senior citizens, after movie work
dried up, and the rehab stints, and they
moved on to anonymity somewhere else
where they are less likely to be remembered
for what they looked like naked and in bed.
She the lady in buckskins, and leathers,
and the most incredible platinum wig ever
(no stanza break)


outside of a picture window, playing electronic
slots at a UK M Way rest stop, losing all
their mad money, while he is in the stalls
taking an epic, slow dump, too long there
to prevent the inevitable, another lost weekend
drinking tall bit Tennent’s Lager by the seaside,
smoking Players and wondering where
it all went wrong.












The Black Book


“I met distantly related survivors, frail and remote,
grave as ghosts. One showed me a cross she kept
in her purse for when the Nazis came back.”
Howard Kogan, “In the End”


In the end, where the dead live,
all the clock’s hands have melted
and turned into icy blades of
frozen glass that reflect the dark
that emanates from moons that rise
in the West and set in the East.
Time has no meaning when all
the clocks have stopped, traffic is
just the way bodies collide when
they walk sightless, as moles, above
ground, tunneling through concrete.
Breathing is a labor when all you
can exhale is methane gas, Zyclon B
and Cyanide. Seeing is limited by all
the residues left behind after heat
lightning has rent all the ozone, making
layers of bodies out of skin and bones.
In the end, a clock without hands is
like the cross at the head of a grave
that holds no body.












Athanasius Kircher Seated on a Crocodile Composing
His Encyclopedic Works


Kircher, the man, the high priest, is a living
specimen in a divine cabinet of curiosities.
Runic scripts evolve from his fingertips,
his quill pens; all the mysteries of ancient
tongues are supposed to be revealed with.
This man, part-magus, part-monk, writes on,
his creations legion: solar clocks
from magic seeds, rune stones and
monkey dust curatives and salves for
all that ails, inventions and novelties
such as vomiting statues and pianoforte like
instruments using living cats to produce
torturous sounds supposed to be like music,
spy portals in revolving carved heads,
sound amplifiers in other busts, altered to
allow listeners to overhear conversations
in remote locations, owner of Egyptian relics
actually made in Rome, misdated by
a millennium, practical theories of convection
formulated first hand viewing volcanoes
from within, a research only a holy fool
could survive, whole volumes of inscribed
work, catalogues of presumed fact, completely
borrowed, wholesale copied from other scholar’s
work, most, if not all of his own, disproved
even as he wrote on. This man in his element,
endlessly amazed as he was amazing, surrounded
by angels, sun gods and goddesses, half-dragons
and half-snakes, a man so self–possessed
only death could save him from himself.












D.R.'s Sculpture in Richard Robert's Yard,
Maine 1998


At first glance, this construction
looks like a distant cousin of
a Rastafarian Pull Toy, that bent
sinister relative of ornamental
weather vanes cobbled together
from left over car parts, broken
motors, bicycle pumps and failed
alarm clocks with a hank of hair
added for anthropomorphic purposes,
but, upon closer examination, D.R.'s
sculpture is much more than an
aerial bent in a rough circle,
mounted upon an inverted bicycle
frame and welded to a rusted car wheel
with a fan blade attached to the frame
for atmospheric effect; there seems
to be an air of the Zen of junk about it,
like Charles Partch discarded commode
music applied to other detritus of
consumption, further signified by a
rectangular slab of stone the sculpture is
mounted on, other ornamental ones,
placed nearby, or resting on the larger
one, as a kind of ballast in the wind,
among lawn grass, and the yellow heads
of dandelions, the wire circle a clear
mirror to see Maine woods through,
the unscripted shadow like a man,
cast nearby, peering through DR's work,
resting on his scythe.










Inside the Clock Tower


more clocks on sand blown
brick walls: clocks without
hands, clocks with one hand,
extra hands, atomic clocks,
battery powered, self-winding,
grandfather clocks, in repair
and out of sync in cluttered
room littered with dead
animal pelts, stuffed heads,
dozens of them, birds on
pedestals in cages, life-like
except for the leaking stuffing,
the no longer shiny eyes,
feathers everywhere, floating
on puddles from still seeping
ceilings, broken windows,
implosions scattering a shatter
of glass on wall prints and paintings,
domestic scenes, kinetic landscaping,
watercolors with all the paint
removed except for one oil of
a high wire artist walking a guy
wire with no visible support between
twin towers that no longer exist.

Life Brackets

(1961-TBD)


By Dr. Benjamin White
​



Clocking ticks
                                   Inch across
                                   The moon’s face
                                   In the silent space
                                   Of night passing handless
Marking the planless freedom
Of open-minded, closed-travel
Through the unraveled lifespan
                                   Points where
                                   The beginning
Waits for the end
To begin again
                                   Always in
                                   The same brackets
Of déjà vu
And the residue
Of discovery discovered
                                   And rediscovered again
                                   And again –

The soul is infinite energy
But limited
By the frame of time spent
Cycling ahead
To be recycled
Behind

                                  And the moon watches knowing
                                  When I am reborn
I will be reborn when
There are no footsteps
In the small steps
Of man.

​

THE GRAND OLD MAN

By John Grey



The image is fixed in my head,
the ecstatic look of an immigrant
catching first sight of the Statue of Liberty,
six feet five and wide as a river barge,
in his only jacket,
brown with buttons like golf balls,
and looking as inconspicuous
as a refrigerator on a dance floor.


The thick eyebrows still
come within a thread of joining
over his huge nose,
and the palms of those hands
could serve as chairs in a pinch
but the life's been somehow
separated out from his body.


His silence is as heavy as he is.
And the lived-in face just seems battered.
He always looked like
he'd been hit with everything
but now the hardest of the battering
is coming from within.
The scars are more scarred than ever.
The welters, redder and thicker.
And the lines in his skin are deep enough
for a man to get lost in.


Visitors, by ones and twos
can be nothing but momentary shadows,
drifting soundlessly across the floor.
For he doesn't move,
is suddenly older than his years,
than all our years.
A once shining face is as gray
as a dead man's suit.
His eyes are taut, lips nailed shut.
He's an immigrant once more.
But, by the looks of him,
he's not pleased with where he's landed.








TRAFFIC JAM, THE HUMAN SIDE

By John Grey



I'm in a traffic jam,
red-laced, cuss words


on my tongue as backed up
as these cars and trucks.


Why me? I ask myself.
Why now?


It's not as if I have anywhere to be
but I'm anxious to move on.


I try to calm myself
with the usual mental yoga


but my thoughts refuse
to form the down dog position.


They'd rather nip at the tires
of the vehicle in front.


It's an unplanned moment,
that's the problem.


Some roadwork. An accident.
Chaos likes to keep it simple.


And now a ten minute journey
could take me all of an hour.


My watch doesn't care.
It ticks on regardless.


God, if I only knew the route
that time takes.










MY TIME OUT IN THE WORLD

By John Grey



I saw the smiles
from muddy river
to frozen cod.


One resembled a soiled rag.
Another a dead bird
buzzing with flies.


There was a slowly waking cat
and a chimney
for tobacco smoke.


Some mouths opened
to show off the accommodations within
but there were none where I could live.


The last I remember
as I turned away
was like a red chisel
honing the cheekbones
on either side.


The truth is,
I was through with smiles.


Next up,
eye flutter.

Soon ... It’s Springtime


 Poems in two languages

By Mara Sophie Moulton

11 years old



In German:

 
Gedicht 1:

Auf den Frühling freu’n sich all’
Er ist wunderschön,
denn jetzt blüh’n die Blumen bald.
 
Gedicht 2:

Frühling
Super toll.
Er ist schön
und macht viel Spaß
und alles wird gut blüh’n.
wundervoll!


English translation: 

Poem 1 (haiku): 

Looking forward to the spring,
Truly beautiful,
Soon, the flowers are in bloom. 

Poem 2:

Springtime
Wondrous, fine. 
Oh, how sweet
Such great fun.
When nature prospers
truly a wonder!  

My Questions Never Return

Poetry Collection by Billy Malanga




There Are Many Like It But This One Is Mine




At a young age my rib cage
went in search of a whisper
but could not find one.


Years later I heard
a soft flicker, a fiery roar
of a candle.


What does it matter
what dark winds bring
when fire burns so bright?


When I am alone, it is alone.
I cannot control its whispers
and it cannot control me.
It tells me I am wicked
to think I know nothing
or know all.


There are many like it but
this one is mine, and
as long as my breath fans
the fire that whispers,
it keeps me.








Stars Above Grasslands




My questions never return
from burning fires
that blanket the night sky.


Above frozen lava fields
where Kafka hunts,
I send them high.


He reaches for my arm
to give me a letter he wrote
with his charred hands.


Now we wait at a gateway
as worms grease the dirt,
stars above grasslands.








Silence Down


Mystical sour mash
in the glass fixed neat.
Tight green leaves
in the paper licked sweet.
Pointed silver needle
in the beating blue pelt.
Silence searches breath
in the stupor felt.
Strip yourself and search
in the bloody back lot.
We always look rearmost
in the final shot.

Innocent Face

By Alexandra H. Rodrigues


An innocent face just shining with cheer,
Quickly had taken on sadness and fear.
On the steadily blasting television screen
The five-year-old just a coffin had seen.


The child should not have known about yet
What it means by violent death to be met.
Yet her expression changed to utter stress,
She continued to watch nevertheless.


Our children are daily exposed
To horror and terror by the media disclosed.
The mellow innocence of their soul
Gets brutally damaged by life’s new role.


The camera will show how kids, hungry and sick
Are tortured or even killed with a brick.
Fighting on the news exposes as daily routine
Rarely anything enjoyable to be seen.


Because of this, our kids need lots and lots of care.
Parental love and joyous events we should share.
It is the responsibility for you and for me
A loving balance for any arising fears to be.





In Face of Temptation
​

By Alexandra H. Rodrigues


She had been made the sweetest little angel
When she had died immediately after she was given birth.
Thus she was innocent and a virgin when she left earth.


She grew up close to where God reigned from his throne
From her harp she extracted many a melancholy tone.
A visitor came unexpectedly from hell to heaven one day.
A good looking, male angel who knew enticing words to say.


“Ours could virtually be a marriage made in heaven
I will make you my queen
Take you to a land of riches, the likes you have never seen.”


There had been no time for baptism down on earth
Thus the babe could not be made a truly holy angel at birth.
She now had a certain, understandable urge for excitement
Could picture herself lusty time with the newcomer to spend.


“In my kingdom it is customary in black attire to wed
I will now get you ready to join me,” he said.
He dressed her in the finest, softest black lace
She looked lovely, being a creature so full of grace.


Only when they were ready in a black carriage to leave
Did God decide it was time the devil to brief.
“Keep your hands off her or I put hell on fire, I swear
Did you really think for her well being I do not care?”


To the little angel God said: “Child, you are not to blame
You were much too young when from earth you came
You never learned about right and wrong
Once up here you stayed quite alone with your harp and song.”


It was the fatherly tone in the Godly voice
That decided for the then black angel, her choice
She took off the black and dressed again in white
She was not sad and for the first time knew wrong from right.

Facing the Wind 

Poetry Collection 

By Lucinda Berry Hill



​

Still Facing Forward


My back's against the wall
But my future's out in front.
My voice is still calling.
My eyes are looking up.

I am not defeated.
There's much more ahead of me.
My God, He is providing;
He'll make a way for me.

My back's against the wall
But I'm still facing forward.
There's nothing that can stop me
When my steps, by God, are ordered. 





A Painted Masterpiece

​
Two little girls.
A paintbrush for each.
A bowl full of chocolate.
A laugh and a screech. 

Facing each other
With a dot and a dash,
A fleck and a stipple,
And a whole lot of dabs.

Paint on their arms.
Paint on their toes.
Then one puts her paintbrush
On the other one's nose.

Picasso, Monet,
Da Vinci?  Not quite.
But a masterpiece by God
Of love, laughter, and life.





Facing the Wind

The wind is whistling
The trees are bending
And our hair is blowing in our faces.

Our burdens building
Our tasks unending
We can't see past our current places  

The wind is violent
Our life's a struggle
We so deeply need God's graces

So let's wear a ponytail and pray


Lucinda Berry Hill author of devotional "A Second Cup with Jesus." ©

 https://www.facebook.com/#!/pages/Coffee-with-Jesus/355060321207311

http://lucindaspoetry.webs.com/index.htm

You are My Number One

Poetry Collection by Akan Udofia



HE LOVES YOU


God saves the best for you
You are never the same when He touches you
Believe me when I say that He loves you
The sky cannot run out of clouds


If you want to fly
Your wings cannot break away
With God all things are possible
Undoubtedly this is true


All Rights Reserved © Akan Udofia 2017










BEFORE YOU JUDGE ME


I don’t know what I did
For dad to walk out on me
Before my first birthday
It hurts me every day in my dream


What am I supposed to do?
To justify that the world is not mean
This is a burden I tried to get rid off
For I never knew love


She is a stranger to me
What is a happy family supposed to be?
Before I could have a life, it was already over
Maybe because I am prone to anger


Makes me to be naive
I wonder if I would live long
Enough to have my own kids
I have been on the street since I was five


I was forced to be a man
No one around to lend a helping hand
They told me keep away from stress
How could I when the sky is always clouded


If you really want to help me
Then do the right thing
But if you cannot, please short up
And let me be


All Rights Reserved © Akan Udofia 2018








NUMBER ONE



When I was a teenager

I used to get all dressed up

Put on the best of clothes

When me and my girl were hanging out




Wanted everything to perfect

I only got one golden moment

I knew if I look good

No one else would stand a chance




Back then love was not stereotyped


A guy needs to be smart

If he wants a attract the right girl


Conscious of the things she loves





Just so that he can impressed her


He writes a romantic love note

A token of gift to show he appreciates her

He would not take her love for granted




But nowadays, love has lost her essence

So many frustrated relationships


Everywhere I turn, I see broken homes

It is frustrating that no one seem to care




When a man appreciates and love a woman

Winter never comes between his feelings

True love can withstand any weather

As long the heart and mind is one




Can you truly look your girl in the eyes?

With not a charming but sincere smile

Can you say girl, I will always be by your side

You are my number one

​

All Rights Reserved © Akan Udofia 2017


​

Your poker-face mask
 
By David Thorpe




The distance
was never the reason
to sign our treaty of defeat,
our promise was the crux
 
We would have journeyed still,
with maps and compass firm at hand,
the peremptory rules to follow,
our victory hymn to sing
 
Your pact of cowardice
a nefarious game to play,
clutching tightly your indecorous cards
decked with falseness and deceit,
not to let them tumble
 
Your poker-face mask slid in shame,
eyes of tell-tale truths betrayed,
even when your callous lips
rehearsed a joker´s smile


David Thorpe ©® 2018

Man of Two Faces


By Karen King






He is the man of two faces,


Mr Jekyll and Mr Hide.


He can never hide


What’s inside.





He is the man of two faces,


Calm, loving and strong.


Yet his face does turn


When it all goes wrong.






He is the man of two faces,


Kind, practical and funny.


But, if he turns,


He’s not quite so sunny.






He is the man of two faces,


So warm, then so cold.


He makes me feel young,


Then so goddamn old!






He is the man of two faces,


I can’t live with him or without,


His wearing ways make me


Scream and shout.






He is the man of two faces,


Yet one would never be enough,


For that would be two-dimensional


And he is both smooth and rough!






Karen King Copyright 18 January 2018

His Face in Clear Water 


Poetry Collection

By Alan Catlin




Glenn Gould Meets Glenn Gould



His face in clear water
with smooth white pebbles
in it.


Dark moss instead
of eyes.


Skimming insects disturb
the calm surface;


his skin ripples.








Against Grieving
after hearing an elegy for flyers lost in WWII


Unable to avoid grieving even sixty years after
fatal training flights, war gaming, rescue missions
gone horribly awry, summing up now,
this near to life's end, the missing faces
no longer clear, the unnatural selection
of who lives and who must die even more
unreasonable now than ever before,
all the repressed fears, valedictions forbidding
mourning, unnecessary distractions preventing
clear skies for flying, so long repressed,
these fears of grieving, concentration
lapsing, this far above the assigned grids,
bombing run targets, clear cut co-ordinates,
these ill-defined passages between time
and places, no longer relevant; somehow
it seems unfair to go on, to go beyond
so completely against grieving.












Market in Dutch Town with Phony Eskimo
after Van Eyck


Wily black clad merchants at
outdoor market hold polished
trinkets in their gnarled hands,
aging faces furrowed by years
of bartering for the best prices,
high cheek bones of the leaner
one suggests shrewdness and a
flatterer's hard bargaining pose,
soft spoken empty phrases formulating
behind feral eyes, pinched lips
caressing a lupine smile while
the larger, stout burgher indicates
worthless baubles inset with semi-
precious stones to an unseen prospective,
his ruddy cheeks belie false health
and good humors-nearby a stuffed
relic of foreign travels sits propped
against the wooden stalls covered by
worn draping clothing-something clearly
humanoid but not the as advertised
aborigine from Northern climes brought
back for natural science, study and
edification but a cheap imitation made
from rags and stuffing carefully shaped
and molded as a waxen likeness of man,
suitable for entertainment purposes only.












Mud Colored Faces with False Penitents


Their upper bodies are draped
with black cloaking, partially
concealing buckskin leggings as
they gyrate in a rough circle,
arms extended above their heads,
faces smeared with brown makeup,
war paints emulating ancestral rites,
summoning dormant clouds from
a pastel sky while others kneel,
heads bent toward the rutted dirt
and dust, rough sack clothing torn
and spattered with refuse, paints
and sacrificial blood, their pale hands
torn and bruised from groveling
without surcease, unwashed strands
of dark colored hair hanging about
their white grease painted faces,
the taste of ash that never escapes
their lips.












The Hotel Insomnia
after C. Simic


Where all the dreamers go
when they are tired of dreaming.
All the rooms are like interiors
by Francesca Woodman:
rippled ceilings stained by leakage
and rot, sprung sash cords and
cracked panes, peeling wallpaper
no longer covering holes in wall
board, lath. Filmy wraiths,
slow exposure forms: blurred,
females, naked, mottle skinned,
torsos with a misshapen heads
and hair.
No faces.

Let’s Thank God for His Blessings

By Robert Campbell

Let’s thank God for His Blessings,
For ev’ry thing He’s done.
Yes, let’s thank God for His Blessings,
For Each and Ev’ry One.
God made all of the flowers,
And God made ev’rything else;
And God He then made man,
In the image of Himself.
As it is written in GENESIS,
“And God said,
Let Us make man,
In Our Image,
After Our Likeness:
And let them have dominion,
Over all things,
Upon this earth.”
Let’s thank God for his Blessings,
For ev’rything He’s done.
Let’s thank God for His Blessings,
For Each and Ev’ry One.
God sent His only Son,
To save us all from our sins.
Yes, God He sent us Jesus,
To help us be born again.
As it is written in the BOOK OF JOHN,
“For God,
So loved the world,
That He gave,
His only begotten Son,
That whosoever believeth in Him,
Shall not perish,
But have everlasting life.”
Let’s thank God for His Blessings,
For ev’ry thing He’s done.
Yes, let’s thank God for His blessings,
For Each and Ev’ry One.
God said He’s make a Heaven,
A place for us up above;
And God said, “Come, My Children,
To My Wonderful Land of Love.”
As it is written in REVELATIONS,
“After this I looked,
And, behold,
A door was opened,
In Heaven:
And the first voice,
Which I heard said,
Come hither,
And I will shew thee things,
Which must be hereafter.”
Let’s thank God for His Blessings,
For ev’ry thing He’s done.
Yes, let’s thank God for His Blessings,
For Each and Ev’ry One.
Yes, let’s thank God for His Blessings,
For ev’ry thing He’s done.
Yes, let’s thank God for His Blessings,
For Each and Ev’ry One.

Copyright 2012 The Bard R. Campbell

What will be will be!
​

By Alexandra H. Rodrigues


What a blessing not to feel any pain
It took ages to make it happen
All else was in vain
I had sworn never to succumb to a narcotic
Yet to my promise I did not stick


I was a heavy smoker for quite a long time
Oddly my lungs were not damaged and that was fine.
There was no hope I would give it up
Yet when my son was born, I saw the air so murky
It was that which made me quit cold turkey.


So very much that we plan ahead
Be it good or be it bad
Fails to our own convictions to adhere
At times we change our entire personality
Proof that we are destined to follow the ancient
“What will be, will be!”

The Second Time Around 

Poetry Collection by David Thorpe


Second time around 

A trace of timidity,
feelings of hope and apprehension,
a sudden heartbeat of panic.
for fear of failure.
 
The tingle of anticipation of the once familiar,
a sweet recall of romantic evenings
after weeks disguised in mundane chores.
 
Her perfume revives my senses,
memories of an unquenched love awakened,
she smiles and stretches out her hand,
offering a new beginning
 



The kite
 
 Against the wind
it battled
to maintain our jeopardised joy
from falling into disrepute.
 
Pulling at the strings
we attempted to articulate
a course of reason
back to each other
 
In harmony together
to find again lost smiles,
once given as gifts
for an awakening kiss
 
 The kite soared higher,
our grasp precarious,
yet together we retrieved it  
in an act of reconciliation



The Nightingale 
 
What does he tell me with his song?
my feathered tenor  of the morn,
not his sadness but his joy I hear,
the pride of his babes new born.
 
 Each day he visits me without fail,
my solitude he senses in the air,
my love no longer shares my life,
his presence sooths sorrows hard to bear.
  
Each evening and morn was he my comfort,
so many months  a lonesome quale,
yet of my new love I will to him confide,
my faithful friend, the nightingale

Creative Beginnings

By Lucinda Berry Hill


Every new day is a fresh can of paint
To make something grand from a life of mistakes.

Every new day is a colorful bud
To create a bouquet showing one love.

Every new day is a clean page and pen
Giving a chance to try once again.

Every new day is a new set of keys
To play a sweet song of hope and of peace.

Every new day is a fresh piece of wood
To build a strong bridge for all that is good.   

Every new day is a new skein of yarn
To design something soft to comfort life's scars.

Every new day is a canvas of white
To try it again 'till you get it right.

Every new day is a gift from above
To change and create a life full of love.


Lucinda Berry Hill Author of Coffee with Jesus and A Second Cup with Jesus.©



​


Turn Now

By Lucinda Berry Hill


Turn, to find a door that is open.
Turn, for a new way to see.
Turn, for a better perspective.
Turn, for a way to make peace.

Turn, for a bright new tomorrow.
Turn, to reap what you've sown.
Turn, for bodily healing.
Turn, for your heart to be whole.

Turn, and build a new friendship.
Turn, and tear down the walls.
Turn, to bridge a connection.
Turn, and give praise for all.

Turn, and have courage to speak up.
Turn, and find strength to refrain.
Turn, and cry your confession.
Turn, and have joy in God's grace.

Turn, with each season that follows.
Turn, with each day that evolves.
Turn, and ask God for His wisdom.
Turn, to see what it will solve.

Turn, and bring your convictions.
Turn, and never let go.
Turn, with warmth and a smile.
Turn, with God's mercy to show.

Turn, to let go of your grudges.
Turn, and let go of the hate.
Turn, and show love to God's others.    
Turn, before it's too late.

Turn, from the days that have passed you.
Turn, from your shame and regret.
Turn, for brand new beginnings.
Turn, for better days yet.

Author Lucinda Berry Hill of  "Coffee with Jesus"  and "A Second Cup with Jesus" ©



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http://lucindaspoetry.webs.com/index.htm
 
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Hiroshige

Poetry Collection by Alan Catlin

 
Hiroshige: Mishima Stage 17

Crossing the footbridge
into Mishima, fresh snow
covers post station, market
stalls, and tea huts.
In the distance, Fuji’s cone
is the whitest of them all.
 


Hiroshige: Late Travelers

Paper umbrellas, straw
coats; meager protection
against hard, wind driven,
snow. Night is coming.
Hurry to the village
before the path disappears.

 
 
Yasunari Kawabata's Snow Country

White as the burnished skins of lovers
pressed against snow, shadows hidden
by full moonlight.
Silent as closed louvered doors,
cut glass windows crystal shades
are drawn on.
Clarified as a steam bath droplet
on a silk kimono sleeve, unfolding
dragon tongue extending toward twin
dreaming lips.
Calm as a hand print pressed in sand,
of sleeping in a garden of dwarf roses-
stunted pine.
Clear as an imprint on bedding of two
the size of one; crepitating thunder,
rain, out of season, snow melts.
 
 

The Snow-Glazed Streets Along Central Avenue

Double-parked and rusted, hard-frozen
down to the cobblestones, “What God
gives us, God will take away” snow
removal, garbage hauled by contract only,
a dollah a bag, no discounts, no credit,
no money, throw it in the snow, maybe God
will take it away. Sixty, seventy, eighty
inches or more glazed and gradually turning
yellow/black, the whole city paralyzed,
moving forward slowly on bent wheel rims;
once the long-buried streetcar rails are fully
exposed, the trolleys themselves faint visions
in swift, enveloping, morning fog.
 
Blowing snow extends night into morning; no sun today.
 
Between snow storms, moon shadows, layers of lost light

Discoveries

Poetry Collection by Jessica Goody



Discoveries
 
Inspired by the photography of Frank Hurley during the Shackleton Imperial Trans-Antarctic Expedition, 1914
 
Imagine a cold of frightening intensity,
a region defined by lack of temperature. 
Islets rise like moles on the expanse of the silver-nitrate sea,
 
glaciers shaped like plateaus, fortresses, mountain ranges.
Palaces of ice drift by, flashing colors in the sun:
prisms of lavender, rose, chrysoprase green.
 
Inside, a scene from a Jack London novel:  
A low, thin cot piled with fur, luxuriant 
against the rusticity of the barren shack.
 
Damp books with rotten bindings and pages stiffened with rime.
The mottled patterns of maps paper the walls,
a spiderweb of constellations to steer by.
 
Clotheslines span the ceilings, ancient apparel left out to dry,
frozen thermals and soaked mittens encased in ice. 
The odors of coal oil and dampened wool ceased to linger 
 
a century ago. Weathered wood and rotting leather,
diamond-shaped snowshoes latticed with rawhide, and specimen 
trays of stones and shells preserved in the icebox of the Arctic.
 
Heavy trunks with handsome brass fittings, their elegance 
now tarnished. Inside, abandoned flotsam lies perfectly preserved: 
tin cans and melted stalks of candles, the heavy, solid hulk of an 
 
antique typewriter, and an elegant gramophone, its gleaming horn 
fluted like a seashell. One hundred years ago, it played Strauss 
to a curious audience of penguins who had never heard music before.
 
 

 
Northern Lights
 
The pack ice resembles a mosaic of broken tiles where 
pups croak and croon, rolling playfully, enjoying the
sensation of snow. Mothers plump and banded nurse
pups who expand balloon-like as their fur gradually
 
darkens: ice-white, butter-blond, and dappled silver.
They swirl in greenish water, trailing auras of bubbles 
behind them in a serpentine interpretive dance, joyful,
reveling in their element. The silent fireworks of the 
 
aurora borealis flash overhead like searchlights, mint,
mauve, cobalt, barium green and methane blue, glowing
while above them, polar bears stalk the icy plateau like 
wardens, waiting, tints glinting in their colorless fur.
 
 
 

The Edge of the World
 
Ice. White, blue, silver, 
every color and none, all at once.
Bigger than whales, than deserts, 
bigger than anything imaginable.
 
The sheer space is vast and magnificent, 
intimidating in its scope.
Standing here on the divide between 
howling wilderness and frozen serenity,
 
I feel the lives and breath of the intrepid behind me, 
the icy wind whipping their fur hoods like my hair.
Magnificent jewel-toned sunsets
in shades of amethyst, rose quartz, lapis lazuli
 
are taken in by penguins, seals, and wolves.
Puffins call from broken sea ice, 
an echo of good nights.
Everything is whitewashed, gleaming.
 
Elements compete in brightness: 
stars, sea waves crackling 
like wind chimes, tides churning ice, 
glaciers mirroring shafts of light, 
 
calm and somehow holy. 
Standing here, observing this place 
of contradictions, paradoxes, extremes.
Silence so deep it is full of tones
 
of icy winds and animal calls.
Light so pure it is painful and blindingly clear.
Full of emptiness, nothingness, 
yet rich with everything of life.

THE MAD GIRL REMEMBERS

​HER FIRST KISS

By Lyn Lifshin


over the railroad tracks
that split the small town
in two. The roses were
just beginning, tulip
leaves browning, petals
under our shoes. In the
shadow of the Episcopal
church, the college student
she’d become in two years
cheering the next football
game and when he pulled
her close, she smelled
Clearasil. It hardly
mattered. It was a passage
tho she insisted they must
not do this again, at
least not too often




THE MAD GIRL REMEMBERS TURNING 16

By Lyn Lifshin



she took her uncle’s car
that day after her birthday
and drove it into a ditch.
She wishes she drank then
when it wouldn’t scorch
her insides, or that drugs
were in her school, that
she was the one who fell
down on dance floors
instead of making science
projects, the study of the
eye that lured bad boys
to her. She wanted a hoody
boy with wild hair and a
brother whose car had
a big back seat where she
could park with a boy
who’d never look at her
in her hometown.
She wanted his arms
around her as Al Martino
sang “Oh my love, my
darling, I’ve hungered
for your kiss and she
wouldn’t mind if the
earrings she borrowed
from her mother were
lost as the past would be

God, We Know What Christmas Is 

Poetry Collection by Lucinda Berry Hill



A Blue Christmas Prayer


God, we know what Christmas is,
The celebration of your Son.
And we are truly grateful 
For without Him, joy is none.

But we have built fond memories
And formed family traditions,
So now, sometimes, we will find
We're sad during this season.

We're grateful for the birth of Christ
And the meaning of His name.
But when our lives have empty spots
Celebrations aren't the same.

Sometimes our loved ones move.
Sometimes they pass away.
That leaves us sad and wanting,
With a sad unwanted change.

We may not get what we want
But please give us what we need.
We need Your patience while we're sad.
Your understanding while we weep.

We need Your great forgiveness,
Your love to hold us near.
We need the strength of Your grace
To get us through this year.

Thank you for Your goodness,
The peace You bring to life.
For even when we're saddened,
We have hope because of Christ.




The Birth of Peace


The world is filled with fear today,
Anxiety and strife.
There's hurting people.
There's hurting hearts
But there's hope for every life.

Christmas isn't just for fun.
It's the day that Hope began.
Peace was born,
A need was met
With the birth of the, I Am!

Let us worry less and focus more   
On the power of God's hand,
The birth of Christ,
The Light of Life,
And the peace for every man.




Gabriel's Message


Gabriel  was an angel
Sent from God to bring
A message to a virgin
That she would bear a king.

He calmed and reassured her
Of God's most perfect plan.
Her babe would be a leader
A savior for all man.

Mary was convinced
By the angel's spoken words.
Just a girl from Nazareth,
But to Jesus, she'd give birth.   

And that was the beginning
Of the gift for all the world;
Gabriel bringing a message
To a chosen, blessed girl.



A Promise Kept

God made a promise
To women and men,
A king would come
From Bethlehem.

From Bethlehem
A need was met;
A way was made,
A light was lit.

A light was lit
to lead the way.
For life eternal,
A plan was made.

A plan was made. 
First step complete.
A virgin birth
Had come to be.

Had come to be
A vow fulfilled.
A King was born
For all the world.

For all the world
The Prince of Peace.
A promise kept
For you and me.

Lucinda Berry Hill Author of Coffee with Jesus and A Second Cup with Jesus.©

​
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http://lucindaspoetry.webs.com/index.htm
 
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Merry Christmas

By Patrick Bryant Michael



The snow may or may not be falling, Christmas takes delight
snowflakes
falling
is a sign of snowball throwing in wonderlands of might
sledding
downhill
is fun for a while, more hills are waiting for taking flight
mistletoe
kissing
a cousin who you like, looking for a fickle delight
sleigh-bells
jingling
jingle, jangle, a white wonderland, both joyous and bright
laughing
children
playing, watching the gifts under the tree on Christmas night
parents
joking
with each other, mom cooking pies and smiling with insight
enjoying
moments
of talk about presents involving signs in the spotlight
candle
lighting
after they are lit are shining as children are glowing
moonlight
shooting
comets on fire till they hit the ground, with fire sparks roaming
decorating
Christmas
trees a few weeks before the special night, as free zoning
putting
tiptop
of the tree a star that is the light and love imposing
playing
around
in the snow, making snow women as a prank, for poking
singing
holiday
songs to stay cheery, laughing to stay happy, growing
playing
instrumental
Christmas songs, enjoying napping time while you are snoring
sampling
candy
made for the holidays, hoping for bonbons with coating
yuletide
gatherings
help the spirit of the holidays, climbing a fir tree
Elvin
magic
bringing creativity to making toys for children's glee
memories
reverberate
in the minds of adults, recounting them, smiles happily
magical
horizons
open to children's minds begin to set their sweet souls free
beguiling
fantasies
enchant the hearts and souls of children, their reality
mesmerized
subconscious
minds are open to wonderlands of Winter yet to be
bewitched
bothered
and bewildered by unopened presents, dream devotee
dazzling
images
form in the minds of young ones, like an enchanted sea
spellbound
reverie
imposes a charm on the minds of children, be resigned
season's
greetings
spill over into time and space, magic land of the mind
lonely
homeless
people feel less love than the wealthy, getting more behind
indigent
families
lose hope during the Christmas holidays, feeling maligned
loving
caring
for family and friends gives them hope for the future, unwind
giving
taking
from each other, like an enchanted land lost, unconfined
wrapping
presents
the night before Christmas, acting like Jesus is well primed
sleeping
waking
on Christmas day to a lighted tree with presents assigned.


(c) December 13, 2017 by PBM




The Christmas Stocking

By Patrick Bryant Michael



Hung securely with care from the fireplace mantel
decorated
crackling
logs burning, popping now and then, sounds like shrapnel
suspended
dangling
from hooks screwed into the wood, topside a candle
kiddies
eyes wide open
wonderment in their sighs, laughter to entangle
men watching
gals baking
pretense in the silence, the giggling is ample
snacking
getting sleepy
the night before Christmas, old stories to sample
stargazing
pretending
you are dozing, waiting for kids to go to sleep
snoring
grumpily
carrying young kids to bed when there is no peep
hurrying
filling
up stockings with fruit, nuts, and small toys, kids to reap
rehanging
sampling
the candy, a small voice cries out, dad hides the keep
rethinking
hiding
the stockings in a closet, where no one will peek
sleeping
getting up
early to rehang the stockings, the love runs deep.


(c) December 23, 2015 by PBM






Christmas Songs

By Patrick Bryant Michael



Christmas is coming... as an old song goes,
red sashes blaze, greenery entwining,
blue bows, silver wings, white angelic flows,
snow coming down, children's hearts are pining.


Twas the night before... a Christmas story unfolds,
children waiting impatiently, cast in its spell,
get this party rolling fits the mood, warmth enfolds,
a night for preparing gifts, older folks hearts swell.


Santa Claus is coming... down the chimney with care
kids sneaking a peek, mom and pop watch twilight fare
off to bed, sleep comes slow as the devil may dare
to wake early, jump out of bed, Santa's been there.


We wish you a merry... starts the day off right,
children running, screaming, hearts filled with delight,
people laughing, talking, making spirits bright,
giving, receiving, kissing, mistletoe in sight.


Chestnuts roasting... begins another song,
fire in the fireplace to warm the old bones,
table set for the feast, it won't be long,
time for fond memories, full bellies, groans.


I'll be home for... makes it all seem just nice,
a song that brings me senses of my youth
a time for Children, old folk too, some spice,
and for wishing Merry Christmas forsooth!




(c) December 24, 2012 by PBM

My Merry Christmas Rose

By David Thorpe
​

The full profusion of her garden
was oblivious to a six-year-old
whose childhood pastimes 
blended out such floral splendour.

I sneaked into her paradise 
on clandestine missions
to rescue her trees from the burden
of ripened cherries, apples or pears.

On occasions I was invited to enter 
her botanical world to be rewarded
with something sweet  and sometimes sticky,
just for being the child next door.

Her house stands empty now,
her garden in a neglected slumber.
Hedgehogs snuggle in hibernation 
‘neath autumn’s decaying leaves 
petrified by winter’s first frost.

On the eve of St Stephen
I enter again her garden,
this time in search of that winter wonder.
As if by some invisible conjurer’s trick,
half hidden,
it appears in the entwined, lifeless shoots
of summer’s rambling raspberry bushes,
blanketed in white from last night’s fall of snow.

With a virgin’s shyness
it reveals a captivating beauty.
I smile,
and thank her in silence
for her perennial legacy,
my Merry Christmas rose

David Thorpe ©® 2017

The Night

By Henry Vaughan
​
Through that pure Virgin-shrine,
That sacred vail drawn o'er thy glorious noon
That men might look and live as
Glo-worms shine,
And face the Moon:
Wise Nicodemus saw such light
As made him know his God by night.

Most blest believer he!
Who in that land of darkness and blinde eyes
Thy long expected healing wings could see,
When thou didst rise,
And what can never more be done,
Did at mid-night speak with the Sun!

O who will tell me, where
He found thee at that dead and silent hour!
What hallow'd solitary ground did bear
So rare a flower,
Within whose sacred leafs did lie
The fulness of the Deity.

No mercy-seat of gold,
No dead and dusty
Cherub, nor carv'd stone,
But his own living works did my Lord hold
And lodge alone; Where trees and herbs did watch and peep
And wonder, while the Jews did sleep.

Dear night! this worlds defeat;
The stop to busie fools; cares check and curb;
The day of Spirits; my souls calm retreat
Which none disturb! Christs progress, and his prayer time;
The hours to which high Heaven doth chime.
Gods silent, searching flight:

When my Lords head is fill'd with dew, and all
His locks are wet with the clear drops of night;
His still, soft call; His knocking time;
The souls dumb watch,
When Spirits their fair kindred catch.
Were all my loud, evil days
Calm and unhaunted as is thy dark Tent,

Whose peace but by some
Angels wing or voice Is seldom rent;
Then I in Heaven all the long year
Would keep, and never wander here.
But living where the Sun
Doth all things wake, and where all mix and tyre
Themselves and others,
I consent and run

To ev'ry myre, And by this worlds ill-guiding light,
Erre more then I can do by night.
There is in God (some say)
A deep, but dazling darkness;
As men here Say it is late and dusky,
because they See not all clear;
O for that night ! where I in him
​ Might live invisible and dim.

Candlelight Service

By Alexandra H. Rodrigues


It is my church, with heart and soul I am here
Now starts that we breath the Christmas atmosphere.
All the hustle and bustle I gladly put aside
Strictly to what Christmas presents I want to abide.


Christmas and Easter are the only days of the year
That I look forward a sermon from the pulpit to hear.
When I cannot make it, I feet honestly bad.
Yet I know that God does not think I did forget.


Only sickness or work would keep me away
But where ever I was, I would take time out to pray.
I feel that I have with God a pact
That he owns a part of my heart, is a fact.


At the pulpit, the Christ Candle is lit
Daily problems regress and leave bit by bit.
The light of little candles we pass from one to one
It does assure that feelings of loneliness will now be gone.


Among the congregation we shake hands
Strangers a second ago, we now all become friends.
Fulfillment and blessing does settle in
In the air lingers the promise, to be cleaned of sin.
MERRY CHRISTMAS




Winter Morning

By Alexandra H. Rodrigues



It was a foggy and musky day
Depressing the sound of the waves on the bay
From my patio, the ducks I had just fed
Looks like they did not again want to get wet.


On the lawn, from the winter dry and brown
Over a dozen seabirds have settled down
Once a comfortable position was reached
They decided it is time to stay beached.


They appeared like children’s toys
Stiff like tin soldiers all in the same poise
Into the same direction they all did look
As if they had all studied the very same book.


Do ducks actually have a seventh sense?
Is it the weather that makes them so tense?
This day is a day that could us a tornado bring.
Did birds this news to ducks and seagulls sing?


Do animals sense a nature change?
Long before our human brain news can arrange?
Our premonition cannot match that of animals
The ark of Noah many such stories tells.


The power of the spoken and written word
Is the difference that among creatures occurred
Who decides if we, the humans, are extra smart?


As particles of nature we all play our part.





Christmas Time


By Alexandra H. Rodrigues



At Christmas time as it approaches from year to year
I am known to wonder, will I next time still be here.
In old times my husband used to decorate
With a lot of love and it often made us stay up late.


He also mentioned the then pending next year
Saying “I will get more lights, if I am still here.”
It is sad that by now he already is long gone.
Much changed for me from how the feast was done.


We had angels big and small with bells of all size.
Some never used – on their wings still the price.
Keepsakes survived from Grandma’s and Mother’s home!
Now, my grandson with glee in the treasures does roam.


My enthusiasm to lavishly decorate my home is gone.
Now by the younger generation, this is meant to be done.
Getting older, one gets more involved to figure out
What the true reason for the season is all about.


Ongoing, from year to year, the tradition will be
I will help decorate my young family’s’ tree
Some of the items -- stars and lights -- I sort out.
I will donate those this year to a needy crowd.


The ones that move me really deep
I will display near the hearth, those for myself I keep
Christmas seems to come faster and faster each year


Even enjoyed in different ways, I keep it forever dear.





Let Them Be


By Alexandra H. Rodrigues



Let them be happy and dream their own dream
If “Merry Christmas” does not right to them seem.
Better not to chant if the heart is not in accord
When singing the hymn is just a polite gesture of sort.


Christmas has become a yearly boom to the economy
“Happy Marketing” for some the greeting should be.
Begin by taking the word Holiday/Holy Day apart
By doing so you might invite the holy spirit to start.


Hanukah Bush, Menorah or Christmas tree
As symbols for what we celebrate we do see!
Are we really so sure about all the – how come –
Do we understand the depth of the songs we hum?


Consider this a time to demonstrate good will
A friendly smile and a “Have a Happy” can fit the bill.
You are blessed if you are strengthened by faith
Share convictions, and with good deeds spread grace.


LOVE - PEACE - HAPPINESS TO ALL

Winter’s Dream

​
By Karen King




I woke up, I know not why.


There was a breeze around my ears and a definite chill in the air.


The air smelt fresh, almost as if it had snowed.


I shivered and snuggled further down into my duvet,


Trying to get back to sleep.


But sleep would not come.


All was silent, except a distant hooting.






A draft from the window blew my curtains away from each other,


Revealing my balcony and, beyond, an intriguing scene,


With dark green shapes of trees, remaining Autumn bracken


And some trees tipped with snow, it all looked very atmospheric.


And slightly threatening!


I wondered what was out there beyond my room.


Would Bigfoot be prowling in the distance awaiting more snow?


Or would sinister creatures be prowling in the night?






Suddenly, I heard a tapping on the glass and I looked towards the window.


I saw a robin on the window ledge, gazing in.


I looked outside and saw my tiny garden with its shrubs,


Small cherry tree and pots with herbs.


Where were the large conifers, Autumn bracken and snow-tipped trees?


Gone! I shook my head in wonder. It must have been a dream!


“I must get back to reality”, I thought to myself.


I thanked the robin for rousing me from my dream, for he must have known …


It was Christmas morning and there was lots to be done!






“Delights of Nature – Winter” Karen King Copyright 2015

Photo by Karen King 

​

Time Out


By Karen King 


Take time out to stop and look at the shaking man on the pavement.
He is not nervous. He is freezing.
He sits on the cold pavement, his bottom numb,
Rocking backwards and forwards, like a Mother rocking her baby.
He finds some solace in this as he feels
Unwanted, unloved and lonely.
This country has let him down. He is a citizen here,
But he has been treated like he doesn't exist and is nothing.
He has been rejected!


People hurry past with their Christmas shopping.
He sees reflections of Christmas trees, twinkling and teasing him.
Dogs stop and sniff, as if about to urinate on him whilst
Lorries lurch past, their fumes belching out towards him.


Suddenly, a lady stops. She is wearing a simulated fur hat and coat.
Her hair looks pristine. Her boots buffed to perfection.
She smiles, speaks and opens her purse.
She sees his pain and her heart goes out to him whilst
Her hand rummages for change.
The silver tinkles out of her hand into his mug, piling higher and higher.
She takes a copy of his "Time Out" magazine.


He feels his God has answered him and this lady is an Earth Angel,
For when his eyes finally clear of tears and he looks down the road,
She has disappeared into thin air.


So, next time you feel like taking time out as your life
Has become too full of strife and you deserve delicious delights,
Think of this man on the street.
He suffers anguish all day, every day.
He cannot take time out and enjoy himself when he wants.
Go on, make his day more bearable by buying a copy of his "Time Out"!


“The King Collection” Karen King Copyright 2016

GOING TO THE CATHOLIC SCHOOL

By Lyn Lifshin



once a year, bundled in wool
pea coats and snow pants,
mufflers dotted with ice crystals
tightly around our faces so the
incense we were sure would be
too thick to breathe in wouldn’t
make us sneeze. Under our
snow pants, soft corduroy jeans
and our thickest gloves, covered
mittens: we had heard about
rulers smashing bones and skin,
that patent leather shoes were
forbidden. Something about the
stained glass light on the pale
nuns with enormous crosses
and rosaries kept us huddled and
close, walking with only side-
long  glances at the Jesus with
bleeding chest, as scary as The
Thing where Jessica, whose
father was a minister, shrieked
when the blob filled the screen.
We didn’t know why the Catholic
girls couldn’t come to our school
but would come later, in high
school. Or why everything
had a smell we never smelled
anywhere else, wondered how
we’d ever catch up in Latin when
we had to. The dark haired girls
with their dangling faces of
Mary they kissed before a ball
game and tests seemed as exotic
as what was hidden under their
white confirmation dresses,
flesh later we heard would writhe
and twist and do the wild thing
since it would be ok once
they confessed

​Winter Stores

By Charlotte Bronte

WE take from life one little share,
And say that this shall be
A space, redeemed from toil and care, 
From tears and sadness free. 

And, haply, Death unstrings his bow
And Sorrow stands apart,
And, for a little while, we know
The sunshine of the heart. 

Existence seems a summer eve,
Warm, soft, and full of peace;
Our free, unfettered feelings give
The soul its full release. 

A moment, then, it takes the power,
To call up thoughts that throw
Around that charmed and hallowed hour,
This life's divinest glow. 

But Time, though viewlessly it flies,
And slowly, will not stay;
Alike, through clear and clouded skies,
It cleaves its silent way. 

Alike the bitter cup of grief,
Alike the draught of bliss,
Its progress leaves but moment brief
For baffled lips to kiss. 

The sparkling draught is dried away,
The hour of rest is gone,
And urgent voices, round us, say,
' Ho, lingerer, hasten on !' 

And has the soul, then, only gained,
From this brief time of ease,
A moment's rest, when overstrained,
One hurried glimpse of peace ? 

No; while the sun shone kindly o'er us,
And flowers bloomed round our feet,­
While many a bud of joy before us
Unclosed its petals sweet,­ 

An unseen work within was plying;
Like honey-seeking bee,
From flower to flower, unwearied, flying,
Laboured one faculty,­ 

Thoughtful for Winter's future sorrow,
Its gloom and scarcity;
Prescient to-day, of want to-morrow,
Toiled quiet Memory. 

'Tis she that from each transient pleasure 
Extracts a lasting good;
'Tis she that finds, in summer, treasure 
To serve for winter's food. 

And when Youth's summer day is vanished,
And Age brings Winter's stress,
Her stores, with hoarded sweets replenished, 
Life's evening hours will bless. 

Frost at Midnight

By Samuel Taylor Coleridge


The Frost performs its secret ministry, 

Unhelped by any wind. The owlet's cry 

Came loud—and hark, again! loud as before. 

The inmates of my cottage, all at rest, 

Have left me to that solitude, which suits 

Abstruser musings: save that at my side 

My cradled infant slumbers peacefully. 

'Tis calm indeed! so calm, that it disturbs 

And vexes meditation with its strange 

And extreme silentness. Sea, hill, and wood, 

This populous village! Sea, and hill, and wood, 

With all the numberless goings-on of life, 

Inaudible as dreams! the thin blue flame 

Lies on my low-burnt fire, and quivers not; 

Only that film, which fluttered on the grate, 


Still flutters there, the sole unquiet thing. 

Methinks, its motion in this hush of nature 

Gives it dim sympathies with me who live, 

Making it a companionable form, 

Whose puny flaps and freaks the idling Spirit 

By its own moods interprets, every where 

Echo or mirror seeking of itself, 

And makes a toy of Thought. 


But O! how oft, 

How oft, at school, with most believing mind, 

Presageful, have I gazed upon the bars, 

To watch that fluttering stranger ! and as oft 

With unclosed lids, already had I dreamt 

Of my sweet birth-place, and the old church-tower, 

Whose bells, the poor man's only music, rang 

From morn to evening, all the hot Fair-day, 

So sweetly, that they stirred and haunted me 

With a wild pleasure, falling on mine ear 

Most like articulate sounds of things to come! 

So gazed I, till the soothing things, I dreamt, 

Lulled me to sleep, and sleep prolonged my dreams! 

And so I brooded all the following morn, 

Awed by the stern preceptor's face, mine eye 

Fixed with mock study on my swimming book: 

Save if the door half opened, and I snatched 

A hasty glance, and still my heart leaped up, 

For still I hoped to see the stranger's face, 

Townsman, or aunt, or sister more beloved, 

My play-mate when we both were clothed alike! 


         Dear Babe, that sleepest cradled by my side, 

Whose gentle breathings, heard in this deep calm, 

Fill up the intersperséd vacancies 

And momentary pauses of the thought! 

My babe so beautiful! it thrills my heart 

With tender gladness, thus to look at thee, 

And think that thou shalt learn far other lore, 

And in far other scenes! For I was reared 

In the great city, pent 'mid cloisters dim, 

And saw nought lovely but the sky and stars. 

But thou, my babe! shalt wander like a breeze 

By lakes and sandy shores, beneath the crags 

Of ancient mountain, and beneath the clouds, 

Which image in their bulk both lakes and shores 

And mountain crags: so shalt thou see and hear 

The lovely shapes and sounds intelligible 

Of that eternal language, which thy God 

Utters, who from eternity doth teach 

Himself in all, and all things in himself. 

Great universal Teacher! he shall mould 

Thy spirit, and by giving make it ask. 


         Therefore all seasons shall be sweet to thee, 

Whether the summer clothe the general earth 

With greenness, or the redbreast sit and sing 

Betwixt the tufts of snow on the bare branch 

Of mossy apple-tree, while the night-thatch 

Smokes in the sun-thaw; whether the eave-drops fall 

Heard only in the trances of the blast, 

Or if the secret ministry of frost 

Shall hang them up in silent icicles, 

Quietly shining to the quiet Moon.

Snowflake


By Karen King 





Down you come, silently, stealthily.


Unnoticed.


As you drift through the air, fluttering like a butterfly,


A quietness creeps in.


Our world is gradually transformed.


Each one individual, each pattern unique,


Like a cheetah’s spots.


How can this transient substance


Have such an impact on us and our day to day lives?


Once flowing down the rivers, resting on the lakes,


Tumbling down waterfalls.


Now you have transformed our landscape.


How clever!


You skim across the tops of branches,


Pick out bits of roof tops, forming unusual patterns.


Windowsills are covered,


Plants and bushes hidden from view, as if in hibernation.


Pavements and roads have a thick


Layer of icing sugar on them.


People gently plod, cars gently plough


Through this newly-laid substance.


Don’t forget this overpowering, wonderful,


Magical scene is not forever and will eventually change.


We are like the snowflake, each unique,


We will not last forever and change is inevitable.






Karen King Copyright 2015

Winter
 
By David Thorpe
 
Long gone are the swallows,
whose acrobatic flights in perfect formation
cast lightening shadows on the once waving corn fields,
now hidden under the soft white blanket of the first snow fall
and perforated by zigzag paths of some early morning hare;
traces of its hungry, frantic search for food
 
There is a silence, a peacefulness of winter time.
The animal kingdom in deep slumber and nature herself,
exhausted after the last ravaging storm of autumn,
has finally taken her well deserved rest
 
But my favourite winter works of art
are seen only on such sub-zero dawns.
A delight to the awakening eyes,
to behold the masterpieces of some nocturnal artist,
whose frosted window images will disappear for ever
with the first winter rays of sun

David Thorpe ©® 2017

As Deep As Eternity 

(Excerpt from a poem originally named "Doobie or not Doobie")

By Daniel de Culla




Lovers look for the snowflake
That grace Victor Hugo’s Hauteville House’s Garden
Overlooking the sea
In St. Peter Port, Guernsey, Channel Islands
During his time in exile from France
Many years ago
One precise midnight
Dominique and myself reached spiritual illumination
The French author, an inspiration to many,
His fine works
Including Les Miserables, and Toilers of the Sea,
Teaching us
How to turn our miserable mess
Into a beautiful, joyful and splendid one
Saying to us from his statue:
“There’s no tyranny in the State of Exile.
Fortunately, you have a handbook that shows me
How to discover salvation
Through the pineal gland”.
Hugo described the Islands
As "fragments of France which fell into the sea
And were gathered up by England".
A Nazi bunker built by Germans
In the II War goes round all the island
One said:
“Chaos and strife are the roots
Of all fascist boots here”
I’m working in L’Ancress Bay Hotel
Today disappeared by a fire
As a night porter, first
And assistant of the chef,
The bay is a flash of intense light
As though its very psyche
Is the fog returning
Of Hugo’ spirit laughing
In happy anarchy.
I am alive and I can tell you as he did:
“You are free”.
Dominique is pretty,

Her eyes as soft as a feather
And as deep as eternity.

Christmas Has Come Early

By Karen King



He offered me an ice cake,
Like Christmas had come early.
The stalactites were standing to attention,
Clear, perfect and somehow sentinel,
Whilst the ice cake below
Supported them.
This was like an offering of love,
Clear and beautiful.


Every day is like Christmas with him.


Even when the days are cold and dark,
We soon find the light at the end of the tunnel,
A loving warmth and a way forward.
For nothing us permanent,
Problems are dissolved,
Problems are resolved.


Whatever is thrown at us,
Whatever the time of year,
Our underlying warmth will melt
Our problems away.


There could be a blizzard,
Snow drifts or black ice,
But we will move through
The dark, dismal days
And out the other side
Until the snow is fresh and new again
Or disappears altogether.



Our love is like the seasons,
Forever changing,
Forever renewing,
Until the dark gradually disappears,
Letting the light in,
A new warmth, clarity and love.


Celebrate love,
Celebrate the Winter,
Celebrate the changing seasons
And the cycle of love and life.


Karen King Copyright 28 November 2017

YELLOW ROSES

By Lyn Lifshin

 
pinned on stiff tulle,
glowed in the painted
high school moonlight.
Mario’ Lanza’s Oh My
Love. When Doug
dipped I smelled
Clearasil. Hours in
the tub dreaming of
Dick Wood’s fingers
cutting in, sweeping
me close. I wouldn’t
care if the stuck
pin on the roses
went thru me,
the yellow musk
would be a wreathe
on the grave of that
awful dance where
Louise and I sat
pretending we didn’t
care, our socks fat
with bells and fuzzy
ribbons, silly as we
felt. I wanted to be
home, wanted the
locked bathroom to
cry in, knew some
part of me would
never stop waiting
to be asked to dance






DREAM OF THE PINK AND BLACK LACE,

JUST LIKE THE EVENING GOWN

By Lyn Lifshin

 
my favorite in high school,
a dress I’d wanted to see
marked down and finally wrote
the store, even then, able
to get what I wanted
 
more easily on paper. I
told them how often I’d come
back, hoping it would be marked
down and dashed up with my
mother when they agreed
to lower the price.
 
I feel the swirl of those
gowns I ran my hand through,
terrified mine wouldn’t
be there, then carrying it as
carefully as a baby of blown glass.
 
It was so full my waist
looked tiny inside it
with hoops and an eyelet bustier.
The dress took up half
my mother’s closet,
 
less space than I did in her,
especially after she had me.
I don’t think I wore it again, too
dressy, too much lace to pack.
But I can see it near the yellow
 
and the pink and white gauzy gowns,
swirling strapless, a part of 38
Main Street I expected to always
be as it was, like my mother
waiting for me to fill it




HAIR

By Lyn Lifshin

 
In Brooklyn one
love’s aunt plotted,
made an appointment
to have it done,
cut in a flip
 
a present for me
like the scratchy
nylon gowns I
never wore when I
left to marry
 
An uncle said before
he died he wished
he could see it
short. After
 
the wedding I
pulled pins out of
that stiff hive
for a week, afraid
to touch it
 
When I taught in
high school I had
to wear it up,
sprayed it one
gray morning
with flit as
 
if it was a
living, flying
thing that
shouldn’t, like
my life seemed
that October,
 
unreal, I was
afraid to touch
it, all his family
tried to pull it
back into velvet,
 
twist it, pin
it choke, they said
they wanted to see
my eyes but I
know they suspected
me of being a
hippie, a witch
 
The college that
said  I couldn’t stay
on white cold paper
wrote first can’t you look
more professional
 
and dignified. Wear
it up. The brother
in law would pull
it, sneer, ask if I’d
seen the mad
 
hair girl in
The Munsters. I
heard that the whole TV season.
Later I learned that
 
what grew out of
the dark where I
couldn’t reach
like dreams or
poems was beautiful,
 
shouldn’t be
squeezed into,
changed into
something different
 
But those years,
apologizing, stuffing
that sun bleached red
under my collar
 
straightening it in
what was ok for the
early seventies and
never letting it
 
go where it wanted
 
milkweed, wild
flowers, poems,
animals, a dream
 
hair like someone
who couldn’t, hadn’t
wouldn’t admit, didn’t
know it had a
life of its own

The Art of Living
By Alexandra H. Rodrigues


I traveled the world
But it got me bored.
With love I twirled
Faith was not restored.


Time and happenings flew by
More tasks I tried out
Mental pain invited to cry
Yet stoically I laughed about.


In search for fulfillment
With the meaning unclear to me.
Thru lifetime’s cycles I went
Hoping one day enlightened to be.


I had it and - I had it -
If you know what I mean.
Careers brought success bit by bit
Never full satisfaction I have seen.


What I achieved feels oh so shallow
My wings seem often mounted too tight
All steadily ended and lost its glow
No safe oasis did ever feel just right.


Not wanting to know that we all must die
I keep on searching and do proclaim
I’ve done it all as the years went by
But it still blends together all the same.


As to the substance, I am not sure what it is
You’ll see me in action no matter the age
I want to make sure that no hint I miss
How to have an impact on earth’s stage.


Despite the fact that I really don’t know
I proceed ahead in hope, the day will arrive
When in the art of living I can be called “PRO”
That ultimate outcome for which I strive.

 The Artist

By Lucinda Berry Hill


God's crayons,
They never run out.
His paint colors?
Never run dry.

His canvas?
As big as the earth.
Possibilities?
As vast as the sky.

God's brush
When dipped in yellow,
His hands paint
The morning sun.

His crayons,
Of orange and red,
Color flowers 
And leaves for fun.

His canvas,
Covered in love.
Each picture
Painted by light.

God's crayons,
Pencils, and brushes
All used to bring us
Delight.

​
 Lucinda Berry Hill Author of "Coffee with Jesus" AND "A Second Cup with Jesus" ©






In Love with the Artist

By Lucinda Berry Hill
​

Morning has come.
The fire is burning.
A shade of pink blankets the sky.
Trees stretching upward 
As if they are saying 
"An evening has just passed us by."

The mountains behind
Look heavy and thick.
Adding peace in a sheltering way.
A family awakes
To a new dawn.
Thanking God at the start of their day


The cabin itself,
Made of pine logs,
Has a stone chimney built outside.
What captures my eye
Is the smoke coming out,
Looks like a steeple up high.

A signal, a sign?
A message from God,
Calling for all to look up?
I cannot quite say.
I only know this:
With God, my heart is in love.


Lucinda Berry Hill Author of Coffee with Jesus and A Second Cup with Jesus.©

 https://www.facebook.com/#!/pages/Coffee-with-Jesus/355060321207311

http://lucindaspoetry.webs.com/index.htm

​

This is what David says about the photo above: 
"The photo was taken about 6 years ago when I worked for the dental company Hu-Friedy. 
​Here  in Tel Aviv, Israel, where I gave a seminar to hygienists on how to sharpen their periodontal hand instruments."




His ever rewarding satisfaction

By David Thorpe
 

His material he knew well,
not only did he know it,
he knew how to teach it
to apprehensive students 
with fears of failure
 
He also knew how,
through his didactic confidence in himself
and artistry,
even naming his topic “The Art Of………”
 
His insight into the ability
of each student,
strengths and weaknesses,
was a further ace in his hand,
which ensured a thankfulness
reflected in the eyes  and
grateful farewell words.
His ever rewarding satisfaction
 
David Thorpe ©® 2017

Bough to the Season


By Karen King




Your dark silhouette is a wonder to me.


Branches bow in reverence to the leaves


As the last light of the day


Lends itself to the colours


Of the mighty leaves.


‘tis a pleasure to the eyes indeed.






Karen King Copyright 15 October 2017

Follow the Lead


By Karen King

​



Follow the lead


Of your dog


Who shows you the way,


Once constrained by the lead,


Now free to explore.


Satisfy yourself by


Walking on falling leaves


As they crackle underfoot,


Like exploding fireworks.


Look up at the Heavenly branches


And golden jewels of leaves.


Follow the path of leaves


And explore the riches of the woods.


Follow the lead of your dog


Who shows you the way.




Karen King Copyright 1 November 2017




​
Painting below by Scalett Neumann

My Canal


By Alexandra H. Rodrigues


Massapequa


Today the canal looks like a swamp
Seagrass covers the surface clump by clump.
Some yellow sea roses would peek in between
An idyllic display can be seen.


Raindrops hit the grayish green water’s top
Life in these waters never does stop
Under the surface, fish must be plentiful
Ringlets above seem proof of a school.


The movement mimics tiny waterfalls splash
As they softly against the bulkheads clash.
The air is hazy, “a dreary day,” we say
Not so when one sees the ducks and geese at play.


They take the opportunity to do some grooming
Waddle along the bulkhead to find worms looming.
In what first seemed so quiet, I must agree
I now plenty of buzzing and interesting action see.


It is this time when summer changes to fall
When nature follows the tidal call.

RAINDROPS FALLING ON MY HEAD

By Thaddeus Hutyra


Raindrops falling on my head
my beautiful New York City
chiseled in my mind.
Raindrops falling on my head
every time I walk on your avenues
my symphonic New York.
Raindrops falling on my head
from archangels’ ambrosia
for they love you, New York City
as I do!
New York, my New York City
you, shrouded in your glory
of the present and the past
certainly also forever.
Enshrined by the Sun’s rays
and the very skyscrapers
with the Freedom Tower on top.
How you shine, my dear NYC
as if you were a starship
across the Universe!
Labyrinthine in a delightful way 
although to the point
I feel mazed at times
Yet it empowers me
with happiness.
Magnificent Times Square
the Crossroads of the World
dazzles me the most!
Smashing Broadway follows
and its Theater District
the shine of the world!
So many theaters
I have difficulty to choose one
Lyceum, Lyric Theater, Hudson one
Schubert Theater, New Amsterdam one
New Victory Theater, Broadhurst one
Apollo Theater or the Palace one
so many of them, all glittering 
like the nightly stars on the sky.
The Broadway classics
feeling like best chocolates
melting in my mouth
The Phantom of the Opera
Jersey Boys, Wicked, Chicago, 
Mamma Mia, Annie, Billy Elliot
alongside staggering number
of plays, musicals, symphonies.
New York, my New York City
you, shrouded in your glory
all the time.
On the mornings
when the Sun’s first twilight rays
bring waves of life afresh.
At rainy times
when you are 
fogged in the mist.
At quiet nights
when you are shrouded
by the sky’s starry crown.
Always you are there, splendid
in your endless magics
Your glory far reaching
never ever ending, forever.
For you are chiseled in my mind
my beautiful New York City 
Chiseled in stone 
and greatness of your spirits
O! New York City
chiseled in my mind!
O! New York City 
you that never sleep!
O! New York City
how I am stunned, flabbergasted!
For it is you, New York City
you, my spirits, my soul!
Wow, raindrops falling on my head
my beautiful New York City
chiseled in my mind.
Raindrops falling on my head
every time I walk on your avenues
my symphonic New York City.
Raindrops falling on my head
from archangels’ ambrosia
for they love you, New York City
as I do!

Southern Gothic:

A Romance for Ambrose Bierce

after R. Meatyard



By Alan Catlin


They come from the rain forest
as restless spirits summoned
from the night as a shadow army
for a demented general, preternaturally
white from all those years spent
cocooned in vaults or under water,
their skin loose, flexible as rubber,
unused muscle flaccid, limp as elastic,
lax cording that holds their demon
masks against their heads; new faces
for new lives, ceremonial as the stained
altars they were sacrificed on, these
tenuous beings, shrunken and belittled
though no longer timid as the children
they seem to be clothed in denim
and corduroy, resurrected as apprentice
homunculi and succubi, dread emissaries
for the afflicted, those Strange Occurrences
on an Oak Creek Bridge.









Zen Twig #4


By Alan Catlin 


Raining
all
day:
a
single
drop
falls









Zen Twig #5

By Alan Catlin


Frozen
rain drop


extends
the branch;


nascent
budding,


dreaming
of Spring



The silence of falling rain- no full moon tonight!














The Rain Streaked Traffic

of Central Avenue


By Alan Catlin 


and the cars parked headon against
raised curbs, once in, impossible to
back out, impossible to navigate once
the lanes are blocked by double parkers,
triple parkers, placing bets, running
numbers, trading stolen goods in pawn
shops, sleaze bars, stationery stores,
false front rental spaces; all the action
behind locked doors, up two flights of
stairs, down unlighted corridors, into cellars
three hundred years old, too dank and
dangerous to be condemned, what code
enforcement agent, what health inspector
would go there? What BCI agent would
infiltrate? Everyone is on the take anyway,
it’s the only way to earn a decent living,
no one complains, the street lights work,
sometimes the lights are red, sometimes
they are green, traffic flows.

Days of tearful clouds

 By David Thorpe

 
Hoarded with avarice,
your presence,
released in rain drops
on days of tearful clouds,
an accomplice of impatience
to withhold the pendulum
of hollow hours
before I am swallowed
by the abyss of self-pity

David Thorpe ©®  2017

A DARK, CRESTING WAVE


By Jack Phillips Lowe




“Bullshit! Always the same old BULLSHIT!”
screams Maddox, stocking shelves one aisle over
from Buchman at the Savemore department store.
Buchman hears a box slammed to the floor,
then angry footsteps trudging away.


Within minutes, Diego, another coworker,
pokes his head around a corner.
“Buchman!” he whispers with the sly grin
of someone with beans to spill.
“Maddox walked off the job! He and the boss lady
had a big fight over holiday pay. Maddy gone, chief!”
Diego hurries off to spread the news.


Buchman pauses, holding a box-cutter and
a case of plastic fidget spinners in his hands.
“A half-hour,” he says aloud, to exactly no one.


That, Buchman knows from experience,
is just how long it will take
for the intoxicating jolt of chucking a job
to wear off and a dark, cresting wave
called the truth to hit a 25-year old man
with no high school diploma
and two toddlers to feed.










THREE BLACK CLOUDS

By Jack Phillips Lowe



After dating for some time,
Sam finally brought Imelda
home to meet his mother.


Tea and cookies came first.
Afterward, the two ladies sat on the sofa,
looking at Sam's baby pictures
in an album his mother dug out.
Stationed across from them in an easy chair,
Sam struggled to look casual.


"I was working as a bookkeeper
in my father's office back then,"
Sam's mother grinned. "I had to
take Sam to the office with me.
See? I'd put him down to nap
in a file drawer I pulled out
of the cabinet and lined with blankets."


Imelda glanced at the photo and frowned.
"Oh, you could never do that today,"
she said. "It's child abuse."


The words were three black clouds
that hung in the air, set to pour.
Sam, watching his mother's face,
knew his relationship
with Imelda was over.












THE SKY CRIED FOR TOM PETTY


By Jack Phillips Lowe


Buchman was sitting on the patio
in his mother’s backyard,
counting the shades of brown
the lawn was sporting
in a month-old Illinois drought.
His cell phone rang.


“Hey,” said his sister Jenny,
whom he hadn’t talked to in weeks.
“I just heard on the news--
Tom Petty is dead.
They said he had a heart attack.”


Buchman muttered, after a pause,
“Don’t do me like that.”


“For real,” Jenny replied,
missing the reference.
“I remembered you like his songs.
Listen, the baby’s crying.
I got to go.” She hung up.


The news had barely sunk in when,
abruptly, it started to rain.
It was a slight but steady drizzle.
In a minute, it stopped
as quickly as it began.


As Buchman noted the dampness
of his clothes and skin,
he felt the corners of his mouth
tugging upward.


“The sky cried for Tom Petty,”


he said, to nobody but God.
“Cool.”

A Rainbow in Her Clouds

By Lucinda Berry Hill


Be a friend's umbrella
When the rain is pouring down.

Hold out a candle
When everything seems dim.

Try to be the rainbow
In her group of clouds.
Show the love of Jesus,
Reminding her of Him.


Ask God for His wisdom.
Go to Him in prayer,

Wait on Him to answer
Wait on Him in faith.

Give to her, a smile
When you have just one to share,

Carry her umbrella
As she races through the rain.


​

Splash your Friends

By Lucinda Berry Hill


Step in a puddle and splash your friends.
It'll do you both some good.
Let them see the Living Water
How it's changed your life for good.

Share with them the cleansing truth,
Salvation from our King.
Do a little splashing now
And to our Savior sing.

Get them wet with the Living Water.
They'll be thankful that you did.
Once they take a taste of it
They'll never thirst again.

So step in a puddle and splash your friends.
Share the renewing joy.
Together you will feel refreshed
And to our Lord rejoice.

Author Lucinda Berry Hill ©


 https://www.facebook.com/#!/pages/Coffee-with-Jesus/355060321207311

http://lucindaspoetry.webs.com/index.htm
 
Ask me about fundraising ideas!

​Bilingual Poetry 

By Daniel de Culla


AGUA ¿QUÉ AGUA?
Antes de llegar el mediodía
Samaria y yo nos fuimos
Al Barranco de La Mazorra
En Poza de la Sal, Burgos
A buscar setas.
Caminamos, y el calor nos fatigaba.
Llegamos junto a un pozo
O esto nos pareció a nosotros
A recostarnos porque estábamos cansados.
Samaria comenzó a tararear
“Gotas de lluvia siguen cayendo sobre mi cabeza”
De Burt Bacharach y Hat David
Para la película Dos Hombres y Un Destino.
Abrazados y, entre besos
Contemplábamos el paisaje
Cogidos de la mano.
Mirando los dos al cielo, pedimos al Señor
Que nos diera un poco de agua
Él, en cambio de agua, nos dio
Una de más importancia
Que aplacaría nuestra sed
Cuando llegáramos a gustarla.
El pozo que pensamos, no era un pozo
¡Que era una vaca¡ que empezó a mear
Con tal virtud y gracia
Que creímos era un afluente del río Homino.
Samaria, mirando al Cielo ella sola
Y con las manos puestas en actitud de oración
Suplicó al Señor:
-Señor, tú que tienes toda virtud
Haz que esta orina de la vaca
Se convierta en agua clara.
El Señor le respondió:
-Aguarda, Samaria.
Y, al instante, le entregó
Un cantarillo de agua clara
En forma de vaca.


WATER, WHAT WATER?


Way before noon
Samaria and I went to
The ravine of La Mazorra
Near Poza de la Sal, Burgos
Looking for mushrooms.
We walked, and the heat made us tired.
We arrived at a well
We quickly agreed we needed
To lie down because we were tired.
Samaria began to hum
The Burt Bacharach & Hat David’ song
"Raindrops Keep Falling On My Head"
From the movie:
Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid.
We embraced and between kisses
We were contemplating, enjoying the landscape
Hand in hand.
Looking at the two's to Heaven
We ask the Lord
To give us some water.
He, instead of water, gave us
Something better
That would appease our thirst
When we got to like it.
The well we thought, was not a well
It’s was a cow! Milk, at last!

But the cow answered with other liquids,
With such virtue and grace
That we thought it was a River Homino’s tributary.
Samaria, she alone, looking at the Sky
And with her hands put in an attitude of prayer
So begged my own lady's self:
"Lord, you, that has all virtue
Turn this cow’s excrements
Turns into fresh water."
The Lord answered her:
"Wait a minute, Samaria. I can do better."
And, in a flash, he gave her
A little pitcher of fresh water
Cow shaped."

TIGER


By Alexandra H. Rodrigues


The tiger was bothered by all the attention
Of kids, hoodlums and old folks on pension.
In front of the cage they were standing in awe
Watching the raw meat he held in his paw.
Tiger swore that he would stir up plenty of sand
When to their own food they did attend.


Mostly he minded a fresh young girl
She enacted loud barfing when his meat he would twirl.
Tiger decided to first take a piss
That girl with the leather jacket he could hardly miss.
So his hind leg he lifted
And watched how to its aim the urine drifted.


The girl screamed and everyone ran away.
The tiger now could have it all his way.
At the cleaners the girl was nastily laughed at
Asked if next time she’d claim a white whale had spat.


With anger and embarrassment she turned blue
She would never again go and visit the Zoo.
For which the tiger will be grateful too.

Sonnet 1

By William Shakespeare


From fairest creatures we desire increase, 
That thereby beauty’s rose might never die, 
But as the riper should by time decease, 
His tender heir might bear his memory: 
But thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes, 
Feed’st thy light’st flame with self-substantial fuel, 
Making a famine where abundance lies, 
Thyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel. 
Thou that art now the world’s fresh ornament 
And only herald to the gaudy spring, 
Within thine own bud buriest thy content 
And, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding. 
   Pity the world, or else this glutton be, 
   To eat the world’s due, by the grave and thee.

The Llama


By Karen King




You look out across the sea


From the wilds of Lands End.
The lighthouse is quiet
Amongst the swelling sea,
Silent and reflective in its thoughts.
The waves crash around the rocks,
As if in warning of the night ahead.
The llama looks on...


A tall boy approaches,
He has been watching from afar
Quietly studying and watching the llama.
This boy knows how to quietly respect
This living being and waits
For the right time to approach.
He knows that beneath the
Supposed sinister spitting,
There is a loving and gentle animal.


The boy steps forward.
The llama steps forward,
Waiting for and wanting the touch of
The boys welcoming hand.


Both sets of eyes meet
And there is an understanding,
Different species, yet in that moment,
They are one and the same,
Separate species of the animal kingdom,
Yet connected as one.

Whiskers


By Karen King





You lie, relaxed, on the rug,


The cattery was cold,


But now you’re snug.


You feel loved and at home,


This is the life,


You no longer feel alone.


You dream of mice and birds galore,


It’s tiring running after them,


Perhaps they could knock on the door?


Soon, you will have your cat shed


Where you can eat and sleep


In your special bed.

The Garden of Parrots and Fleas

Poetry Collection by Alan Catlin


Spider Monkeys on the Subway


Commuters stand, holding the silver
pole one handed, clutching a folded Daily
Newspaper in the one not used for balance,
while others sit holding leather briefcases
sealed by combination locks or simple latches,
unaware of the spider monkeys crawling
on all fours through the legs of the standing
or hanging from the black straps, their free
hand ruffling the heads of the unaware,
reading, removing rain hats, fedoras, backward
baseball caps, peering at the labels inside
they pretend to consider, to read while their brethren
brachiate from overhead fixtures, to hanging
straps, to the metal poles or down extended
arms, faces lit as a jack o lantern is lit,
bare, needle thin teeth shining, edges sharp
and pointed as polished steel.










Cassowary at the Sunset Lanes


Watch as the league play begins,
bowlers caressing fingertip speckled pin
action specials, black beauties, towel
buffed and ready to roll, their team
shirts wrinkle free, short sleeved,
scrolled lettering spells: Bob's Garage,
Prinzo's Bakery, Lake Electronics---
hands powdered by rosin bags, fingers
dried by fountains of forced warm air;
all under the watchful eyes of the cassowary,
perched on molded fiberglass benches,
on the empty alleys slick with flooring
wax, buffed and pristine, smooth as
mirror glass, they admire moving, human
forms in, striding forward with a
meaningful approach, weighted balls
describing geometric arcs toward the set
pins, others sitting with their backs turned
from the action, heedless of the almost
silent, unseen propulsion under alley,
they sit before the ball return, monitoring
the automatic scoring on the lit tally
sheets overhead, as competition judges
would, confirming the struck frame,
the final results.







Ostriches in the Steam Room


Curious heads appear briefly
between the shapes of overweight,
middle aged bald men sitting in
steam, white towels wrapped about
their waists, their torsos slick
with sweat, talking, animated,
gesticulating wildly in the deep
heating, pore opening, body reducing
enclosure, matters of high finance
discussed, debated, settled, matters
of life and death decided, affirmed
by ostriches, craning their supple
necks amid the near-suffocating mists,
imploring eyes frantically blinking
as they try to make sense of the shapes
and shadows just beyond the nearest
billowing heat cloud; bending their necks
against slick tiles they sense defeat,
all attempts at escape, blocked;
the sleek hardness of the missing sand,
the vast savannah, unfathomable, un-
imaginable as a visible trap of heat,
rising, alive, along the imprisoning,
the barely visible walls.








Kea in the Laundromat


"We know better than most what brings
our bodies close. It's how we learn
to tell friends from enemies, the ones
who breath mucous from our lungs
compared to those who suck us dry.
Leonard Cirino


They do not look real, at first,
benign, stuffed, oversized parrots
perched in a row on the stainless
steel clothes bar, watching over
the commercial dryers, industrial
sized washers, tired women, haggard
as death, unfiltered cigarettes thrust
to the corners of their mouths as they
bend over soiled clothes bags, removing
laundry, ignoring children wanting
coins for sodas, candy, gum ball
machines, only pausing in their work
to slap a cling hand aside or to issue
directives, life and death threats only
real fear of imminent violence can
sustain under the eyes of Kea waiting
behind smudged dryer doors, in tarnished
washer basins, strung along the hanging
bars, vigilant as angels, their razor slit
eyes aglow.








Flea Circus


If fleas were not part of a sideshow,
as they surely are in any self-respecting
traveling circus sideshow, what else would
they do with their specialized talents?
I mean, work must be at a premium and
the skills difficult to obtain, so we should
respect, and pay homage, to these little critters.
and their handlers. Be sure not to miss them
the next time the circus is in town: follow
the Great Wall of China to the end,
turn left at the Hunger Artist, cruise past
the Human Cockroach (go ahead sneak a peek,
we know you’re dying to see ), cruise past
the hopping jackalopes and the Before the Law
Biergarten and you’ll find the flea circus there.
Where else would you expect it to be?

SHANGRILA

By Daniel de Culla

-¿Dónde vas, James Hilton
Dónde vas, triste de ti?
-Voy en busca de mis Horizontes Perdidos
En la gran montaña azulada del Karakal
En Baskul, Afganistán.
-Si Tomás Moro ya se ha muerto
En su Utopía, que yo le vi
Escondido en una Shamballa
Más allá de las montañas nevadas
De la cordillera del Himalaya.
Su cadáver le velaba el cónsul británico
Hufg Conway, su asistente Charles Mallinson
La misionera cristiana Roberta Brinklow
Y el comerciante estadounidense
Henry D. Barnard.
También estaba King Kong
Que murió por nuestros pecados
Guardián de Shangrila
Que a las parejas de novios que vienen
Nos les deja entrar entre semana
Y al caballero lozano, que se le enfrenta
Porque quiere meterse para adentro
Le grita:
-Tú, no. Primero, la bella dama.
Y él le responde:
-Pero si usted es mi padre
Y yo soy su hijo, ¡Viejo¡
Como dice Charles Darwin.




SHANGRILA

By Daniel de Culla

"Where are you going, James Hilton?
Where are you going, you sad looking man?"

"I'm looking for my Lost Horizons
On the great bluish mountain of the Karakal!
In Baskul, Afghanistan.
To see If Tomás Moro is already dead
In his own Utopia, I saw him
Hidden in a Shamballa
Beyond the snowy mountains
Beyond the Himalayas range.
His body was guarded by the British consul
Hufg Conway, his assistant Charles Mallinson
Christian missionary Roberta Brinklow
And the American merchant
Henry D. Barnard.
There was also King Kong
Who died for our sins
Guardian of Shangrila
Who will not let in the bridal couples that are coming
And the lusty gentleman who faces Shangrila
Wants to get inside
He will make a great fuss."

"Not you. The beautiful lady first."

James Hilton answers:
"If you are my father, Viejo,
then I am your son,"

And Charles Darwin spoke.

​Poe the Cat

Poetry Collection by Thaddeus Hutyra


Miniature Boy
by Thaddeus Hutyra




One day when Poe the Cat
wandered throughout Central Park
he heard a gentle cry
in the nearby bushes.


Poe the Cat approached the place
in most careful a way
hoping to find a squirrel 
predator’s instinct in him on alert.


What he found, instead
surprised him
as nothing ever so far.


There lay on a leaf
a miniature boy
so little 
as a teenager’s fingernail.


Poor little boy
was naked 
and shivered from the cold
Surely he was abandoned
for who would want
a miniature boy!


Poe the Cat took carefully
the poor little mite 
in one of his paws
and brought him house
to the outmost surprise
of his feline family.


Soon emergency meeting
was called upon all the cats
They meowed and meowed for hours
something had to be done!


They decided unanimously
to keep the miniature boy
till his parents were found
or at least foster parents.


Gone were the days, months
and even a full year
the boy remained miniature
such was his fate!


But he learnt to meow
as all the cats did
and the kittens
of Poe and Kitty the Cats 
loved the most 
to play with him.


Quite clever
was the miniature boy
Not yet two years
he learnt English
and all the mysteries
of computer programming.


All of it from a computer
for he was a marvelous autodidact


he, the miniature boy!


2.
The  curse removed, 
the boy grown big
by Thaddeus Hutyra






Herkles the Wizard came to NYC
the next day at the twilight hours
As soon as he arrived
in the Poe the Cat’s condominium
they began the magical proceedings.


Everything was put in place
all instruments of magics and spells
the magical diary won from Queen the Witch
and the verses’ book they already had
magical sphere, wand, boomerang
a number of other things
all of them of magical dimensions
even the ring Poe had
on one of the fingers of his paw
with the sharpest claw.


Poe the Cat first opened the sphere
that engulfed them all 
with incredible strings of light
starry and fluctuating
They seemed to be flowing
in the mists of some cosmic galactics.


Herkles the Wizard
opened the potion
while Poe the Cat chanted the verses
he found in Queen the Witch’s diary
Herkles at the same time 
repeated the chantings
that were flowing out of the potion
like golden dragons on fire.


What normally was the condominium
which Poe, Kitty and kittens lived in
now was it a galaxy
in the immensity of cosmos
whirling and whirling, and swirling
forming new celestial bodies
all the splendor of the Universe.


Then something did happen
all the magics’ light
engulfed the Miniature Boy
and was piercing him
with an unbelievable power.


Tiny, the Miniature Boy
grew on their very eyes
forming himself
to quite a nice, golden haired boy
of the normal size.


It was the victory
Tiny was no longer cursed!


But Poe the Cat and Herkles the Wizard
wanted more than that
They continued their chanting
repeated the verses
all the while when flowing
in the magics’ universe.



Poe’s book of verses
and the Queen the Witch’s diary
brought them even further
to the thresholds of a new discovery.


They could clearly see
the Tiny’s mother and father
and even the house and the street
in NYC Masspequa vicinity
All the details they needed
in the cosmic clouds
of the magical whirl and swirl
within the magics’ sphere.


When it was over
tremendously grown up Tiny
his normal size by now
ran to all of them
and embraced with them
expressing his outmost happiness.


One chapter of the boy was over
and they all joked
his name should be changed
because he was no longer so tiny
as his name it suggested.


-Wait, dear friends
Poe the Cat them warned
-I am sure his parents
had given him a name
so let’s be patient
we shall learn his real name
quite soon, my dear friends!


The second chapter 
was yet to come
and it was the reuniting of the boy
with his parents he did not know.


Finally, only after it
him back at his parents’ house
there shall follow the third chapter
in the boy’s further life.


For now they all were vivacious
and celebrated the victory
The table was full of delights
prepared by Kitty and her kittens
So the party followed


till the late night hours.


3.Poe the Cat versus Metzebul the Wizard
Planet Earth at Stake
by Thaddeus Hutyra




Poe the Cat got the news
he feared for some time
Metzebul the Wizard
from planet Zorbet
gave order of going ahead
with a total destruction
of planet Earth.


There was no time
for anything
‘Wish me luck’
said Poe the Cat
to all of his feline friends.


He jumped into molecules of light
empowered by all the magics
he had by now.


This time he was alone
in the coming fight
against the most powerful wizard
in all of the Universe.


One thing was sure
one of them will be doomed
Shall it be the fate
for Poe the Cat
his beloved Earth
shall also be doomed.


In his starship, the light
Poe the Cat flew
to the edges of Universe
where new Universes
had their doors.


There on Planet Zorbet 
he landed quite safely
But as soon as he landed there
he ejected himself
yet again in his starship, the light.


He circled then
the Metzebul’s castle
with the speed of light
Imagine thus, dear kids
how unbelievable speed was it
unthinkable to imagine
for the normal human mind.


The moment Metzebul the Wizard
got out of the castle 
for a little while
Poe the Cat struck at him
with all the viciousness he could.


The Magic wand was used
and the magical boomerang
the verses of pure magics
and the magical sphere
all the while
when Poe the Cat
stayed safely in his starship, the light.


He punched the wizard 
with magical rays
of invisible lightsaber
that were like a million of needles
per a millionth of a second.


Metzebul the Wizard
had the power of his own
At times he disappeared
from the normal vision.


He probably saw Poe the Cat
in his starship, the light
because the weapon
he had ready for Earth
he directed with a precision
at Poe the Cat and his starship.


By now it emerged
it was a cat and a mouse deadly game
between two most powerful players
in the entire Universe.


Both were smart, both invincible
but one of them
was going to be prey
while the other one
the ultimate predator.


Poe the Cat knew
shall he lose
all his feline family
and the whole humanity
the Earth itself
will be gone!


He employed all his smartness
all his viciousness
he needed to survive
and even more, to win.


So he circled around the wizard
like an invisible bee
his beams of magical rays
substantially wounding the wizard.


At one point Poe the Cat 
directed all of his magical tools
at what appeared to be 
the wizard’s ultimate weapon
designed to destroy planet Earth.


He managed it, hit the weapon
that bursted into a firework
of a million of sparks
disappearing fast 
into the wizard’s void.


At the same time
Metzebul the Wizard 
managed to hit 
the Poe’s capsule
and… Poe the Cat 
fell to the ground
out of his starship
that so far made him invisible.


‘I have you, stupid Poe’
laughed Metzebul the Wizard
ready to strike
with a final blow.


Unthinkable did happen
Poe the Cat struck first
and locked Metzebul the Wizard
in yet another starship, the light.


Then he sent him far away
from our own Universe
somewhere there
into other universes
Locked in that light capsule
perhaps forever.


So dear kids, believe it or not
but Poe the Cat
not only won
over the most powerful wizard 
of the Universe
but also saved planet Earth
from its final doom.


When he returned to NYC
he stayed calm and modest
He just ate dinner
with Kitty and their offsprings
as if nothing really happened.


Humanity did not have to know
he just saved them all
Why to spread panic
no need to do so! 


But you, dear kids know it all
and Poe the Cat knows
you will care for Earth 
with all the love you have.


4.Shroud of Magics
by Thaddeus Hutyra


A wizard and witch met
both in full blossoming love.


The witch demanded 
to proof he loved her.


So he began reciting verses
proving his love to her.


Here is what he said!


‘Shroud of magics
is you, my goddess 
The ecstasy 
of my heart
the elixir of my life
dawn of eternal hope.


Shroud of magics
is our spring
We are engaged
in the gusts 
of lovely feelings
up to the blue vault 
of the skies.


Love bosons
are our kingdom!


Shroud of magics
is our summer
We are already married
and our flaming minds
are home we have.
The ardor of love
is still consuming us 
Endlessly!


Shroud of magics
is our autumn
Our family nest
is welcoming new children.


Everything is 
on a good track
Divine care 
favoring us.


Shroud of magics
is our winter
Meritorious old age
closes our Earthly life.


We are still listening 
to the melody of life
ready to welcome Our Lord.


Shroud of magics
is our whole life
The weave 
of our passions
and mutual devotion
forever and ever, amen.’


The witch took his hand
when he ended his enchantments
‘I trust you, my wizard
From now on
I am willing to share my life
with you’ - she said.


They then lived together
a long and happy life
and had a dozen of lovely kids.


5. 
Beauteous Whisperer
by Thaddeus Hutyra


Mary the Witch was a beautiful girl
Although she was only 13 years old
she was already quite good in magics.

The boy she met at school, John was his name
was also a clever and smart wizard
as talented as his father, Monrod the Wizard.

John the Wizard eyed only Mary the Witch
and once when all the school was empty
he used his chance
with a support of his iron-clad magics.

So what you hear in the following verses
was deep from his blossoming heart.
Here is what he whispered
to the girl he loved.


Beautiful birds, my gentle whisperers
on all the Earthly meadows
and my own meadows
in my heart 
how I tribute you!


O’ white-chested emeralds, rainbow lorikeets
shoe-billed storks, blue-chinned sapphires
my beloved, gentle whisperers!


O’ white-tailed tropicbirds, Indian peafowls
golden-backed weavers, American flamingoes
my sweet, tranquil whisperers!


O’ ruby-topaz hummingbirds, house sparrows 
southern cassowaries, restless flycatchers
the nature’s finest, noble whisperers!


Yet believe it or not
there is one special whisperer, beauteous one
in my Earthly life
you, my Mary!


In the mornings shrouded by mist
you are there!


In the afternoons shrouded by Sun
you are there!


In the evenings shrouded by twilight
you are there!


In the nights shrouded by dreams
you are there!


Always there, O’ Mary 
on the meadows of my life
you, the very special whisperer, beauteous one!


What else can I say, O’Mary
as just thank you
for you are it all
you, my only love
my beauteous whisperer!’

Now, are you curious
what was the answer from Mary the Witch?
She simply giggled, laughed him aloud
and then said in straightforward words:
‘ My dear John the Wizard
forget your magics, they don’t influence me
you’re far too young for my heart
as I also am too young for your one
Let’s simply stay friends


and make our magic
No need to bother about future for now!’

Climbing Along the Stilled Channels

Poetry Collection by


Alan Catlin


Lord Byron’s Skull


Filthy heads retrieved from displaced
graves: dead abbots, monks, initiates, lords
and ladies and their servants as well, all equal
underground and, now, disinterred as rubbish,
ornamental garden obstructions, playthings
for Mad Jack’s first and only son, the poet,
selecting, at random, a skull to be polished,
rimmed with gold and engraved as a goblet
for fine postprandial Claret, select Burgundies,
all the blood red wine a man might wish to drink.














Mary Shelley’s The New Prometheus


"Reality is the greatest contagion"
Cess Nooteboom


It is the sound a river makes
moving under the earth, musical
as rain as brittle as tree limbs
or wind climbing along the stilled
channels, the blue unnatural glowing
of buoy lights casting scars like
shadows on the veins of night
or a sound as loud as timpani,
a choral blush above a rhythm
of voices rising in supplication
from the diseased beds of dead seas.
Inspiration is where you find it,
moonlit and fantastic like lovers
locked in a fatal embrace,
split black rock among wild
growths on a quicksilver moon
that erupt like sunspots,
cancers that effect the brain.
In a week after diagnosis the patient
will be dead but long before that
the font of music has stopped.














Self-Portrait with Hamlet's Mother on
the Battlements of Elsinor


Spirits travel here but only certain
receptive souls can see them and interact
without benefit of an intermediary,
a medium whose oracular wisdom touches
the entrails of those who left this life
for the other, troubled and confused.
Oceanic tides are trade winds tunneling
inside the wormholes of a mind made
feverish by strong potions, lecherous
impulses and a grief too awful to bear.
This world is unbalanced, made unruly
by unnatural death: bosky woods no
longer remain rooted to a solitary place,
Hyperion becomes satyr and red wine
no longer act as a balm but are a fiery
draught that kills, one fatal sip is all it takes;
once she swallows, the queen looks
as if she has seen a ghost.












Double Self-Portraits


Almost mirror images of two
young women sitting at a café
table, wine glasses half-empty,
half-full, or at the beach, in two
piece bathing suits, one blue,
the other pink, or embracing at
the Central Park Zoo, hello,
goodbye; shadows in dark and
light like two faces becoming
one as in “Persona”, together and
apart, two aspects of the same
person, totally different, or
the dominating one becoming
the dominated as in “Passion
of Anna”, two halves of the same
whole, separate but together,
or two faces turned to a gallery wall,
impossible to tell one from the other;
two empty frames nearby where
their pictures should be.










Trailer Park Barbie


Where she comes from
folks got all the exercise
they needed lifting
the full weight of Tall Boy
cans of the King of Beers
Were well supplied
for the long haul
on those hot summer
nights
The four basic food groups
covered by:
beer nuts
potato chips
pickled eggs &
slim jims
Mom was never
once mistaken
for a lady
Nor Pop for
a gentleman
The last date that had
asked her if she'd like
a glass of white wine
got to wipe it off
his face & pay for her
shot and beer chaser
Her idea of
the perfect vacation
would be bike week
in Florida
trolling the bars
for the man of her dreams

Last year in Marienbad

By David Thorpe
 

I see her again in dreams,
a ritual of beauty to behold.
her evening stroll,
to glance once more at the burning sky,
when the shadows of trees 
caressed slumbering flowers good night
 
Never once did she divulge
the reason for her being there, rather
like some secret kept it sheltered,
´neath a shade of silence,
her umbrella spanned,
a hurdle for intruders
 
Sharing gazes by candlelight we dined,
with wine from grapes of Dionysus` vineyard,
drowning her fears ere break of dawn, when
as some ephemeral apparition her leave she took,
her aromas lingering within the sheets,
my sole consolation
 
In was late summer of fragrances of roses,
days when,for a short while, time,
stood still, to love this lady of Bohemia,
who stole my heart, I condescending,
last year in Marienbad,
when solace was our currency 
 
David Thorpe ©® 2017

Roses of Love

By Lucinda Berry Hill


Roses are red.
Sometimes they're white.
They're great to receive
After a fight.

Sometimes you see them
Climb up a wall.
And sometimes the scent
You can smell down the hall.

Roses are red.
Sometimes they're pink.
They go best with chocolate.
What do you think?

Roses are yellow.
Given with love.
Roses for friendship,
A gift from above.




I Love You Still

By Lucinda Berry Hill
​

Many days have passed
Since our winning date for two.
I chose to let you in.
I chose to walk with you.

Basking in the sun,
Though it wasn't always good.
We faced our share of mountains
But together, our hearts stood.

Holding up each other
While God, He covered us.
Protecting  from all evil,
Strengthening our love.

Each season brings a change
But the sky is still blue.
Roses are still red

And I 
Still choose you.


Author Lucinda Berry Hill   of  "Coffee with Jesus"  and "A Second Cup with Jesus" ©

AN AVANT-GARDE FLORAL PERFORMANCE
 
By Roy Dorman


I recently bought tickets
for a favorably reviewed play
directed by a single daffodil.
 
The cast is made up
completely of roses.
 
Feeling  a bit tentative,
I purchased an aisle seat
so I could leave before intermission
if the play wasn’t meeting my expectations.
 


SUAVE AND DEBONAIR

By Roy Dorman

 
A quick look in the mirror
and he’s off
to the playground.
 
At age five,
neither love
nor milk mustaches
last forever.

​The Beautifully Calm and Delicate

Poetry Collection 

By Tomas Sanchez Hidalgo



Café de la Paix


You should have seen yourself,
barricaded
(the violent August sun on the asphalt).
First voltage,
one of those that leave their mark:
100% Hitchcock.
And I attended,
in midplane,
like seeing a painting for the first time,
the ritual of beautifulcalmdelicate automations of your hands,
picking your black hair
(and this is something that TV ads do not explain).
There, having coffee,
you managed to stop time
with infinite glamor,
and, meanwhile,
I, spellbound,
scrutinized all my potential runaways.








Encyclopedia


I would hunt kisses.
I have no idea about Pokemons.
They tell me it has to do with video games,
or that it´s not social cinema
(although sometimes it produces the same sting).
But I don´t know anything about that.
I would hunt kisses.
Everybody take drugs,
as they can (or want).










Letter


Beautiful way to drop the tip of colors,
for the beginning of a written talk,
to convey emotions leaving an important element...
and see the evening twilight to become
(and, in our hearts,
good reasons to remember).
The ink.






Bukkake


A bus is going to be placed behind you
(driven by a fairy and with the roof open).
It is full of instagrammers
(off the record:
in this way,
what is lost in, shall we say, emotional concentration,
is gained in conciseness of gaze).
They should not wait to request a basin of holy water
by raising their hands.
Within 10, 20, 30 years,
someone will stumble upon these photos
in a random search
and will think that they could have loved you.






Ella se fue, se fue


I asked my girlfriend to leave the house.
She took the things I had given her.
She took the things she had given to me.
She was always very fussy.
What was mine was ours
(and what was hers, hers).
When I came home that night, there was no light.
She had taken all of the bulbs.
So I turned Buddhist after that breakup.
Next time nobody will have anything to take.

In Our Fantasy Garden


By Karen King




I am here in our fantasy garden.


I have finally floated away


From the stinging sea and sand.


Which blinded me.


Where life was not so kind.


Where I was drowned at sea.


Where I was crushed like a shell


And turned to sand.






I am here in our fantasy garden,


Confused and dreamy,


Wondering whether my imagination


Has run away with me,


Like galloping horses pulling a cart


In danger of being over turned.






I am here in our fantasy garden,


Here to test you and question you.


Your soul mate in life and love.


Our spirits have been here all along,


Waiting patiently.






I am here in our fantasy garden,


Guided by our friends on the other side.


Their loving hands have drawn us together,


And our stars have collided


In our Universe of Love.






I am here in our fantasy garden,


Where our rainbow of love


Reaches from the earth plane


To the Heavens above.


With me, you can walk in both worlds,


The seen and the unseen.


Where our love is magnified


Across the seas, across the land.


Where colours are brighter.






I am here in our fantasy garden.


Meet me tonight on the astral planes,


Under the stars and moonlight,


Under the soulful shadows


Of our crimson roses.






I am waiting in our fantastic, fantasy garden.








The Nightingale/

Their Fantastic Kingdom of Love


By Karen King 




She waited for him in the deepest, darkest, cellar,


Hoping he would arrive.


Cobwebs surrounded her, trapping her,


Their circles ensnaring her,


As if emphasising her life, her choices, her mistakes.


Round and round they went.


She was stuck, there was no way out.


Every time she moved, she became more trapped.


She was suffocating and only saw a future


Of darkness and emptiness.


The cobwebs pressed heavily upon her lungs


And it felt as if these malicious monsters were slowly devouring


Her body, her heart, her soul.






She waited for him in the deepest, darkest cellar,


Wondering if he would arrive.


Many lovers, many hopes, many lives,


Only to be executed by the madman’s axe,


Hanged by the hangman,


Burnt alive in the Pagan ritual,


Buried alive by warriors of the dead,


Bled until all the life blood had been sucked out,


Drowned by the very force that sustained their existence.


Shot dead by a crazy gunman.






She waited for him in the deepest, darkest cellar,


Would he ever arrive?


Once she had been a beautiful butterfly,


Fluttering her wings, temptingly,


Until she realised all her male admirers


Only wanted money, sex, citizenship…


To use, to abuse, to amuse.


Themselves.






She waited for him in the deepest, darkest cellar,


For she had found him. Would he find her?


She slowly managed to escape the writhing web,


For the light of love had given her inner strength.


She knew it was his birthday, so she lit a


Celebratory cake in the cellar, in her mind,


Which she lit with her love for him.


Still, he did not come and she cried, desperately,


Wanting their union to be complete.






She waited for him in the deepest, darkest cellar,


For she wanted him. Did he want her?


She sensed him when she saw his Companion, the crow.


She felt him travelling to her and touching her,


Exploring her secret garden.


In her dreams.


She tasted his lips, she felt his closeness and breathing,


As he explored her body.


She saw his dark shadow looming over her,


Admiring her, arousing her


As they travelled to previously unexplored places.


Together.






She waited for him in the deepest, darkest cellar,


Until her hampered heart almost severed.


Heartbroken, she sang, like a nightingale,


Unleashing her unrealised desires.


Her voice slowly danced around the wanton walls of her prison,


Echoing her innermost feelings.


The candle on his cake still burned,


Her love keeping it alive.


Her heart still burned, wanting only him.


She waited for him in the deepest, darkest cellar,


Sensing his presence.


He appeared, in a bubble of blinding light,


Travelling as the winged horse, the Pegasus.


He enfolded her in his wings and


Caressed her. In delight.


He nuzzled her and encouraged her to get the cake,


Which was burning brighter than ever.


She picked up the cake, jumped on his back


And they travelled to his Fantastic Kingdom of Love.






She travelled with him to his Fantastic Kingdom of Love,


Where all she could sense


Was love, peace and happiness.


He told her that now was the time


To leave the darkness behind.


To embrace the light, embrace each other,


Move to the light, surround themselves in light.


He no longer wanted the darkness,


Nor his cobwebs of the past, which entangled him,


The stale air that drove into his nostrils and mouth,


That he tasted with dread.


Where demons howled, hungrily,


Wanting to enslave and devour him.






She travelled with him to his Garden of Pleasure.


Where the roses had no thorns.


Where the red roses ran into white,


As passion and spirituality merged as one.


Where pink roses pranced and danced up the fences.


Where passion pervaded and serenaded.






She travelled with him until she could travel no further.


Where the gates that had been flung open,


Could open no further and could never be closed again.






She travelled with him from darkness to light,


Where all she could see was beauty,


In Their Fantastic Kingdom of Love.


Where she was surrounded by the smell of roses,


Where she could only taste him,


Where she only felt him beneath her fingers,


Where she heard his breathing that touched her soul.


Where he was always with her.








She stayed with him in Their Fantastic Kingdom of Love,


Where she always sang, like a nightingale,


Of the beauty and love they shared.


Melodiously and magnificently!






She stayed with him in Their Fantastic Kingdom of Love,


Where her darkness had become the light.


Where the candle of his cake


Still burns today, their love keeping it alight.


Where her nightingale songs, echo, erotically,


And resonate off the walls around






Their Fantastic Kingdom of Love.






“Erotic Writes, Passionate Knights” Karen King Copyright 2016

Eating an Apple

on the Streets of Stockholm


By Robert Cooperman


For so long, on my hitchhiking, train,
and ferry tour through Europe,
I’d eaten nothing but candy bars
and fish and chips so greasy Mini-Coopers
could’ve gone a hundred burping miles
on a soggy portion of fried plaice and spuds.


By the time I hit Stockholm, I was nuts
for something resembling healthy food:
on a bright street, a vending machine
dispensed apples for a few kroner:
the golden-delicious not my favorite--
MacIntoshes held that pride of place--


but I was desperate for nourishment,
not calories emptier than a magician’s top hat
after the rabbit or dove has escaped for good.
And leave it to the Swedes to offer
something aside from sugar-explosive
carbs from street machines.


I sat on a bench, opened the guide book,
and bit into the crisp autumn-birch-leaf-
tinted fruit, juice dripping down my jowls
like a slab of beef in a Viking mead hall.


Too soon only the sticky residue lingered
on my fingers, butterflied around my nose
like an orchard whose harvest
is about to be plucked and busheled,
as I set off to explore the city not for art
museums or street musicians, but for
any other nutritious tidbits it had to offer.







Galveston Snow Storm


By Robert Cooperman


My wife remembers snow fell once
in Galveston when she was growing up:
a freak storm: eight inches, unheard of
on the Gulf Coast, a one-day Ice Age,
not a snow plow for two hundred miles.


“The city was like those snow globes
you shake to see a house or village
almost disappear in a fake blizzard.


“Children ran outside like a Peanuts
Christmas special, even if few of us
wore coats or snow boots; we stared up
at the sky, tongues tasting the flakes
we hoped were vanilla ice cream.
Kids who’d fought the day before
helped each other make snowmen


“Gone in a few days,” Beth laments.
“The sun came out, temperatures zoomed
to their usual, only slush and puddles;
snowmen’s carrot noses and raisin eyes
fell to the ground, like disappearing tricks.
But it was wonderful while it lasted.”


There was a Middle East snowstorm
the other day: not a miracle to end
all the killing, just a freak weather system
blowing in, blowing out again.






What Were the Chances:

The Isle of Wight Festival, 1970


By Robert Cooperman




Five hundred thousand kids
had already descended,
and I dumbstruck as Dorothy
at her first sight of the Emerald City.


My head swiveling left, right,
up to the stage, back to the crowd,
making laughable the “Cast
of Thousands” ads bugled


for Ben-Hur and Spartacus
when I was a kid. Seemingly,
not an empty space. Panicking,
I was about to slink back


to the mainland: too many raucous
strangers to deal with,
let alone be able to hear the music,
when who should amble up,


but Danny, a buddy from Brooklyn College,
and newly married to Eleanor:
the first woman I’d hopelessly loved,
and who I’d be lifelong pals with.


“El,” Danny called out, “it’s Bob!”
as if they’d been expecting me
for dinner, and I was right on time:
the crowds, the music, no longer important.





Jesse Owens


By Robert Cooperman



To us Jewish kids
growing up in the Fifties
and watching the old newsreels
of the infamous Berlin Olympics
Jesse Owens was our hero:
sticking it to Hitler, making
Adolph’s super-race
of Aryan sprinters look like
they were slogging through mud.


As far as we were concerned,
Jesse Owens had saved the world
by blistering the Olympic track
with speeds we believed
could achieve escape velocity,
had he only grown wings.


Even now, I watch old newsreels,
hold my breath as Jesse Owens
breaks the finish-line tape
with his first-place chest.


They say he made not a dime
off his records in racist America,
but had he visited our block,
we’d have hoisted him
on our young shoulders
and cheered as gold fell


from the sky: magic
for a master magician.

Photo above of the park in Schwetzingen, Germany
Taken by David Thorpe





A SANCTUARY

WHICH BLOSSOMS

IN GOODNESS

 

By David Thorpe







Away from the maddening crowds,
a spring countryside of frolicking lambs,
their innocence, echoed in their bleats,
contents the pastoral peace
 
And there along a garden´s scented paths,
friendly battles are contended,
sunshine and foliage win and lose,
in ever contrasting light and shade
 
In this quiescent garden refuge,
exists a cathedral tranquillity,
disturbed only by the gurgling fountains,
their drops of pearl reflect the dancing sunlight
 
The warm caressing air,
pregnant with floral fragrances,    
attracts the dextrous bumble-bee,
as part of nature’s wonder
 
An uninvited spectator of its beauty,
is more an intruder here,
but whose heart with joy be rewarded,
in a sanctuary which blossoms in goodness
 
Waste no time in your seeking
the felicity of your refuge,
to encounter for a while that inner calm,
strength to face once more a world in turmoil
 
 
 
David Thorpe ® © 2016

---

Day Dream
by Alexandra H. Rodrigues


I can hear my own outcry
“I love you”
“I love you”
“I love you”
Can you hear it too?


I can sense my body’s anticipation
I quiver
I quiver
I quiver
Can you imagine how I shiver?


I can illusion how you touch me
I feel you
I feel you
I feel you
Can I make your secret wants come true?


I can sense flames of growing fire
I smolder in heat
I smolder in heat
I smolder in heat
Can you detect desire in my heart’s beat?


I can no longer avoid this dream about you
Me and you
Me and you
Me and you
All of me begs to become real and true!








Mein Traum


Mein Echo schallt
“Ich liebe Dich”
“Ich liebe Dich”
“Ich liebe Dich”
Hoerst auch Du, mich?


Ich unterliege erotischer Fantasie
Ich fliege
Ich fliege
Ich fliege
Zittere am ganzen Koerper.


Ich stelle mir vor Du beruehrst mich
Machst mich Dir hoerig
Machst mich Dir hoerig
Machst mich Dir hoerig
Moechte Deine geheimen Wuensche erfuellen!


Ich spuere lodernde Flammen.
Ich und Du
Ich und Du
Ich und Du
Mein Herz zieht sich zusammen
Mein Traum werde Wahrheit im Nu.

Landscapes

A Poetry Collection 
​
By Alan Catlin
​

City Landscape with Graves


Even the dead are segregated beneath
white marble markers describing
a passage that always ends in stone.
Vital dates in the old world lot
are covered by moss, overgrown
uncut grass, sprouted weeds aged
to grey by a summer of no rain
and endless clouds layers of soot.
The red sun sets beyond the last
monument rows looking down on
the city, on the heat sores
spreading through the darkening
streets of Manhattan, the new dead
walk carrying brief cases filled
with wet sand and with ash,
the flickering street lights
coming slowly alive in their eyes.






Lorca in New York


Sings of the thunder in Central Park
widening the eyes of derelicts skimming
the tops of trees, fattening the clouds,
expanding blacktopped paths that harbor
ghosts, spirit children whose teeth are
electrical charges that reach up
and discover sky, whose eyes are slow
smoking fires, grains of heat emitting
grey wreathes, ephemeral webs black
widow spiders hang dreams in. Holding
the sacramental vessel by the neck,
his Sangre de Christo vino primo,
the drunken poet counts a universe
of fallen stars strewn among the broken
glass beside a man-made lake; each
rain drop begins a new circle of despair,
a new world of empty rooms he is afraid
to wake up in.










The Wallace Stevens Brighton Beach Torch Song


Burned out lost in the funhouse eyes
oversee the sagging, waterlogged pier,
lace puddles of dried fire hose foam,
blackened busted wall support seams,
punched out glass window panes deformed
by the heat, warped hanging overhead metal
fixtures, filaments without bulb casings point
down into the still smoking ruins, the settling
rolling ocean fog; hot embers like eyes
in the night.







Summer Rain with Shopping Bag Lady


The old lady sits eating lime jello
in the down pouring rain, great gaping
holes in her stockings, soiled house
dress the size of a side show tent
bursting at the seams, man sized
raincoat unbuttoned all the way down,
too short sleeves rolled into cuffs,
deck hand sneakers without laces,
tongues ripped out reveal ulcerating
sores, arms the size of fat hams end
in hands that hold a white plastic
plate and spoon, feeding the toothless
maw of the giant, rain beating all those
who must wait for the local bus, beating
the taut tops of the upturned umbrellas,
those hungry eyes lost in the act of
eating, streaming dark clouds of death
black mascara.




Morning Fog and Sun


Sunlight filtered
through fog,


morning haze
dissipates,


heat rising
from stacked hay;


new colors,
shadows.

Photo by Karen King

​

Autumn Cows


By Karen King 




These cows in the field, eating their hay,


It is an amazing Autumn day.


As you munch steadily in your ring,


I wonder what this season will bring.


Short days, fog and rain,


The next day, some more of the same?


With leaves, golden and green,


It feels like some kind of dream.


With hot days long gone and winter ahead,


Thoughts of summer days leave my head.


I look across and watch the cows,


Take their advice and enjoy the now!






“Delights of Nature – Autumn” Copyright 2015

Photo by Karen King




Rusty Bracken


By Karen King




Leaves, the colour of rust, reaching out,


Like a sunbather, thirsty for more rays.


Enjoy this late Autumn sun,


For who knows when you will get another chance


Before you wither and descend to the ground?


Back to nature and your rebirth next Spring.






“Delights of Nature – Autumn” Karen King Copyright 2015

Photo of Berwick Lodge in Almondsbury


Dust Bowl

By Jessica Goody


Clouds gather and thicken, dark as smoke, 
a looming blizzard of rising dust. Dunes are 
heaped at every fencepost. The world has 
been scoured blank, pumiced by swirling dust.

Farmers gag into once-white handkerchiefs, 
slowly suffocating on gray air. Dust mounds
obscure tractor and plow; harnesses lie empty.
Produce has shriveled on the vine; this thriving 

farm has been transformed into no-man’s-land. 
Tousle-haired children trudge through the gray 
sea, their bare feet leave tracks as they trudge
into the yard to seek supper, scavenging for food. 

In this barren landscape of empty acres, hunger
grows where the crops do not rise. Silt cascades 
from curtains and patchwork quilts, filling shoes 
and sifting between pages of books, piling in the 

corners and encrusting windowsills, seeping like 
sand into each cranny and crevice. Dust peppers 
their vittles inside the wooden shacks where the 
wives sweep, endlessly beating the braided rugs. 

The world is dun-colored, bleached by gray dust.
Arms ache with the effort of clearing the scourge.
Her faded housedress clings to her soaked armpits 
and soot-smeared skin. Her frustrated attempts at 

cleanliness cannot dislodge the grit blackening nails 
and stiffening hair, crunching unpleasantly between 
teeth. Her face is sunburned and haggard with strain. 
In the washtub, her dust-dulled skin is sloughed raw.

The house creaks under the barrage of wind, wood 
bleached by the force of the gale. Tumbleweeds roll 
past, in a hurry, keen to to escape the stinging fog.

The family huddles together, waiting out the storm.





After Dark

By Jessica Goody


The world is black. There is no sky, no marsh, no hills, 
no clouds visible: darkness total and blinding. The road 
is a blank stream. One could fall into the forest, drown 

among the bracken and salt pools. One has to squint and 
stare to discern the branches crocheted in mantillas of 
black lace, the shaggy cypresses, the feathery pines. 

The woods have been abandoned. The nocturnal populations 
of bandit raccoons, the scurrying foxes and elegant, nervous 
deer are nowhere in evidence. Bats swoop among the treetops. 

They are indistinguishable against the lightless scrim of clouds 
in the black backdrop of night. Out of the corner of your eye you 
expect to see creatures menacing and crepuscular, the denizens 

of Black Forest fairy tales: Fierce wolves, amber-eyed, their gaze
like the invisible moon. Hawks glare coldly with obsidian eyes, but 
no rodents rush along the road to be momentarily illuminated 

by my lone headlights. Alligators lie at the pond-bottom, plotting. 
The silence is unsettling. Utter darkness, lacking the landscape’s 
shadowy, arresting chiaroscuro. I have to search to see the stars.


​


Among the Fen

By Jessica Goody


A bench beneath a sprawling cypress tree
whose gnarled roots resemble thick fingers
spreading into tributary veins;

the hands of a wise and patient crone.
Birds materialize on the lake
like specks of light in the corner of your eye;

sudden flashes of black or white 
against the green scrim of trees,
hidden like a picture-puzzle.

Their presence is not obvious. You do not expect them,
being so used to seeing the expanse of lake deserted.
Their appearance takes you by surprise;

you are aware of their existence only in retrospect.
you catch a glimpse in passing, as fleeting 
as dust motes scattered in the sunlight.

Prayers and Apple Pie

By Lucinda Berry Hill


Mom's apple pie is finished.
Her cleaning up is too.
She sits it by the window
Letting it get cool.

The bible on her table
Holds the recipe of life:
A pinch of this, a dash of that,
And stir till all is right.

Mom peeled and cut the apples.
She rolled out dough for crust.
She sprinkled on some cinnamon
And  did it all for us.     

Cause that's what Mother's do you see,
They cook and bake and clean.
But the most important job she has
Is praying through the week.

She prays for daily safety,
For guidance as we walk.
She prays for blessed wisdom;
To think before we talk.

She prays that we'd show kindness
To people in our day.
And for our hearts to blossom,
Taking time to pray.

We thank God for the blessing
Of our vegetables and meat.
We clean off all our dishes.
Then apple pie we eat.

The apple pie mom made us,
From the tree branch to the oven,
Is just another way she shares
All of God's good lovin'.


Lucinda Berry Hill Author of Coffee with Jesus and A Second Cup with Jesus.©

 https://www.facebook.com/#!/pages/Coffee-with-Jesus/355060321207311

http://lucindaspoetry.webs.com/index.htm

Photo taken by Karen King of her son, fishing


Life is a Feast
 
By Karen King
 
 

Life is a feast
Of beauty, love and splendour.
Enjoy life.
Explore your senses.
Enthral in the colourful carnival of life.
​
Enjoy the taste of life.
Starters sampled.
Temptations tasted.
Festive feasts.
To be devoured.
 
Enjoy the smell of life.
Fresh flowers.
Fresh fruits.
The smell of Spring.
To be relished.
 
Enjoy the touch of life.
Hidden treasures
Upon your body and soul.
The touch of a loved one.
To be caressed.
 
Enjoy the sight of life.
See subtle and strident colours,
Encircling you and within you.
Follow your chosen path,
To be harmonious.

Enjoy the sound of life.
Your musical melodies within
As you sing to other souls,
Attracting those of a similar vibration.
To be joyous.
 
Life is a feast
Of beauty, love and splendour.
Enjoy life.
Enjoy your senses.
Enthral in the colourful carnival of life.
 
 
Karen King   Copyright   30 January 2016
 

Photo below taken by Karen King of her son at the BBQ

Food Alphabet


By Alexandra H. Rodrigues

​

Of course we all know that what we eat
Not always serves the body’s need.
So here now is a sampling alphabet
Of foods that healthy standards set.


Apples, Arugula and Artichokes are good to get
Barley, Blueberries and Broccoli, but little Bread
Cinnamon, Cranberries, Cacao are not so bad
Dates for fiber, Duck and Daikon for salad.


Escarole, possibly eggs if farm fresh the case
Figs, Fish and Fennel have here their place
Ginger, Garlic, Granola and juicy Grapefruit
Honey, Herring, and tender, broiled Halibut.


For lack of food with “I,” Ice-cream, but just a scoop
Jalapeño peppers might lend their flavor to soup
Kale, Kiwi, Kabob and Kohlrabi come to mind
Lentils, Lingonberries, Liver and Lima beans I find.


Milk, it does not have to be from the cow
Nuts of all different kinds and beer by Lowenbrau
Oats, Olives, Oregano and many known spices
Plums, Pepper, Pomegranate, of Pork few slices.
Quail, Quark and Quince are healthy delicacies
Radishes, Rhubarb, Ricotta but no Roquefort please
Spinach, Salmon, Squash, Sauerkraut and Saffron
Turmeric, Tangerines, Tarragon and Tea have won.


Ugli fruit, Urchins but their value I do not know
Vanilla, Vinegar, Veal and most Veggies we self-grow
Walnuts, a glass of Wine and Water, and Water again
X nothing healthy enters at this time my brain.


Yogurt, Yams and Yellow peppers surely here do belong
Zucchini for the letter Z now concludes this, my song.

Give Food for Thought 

Bilingual Poem in Spanish and English 

By Daniel de Culla


DAR MATERIA EN QUE PENSAR

“Al clérigo y a la trucha por San Juan
la madre abadesa les busca”
-Dicho popular
Mi abuelo es chacinero
Hace embutidos de carne de puerco adobada.
Bien, bien
Dale, dale, dale al Tajo de la carne.
-Niño, aparéjame el Burro
Que me voy a vender morcillas.
Bien, bien
Dale, dale, dale al Tajo der la carne.
-Que me voy a vender morcillas.
El abuelo marchó declamando
Por las calles, las cuadras y corrales
Ensalzando las tripas, la carne y la sangre
En cerdosos metros.
Bien, bien
Dale, dale, dale al Tajo de la carne.
Para vender la sublime materia
Que tanto merece el aprecio
De las mujeres y los hombres.
Bien, bien
Dale, dale, dale al Tajo de la carne.
Al rodear una esquina
Le salieron cuatro gitanos
Le quitaron el Borrico
Y le dejaron, tan sólo
Las morcillas de Burgos.
Bien, bien
Dale, dale, dale al Tajo de la carne.
-¿Dónde iré yo, ahora
Que me compren las morcillas?
Iré a ese convento de Las Huelgas
De monjas cistercienses
A ver si me las compran.
Bien, bien
Dale, dale, dale al tajo de la carne.
A un golpe en la aldaba
Sale la madre abadesa
Mi abuelo en estado de rebosar erudición
Patentizando las bellas calidades
Las honras y las glorias del Cerdo.
-¿A cómo da usted las morcillas?
-A dos Euros y medio el medio kilo
Cincuenta céntimos más barato
Que en el Mercado.
Bien, bien
Dale, dale, dale al Tajo de la carne.
-Más, en honor suyo
Aquí traigo para la madre abadesa
Una morcilla reciente
Y más caliente
Con la que quedará enteramente satisfecha.
Bien, bien
Dale, dale, dale al Tajo de la carne.
Salieron las novicias todas
Le dieron una paliza
Con licencia y vete
Abandonando mi abuelo el lugar
Sin su carga, bien molido
Con el rabo entre las piernas.
Bien, bien
Dale, dale, dale al Tajo de la carne.
 


GIVE FOOD FOR THOUGHT
                            
"To the clergyman and the trouts of San Juan:
 The mother abbess is looking for them."
 
                                               -Popular tag
 
My grandfather is a maker of black puddings,
He makes sausages of marinated pork.
 
Well, well,
Look at it, look at it,
Look at the Cut of the meat.
 
“Hey, boy, bring me the Ass
I’m selling black puddings.”
 
Well, well
Look at it, look at it,
Look at the Cut of the meat.
 
My grandfather marched about proclaiming
Through streets, stables and pens
Praising the guts, flesh and blood
In pig meters.
 
Well, well
Look at it, look at it,
Look at the Cut of the meat.
For selling the sublime matter
That is very deserving
Of Wo/Men’s esteem.
 
Well, well
Look at it, look at it,
Look at the Cut of the meat.
 
Going around a corner
Four gypsies came up to him
Taking his Ass
Leaving him alone
With the Burgos’ black puddings.
 
Well, well
Look at it, look at it,
Look at the Cut of the meat.
 
“Where do I go now?
To sell black puddings?
I’ll go to the Convent of Las Huelgas
With Cistercian nuns
To see if they want to buy them.”
 
Well, well
Look at it, look at it,
Look at the Cut of the meat.
 
With a knock on the door
The mother abbess came out
My grandfather in a state of being, bursting with erudition,
Revealing the pig’s beautiful qualities
Its honors and glories.
 
“How much are the black puddings?”
 
“Two and a half Euro the half kilo
Fifty cents more cheap
Than in the Market.”
 
Well, well
Look at it, look at it,
Look at the Cut of the meat.
 
“But, in your honor
I bring here to the mother abbess
A recent black pudding
And more hot
With it you will be entirely satisfied.”
 
Well, well
Look at it, look at it,
Look at the Cut of the meat.
 
The novices came out all and sundry
Beating him up
Bidding him go away¡
Leaving my grandfather on the yard
Without his load, well done up
With the tail between the legs.
 
Well, well
Look at it, look at it,
Look at the Cut of the meat.
 

The Scary Path Poems

By Patrick Bryant Michael




I.

Curves in the Road
 
Life is a series of twists and turns, leaning around curves
racing
pacing
yourself, enjoying the ride, especially on wilder swerves
spinning
yearning
for high speeds, ones that will put a real strain on frazzled nerves
chasing
speeding
down the highway of life, taking chances with tight reserves
driving
shifting
gears in transit, making love on an overpass as pervs
relaxing
sitting
back, letting the landscape pass you by, winds of change observes
riding
loving
the wind in your hair, time gets away, cosmic preserves
falling
picking
yourself up, lessons learned from nature, love and peace deserves
struggling
overcoming
the stresses of life, taking hurdles like curves in the stretch
twisting
going
round the bend, laughing, puking from the stresses like a retch
sliding
careening
round sharp curves, feeling like you are soaring in the homestretch
freeways
byways
heads in the clouds, sailing along like gods riding a ketch
asphalt
concrete
roads can break apart, on the curves creating a tight etch
undulating
following
the contours of mountainous highways, drawing out the kvetch
slewing
straightening
curves on the road, making a less complicated outstretch
wavy
serpentine
roadways bring minds into dizzy spells, eyes seeing a glitch
journeys
riverbanks
give a view of nature, rapids flowing o'er rocky shoals
banking
angling
down a steep, declining roadway, riding out rock and rolls
byroads
sightseeing
on vacations, watching out for roadwork and big potholes
winding
narrow
roadways test driving skills, going out on causeway patrols
rambling
veering
off and on the roadway, teasing the passengers, old souls
taking
arteries
racing the clock, weaving through traffic like you know keyholes
uphill
downhill
taking the curves with grace and speed, passing, the road extols
pressing
pedal
with sound mettle, taking hard curves, watching the hilltop knolls.
 
(c) June 27, 2016 by PBM




​

II.



Fast and Slow
 
Time is relative to masses in rotation
revolving
orbiting
other bodies transforming their force relation
spinning
navigating
the spaces between atoms, attract fixation
increasing
heartbeats
making you sweat, getting a sense of salvation
abating
resting
before a workout, avoiding your damnation
racing
accelerating
to heighten the heartbeat, the soul seeks sensation
walking
smelling
the flowers on the paths of life, in elation
rushing
getting
in too much of a hurry, with no cessation
reducing
idling
to wait out your impatience, seeking peace of mind
driving
expediting
matters of importance, in not getting behind
slackening
softening
your stance with friends and family, being aligned
crashing
charging
forward to gain momentum, being unconfined
sagging
tiring
of the world and all the struggles, feeling maligned
moderating
retarding
the growth of new dimensions, heart and soul refined
zipping
weaving
through traffic like a crazy man, being streamlined
delaying
souring
on old propositions, wanting new, you are primed
whizzing
fleeing
the ordinary, taking risks, wild oats to sow
quiet
meditating
gaining a sense of peace, feeling a warmer glow
swiftly
stronger
emotions issue forth, finding a new plateau
tepid
looser
choices than you are capable of, still you crow
sooner
expeditious
decisions that bring successes as with escrow
lesser
sparser
earnings for your efforts, a time for you to grow
timelier
promptly
doing what you should, embracing your afterglow
shorter
tighter
when put in a tough spot, not having enough dough
harder
urgently
dealing with tough issues, gaining better insight
guitars
rhythm
first slow, then faster and faster, in the spotlight
drawing
being
creative, slowly painting pictures, your birthright
dashing
dancing
in the rain, hearts beating faster in the twilight
draining
closing
doors that were once open, bridges burned to incite
opening
spreading
your wings of love, for the heart and soul to excite
pacing
standing
your ground when family is in trouble, a rite
hotfooting
impetus
creating a faster pace, finding new foresight
dawdling
sluggishly
doing what you should, resting when you feel the pain
resisting
embracing
the soul to gain nature's value to your domain
bolting
sharply
taking the curves in life's road, strengthening your brain
pokey
dragging
butt after enduring too much, then to abstain
rashly
speeding
into crowds, laughing, acting like you are insane
wearily
crawling
on the floor as if gravity wants to detain
whirling
spinning
like a top, losing sense of balance, staying sane
lazing
slowing
to a snails pace, the mind sensing legerdemain.
 
(c) July 16, 2016 by PBM






III.



Twisted Paths
 
In San Francisco there are crooked little streets
confusing
bemusing
little houses where the poor live with the elites
receding
misleading
others with close knit patterns that offer repeats
competing
intriguing
innocent, twisted people living in retreats
composing
imposing
twisted rules on crooked people, between the sheets
incurring
recurring
paths with wicked curves, screwing up normal heartbeats
derailing
unveiling
crooked paths uphill, downhill, heart and soul competes
perusing
seducing
the mind into believing nursery rhymes, tweet tweets
amazing
embracing
the cosmos to feel a mystic force, twisting twice
invading
creating
a fantasy world, where the twisted roads entice
inhaling
exhaling
while running a twisted course, breathing - a device
entering
exiting
back and forth on a crooked path, a vicious vice
pursuing
debuting
new dimensions on a twisted path, throwing rice
varying
ferrying
on a twisted canal, trying to be precise
surveying
portraying
life in twisted ways, making the normal suffice
repeating
retreating
to places in the past, with a roll of the dice
comparing
exploring
crevasses in dark places, the face twists up fast
increasing
decreasing
the pulse to be aware of time and space recast
discharging
enlarging
the scope of exploration, twisting to find contrast
converging
emerging
loss of reality, insanity may last
conforming
reforming
never sure of crooked paths, trying to outlast
regaining
containing
the forces of evil, straightening, feeling aghast
exclaiming
inflaming
those around you, twisted love making a real blast
asserting
reverting
to a sense of normal, twisted love unsurpassed.
 

A Cosmic Garland 


Poetry Collection by Durgesh Verma



1.

A Cosmic Garland

“You can see
a pretty palm.
which tries to preserve
drops of rainfall.
Each tiny drop
touches this hand
and gets spattered
in million segments.
Segments of thoughts
are similar to rain.
It enters entirely into mind
with precipitate.
Some collide with inner conflicts
and dissipate.
Some aim for peace
and emancipate.
Let's exchange the views
with fluorescence.
Search spiritual existence
in the theme of essence.
With courage
and without
a sense of
discriminate.
The young budding flowers of the muse
could open their aromatic petals
for a cosmic garland.”



2.

Cosmic Affection

“The sun melts down
for an another sunrise.
The stars twinkle for us
to give a pleasant surprise.
The moon becomes cool
with sanguine surmise.
The entire cosmos gaze us
with infinite eyes.
For what? –
For spreading
a ray of genuine hope. For sick and silly situations
which need to cope.
If you feel solitariness
in the crowd of the busy bee hive.
Raise your eye,
talk to the horizons of the sky.
You'll find
a universal beam of affection.
Despite having to familiarize with
your inhuman attitudes and imperfections.”




3.

The Lost Feather

“Those golden memories
exists till now.
Which we remember
and happily say wow!
When the
beautiful canary
of childhood existed
in the alluring islands of the past.
Her chirp
mesmerized us.
At present,
which we lost.
Its agile eyes
used to search
those pink flowers
of nectar.
Which were blooming
in the calm lake
and acted as
an eternal effector.
The cruel jaws
of maturity
have snatched
those wings.
Now,
we easily
do believe
in showy things.
Have you ever remembered
those childhood days -
Where's the childish craze?
Where's the catchy image?
Where are those sweet chirps? Where's the flowery lake?
Where's the eagerness of the birthday?
Where's the taste of those cakes?”

(Prologue: In the autumn of 1803, the young mathematician, Carls Friedrich Gauss, was on his way by
post coach through Prussia to the city of Königsberg. Gauss had wished to show Kant
 his thesis  “Disquisitiones Arithmeticae”, in the hope, that at least Kant would
 understand this widely disregarded work. Kant, unknown to Gauss, was
 losing his battle against sanity,  and would arrive too late
 to acquire the philosopher´s interpretation.
 His mind had already surrendered to the formidable foe.)
 

GAUSS AND THE LAMPS OF HELL

By David Thorpe

The journey had begun at the crack of dawn,
the evening sky was already dyed by a setting sun,
coach man, horses and the only passenger needed rest
at their abode for the night in the next village

On their arrival the welkin had taken the colour of jet,
thunder clouds had usurped the twilight,
lightning struck, illuminating for a brief moment
the downpour of rain, turning the highway into mud

On entering the inn the warmth was a welcomed greeting,
other than the silent looks from clay pipe smokers,
even the cat stared with deceitful eyes at the intruder,
before disappearing into the inhospitable darkness

The young man´s slumber was as restless as the rumbling heavens,
he awoke to the solemn peel of the solitary church bell,
and the sound of murmuring people with hurried footsteps,
on their way to the house of worship

His curiosity told him to dress with haste
to run down the stairs and along the cobbled street,
following the fright possessed  villages filling the pews,
to hear the  reverend´s proclamation of dread 

“Beware, the necromancer again is on the prowl,
out there in the swampy marshes,
the lamps of hell fluoresce and illuminate
the entrance to the necropolis of Hades,
to guide him to the souls of his victims.”

The cries of fear resounded in the belfry,
astounded by their common ignorance,
Gauss interrupted the preacher´s predict
and explained the phenomenon of the glowing lights,
they being  chemical reactions* and not to be feared
 
 As dawn spread out her wings over the eastern horizon,  
full of despondency Gauss continued his journey,
aware he had failed to convince the superstitious villages,
clutching still their crucifixes and scapulars,
proof that the devil  over science had gained the upper hand
 


*The earliest attempt to scientifically explain the causes of ignis fatuus
(will o´ the wisp) was by the Italian physicist Alessandro Volta in 1776
when he discovered methane.
 
David Thorpe ®© 2016
 

Your Subterranean Soul


By Karen King




Your subterranean soul searches, endlessly, in the night,


Why continue this way? It is not right!


You scurry, like a rat, through the corridors,


Every door, you must ignore.


Everywhere you turn, doors despise


And torture you before your eyes.






A squeaky, wooden, door is marked, “more pain”,


You decide not to visit there again.


A towering, metal, door is marked, “more fear”,


Another direction, you must steer.


A dark, dingy, door marked, “numb”,


Sometimes welcome, but that is dumb!


Doors marked, “anger” and, “madness”


Lean next to each other, supported by, “badness”.






Turn away, there is a shaft of sunlight,


That shines, subtlety in the night.


Follow it through the rubble and dark,


Follow the calling of the lark.


The better way is waiting to be taken,


Just turn around and awaken.






On you go, through the dust and pain,


Tripping and stumbling, again and again.


As you traipse, your clothes stick,


Your tongue sticks to your teeth and feels thick.


Your wet hair dangles in your eyes,


You desperately hope for a surprise…






Up ahead, you see a door made of gold,


Glittering, graciously. It is very old.


Open the door and see what’s inside,


No longer is the time to hide.


Like Santa’s grottos, all your treats wait here,


Do not turn away and disappear.






“Paranormal, Mythical and the Dark Side – Book Four” Karen King Copyright 2015



​





Zombies


By Karen King




Half dead, nailed into the coffin – so dark inside,


Left and forgotten - in hell you hide.


Maggots materialise, slowly devouring you skin,


This is a death in which you’ll never win,


For you are still half alive,


Poisoned by a puffer fish, deprived of its last dive.


Your soul is elsewhere, but your body lies,


Awaiting, decaying, in one long sigh …


Yet not properly alive, yet not quite dead,


This is a subconscious nightmare, which many dread.


The damp, the dark, the cawing of crows,


Awaiting to pluck out your eyes and nose.


Buried alive, for seven days,


A temporary home in which to stay.


Soon, your eyes will see the light of day,


Your body someone’s slave, but your soul gone away.






“Paranormal, Mythical and the Dark Side – Book Four” Karen King Copyright 2015

​Summer Night City
 
By Sonia Broadbent


"Lazy mornings"
Lazy Sunday mornings
Curled snuggled in your bed,
Wrapped up in your arms dear,
With your chest under head.
Your heart beats a tempo,
It’s calling out my name,
A soft steady rhythm,
Like warm summer rain.
Each beat tells a story,
It plays out a song,
Straight from your heart dear,
A melody I long.
The sun streams on in,
In soft golden glow,
It caresses your face,
Your smile is on show.
Lazy Sunday mornings,
With you lying next to me,
It feels like I’m home dear,
Where I want to be.

By Sonia Broadbent © 2017 – All rights reserved

Summer Night City


By Karen King




They heard the sirens screeching and the parties pulsing.


The sounds slowly reached through the open window


Of the couple enjoying the summer night.


In their own way.


In their own time.


The smell of barbeques and fiery heat


Wafted through the room as the couple


Turned up their own heat.


They reminded themselves of their touch.


They reminded themselves of their taste.


They gazed at each other as their separate images faded,


Becoming one as the light faded in the room.


The sun slowly set,


The fiery sunset streaking the sky,


Golden, glistening streaks of joy.


The sounds dwindled outside their window


As day turned to night


Whilst their breaths of excitement increased


As all sense of time was forgotten.


The past and future no longer existed


As they gave themselves to the present.


As they gave themselves to the future.






Karen King Copyright 9 July 2017

Their Love was Hard


By Karen King





Their love was hard,


Like rugged rocks


Jutting out of a mountain


And scree that stopped them


In their tracks


Before they even began


Their ascent.






Their love was hard


As one challenge after another


Presented itself


To be understood.


There were always easier routes;


Long winding paths,


Or maybe even paths of avoidance.


She tried to take alternative routes,


Or old, beaten paths,


Providing comfort.


But he wouldn’t let her.






Their love was hard


As their lives lived tumbled, twisting


In unseen hands.


Yet, moments of joy,


Fun and laughter,


Filtered through the cracks,


Giving them hope


As they travelled together


On their new-found path.






Their love was hard,


But they had gone too far


To turn back.


She was scared to move on,


She was scared to lose him.


She was scared of the future.


She was scared of the past.






Their love was hard, but


In that moment,


She lost herself to him.


She felt she loved him,


But she didn’t know about


The next day.


She didn’t know about


The day after.






Their loved was hard


And they loved hard


As they climbed the mountain together


To new heights in


The long summer’s night


Of the city.






Karen King Copyright 9 July 2017

​Whims of nature

By David Thorpe
 
High above the bordering trees,
from our balcony we gaze in wonder
at the welkin attired in a setting sun,
the beauty of which we never tire
 
The shoreline promenade far below,
where hustle and bustle unbridled
and tourist fracas mark the hour,
remains a chain of silent lights
 
The sounds we hear are whims of nature,
a patter of rain on thirsty leaves,
whispered caresses of itinerant breezes,
at times the calls of home-bound gulls
 
Alas, the river of life ever onward flows,
a return to reality too soon to bring,
yet summer will again bestow
a balsam for the scars of winter   


David Thorpe ©® 2017

​When Jenny Died

By Dr. Benjamin White



                         When Jenny died
I took a ride at midnight
To cruise Central Avenue
Like I use to do
Thirty years ago
                          When I came to know
                          Albuquerque
Through her kitchen
And her wisdom
And in her representation
                           Of the hometown
                           She connected me to –
A small, slow and sleepy
City with a history
Told in family stories
And shared with neighbors
                           When everyone knew each other
                           And had no desire
                           To deviate or initiate change,
                           As right and wrong
                           Fit and were comfortable
In the green-chile-
And-tortilla culture
Of self-sufficiency and separation
From the rest of the country –


                               And Jenny knew
                               What there was to know
Rooted so deeply in the culture
And community
She had seen grow
                               Too big
                               Too wicked
                               Too full
Of foreign strangers
From California,
New York
Mexico
Or, like me, Kentucky –
                               But she wouldn’t leave
                               And would always represent
                               The reasons I always returned
As I tried to find the same feelings
Lost now in subterranean layers
Of a fading past
Disappearing too fast.


Though I felt it that night
On Central;
Old Route 66 –
                                   That old, out-west
                                   Spanish romance
Coming back to remind me
Of those first affections,
And yet, sadly, to find me
                                     Realizing
                                     My connections were gone.


And that I should be, too.
​

God's Firefly

By Lucinda Berry Hill

What was God thinking
When He made the Firefly?
Was He thinking how beautiful
Summer nights would be?
What was He thinking
When He made their tails light up?
Was He thinking of the children
And the joy on their faces?
What was God thinking
When He made so many?
Was He thinking that together
Their tails could light a dark path?
What was He thinking?
Perhaps, that we should be like them,
Let our lights shine, and together
We could lead people home.

I want to be God's Firefly.

Author Lucinda Berry Hill   of  "Coffee with Jesus"  and "A Second Cup with Jesus" ©
​

Still Searching


By Alexandra H. Rodrigues


She may have known me in another life
At no other solution, I can arrive
She called me Magdalena in my dream
A name that quite strange to me does seem.


I had not heard this name for a long time
In this life for sure it was not mine
She hugged me and kissed me
Appeared happy with our meeting to be.


Do we go thru cycles to clean our soul?
Are we obliged to perfect spirit and all?
Have in the past we missed to earn eternity
Why must all that till the end a secret be?


In the dream, it rained and wet me thoroughly
The surrounding could have anywhere been
Neither hostile nor friendly, just normal it was
Nothing would show me this dream’s source.


The name Magdalena now sticks to my mind
Any kind of explanation I would love to find
I don’t recall it has been mentioned to me before
Now I search for a sign that opens this door!


Aug.07, 2017





​

Devotion


By Alexandra H. Rodrigues


This is an autumn day of special charm
The air is mild and pleasantly warm.
The water in the canal ripples steadily along
Waves like liquid silver whispering a song.


Outside I sat on my bench, not at all cold
While thoughts of a lifetime of me did take hold.
Here I had spent the majority of my past life
As daughter, mother, lover and wife.


It is calming when one comes to realize
That in nature all does in a circle arrive
When for the first time I had seen the Bay
“This is amazing” to my husband I did say.


The same expression comes today to my mind
Peace and tranquility in those words I find.
Despite the times when major floods hit
I do not see reason to move away from it.


Days like this one just now
Make me to the waterfront my devotion vow.








Letter to Dad
​

By Alexandra H. Rodrigues


This goes back a long way
I was not even ten years old that day.
My Mom was writing to Dad and so was I.
He had to leave us, I did not know why.
Mom said if I pray God will keep Dad safe.
Safe from what? Mom added, Dad is brave.
So I write:
Dear, Dear Dad. That you had to leave makes me mad.
I cannot sleep, all night I toss and turn in bed.
I miss your kisses! Is your absence fault of your boss?
Tell whoever that I will not put up with this loss.
Dad you are smart so think of a trick
Which will allow you to come back really quick.


I put this letter aside. It did not seem quite right.
Finally wrote: “Dear Dad, I love you. Miss you day and night.”
I saw Mom sadly wipe away a tear,
Write fast: “How are you, we need from you to hear.”
Life often confuses us when we are a child,
Many happenings accompany us through adult life.

Summer camp

By Alan Catlin



off season, light
evening rain
turns to fog


over pond by
dawn; emergent
forms call out


each to each
as loons are
wont to do









These Barren Fields in Late Summer
after Vincent

By Alan Catlin


Hay stacked besides
still water. Heat shivers


above dried fields.
Crows plunder all those


barren, exposed roots.
The sky stretched thin


as taut wire, vibrating
where wings assault


the air.










The Long Hot Summer

By Alan Catlin



Still nights raw with heat
and the scent of spilled gasoline.
The ground so dry it aches for
rain that never comes.
Even the weeds dying, all the tall
grasses brown and seer like straw.
Nothing moves but beer drunk
youths, their thin torsos slick
with pitch and sweat, Zippo lighters
ready to crisp another wood
framed barn, to torch another field
just to watch the flames, the smoke
smother yet another hunter’s moon.
Their feral eyes are as red as coals
that have absorbed all available light.










The Times They Are a Changing':
Summer Late 60's, Death & Transfiguration Blues

By Alan Catlin



Brush cuts and slacks transformed
into long hair & bell bottoms, jeans
patched over worn through holes,
ripped fabrics becoming functional
art forms, wearable works in progress,
underage drinking pints of cheapest
Vodka available to young men, drinking
it straight or with warm Coke mixtures
replaced by roll your own dabs,
communal water pipes, filtration systems
containing bottom shelf white wine,
sharing a smoke of many dreams, deep
sixing beers, wild laughter in the dark,
near hysteria, wired on acid rock, protest
songs, folks singers socially aware &
Vietnam no longer some way out there,
unimaginable place in the back of stamp
albums under French possessions but a
subject for subterranean homesick blues,
songs of sorrow and lamentation for picket
lines & protests, summers of love drowning
in blood, an alcoholic purple haze, secret
agent's orange, mushroom like clouds, what
did it matter? What was that sound? Draft
riots and FBI files, Big Brother & His
Holding Company, register with your draft
board, pick a number & die, Uncle Sam
a skeleton with Death Watch Beetle eyes,
a paranoids worst fears realized, up against
a wall mother faker, 'it's all over now, baby
blue', 'it's alright now Ma, I'm only bleeding','
'blowing' in the wind,' blues.








Utica 1970

By Alan Catlin 


Behind rococo orange brick apartment house on hot August, summer day. So humid it feels like monsoon weather. Like a hung over sky in weird colored gray fading to something else during partial solar eclipse no one told us about. Too poor to afford a quarter for a newspaper. No job, no future in draft-eligible after- graduation months reading Ulysses and wondering what happens next.

Near the canal, sheep look up-
even the beasts grazing
in the fields puzzled!

HE SAID IT IN THE HOSPITAL
 
By Lyn Lifshin

 
isn’t much like
you’d imagine
they’re joking
paraplegics putting
on rock n roll
loud to bug some dudes
who just like Aida.
We were glad to be
coming out of the jungle,
not in body bags.
First day out with my
new leg and I think I’m
hot stuff, don’t know its
got this spring-loaded
thing and I twist on
a bar stool and my
leg spits and flings
itself out, yanks a
brief case of this
man’s arm and throws it
across the floor. He
gives me a funny look.
Then once one foot
turned around so
I looked to be
walking backward and
forward and a kid
pointed it out
and said look at that
man as his mama was
hushing. You’d be
surprised what I can
do with it. But,
Honey, there are
some things it’s more
comfortable to
take it off for

Twisted Paths

By Patrick Bryant Michael
​
 
In San Francisco there are crooked little streets
confusing
bemusing
little houses where the poor live with the elites
receding
misleading
others with close knit patterns that offer repeats
competing
intriguing
innocent, twisted people living in retreats
composing
imposing
twisted rules on crooked people, between the sheets
incurring
recurring
paths with wicked curves, screwing up normal heartbeats
derailing
unveiling
crooked paths uphill, downhill, heart and soul competes
perusing
seducing
the mind into believing nursery rhymes, tweet tweets
amazing
embracing
the cosmos to feel a mystic force, twisting twice
invading
creating
a fantasy world, where the twisted roads entice
inhaling
exhaling
while running a twisted course, breathing - a device
entering
exiting
back and forth on a crooked path, a vicious vice
pursuing
debuting
new dimensions on a twisted path, throwing rice
varying
ferrying
on a twisted canal, trying to be precise
surveying
portraying
life in twisted ways, making the normal suffice
repeating
retreating
to places in the past, with a roll of the dice
comparing
exploring
crevasses in dark places, the face twists up fast
increasing
decreasing
the pulse to be aware of time and space recast
discharging
enlarging
the scope of exploration, twisting to find contrast
converging
emerging
loss of reality, insanity may last
conforming
reforming
never sure of crooked paths, trying to outlast
regaining
containing
the forces of evil, straightening, feeling aghast
exclaiming
inflaming
those around you, twisted love making a real blast
asserting
reverting
to a sense of normal, twisted love unsurpassed.

"The Brighter the Journey, 

the Darker the Shade"


Poetry Collection 

By Alan Catlin




On the Road


He liked
his eggs
over
easy
liked
his women
that way
too
Took
as many
as he
could
for a
night
and then
moved on
Liked to
get away
as fast
as he
could
Didn't like
to be tied
down to
one place
too long
That was
the way
he was
and there
was no
changing
him
Women
waited for
him to
come back
but he
never
did






The Loved One


He was
showing off
his swing
to a
complete
stranger
by the
bar
Talked
as if
golf
was what
made the
world go
round
His wife
was saying
to me:
"There's nothing
wrong with him
He's always
like that
He'd play
golf in a
thunderstorm"
She was
probably
wishing that
he would too






Smile


She was
one of those
crazy inane
people who
wears Smile
buttons, says
"Hi, my name is
Eleanor, I'm
a Libra, what's
your sign?"
Has a house
full of
Norman Rockwell
plates she paid
a small fortune for
buying on time
from the Franklin
Mint, says, "I
always vote a
straight Party
Ticket no matter
who's running."
Talking to her
was like talking
to a black and
white TV set
that can never
be shut off
She never actually
seems to leave
wherever she is,
she evaporates slowly,
dissolving in time







In Cold Blood


They looked
like desperados
on the run
the way they
laid their helmets
on the bar and
unzipped their
leather jackets
They'd been riding
hard for hours
had the look
of mean men in
motion even
standing still
They wanted
something warm
to burn the chill
off Wanted heat
for some cold
blood they'd lain
down in a long
bright line beside
the highway




​



the big easy


he was on
the fast track
to arrive in
hell in a hand
basket riding
a custom
craft with
plush seats
loaded with
options and
a plastic death
head red eyes
on the dash
battery powered
blinking like crazy
with a crucifix
wrapped around
the rear view along
with rosary bead
love tokens ready
for a big easy
mardi gras
witch’s Sabbath
he wanted to play
a principle part in

Many Roads I Have Travelled
​

Poetry Collection 

By Karen King



Leaves


They cling to the branches,

As we tenuously cling onto life,

Desperate to stay the same,

Frightened to move on,

Even though nothing feels the name,

Even though nothing stays the same.


The season has gone,

The moments have past,

Their juice is no longer full of chlorophyll,

Yet they have colours of infinite joy.

They travel, tentatively, to the ground,


Aware of hidden dangers.

What lies beneath the ground?

What lies beneath the other leaves

We feel like the leaves

As we are forced to feel

The force of life,


As they feel the force of nature

We have to move with the present

And go with the wind

As it urges us to

Surrender to life.


Let life take you forward,

Follow the winds of your dreams,

Flow with the river,

Down streams to another world,

Down streams to a new world.


Don’t cling on for dear life,

For fear of change,

Or you will lose your vitality,

Gradually dying and losing colour.

You will become brittle and brown,

Hardened with misery

And unrelenting boredom.


Why not let yourself

Be taken by the wind and the rivers

As they breeze and flow with your life?



The sun will shine on you

And you will be blessed

If you follow the seasons

And surrender to the forces of nature.


When you eventually fall to the earth,

Your body will decompose,

Like the leaves in Autumn,

Ready to be reborn in the Spring.


Let the trees show you the way

As they stand, bare, in the winter,

Waiting for new life to revitalise them

As new buds of leaves

Wait, unfurled, to show their splendour

In the Spring.


Take time out

And build your energy,

Let your body and mind heal

Ready to reborn and revitalised

In the Spring.







Love Lies


Love lies scattered on the shore,

Like crushed seashells.

Sometimes sparkles catch your eyes,

At other times you wince

As your feet are cut,

On these shards of glass.


Yet, the beautiful seashells gleam

When the water washes them,

Cleansing them, invigorating them.

Their colours shine in appreciation.


They belong in two worlds,

The underwater and the earthly.


They are the travellers
And accept their two worlds
And they go with the flow of life.
Perhaps man should do this too?

We need to open our eyes

And be fluid with life’s changes.


The sand is a tiny, but important

Part of the seashore.

Soft, enveloping and warm.

It moulds to us as we journey
Both at the seashore

And when turned into glass by man.


Both the seashells and the sand
Make the seashore beautiful.
The seashells echo love
And the sand invites love.

Take the love of the seashore

Into your hearts and hold it forever.






Old Keys




Old keys, old locks,

Old doors, old drawers.


There have been many keys in my life

That have been broken.

Two broken engagements;

The first man had a squeaky voice

And was the frog

That never became the prince,

But I was young.

The other was an ex-marine,


Whose Father was in prison
For bank robbery.
He stole my heart
With his charm,

But he was abusive,

So I left him.



There have been many doors in my life,

That have been shut.
An off-road cycling career

That never got off the road.

A photography career

That tore in half.

A rock musicians’ career


Where the strings snapped.
A motorbike and a gym instructor…

I have been all these things

In my mind.


How about becoming a writer?

Oh yes, I forgot, I am a writer,

Spreading love through humanity…


Many roads I have travelled,

Day trips and holiday destinations.

Trips to London, the National Trust,

Camping weekends, trips to Europe.

England, Ireland, Scotland, Wales –

The good old U.K.

The Channel Islands –

Between England and France,

But with such Continental flavour.


I have only lived in two houses all my life,

One in Bushey Heath, Hertfordshire

And now in Houghton Regis, Bedfordshire.

Thirty years in one house and sixteen in another.

I don’t move around much,

It would appear from the outside…


Now, I sit in jail,

Depressed and down,

Too scared to leave,

Yet not fully living.


Do I leave England for Anglesey

And start again

Or should I just give up

And exist, barely alive?


I need to be strong,

I need to be brave

And throw away the old keys,

For they are rusty,


Like the old locks that wait

And the old, broken doors.

They will only lead to rooms

Full of old desks and drawers,
Where the paper is stained yellow
And the pens no longer work.

I have no use for them now!


It is time to find the new, shiny key

That will unlock the new door
To the new home for Vincent and me,

Which will lead to new desks and drawers,

Full of clean pads of paper and fresh pens awaiting…



Old keys, old locks

Old doors, old drawers.




“Pictures and Poetry Book One” Karen King Copyright 2017

Beyond the Clouds

A Poetry Collection 

By Alexandra H. Rodrigues


​
Will She Win


There was a contest in Uppermount
For the fairest maiden in towns around
Irena had all the needed attributes of kind
Also, a good sharpness of the mind.


It was the softness of her skin
That assured the biggest price she win
Touching her skin made one select her blind
Any judge her most attractive would find.


At the contest also showed another girl
Dainty and gracious with a cute reddish curl
Irena was quite aware of the competition.
In order to assure that she would win the mission


She played up to that judge with the ugly beard
Till what her lover who was with her had feared.
Touching her skin, one would select her blind
Any judge her most attractive would find.


The judge thought Irena’s play was for real
With clumsy hands, he began her breasts to feel
Irena knew that she had gone much too far
Sent a pleading look to her lover in their car.


Her beau did blow the horn extremely loud
The judge let Irena go to see what this was about.
Irena and her lover quickly drove away
Leaving the judge with the other girl to play.




Your Choice




Why should one not live in a world of make believe
Where easily one can refuse to worry or grieve.
Imagine to be showered with the gift of love
Where you can change anything when things get tough.


Why must we see matters the way they really are?
Why should one not be able to call near, what is far?
Why not, at times when it hurts to be alone
Invite make-believe persons into your home?


Possibly where most of us go wrong
Is that we procrastinate in doubt too long.
We lament and suffer in our woes till we get stuck.
Instead to attempt by mind-control to change our luck?


When life plays dirty tricks, it is up to us alone
To decide which key to play, to find the right tone.
Avoid to feel sorry about what is happening to you
Or the universe will be forced to consider it true.


Suffering is registered in a big charcoal black book
During worry, the devil refuses to let us off the hook.
If on the other hand we manage the dilemma to ignore,
Destiny gets the hint that the connection we tore.


The trick is to be convinced that all is well.
That will make the devil choke in hell.
Get rid of whatever is burdening you,
Experience the world as being perfect and true.






Beyond the Clouds


Far removed from earthly life all new
I picture a future and in it is you
At a stage different from love and lust
We will have arrived bound by trust.


Earthly matters required a short delay
Neither you nor I had much of a say
As our two souls ultimately melt together
We sense that this stage will be forever.


Bodily desires of the flesh will be gone
Two souls now shared heaven as one
We will be engulfed by a mesmerizing light
Millions of once human atoms our guide.

Paris at Midnight


By Jennifer Lagier



Lovers contemplate moonlight on water,
embrace, share their dreams, hidden by shadow.


Passing bateaux overflow laughter,
cheering students, trail distant music.


Along the left bank, book sellers and bistros,
colorful backdrops for romantic drama.


Passion rumbles from ancient stones.
Fountains pulse and arouse.


Along the Seine, empty pill vials,
abandoned brassiere, violet thong hint of scandal.



​


Pere Lachaise


By Jennifer Lagier



Our guide, Jean-Jacques,
tells us stories,
reads inscriptions
on mausoleums.
Marks a map as I
explore a city of death
with expatriate friends.
We pass grandiose memorials.
Angels and antichrists decompose
beside housewives and saints.
Fading lipstick kisses polka dot
Oscar Wilde’s neutered sphinx.
According to rumor, a bureaucrat
anchors his paperwork with
the severed stone sex.
Someone has stolen Jim Morrison’s
bronze bust, a poppy and twist
of marijuana left in its place.
Gertrude Stein holds her final soiree
among deceased literati.
Effigies of the Buchenwald slaughtered
hold hands and dance.
Cabaret after Sunrise
Once the Moulin Rouge closes, tourists are
sent back to five star hotels, accounts settled,
indiscretions forgiven, slumming concluded.


Seductive courtesans call it a night, wander
home to single beds, feed the cat,
set out tea and biscuits, decide to sleep in.


Daylight scrubs away most erotic adventures.
Young dancers wash their faces, cover up
flawless breasts, pull on faded levis.


Red windmill rotor blades whirl.
Montmartre resurrects; a fresh shift of
pickpockets spill from the Metro.

The ER

By Tomas Sanchez Hidalgo




On my first try and in the singular
I passed that multiple choice driving test,
and we drank that night
the rest of the world,
up to a seventh seal.
Eyes for you blue
of February’s blue blouse
after things that go Boom!
viscous ER-shaped
my horseshoe and blood tongue,
after blind light in front
of daybreak’s wheel:
bitterness’ puzzles
in Nazarene and Shrove Tuesday.












A Stroll Through Paris

By Tomas Sanchez Hidalgo




Early in the morning,
I go for a walk
through the Père-Lachaise cemetery:
in search of lost time
I ran into Gertrude Stein
(and on the other side Alice Toklas
it’s Alice Toklas
it’s Alice Toklas),
and into Delacroix guiding the people;
pictures in front of
Oscar Wilde’s tomb
(winged deity
on its front,
work by the sculptor Jacob Epstein,
off of which some collector
cut the penis),
in front of Jim Morrison’s,
by far the most visited,
in front of Molière’s and La Fontaine’s,
adjacent to one another,
in front of the enduring
beauty
of the pantheon
in which
Eloisa and Abelard rest,
medieval lovers,
in front of Piaf,
Duncan,
Callas,
in front of Balzac.
And while hundreds of Japanese
record all of this,
the world
keeps turning
likenothingwasgoingon.














A Stroll Through Milan


By Tomas Sanchez Hidalgo



I walk down a street,
near Via Manzoni,
on my way somewhere,
thinking about nothing:
advertising on the walls:
“Wash them in holy water”,
an Italian jeans
manufacturer
suggests
with respect to
its latest star product,
into which a spectacular model
with a studied lovemaking stare
squeezes
her voluptuous curves
as
her almost only article of clothing:
advertising on the walls,
thinking about nothing.

A Crepuscular Yearning
 
 By David Thorpe
​

With sails of enchantment
billowed from whispers and sighs
on my raft we ventured forth,
along a coast of moon blessed night,
rising and falling with the swell
of torrent waves
 
 
Your guiding lips my compass
to steer across your torrid tropics
the heights of Cancer,
the depths of Capricorn
till a cry of sweet salvation,
a pastoral landscape in sight
 
 
As flotsam and jetsam
washed ashore,
on a beach of promiscuous palms,
where lucid thoughts,
by our insanity were banished,
ere they broke our sidereal spell
of a crepuscular yearning
 
 
David Thorpe ®© 2017

Photo by David Thorpe


Music for All Seasons

By David Thorpe

 
Warmer breezes caress the strings of a consenting harp,
an Elizabethan sonnet of pastoral lyrics in unison to play,
the slumbering nature thereupon to be enticed
to shed its doleful blanket no longer welcome,
but rather a harassment to rays of sunlight,
eager to germinate the seeds of spring blossoms,
their fragrance a balm for an awakening heart
 
To a Chopin waltz the acacias in full leaf
gently sway sheltering two lovers in their shade,
to escape the heat of summer, from which scented gardens
derive their thirst, as the thirst of love of impatient lips,
longing to taste the nectar sweet and unfurl the flag of passion,
releasing the wings of desire to fly and there to nest
´neath the sensuality of virgin breasts
 
The “Water Music” of Händel predicts the autumn rain,
dampening the fallen leaves awaiting their dispersion;
November rides on early mists of dawn,
 enshrouding the day with humid kisses,
till darkness usurps its rival in a winning battle,
and love withdraws to find the cause misplaced,
once held high on the cherished standard,
now put in question before a disconcerted jury
 
Beethoven´s “Silence” reflects the image of mute darkness,
frozen speech unable to express the profundity of sentiments
in search of warmth and affection ,
hibernating within the apathy of the winter of love,
exhausted from scars of a thwarted battlefield,
better a time for contemplation of more intrinsic values,
decisions of priority to be taken, should the unbolting of sluice gates
wash away with the torrent, the foundations of sensibility
 

David Thorpe © ® 2017

Relive Life
​
By Alexandra H. Rodrigues


I spent time giving it serious thought
A negative response the idea me brought.
After I took seven slices from decades in my life
I did at the following conclusion arrive.


To copy a previous experience seems a futile task.
Double pleasure, double sorrow, one would grasp.
There was meaning in how it all has turned out
Why again should I walk along the identical route.


I rather continue to taste what life still does hold
Search for a fresh, invigorating road.
The past shall forever remain the past
Time, as is, passes anyhow by much too fast.


In the time that is left, for all it is worth
I allow new happenings to take birth.
New endeavors wait daily at the door
There is truly no need for an encore!

As You Like It 

Act II, Scene VII

All the world’s a stage
William Shakespeare, 1564 - 1616
Jaques to Duke Senior


All the world’s a stage,
And all the men and women merely players;
They have their exits and their entrances,
And one man in his time plays many parts,
His acts being seven ages.
At first, the infant,
Mewling and puking in the nurse’s arms.
Then the whining schoolboy, with his satchel
And shining morning face, creeping like snail
Unwillingly to school.
And then the lover,
Sighing like furnace, with a woeful ballad
Made to his mistress’ eyebrow.
Then a soldier,
Full of strange oaths and bearded like the pard,
Jealous in honor, sudden and quick in quarrel,
Seeking the bubble reputation
Even in the cannon’s mouth.
And then the justice,
In fair round belly with good capon lined,
With eyes severe and beard of formal cut,
Full of wise saws and modern instances;
And so he plays his part.
The sixth age shifts Into the lean and slippered pantaloon,
With spectacles on nose and pouch on side;
His youthful hose, well saved, a world too wide
For his shrunk shank, and his big manly voice,
Turning again toward childish treble, pipes
And whistles in his sound.
Last scene of all,
That ends this strange eventful history,
Is second childishness and mere oblivion,
Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything.

Poetry for the Modern Man


Collection by Alan Catlin

​

"All the Poets Have Cell Phones"


No longer do they roam from
field to field, they cruise instead
from one Web Cafe to the next,
tossing off lines like fast food
wrappers discarded by the side
of the road or stock quotes,
ephemeral as the Morning News,
as impersonal as the subject of
a work in progress making
New Age acronyms Art.


All the poets have cell phones
to close deals with, arrange dates,
signings and readings at chain
stores, major independents, venues
large and small, staging happenings,
reservations, intimate dinners for two,
any and all provided that the price is right.


Since all the poets have cell phones,
they have no need for relics like
muses, meter, syntax, rhythm or
rhyme, no need for spirit guides
through the underground, idealized
lovers for inspiration, call my agent,
he'll set up the time, the date, the place.


Now that all the poets have cell phones
all they need is a detailed road map,
calling cards, major plastic, a flexible
credit line and a rolodex to set their
goals and objectives, clear their calendars,
and let their minds roam free.








Poet's in the Park July 14, 2001


Polite homeless drunks
sip Hurricane Malt Liquor
from aluminum cans
at outdoor Washington Park
poetry gig, listen to in-French
chanson, don't even whistle or
ogle young babes in halter tops,
tight jeans, walking by roadway,
honked at by passing motorists,
even laugh when second reader,
Pierre, pauses to allow two Harley
hogs to pass making a barnyard quip,
motorcyclists obliged to maintain their
image of noise making fools, hit the gas,
supply muffler rattling contrapuntal
riffs to readings and songs, though there
are no police or ambulance sirens
during crucial closure lines, no Christian
rock band- 'Jesus Is Love'- lyrics
for the listening, just silent police
cars cruising Park while most
of the Force is further downtown
for huge free Summer Jazz Fest,
keeping other men in blue busy
emptying parking ticket books,
arresting serious drunks, weekend revelers
with an attitude, all missing Pierre
evoking the spirit of poetry in Memorial
verse for Paz, extending a sun metaphor,
the creator's light at dusk on this
Bastille Day, Pierre's birthday;
his gesturing to the sky summons
circling overhead police helicopters
instead of new age of poetry.








Edgar Allan Nobody


All the poets he admired were
opium eaters, laudanum users,
sallow faced scarecrows tainted
by sickroom visions of soul
draining women and of death,
wrote graphic verse in archaic forms,
language so mannered it was
a caricature of the lines he read
aloud dressed as some kind of
Beau Brummell on-the-way-to-a-funeral,
sixties stoned retro that went with
his affected Velvet Underground
tone, a Lou Reed sound alike with
the hint of a lisp and vampire lovers
cold from a grave, thought the tepid
response his work received meant no
one got what he had to say rather
than the obvious, that they did and they
thought that it sucked; thought
that chain smoking Gauloises and drinking
until he puked, on stage and off, marked
him as the genius he was meant to be instead
of the drunk he would become.








Blind Man at the Open Mike Reading,
Social Justice Center, Albany, N.Y.


fingers tracing the words, “A rash
of them,” he says, fingers tracing
the patterns across, then down
heavyweight bond paper, never missing
a line, a beat, a syllable, an image,
turning multiple pages piece, a long
imagistic, visual, lyric poem, describing
warm days and nights, near public gardens,
in downtown parks, at Occupy Albany rallies,
sites, encampment, protesting corporate
injustices against working people, the ill
and the infirm, the disabled and handicapped,
“injustices that anyone could see,” he says,
“even a blind man.”








Featured Reader, Third Thursday Open
Mic for Poetry, Albany, N.Y.


The poet’s last read in
used book store space,
advanced cancer of throat
reducing voice to sparse
whisper no liquid can
refresh. Deep breathing
between short pieces,
he collects himself,
reads on, ruminations
on current affairs, lyrics
evoking beauty of nature,
life; thanks us all for coming,
shakes hands with the assembled,
firm grip and a smile and
then he is gone.

Jazz

By Jessica Goody



Patterns catch the eye, crawling along wallpaper 
and upholstery in a melange of colors and textures, 
rendering the room as exotic as a harem, draped with 

vivid slipcovers of Moroccan arabesques and damasks.


The wallpaper blooms humid tropical foliage,
blood-red blossoms unfurling behind the heads
of odalisques reclining on striped pillows, the divan 
curving beneath them like the body of a lover.


A backdrop of vibrant fabrics curtain the room like a seraglio.
Oushaks and kilims burn underfoot as the light shines 
through the lacework windows and shuttered doors,
where beaded lamps drip crystals atop runner-draped tables.


Orchids and potted plants crowd every surface, swarming 
the carved mantel and bowlegged iron tables. Lovingly arranged 
into precisely disheveled still-lives, the palm fronds spread their 
graceful green arms to the sun, tendrils inching upward like ivy.


Joyful nudes dance along the walls. Cobalt blue outlines 
like police silhouettes stretch and tumble, leap and caper. 
Tinted ultramarine, the color of distant horizons,
they resemble woad-stained Celts, rangy of limb and sinew.


Matisse lies abed in his atelier, industrious as Proust, 
surrounded by a sea of colored paper, scattered leaves 
and whimsical shapes that might be flowers or flames, 
strewn petals drifting to the floor like shards of glass.






Casa Azul

By Jessica Goody



“Cobalt is a divine color and there is nothing so beautiful for creating atmosphere.”
-Vincent van Gogh


That magical blue, royal, cobalt, indigo
catches the eye like a sailing ship amidst 
the industrial grays of cinderblocks and 
city sidewalks, so blue you cannot look 


away. You have built your own palace,
your own temple, a shrine to creativity:
golden steps lead to a mythical paradise 
of vivid birds and steaming foliage.


Bright banners form a paper rainbow of red, 
purple, yellow, green fluttering in the breeze. 
A kelly green door, shamrock-vivid, inviting; 
parrot-colored tables, red-rimmed doorjambs,
 
and window frames gleaming electric orange. 
The yellow bistro tables in the courtyard are 
surrounded by chairs, a school of tropical fish 
swimming against the intensity of blue.


Mesoamerican idols, thick-lipped and wise, 
sit like Buddhas among the trees, contemplating 
the sky. Potted plants stand ready to receive 
their sage advice. Carved wooden spoons and
 
painted pans hang on the kitchen wall, inlaid 
with Talavera tiles in geometric yellow and 
blue. Clay bowls and copper baskets gape, as
shiny as new coins, waiting to be filled.


The spices, herbs and oils might be talismans 
for shamans and curanderos. The rich oil and
plastic scent of paint fills the room. The wood
table is cluttered with bottles and tubes, each


squeezed and rolled like toothpaste, their tips 
clotted and scabbed with dried paint. Here the
consummation of tint and hue are performed, 
the yin and yang of colors: Red dips to blue,


begetting purple. Red is diluted to pink on the 
advice of white, and meets yellow in secret,
their affair siring sunset. The wheelchair sits 
empty, the shadow of her silhouette no longer 


pressed into its cushions. The canvas waiting 
on the easel will never be filled. The huge old 
canopy bed, the convalescent’s chamber, is 
out of place among the decorations, primary 


colors, the statues and painted furniture. 
Here you lay stranded, a plaster golem, 
sweating, itching, pained and restless inside 
the concrete carapace that binds your broken 


vertebra. Bedridden, you lay on embroidered 
pillows, spending endless hours contemplating 
the ceiling, decorating yourself with rings on 
every finger, and floral garlands in your hair.








Madonna and Child

By Jessica Goody


Full-lipped Madonnas hold swaddled babies, 
their cloths mingling with the dewlaps of dark mantles
and bell sleeves of their Renaissance-maiden gowns.
Sloe-eyed and olive-skinned, their gazes held 
by the fat golden cherub in their arms.


Cupid babies, plump and ruddy, the mothers
dark-eyed, their long hair falling over oval faces, 
combed straight and center-parted above 
round foreheads and elegant Roman noses.
The devout look of the mother, 


sure of the purity and charm of her innocent child.
Her mantle is brown, the tawny chestnut of a fawn’s 
hide instead of Massicot bluish-grey, delicate as a dove; 
the color of Mary’s mantle, demure and serene.
The twin curves of shoulders, neck and bosom bared, 


her linen chemise loosened for nursing.
Red, the most important color, symbolic 
of life and death, joy and evil alike, 
the longest wavelength in the human eye
possessor of infinite names, like the titles of saints:


Madder, Realgar, Vermillion, 
Cinnabar, Carmine, and Sanguine dust.
The red of Christ’s blood as he hangs
suspended and sweating in a trance,
swooning with a masochistic high,


Gandhi-gaunt and pious in a homespun loincloth.
She is a Persephone, sorrow staining aubergine 
beneath her eyes, downcast and pensive, 
her long elegant fingers plucking at her face 
in the anguished penance of one clad in a hair-shirt, 


mourning the brutal undoing of her gentle son.
Five hundred years later, her pain still radiates
in waves, unrelenting, her face the chalk-white 
of bones smeared on canvas. Vestments rendered 
in the yellow spices of Saffron, Gamboge, Burnt Sienna, 


Orpiment, Ochre; and in mud of Sienna and Umber, 
Medieval browns for monks and priests. She visits them, 
aching for solace. There is a therapeutic quality 
in the calm hush of white halls, the flash of colors 
alternately tranquil and joyful emanating from the paint.


Ornate and massive frames, scrolled and curving like waves,
gilt triptychs as thick as mantelpieces, 
heavy enough to crush a body should they fall. 
Five centuries have not dulled their golden patina,
nor the vivid colors they encase, classical colors 


with antiquated names: The emerald of Verdigris, 
Fabulous as plumage, regal as peacocks, tinctures 
distilled to the essence of light, crushed chemicals 
toxic and volatile copper, iron, lead, sulfur, antimony, arsenic.
The magical blue of Azurite, 


Ultramarine powder smeared on the eyelids of dead queens,
the cobalt stain of an unblinking eye aptly named royal blue.
If she had stood here in this gallery, gazing into the eyes 
of stoic, patient mothers and rosy infants, 
she might have achieved a sense of closure 


from the pain of her lost child. She did not know that 
his courage and kindness would be immortalized by painters. 
She knew only love, and suffering. 
She did not know that suffering can be 
transcended by beauty, and love intensified by pain.


***



Below, you will find Charles E.J. Moulton's entire composition 
about his family's home town of Kalmar in Sweden.
The copyright belongs to Mr. Moulton, 
but singers are free to print it out and sing it at concerts.
Poetry and music in the midst of life.

Making Music

By Patrick Bryant Michael

 
Music is the breath of life for the romantic
pianos
playing
all genres in concert is sweetly fantastic
strumming
guitars
with soft melodies may seem sour or tragic
thunder
lightning
make loud sounds, nature's music is startling, frantic
working
playing
together is music of a different tactic
developing
being
creative is a form of music, more manic
teaming
together
is a music made for being more bombastic
comedies
tragedies
bring bittersweet times that turn to the pedantic
skating
performing
for friends is a form of music, showing poise
reading
stories
shows new ways for music that the mind employs
sporting
events
bring cheerleaders and support music for the boys
marching
trumpeters
trombones and tubas with a kind of counterpoise
radios
bestow
music on the ears while driving, spiritual joys
television
concerts
reward the watcher, listener with sweeter convoys
listening
taking
in the sounds of the forest, those that annoys
walking
strolling
hand in hand with a girl, the time that one enjoys
humming
singles
heard on the radio, ones that stick in your head
chanting
tuning
into the cosmos, meditating a bridgehead
sailing
soaring
in the clouds high above, music by dragonhead
dances
circles
of love cause ambitions to rise, music well fed
lyrics
written
by artists create impressions, by seeing red
producing
seducing
the minds of musicians, a transcending godhead
jamming
instrumentalists
keep a rhythm in the mind, music is not read
rocking
robins
sing a song of love, their music being purebred
albums
recorded
by an engineer, mastered music is flowing
schooldays
daydreaming
comes without warning, the music speaks to roaming
operas
symphonies
give music precise story telling, foreboding
choral
orchestral
performances enhance each show, candy coating
mellifluous
sounding
performances are music to the ears, floating
sonic
vibrations
are nature's music, the Universe is humming
making
whoopee
is music for lovers, heart strings always drumming
living
loving
each other, the music of all life is crowing.
 
(c) May 3, 2017 by PBM





Adventures in Love

By Patrick Bryant Michael

 
Romance, an adventure in finding love over time
dating
opening
doors to mystical horizons, trying to stay prime
meeting
touching
hand on hand, eyes focused on each other, as hearts climb
dancing
looking
into the eyes of each other, smiling at the crime
holding
onto
your lover like it does not matter, it is sublime
groping
making
advances to stir the libido, bringing enzyme
teasing
toying
with each others emotions, so parting seems like chyme
working
playing
with each other, forgetting about love's paradigm
lying
around
with each other, making love when the time seems just right
soothing
emotions
of each other, staying up late, vampires at twilight
showing
compassion
to each other often, watching stars in the moonlight
romancing
spinning
tales of love to show how you feel, finding your own light
living
being
yourself more than ever, love frees your soul to take flight
bending
letting
go of regrets, freeing the heart and mind of all spite
pushing
away
rivals using trickery, smart ploys, rather than fight
standing
taller
than your opponents will, for their friendship to invite
making
repairs
on the relationship when loss of love seems gloating
pursuing
romance
with your lover, trying to keep the romance flowing
lighting
candles
to celebrate life and love, candlelight is glowing
maturing
learning
wisdom along the way, with enlightenment growing
tasting
temptations
along the path to romance, no one is all knowing
training
teaching
others how to find their path, by example - showing
fantasizing
subconsciously
making a wonderland for lovers, easygoing
sleeping
dreaming
of pleasures within depths of the soul, wild oats smoking
exploits
taken
to make romance an adventure a new reverie
hunting
mixing
and matching of good times, maintaining full synergy
risking
passion
for love of life, taking ventures for pure levity
researching
studying
all aspects of romance, looking for true revelry
driving
risky
for the thrill of it, yet not risking full brevity
hiking
venturing
about to explore wilderness, absent treachery
climbing
upper
limits of your skills, overcoming true liberty
living
loving
from the bottom of your heart, instilling bravery.
 
(c) June 9, 2017 by PBM
 

Charles E.J. Moulton as Danny Zuko in "Grease"
Musiktheater im Revier
Gelsenkirchen, Germany
2010


Make Music

By Lucinda Berry Hill


It can soothe a crying baby.
It can wake a sleeping spirit.
And minds that can't remember,
They do, the ones who hear it.

I imagine from the beginning
Music notes were made
From all that God's hands touched,
From each thing, His hands had laid.

The ocean waters cracking,
The jingle of the stars,
The whistle of the unseen wind
As it blew from near to far. 

So sing a song of worship.
Make music for the Lord.
It's sure to bless the hearts nearby
And certain to sweeten yours.

Author Lucinda Berry Hill   of  "Coffee with Jesus"  and "A Second Cup with Jesus" ©





Music From My Car

By Lucinda Berry Hill


Songs on the radio
Playing in my car.
Music to my ears.
A message for my heart.

Songs about Jesus
Can melt away my frown,
Can teach me something new,
Can lift me when I'm down.

Even when I'm drifting,
Not paying much attention,
The word of God still reaches
My heart, it's destination.

Listening to the lyrics,
Words about the Lord.
Tapping on the steering wheel.
Tapping on the floor.

I'm thankful for my radio
And songs that I can sing.
Nothing makes my heart dance
Like singing 'bout my King.


  Lucinda Berry Hill Author of "Coffee with Jesus" AND "A Second Cup with Jesus" ©



​


Just Skip

By Lucinda Berry Hill


Skipping through the fields.
Skipping 'cross the town.
Skipping left and right
Is how to get around.

Skipping up a mountain.
Skipping through the dark.
When skipping with the Master
Nothing seems too hard.

You cannot skip in anger.
You cannot skip and cry.
You cannot skip without a smile
And here's the reason why.

Skipping is like music
Made with every step.
Like a song of praise from your lips
Giving God your best.

When you sing a song to Jesus
You'll begin to feel His peace.
Sing a song, sing it long
And play it from your feet.

Sing a song of love today.
Let your lips sing songs of praise.
Let your feet play music for the Lord
As you skip throughout the day.

Author Lucinda Berry Hill   of  "Coffee with Jesus"  and "A Second Cup with Jesus" ©

Japanese Beech

By Karen King



This beech tree, like a Japanese work of art,
Still rejoices in the colour and life of the Autumn.
Its beautiful branches fall gracefully
As if serenading a pretend partner.
Unbending trees stand near this graceful, gentle tree,
Their grey, dour auras drawing me closer to my Japanese tree.




“Pictures and Poetry Book Two” Karen King Copyright 2017






​


The Dryads in the Woods


By Karen King




Did you hear the Dryads?


The Dryads in the woods?






We stepped through the woods,


Aware of the heavy presence


Of the trees, dripping with rain,


Their remnants of leaves


Grimly clinging to the


Lichen-clad branches.


The grey sky pressed down on us


And the leaves threatened to engulf us


Deep into the core of the earth


With each step we took.






As we walked on,


The air felt heavier,


The woods became darker


And a sense of another world


Enveloped us.


We felt disorientated.


The silent woods watched


As we traipsed on.






The damp earth whispered its depth


As we continued


And the trees spoke of their strength.


We felt we were intruding.


We took another step,


Determined to head towards habitation.






Unexpectedly, the sound of birds singing


Was heard by us, as if turned to full volume.


The stereo sound echoed through the forest


And was overwhelming and enchanting.


It was hypnotic and beautiful.






We were confused by the music


And sped on as darkness nipped at our heels.


We escaped the woods,


Back to the joyful sight of normality;


People sitting having cups of coffee.






Later, I realised, that the music


Was from the elementals


And discovered that the sounds


Were made by the Dryads;


The female protectors of trees


And lovers of music and poetry.


How blessed we were and how perfect


That we should hear these strong nature spirits.


Next time, you walk through the woods,


I will ask you…






Did you hear the Dryads?


The Dryads in the woods?






“Pictures and Poetry Book Two” Karen King Copyright 2017


Charles E.J. Moulton as a nun in the opera
"Le Compte Ory"
Musiktheater im Revier
Gelsenkirchen, Germany
​2006

AN INTIMATE ACT OF LOVE

By David Thorpe
 
 
November would never have been his choice,
even less to face it alone,
a drear day with depressive drizzle,
his mouth protected by his dampened scarf,
from the oppressive air pregnant with fumes
of grimy chimneys
 
Terraced houses his sole companions
in their drabness homogeneous,
no word of consolation to be acknowledged,
social contact today he shunts,
a time of sad remembrance
 
The scattered leaves of naked trees
across the windblown playground scurry,
which with lamentation awaits to hear
once more the cries of joyful children,
come next spring
 
Alone amidst the silence he stands,
just “the two of them” in hushed reverence,
flowers he so carefully carried
adorn with grace her sentinel grave,
an intimate act of love
 
David Thorpe ®© 2016

Goaldium

By

John Frazee

 
In this all too often cold and barren land
What lies out there, what’s left to hold onto
What can we tell the children when they ask?
Where’s someone to worship or look up to
 
A land so perfect it seems to glow
Tell them of this place where there are no rules
Even running with scissors is allowed
                        Love reigns and the streets are lined with jewels
 
Can you see it from where you stand right now?
When long time childhood memories persist
                        A realm of such breath taking importance
And a place where true beauty still exists
 
Goaldium is not for every one
Ice cream trucks are made from silver and gold
It is for the young or the young at heart
It is not for those who wish to grow old.

115th Meditation

By

Teresa Ann Frazee

 
Fragmented thoughts propagate in the resting place of a single recognition
Released from their grasp, tensions shall ultimately pass or drop drastically behind
Excavated moments squirm, liberated from ones buried debris of consciousness
Taking refuge, harmony leaves its amorphous print on the meditative mind
 
Spellbound eyes, barely registering, focus on violet lights that never go out
Sabbath white textures encourage the poet's wit and the painter to wet his brush
Entering nameless worlds, undetected by instinct, where reality's denied
As muttering mantras, born of euphoria are absorbed in a calming hush
 
From disturbed liars, creatures with off balanced limbs rub their backs against jagged rocks
Crouched,  angled postures cavalierly validate their claim to an erratic existence
Sparks from trampling hooves flicker, appearing like ghostly flames without the terror
A warm breeze dismisses the present, carrying their airborne howls into the distance
 
Fingertips lightly touch, establishing the authenticity of the here and now
Within the bounds of enlightenment, rootless branches grow entangled through the pavement
I walk motionless amongst lords with flowing embroidered robes atop mosaic towers
And with empathy, fly aside birds whose glinted wings flutter, free from confinement
 
Being awake and alive under the skin gives a soul the most exalted sensation
This natural resource for insight with banishment of angst and decreased acrimony
Diverts from routine, as worries are now extinguished with an interconnection,
With the vastness of the universe, encroaching toward, a personal epiphany.

​
The Mystic Shroud Poems

By Thaddeus Hutyra


1.
“Mystic Shroud”

Shroud of life
are your paths
in your Earthly endeavors
with all their shine
and associated shadows.

Shroud of love 
is that first eye contact
that is like enchanted wand
followed by lifelong magics
of both of you in arms.

Shroud of you
is the density of air 
you are breathing in
and painting 
with inspiration.

Shroud of you
are all the little things
in your life 
ultimately proving to be
the big ones.

Shroud of you
are choreographic stages 
of your own life
with a credo now or never. 

Shroud of you
is your ultimate consciousness
you the reflexion of God
across the multiverse.


Shroud of life, shroud of love
shroud of you
is the heart and the soul
of you and me
in the paradise shell
forever and ever!

"Mystic Shroud" by Thaddeus Hutyra 




2.
"Shroud of Love"

Shroud of love
is you, my goddess 
The ecstasy 
of my heart
the elixir of my life
dawn of eternal hope.

Shroud of love
is our spring, my honey
We are engaged
in the gusts 
of feelings, eroticism
up to the blue vault 
of the skies.

Sex bosons
are our kingdom!

Shroud of love
is our summer, my sweetheart
We are already married
and our flaming minds
are home we have.

The ardor of love
is still consuming us 
Endlessly!

Shroud of love
is our autumn, my darling
Our family nest
is welcoming new children.

Everything is 
on a good track
Divine care 
favoring us.

Shroud of love
is our winter, my dearest
Meritorious old age
closes our Earthly life.

We are still listening 
to the melody of life
ready to welcome Our Lord.

Shroud of love
is our whole life
your heart and my soul
your soul and my heart.


Shroud of love
is the weave 
of our passions
and mutual devotion
forever and ever, amen.

"Shroud of Love" by Thaddeus Hutyra 




3.
'Passions' Whisperer'

Flowing is your beauty
in the noble wind
displaying bosons
gifted to you by the Lord
my dear passions’ whisperer.

Your gentleness is the air
that I breathe in
with the touch of a wizard
magical one
my dear passions’ whisperer.

Your feminine subtlety
are the souls I can feel
in the worlds 
of otherworldly dimensions
swirling around us
and within us
my dear passions’ whisperer.

Look at you, look at I
how we are 
expressing our love
Pure art!

As if the world 
became the Universe
on the wings of the tides
never ending!

As if our hearts
were the noblest homes
there are 
in the entire celestial worlds!

As if you and I
were one only wholeness
never ever to be separated
to the tunes of harps and violins!

As if we were it all
poets of starry rays
painters of our passions
choreographers of our very lives!

Shape of you
sweetly enslaves me
The paradise passionfruit!

Giving me a million of reasons
to stay in the womb
of our love!

Playing music of divinity
one of endless notes of sparks
Being my deja vu!

O’ my passions’ whisperer
song of all songs!

O’ my passions’ whisperer
symphony of all symphonies!

O’ my passions’ whisperer
goddess of all passions
shroud of love!

'Passions' Whisperer' by Thaddeus Hutyra 




4.
'Beauteous Whisperer'

Beautiful birds, my gentle whisperers
on all the Earthly meadows
and my own meadows
in my heart 
how I tribute you!

O’ white-chested emeralds, rainbow lorikeets
shoe-billed storks, blue-chinned sapphires
my beloved, gentle whisperers!

O’ white-tailed tropicbirds, Indian peafowls
golden-backed weavers, American flamingoes
my sweet, tranquil whisperers!

O’ ruby-topaz hummingbirds, house sparrows 
southern cassowaries, restless flycatchers
the nature’s finest, noble whisperers!

Yet believe it or not
there is one special whisperer
in my Earthly life
you, my Anna!

In the mornings shrouded by mist
you are there!

In the afternoons shrouded by Sun
you are there!

In the evenings shrouded by twilight
you are there!

In the nights shrouded by eroticism
you are there!

Always there, O’ Anna 
on the meadows of my life
you, the very special whisperer!

What else can I say, O’Anna
as just thank you
for you are it all
you, my only love
my beauteous whisperer!

'Beauteous Whisperer' by Thaddeus Hutyra

Happiness


By Alexandra H. Rodrigues


She was since birth completely blind
Him, an accident had left disfigured behind
Through touch and words they had each other found
A sincere happiness them together bound.


A child to them was born
With eyes, large and blue like corn
They agreed to call their little girl Joy
A trait the child did readily and frequent deploy.


When Joy came of age, she more and more did reject
Shortcomings because of her parents’ defect.
So, Joy made it for her career the goal
With modern science to remedy it all.


It took sacrifices and dedication for years
Times of hope but also of failure’s fears
Then finally came the day
When the efforts with results did pay.


Father’s skin grafts showed results
He looked better than some other adults
Mother a first glance at her husband and daughter took
Her eyes expressing happiness with every look.


Like a fairytale all this might sound
But no, it was a family by utter love bound
Theirs was a heart and soul connection
Happiness they were awarded for this affection.





A Moment in Time

By Alexandra H. Rodrigues
 

A photo is a true evidence of a moment in time
A clock makes its minutes every hour to rhyme
The shutter of a camera shoots what is real and whole
The video records facts, ignores heart and soul.
 
A painting might project what the artist does feel
Thus it also with the power of the moment does deal
A sculpture is created of marble, bronze or clay
It transforms the moment in the artist’s own way.
 
When poets and writers create, the moment shines thru
Music notes with soul, what out of the moment grew
A song or a poem will use melody or prose
To immortalize what in a special moment arose.
 
Art puts its mark on the moment all the while
Producing different treasures of varying style
Each and every moment in time
Can turn mediocracy into a creation divine!



​



The Princess ABC


By Alexandra H. Rodrigues

​

A delheit was the Princess of the castle
B uilt on lush land, a beautiful parcel
C elebrate did she her 16th birthday yesterday
D aintily like a Rococo doll she did sway.


E very year of her young life, up until now
F or vacation plans from King and Queen she did bow
G rown Adelheit finally independence sought
H appily a ticket to a fancy sea resort she bought.


I can swim, ride a horse and drive a car
J ust for a week I’ll have fun, the place is not far
K nowingly her parents although in doubt
L et her go to learn on her own what life is about.


M onday came when Adelheit left for her spa
N eedless to say the sendoff carried a lot of trara
O nce on the train the princess began to wonder
P lenty of luxury at home caused her to ponder.


Q uite uncomfortable and dirty was this train
R olls Royce car rides had never produced pain
S everal hours later she reached the chosen resort
T ired, to keep her eyes open became an effort.


U neventful in her hotel room to sleep she fell
V ery early she woke up with the passing train’s bell
W anted breakfast with an egg in a cup
X cited she listened to the roar of the sea.


Y et suddenly she wished with her parents to be.
Z esty but not as promised it was to be grown up!

Drawing above by Dr. Benjamin White




​Cup-of-Coffee Philosophy

By Dr. Benjamin White


As I stare
Into the brewed grounds
For images
Of a future filled
                                 With repetitious hopes
                                 And emerging thrills,
My cup-of-coffee philosophy
Sits half empty cooling
In a saucer
Pooling aromatic flavor thinking
With cream swirling
And sinking
                                   Into ripples
                                   Of gentle disturbance
As spoons full
Of circular stir
                                   Clink the china
                                   And blur
                                   Black into an easy
Karma-colored realization
Of caffeine spirit
                                   Transcending the scene
                                   With what it means
                                   To let
Intellectual reflections
Piece together possibilities
Percolating with the steam
                                  Of a closed-kitchen dream
                                  Where the linoleum
                                  Checkerboards across
                                  The uncomplicated yes-and-no
Of foretold destinies
Sipping the tasteful luxury
                                  Of being –
                                  Simply being.
​

The Story of How We Met

By Jake Cosmos Aller




It all began in Berkeley, California
In the spring time of 1974


One fateful afternoon
I was doing in my high school
Physics class.


I looked up and saw
A tall, beautiful Asian woman
standing looking at me.


I screamed out,
Who are you?


She disappeared
like she was beamed away from my dream.


I knew that someday I would meet the girl
In the dream


Little did I know
I would have to wait until 1982


Starting that month
I began having the same dream
Month and month and month.


Always the same.
She was saying something
To me in a strange language.


Then one day I had the dream
and knew that she was in Korea.


So, I chose to go Korea
In the Peace Corps,


Somehow knowing
That I would meet her there.


One day I was in a foul mood.
I had decided to give up on dating Korean women,
And on women in general


After having had several relationships
That did not go anywhere.


I was thinking of returning to the States
For Graduate school.


That morning early in the morning
I had the last of these dreams.


This time I understood her.
She said, “Don't worry.
We’ll meet soon.”


That evening
As I was getting off the bus
To go to my class
I saw getting off the bus
The girl in my dream.


It was she!
I was speechless.
I did not know what to do.


Over the course of the evening
I ran into her several times.
Finally, I was introduced to her.


I muttered some lame excuse
About wanting to find a Korean tutor,
and got her number.


The next day she came to the gate of my base.
Where I was teaching ESL to Koreans


She said that she had to speak with me.
I told to wait in the library for about an hour,
and I would cancel class
and meet her then.


We went out for coffee.
She told me that she was madly
in love with me


And simply had to have me.


I told her I felt the same way.
I proposed five days later,
And got married one month later.


Does she believe this story?
She claims she does not believe it
Because it is impossible to be true.


But I know that there are other worlds
And other times.


In a past life we must have been together somehow.
And our love was so strong
That it crossed over the barrier of past lives.


She found me in 1974,
But it took until 1982
For us to meet.


And it has been 26 years
Since we met in the physical sphere
Or 37 years since the dream began


And I still recall the dream
And meeting her


I had no choice
When I met her


We were fated to be together
Until the end of this life time
And the next and the next.


​



Fate Intertwined

By Jake Cosmos Aller



May 1, 1999


It was many a year ago
Eye 15 years ago
That I was born again


When I met the love of my life
Who took away my sins, my fear
And my self-doubt


And I began an adventure
That has not ended
Together we have moved
Down the path of Life


And together we shall move on
Forever and a day


Our souls intertwined
Our fates bewitched together
Forever more


My love
My hope, my dream, my eternity.

Chasing my Tale


By Karen King





I run around in circles,


In desperation.


Looking for the right words,


Looking for the right feeling.


Sometimes it can take me seconds.


Sometimes I walk away,


Only to have inspiration minutes later.


I may find myself in the flow


As words come into my mind,


As if from nowhere.


Or, I could find only blankness


And I am lost in the darkness of the woods


As writer’s block hits me.


I run around in circles,


Chasing the words,


Chasing my poetic tale


Until the words are captured


And put on paper.


My words are like a seed in earth,


Ready to grow when exposed


And, hopefully, they will be nourished.


I hope my seeds


Will be planted in people’s hearts


And the ink will remain on the paper


Forevermore,


Like a pressed flower,


Remembered in time,


Kept in a special place


Its colour and form everlasting.






Karen King Copyright “Pictures and Poetry Book One” 2017












Destructive Relationships


By Karen King




They tore me apart,


Limbs hanging off me.


Blood dripping down,


The pain driving into my heart,


Like a destructive dagger,


Having the last word.






Yet, my etheric body was already broken,


As thoughtless word after word was thrown,


Each syllable having a portent power,


Which filled me with dark energies to the core.


Before, their silences


And lack of communication


Worked their way through me,


Stopping me cold in my tracks.






A breakdown truck


Worked its way towards me,


Hurtling through a construction site,


Skidding and crashing on arrival.


It crashed into me and


My emotional and mental


Torture were buried in the ground,


Waiting for healing.






My soul screamed for salvation,


Wanting a release from destruction.


It wanted a new life.


It formed a new path.






My soul formed a constructive site.


Trees, birds and a new house


Worked their way from the spirit world


To the physical world


And awaited my arrival.






Karen King Copyright “Pictures and Poetry Book One” 2017









Empty Sky


By Karen King 




I look at the empty sky as I empty my mind.


The clouds remind me of


The thoughts in my mind.


Some scurry past, some drift past,


As if they have


All the time in the world.


Some linger, like a bad smell;


Dark thoughts gathering


Before a thunderstorm.


Others gradually become backlit,


Tinged with hope


As the sun embraces them,


Leading them to brighter times.






Let your mind be the sky -


An empty canvas.


Let the thoughts go.


Stop reminiscing about the past,


Stop worrying about the future.


Just relax, enjoy the beauty


In this moment,


For how many more will you have?






Let your mind be the water on a calm day,


The beautiful blue sky reflecting


All possibilities of inner stillness,


Peace and hope.


Let it all go


And just be.


You don’t have to go anywhere.


You don’t have to do anything.


Just stop and time will slow down


As you slow down.


Your body and mind will become one.


Full of potential.


Full of love.


As you become who you were all along,


A picture of peace.


A picture of love.






Look at the empty sky as you empty your mind.


Observe your thoughts,


The dark and light as the echo the clouds above.


Let the thoughts go as they travel through your mind,


Some are freight trains, others are bicycles,


Some are like tractors stuck in the mud.


Let the colours of your thoughts,


Let the colours of the clouds


Go


And calmly drift away…






Paint your perfect picture of calmness


As you open your heart,


Like you have opened your mind.


Spread your new-found-joy


And it will spread throughout humanity


As we all wake up to our true selves


And live in this hidden paradise.






Karen King Copyright “Pictures and Poetry Book One” 2017

The Letter
 
By Billy Malanga
 
Dear John, you entered a cell through a steel food hatch on the gallery. He was so glad to see you, then you issued your ruling like a capricious king with a burning scroll you proclaimed: She was no longer willing to live in her own Siberia or starve for him. Her love had faded she was gone now. You made him insane. He wanted to escape the razor wire and track her down.
 
Dear John, you whispered and licked his ears with your tongue that night. His bed sheet was no longer for embracing, it became his God. It was the only thing in that cell that would bring comfort and answer when he called. When he opened that letter it was like pulling the pin on a grenade. The blast was too much inside that cell.
 
Dear John, you sat crumpled on the bed as his gray feet dangled in rotten air. He hung from the light fixture by that sheet, like cured tobacco leaves. Amber colored puddles of piss and shit formed on the cement below his dark face, beetroot and eyeballs fixed.
 
Dear John, you destroyed that singing jailbird and wounded me in measured sentences. You can do many things in this world. You can be a liberator a mentor or a killer. The shrapnel from that blast pierced many people. The image of him hanging, the smell of his waste and the sounds of staff and radios rushing down the gallery would sway in my mind forever.
 
 
 
 
 
Angel
 
By Billy Malanga
 
High above the labyrinth
of mountain stone
in the silence of a lion’s jaw,
I felt your fiery brilliance
against my neck. You appeared,
a beautiful cosmic light to my dark forest.
 
How could I have flown
high enough to breathe
your raging flame or free
what waited inside,
by heeding restrictions
placed on my flight?
 
Who cares if I drown
without wings in the
Icarian sea or wash up
dead on the shore?
I believed your words
before you whispered
them to me. I still do.
 
Now, I pull you out
of the burning star
again, and again, in the
same spot where you
marked the blue passage
of fate between us
that night.
 
 
 
 
Nothing Finished
 
By Billy Malanga
 
Why keep kidding myself?
I am getting more disgusting
and tired as I age. It has taken
fifty-five years to compose
these lyrics. The crows around
my eyes are closing in on me.
They have migrated up from
my balls to my face and
there is nothing I can do.
 
I once dreamed of going west into
free land, where horses and guns
settled everything. Where flawed
whiskey lovers in dusty towns
chased me into the hills.
Now I look at the faded dress blues
in my closet, I am ravaged, I am
transience, mutilation, and pain.
Death is coming for me. Nothing
lasts. Nothing finished.

Partyin’ with Elvis


By Janine Pickett


​
I met Elvis on the bus
we were going to a party
but we argued, him and I,
over who owned
the blue suede shoes
laced lovingly over my feet,
yet rolling lovelier still
over the tongue of his song
we decided on a truce,
he sang, I danced,
blue shoes were given
to the convicts
and the county jail, they say,
has never been the same since

The Art of Being Elvis


Poetry Collection by Alan Catlin


​

Elvis Country


"So I said to this
first class jerk who'd
been hitting on me for like
hours down at the Wagon
Wheel-'Who died and
appointed you Elvis?'
Which really pissed him
off royal like I was
questioning his virility
or something. The last
thing female that laid him
went BAAA and more
than likely that was in
his dreams too, then I said,
'And furthermore you've
had too much to drink!'
Them’s fightin' words in
the part of Elvis country
he hails from. I can see it
in his eyes, ‘Should I whale
the bitch or let it ride?’
It was the moments
hesitation did that sucker in.
I let him have it across
the chops with the business
end of longneck. Laid him out
flatter than road kill on the side
of an interstate.” That last
confession was like the deciding
factor between buying those
pretty as Mom's homemade
apple pie girls a round or
not. Guess the only way
I'd be going to their corner
of Elvis country was with a
paid admission to Graceland
and a remastered CD of
The Greatest Hits of the King.




​


Just Another Third Rate Elvis


He was the price you
paid for not seeing
things through all
the way like advanced
degrees that kept you
from nowhere jobs in
dead end hotel lounges
slinging drinks and
watching this third rate
Elvis imitator who must
have thought he was like
the real thing. And so did
all those going on late
middle-age-and-afraid-to
admit-it single or pretending-
to-be-single women carrying
on a very open love affair
with what was hopping
around on the stage
screaming and yelling as
Elvis Jr. did his thing
with his hips, cranking out
Blue Suede Shoes like
there was no tomorrow,
saving My Way for an
encore that would have
the lookers in the first tables
removing their undergarments
and tossing them on stage.
It was like common knowledge
among the staff, those broads
were paid to disrobe and
we weren't supposed to know
or let on if we did, so of
course we told everyone
we saw it was a scam
and, of course, they would
say, 'You're just jealous.
You wish you could be
like him at the end of
the night having the pick
of the litter.' To which I
would reply, 'You got that
half right.' At the end of
the night, I'd like to be
counting his cash in
the dressing room instead
of what I'll be counting
behind the bar, not saying
I knew what picking from
a litter meant, and it had
nothing to do with picking
the choicest girls.








Velvet Elvis's Temple of Doom


Just my luck,
the most outrageous babe
I've had the chance to hook
up within like years and
she turns out to be beyond
weird. Maybe I'll write my
memoirs and call them,
“Horny Man, Crazy Women”,
it ought to be a best seller
for the title alone. Anyway,
we leave the bar & go to
her place & isn't it lit up,
no lit up is wrong, isn't
the place like some sort of
cave with red lights in all
the ceiling fixtures & aren't
all the walls covered with
pictures of Himself spanning
the whole career from Memphis
Hound Dog years through
the Elvis does Hawaii, I'm in
the army now, all the way up
to, I'm the King in Vegas years.
You can't be anywhere in
that apartment without the eyes
of Elvis on you. Remember that
poster of Morrison from the 60's
whose eyes seemed to follow you
everywhere? This was worse.
I won't go into the bathroom decor
but I will say it's the first time
I ever saw a commode cover
with his face on it & I hope
it's the last. I was going to ask
her what the deal was with
the interior wattage when she says,
"I know what you're thinking,
in this light all the men look
like Elvis" I'm not sure
if I should feel privileged
or freaked. I will say trying to
make some music in the bedroom
was a trip, what with that Velvet
Elvis hanging above the headboard.
I thought women who had crucifixes
with a bleeding Jesus on them &
who cried out His name as they came
were weird but this was ten times
worse. Somehow you knew you were
never going to measure up to
a legend. It's real tough to get
the old engine running with that
in the back of your mind. I consider
myself lucky to have made it out alive.






24 Hour Elvis


The cinematic record of his life oared
down to super slo mo. The young,
handsome Elvis you could only see from
the waist up. The movie star Elvis on
Creole, in the Army, Vegas, Hawaii,
the sequined Elvis, dodging panties thrown
on stage. The fat Elvis, bloated and
girdled, lethargic, high on pills. Elvis
with a gun and a badge with Nixon,
Elvis bent over a toilet, Death holding
his hand with a syringe nearby poised
and ready. It only takes a few seconds in
real life to die, but for 24 hour Elvis,
it takes forever.







Elvis in the Off-Hours


During work hours he is
like all the others; a man
scarred by his job, skin blackened,
heat seared, an extra layer of film
and sweat on his body a kind of
slimy, almost gritty to the touch, skin,
clothes soiled from residues, back
drafts, working too close to the pits,
the maddening scuffle of machines
and men in a chamber built to channel
noise, smoke and soot rather than
to disperse---. He wears a hard hat
and safety glasses everywhere he
goes inside, keeps his gloves draped
over his belt for ready access,
a soft pack of Marlboro Reds in
his short sleeve shirt pocket with
the standard issue, ever ready Zippo
lighter, impervious to weather, Un-
expected drafts, the rolling sweat
from his brow. After hours, he is
another man, sitting on the edge of
his white dressing room table,
this shrine to his idol/mentor,
painted plaster busts, collector item/
limited edition decanters, record album
covers, posters of The King displayed
all around the dressing up area;
bare white light bulbs, his hair slicked
back in a 50's wave, black silk shirt
buttoned part way up, skin tight black
jeans and rhinestone studded Garrison
belt; in profile he is the image of the man,
off-stage, rough and ready to greet
the crowds, the adoring fans, to perform,
maybe, even, to sing.




​


Extreme Art


Lampshades made from junk
mail, planters, pots, clock facings
and vases; a neighborhood map
made from multi-colored crack
baggies found in the gutters and
on sidewalks of those same streets;
a gaping yaw, a lair, made of twist
ties and garden hoses; a floor to
ceiling mural made if duck sauce
packets; decorative paisleys fashioned
from blood, gold leaf, resin and clay
on wood; an allergy series made
of contents of vacuum bags and poly-
urethane; a human skull like a death
mask from dried orange peels and
prominently stitched with waxed linen
threads; the world at war, Gravity’s
Rainbow in paper collage, pills, hemp
leaves, acrylic and resin on wood;
chaos revealed, contained, mechanical
as prosthesis, artificial limbs, hooded
ornaments appended to pink Caddy
fins, every available inch taken by:
ceramic Elvii, plastic Jesuses, Marys,
Josephs, God the Holy Father and
The Holy Ghost; images from killing
fields captured in china plates their
shadow images calling to us, calling
from the other side to save them but
we never will.

Mods and Rockers


By Karen King





They listened to Ska music


On their Vespas and Lambrettas,


Fox tails wobbling as they cruised,


Mirror after mirror glistening


And lights blazing,


Announcing their arrival.


Green coat after green coat


Swarmed in,


Like a mass of unearthly insects,


Unleashed from a subterranean world.


Their music pulsed


As they shouted in anger


At the Rockers on their motorbikes


Who had already arrived.






The Rockers revved their engines,


Showing the boys they were real men,


Their dark leather jackets and boots


A picture of masculinity and strength...


The throb of their engines


Reverberated along the street


As black smoke from Triumphs, Nortons


And BSAs obscured the


Small, shiny scooters.






The real bikes and real men


Liked real, rock and roll music.


Deafening music pulsed out as


Petrol dripped from their bikes


As they bumped over potholes


And the smell of petrol, Brylcreem


Sweat and sex


Permeated the air.


The girls sat behind them,


Donned also in leather jackets.


Their curls and red lipstick


A come on to any man…






The Mods had had enough.


They rode towards the Rockers


And started chatting up the girls.


The girls flirted fabulously


And the fights began.






Brighton beach looked on,


Bemused at the latest fight.


There would be


More front page news,


More blood spilled and


More loves lost.


Still, all in a day at the seaside


When two groups collide,


But never meet in the middle.








Karen King Copyright 15 May 2017

Profile Pictures


By Alexandra H. Rodrigues




The face of a young person finds applause
Being fresh, pretty or cute of course
At that time to have a photo taken is fun
That changes when the advantage of youth is gone.


Next come pictures when of middle age,
Sorrow or problems the image might change
More characteristic all the features do get
Lip lines are now determined and set.


Pictures taken when at a ripe old age
Might show a face wrinkled on the page
Whatever life had handed out to bear
Is carved distinctly below the white hair.


Each picture does have its own way
From a person’s birth to their last day
Many traits that are theirs, strictly their own
Make up memories when they are gone.

Staff Sergeant Presley

​By Dr. Benjamin White


Colonel Parker
Was not a colonel,
And you were never
A staff sergeant –
                                    Although
There are pictures
Of you in uniform
Wearing that rank –
                                    A twist
On the self-promotion
The colonel was so good at
As he handled
                                    Your induction
                                    And your time
                                    In the Army
When you got to
Play soldier,
Hang out with Air Force officers,
Adopt one of their daughters,
Drive Jeeps and tanks,
And get advanced through the ranks
                                    So fast
                                    You didn’t have time
                                    To consider
                                    The corresponding
                                    Insignia
But in the post-World War Two
                                    Pre-Vietnam
Wonder glow
                                    Of American culture,
It didn’t matter,
So no-one noticed
The three stripes
For a rocker
                     Turned into
                                    Three stripes
                                    And a rocker

While you knew
As long as you followed
The colonel’s orders,
                                    You would avoid
                                    The GI blues.

​The Hollywood Anthology


Poetry Collection

By Alan Catlin 

​

Hollywood


His last screen test must
not have gone well which
went a long way towards explaining
his confusion. 3 AM February
mornings in Albany calls for
a different kind of garb other
than his khaki Land's End
shorts, Banana Republic polo
shirt with sleeves cut off and
an artificial plunging neckline
to better show off his gold chains
and lame tanning hut bronzed skin.
Stood drinking his straight up
Absolut martinis with his pinky
finger extended. In some bars,
posturing like that would be
reasonable cause for initiating
sudden death syndrome but
in his case, it wouldn't be
necessary. By dawn he would just
be another frozen, roadside
monument to mans' incredible
capacity for stupidity and
monumental pride.








The Thing


The guy who did stats for
the local rag said he was
officially listed as seven foot
four and a half inches and weighed
three forty-five. He could have
played in the NBA, if he could
have shot, run or dribbled a
basketball. All of which went
a long way to explaining why he
was marooned on one of the outer
moons of Jupiter playing minor
league basketball, which was what
Albany was to pro hoops in terms
of the NBA. The way he picked up
a pitcher of beer and absorbed it in
his hand, was the way mere mortals
handled a shot glass. After inhaling
three or four of those, he claimed
to have arm wrestled Andre the Giant
and the guy who played the original Hulk
and won, a dubious claim no one was
about to challenge. A few more snorts
of suds and he looked ready to audition
for a starring role as the title character
in yet another bad remake of “The Thing
from Outer Space”. He wouldn’t even
need makeup.








It Came from Outer Space


A screaming comes across the sky,
not a Von Braun rocket, part of gravity’s
decomposing rainbow, not a meteor as
authorities inevitably proclaim but a cheesy,
glow –in-the-dark, crash landing, space craft
marooned in Arizona desert watched by
stargazing couple on clear night, no one believes.
They who go there some kind of protoplasmic,
one-eyed, see-through creature, able to body snatch
humans they replicate in form, but not in manner,
hoping for low profile helpers while repairing
damaged ship. Xenophobic citizens, being human,
seek a permanent solution, violence against the unknown,
without information gathering: they mean no harm,
but, we, for the greater good, have no interest in
explanations or arguments over intent versus accident.
One man, against all others, aids their escape,
not without fatal consequences, and life, more or less,
goes on. The world was black and white in those
days, now we are blinded by color.








Angels with Dirty Faces


They called themselves undercover experts.
Not agent or spies, just proficient at what
they did best. Were always ready to go,
and for hire, at the right price. Dressed up in
“alternate reality gear” for kicks, depending
upon their mood, and what kind of town,
they were planning to go out in.


Sometimes they were suicide blondes
with shag cuts, obvious hair dye jobs over
black roots, frizzed out and wild the way
“Blade Runner” replicant Pris liked hers.
Were long-legged and favored blood on
their teeth like murderers following an
intimate hit.


Other times, they were Amy Winehouse bee hived,
all hair extensions streaked with wild colors
for a rainbow effect that was impossible to ignore.
Had voices, then, like the jazz singer, three days
gone, and struggling for air.


Were black angels with detachable wings,
dressed for a come-as-you-are party in another
world. Had fine art removable tattoos all
over their bodies like Maori warriors
returning from an mountain outback hunt.


Swore they has no allegiances to anyone but
themselves, but could be bought for a satchel full
of unmarked bills. Would be loyal until the
money, or the contract ran out, whichever came first.


Saved images of their victims in gold leafed
albums as if they were collectible souls in
the devil’s back pocket. Were always on the look
out for new conquests as if they needed to complete
some kind of pre-determined set, only they knew
the order of.


Even naked, they wore a disguise. May not have been
a force of nature but considered themselves: the next
best thing. Date one at your own risk but be sure
to check the, best if used by, expiration date.





Day of the Locusts


“You don’t call the dead.
The dead call you.”
Rachel Kushner


Street barkers selling indulgences,
tickets to an invisible parade,
The Doors Greatest Hits: A Playlist
on portable disk machine:
“When I was in seminary school,
There was a person there
Who put forth the proposition,
That you can petition the Lord with payer….”;
cacophony and blind eye bluster.


Cell phone hot line, no contract
required, prepaid plan gets you
in touch with those who have passed on
to the other side, available here:
ministers and their minions soliciting
among the soon-to-be-anointed
with-nothing, masses, collecting
stipends, royalties against Future
earnings, emptying bank accounts
with a key stroke or a finger click;
you can take it with you.


Self-styled Reality Show hosts:
anyone with a video recorder or
a cell phone can play, everyone
famous for fifteen seconds in
twenty four year cycles; mind
parasites devouring the air waves:
everything is real now, especially
the make believe.

The absolute Femme Fatal

By David Thorpe
 
Arriving with conquerors in her defeated land,
they later even scorned her as a traitor,
who fell in love again and again,
helpless to do anything about it,
swarmed by admirers around her stardom,
attracted to her like moths to a light
 
The storm clouds darkening the horizon,
she abandoned her homeland, left to its fate
of marching jackboots, stepping like geese,
with an offer and passage she sailed to America
to realise her ambitious dream,
to become the absolute Femme Fatal,
an Universal Studios queen
 
Her beauty aged throughout her ninety years,
she remained secluded in her Paris recluse,
yet before she took he final bow,
one last interview with her actor colleague
without cameras, just she and Max
in the intimacy of her boudoir,
a last Aufwidersehen of a Hollywood diva,
Marlene
 
David Thorpe ©® 2017

Lost in a Dream

By Alexandra H. Rodrigues

Ghosts? Aliens? A trip of the mind
Who the people and images my dreams do find?
Now dead, alive as well as unknown do mix
Visit mornings mostly between four and six.
In my dreams, I often get lost!
Unable to find where to go at any cost
At times I fly wingless and unsuspended
By whom and why am I this destiny handed?
They all act normal like fully alive
No word ever from where and why they arrive
Apparently at my age, days are not long enough
To act out and handle what is extra rough.
Last night, a dream sent me on a vacation
I had not enough time to pack for the occasion
On top the small bag I’d thrown some things in
Ended up spoiled soaked with perfume and Gin .
I wore a lovely, short-sleeved black dress
However, my hair and shoes were a mess
I got compliments, and men asked for my hand
I declined, and to a concert I went.
First, I could not find what was my seat
Unannounced a Union group did meet
Then thousands of people waited in vain
Happy anticipation changed to annoyed pain
I tried to figure out what all this meant for me
No link between dream and reality I could see
At six o’clock sharp my phone rang -- an empty line!
I was awake, of explanation no sign.
 
 

Tyrannosaurus

By Tomas Sanchez Hidalgo


 
It’s seven in the morning
while we navigate through the Leviathan,
without a compass,
and with a wicked Tyrannosaurus
affixed to the very center
of the galleon’s deck,
in the middle of a tsunami.
It’s that simple.
The captain and his command cadre
have suffered their particular Metamorphosis
and, upon exiting a dream
disconcerting and tumultuous,
they have turned into the omniscient pigs
of Animal Farm,
but at the same time they
have once again changed the script,
and, instead of raising mastiffs in the background,
they’ve opted for a Tyrannosaurus
to feed only
a scandalous tax burden,
cement shoes
for the economy,
sponsor
of breadcrumbs
delivered in galleys
to begin draws for the rebellion on board.
George Soros predicted to us the typhoon
at the end of the tsunami,
and you have nothing that says otherwise,
but (not everything is rotten
in the state of Denmark)
the love of the sea is what is inherited.







The Wild Bunch
 
By Tomas Sanchez Hidalgo 


A few years later,
an emerald
and representative selection
of three
of our most famous corrupt
(Notables, people with substance)
will migrate
(an exercise of delayed
poetic justice?,
perhaps),
turning this time somewhat
the sense of rhythm,
the sense of clockwise,
and will shoot, after a film of flags
in Amsterdam
(their bodies are no longer adequate,
perhaps),
all of a western,
a sui generis version
of a classic of the genre as The Wild Bunch,
somewhat chaotic but full of talent,
alternative, indie,
psychedelic,
experimental,
in a studio just outside
El Pueblo de Nuestra Señora
de Los Ángeles
de Porciúncula,
also known as Los Angeles,
also as L.A.,
forty-eight letters
that are converted into two,
automatically and in standard application,
subtle inverse correlation
of such immediate assets,
and, therein,
the referred Holy Trinity
exercises authority
(Sheriff, judge and sheriff)
and, after eating peyote
during breaks from filming
(<<Noticeable how the opposite mountain
was breathing>>,
they come to ensure),
and newly acquired network
and know how,
they decide to continue these careers
in the Non-fiction,
and become invested, in the first instance,
across the Pecos River.
They do creative accounting, and the like,
in parallel to an increasing consumption of psychotropic;
this consumption is
what leads them to wonder,
one day,
totally overwhelmed,
Why is the hotel bar
full of Godzillas?,
and thus they put into practice
the idea,
indicated in that movie
at the time by Peckinpah,
that Good can arise from absolute Evil,
and then decide
to face the giant lizards
(a powerful
drug gang indeed)
to death:
inert bodies,
both sides,
and some supervening bounty hunter,
ours,
and some supervening state tax collection coffers,
ours,
to a Final score
Our Lady,
have mercy on them,
merry bandits:
today they are not guilty:
I'll give them a motorbike

My Agenda

By Lucinda Berry Hill


When I sit to watch a movie
Entertainment is my agenda.
Not to learn or be informed
Just to be in splendor.

At a movie with my family,
I want my mind at ease.
I want to be entertained
And not to be deceived.

There is a place for lessons.
A place to argue and discuss.
But a movie with my family
Should be a time of fun.

I want to be apart from 
The world and all that matters.
Sometimes I want to laugh
At silliness and chatter.

When I sit to watch a movie
It's entertainment that I seek.
Not another one's agenda
But my family's joy and peace.

Lucinda Berry Hill Author of "Coffee with Jesus" AND "A Second Cup with Jesus" ©
 https://www.facebook.com/#!/pages/Coffee-with-Jesus/355060321207311

http://lucindaspoetry.webs.com/index.htm

The Saltwater Buccaneer


By Karen King


He walked along the sand,
Watching the waves
As they crashed on the rocks.
Mount Snowden called to him
As it peeped out
From the tops of the clouds,
Sparkling and inviting.
He smiled to himself,
He had found home;
The mountains, the sea
And the forest.
​

He turned towards the trees
And to the pile of wood
That had been chopped for him.
He gazed at them,
Admiring the colours,
Admiring the textures.
He touched them, tentatively,
Drawn to them like he has been
When he was a teenager.



He thanked the woodsman
And loaded up his pick-up truck.
He drove back through Newborough Forest
Towards the log cabin in the garden.
He preferred it to the main house.
He slept at ground level,
But the lounge and kitchen were higher
For a better view of the mountains.
He had even built a cellar,
Where he stored his food and tools.
This was where he showered
In his rustic, yet modern abode,
Designed and built by him.
All his electricity was supplied by solar panels
And a wind turbine.
He grew his own vegetables
And was entirely self-sufficient.






He had built a canoe
And travelled around the Isle of Anglesey
Exploring the seaside and the bays,
Spotting secluded seals, hiding behind rocks,
Yet clear to his trained eyes.
Sea birds nested in the rocks
And soared overhead.
He was a mere voyeur,
A speck of a human
In the vast ocean of life.




He explored the hidden depths
And shallow seas,
Throughout the seasons,
Throughout the weathers.
Every day was different,
Every day was an adventure
As he could be tossed and turned
When the Earth was angry
Or gently drifted along
On a lazy summer's day.




He took a deep breath,
Enjoying the smell of salt
As it permeated his lungs.


He touched the water
And felt the familiar
Silken feeling of the sea.




The sun caressed the back of his neck
And the wind chafed it.
He smiled to himself as
Nature touched him






He heard the comforting lapping
Around his canoe and sighed in pleasure.
He was a solitary figure
In the grand expanse of the ocean,
The birds and seals his only companions.






He gazed in wonder into the water
And saw a myriad of marvellous fishes,
Multi-coloured delights
In the amazing underwater world.


He caught some for his supper,


Just a few fish to meet his needs.


He left the rest to play


Amongst the waves


As the sun sparkled in delight.




He had become a man with great skills
And superior craftsmanship.
His canoe was beautifully sanded,
His canoe was beautifully varnished.
Life was indeed an adventure,
Whether on the land or in the sea.




He had started to build a Viking boat,
A contract from the council,
But it wasn’t work to him,
It was his calling.
Working with wood kept him grounded,
Yet on the water he was a modern-day-pirate


As a different adventure every day called.
He was indeed The Saltwater Buccaneer!


Karen King Copyright 16 April 2016

Thrown Upon The Rock

By Lucinda Berry Hill


Like a lifeboat in the ocean
Being tossed about by waves,
I struggle to keep my head up
On so many stormy days.

But every time I'm thrown
I find that I am safe.
I land upon a  rock
That fixes everything.

The rock of Christ my Savior,
I've learned to cling to Him,
With each toss and tumble
That gives my life a spin.

He's the one I reach for
When I feel I'm 'bout to sink.
He picks me up and keeps me
And doesn't blink a wink.

So let the waves come over.
Let them toss me to and fro.
'Cause they bring me close to Jesus,
The safest place I know.


Lucinda Berry Hill Author of "Coffee with Jesus" AND "A Second Cup with Jesus" ©


​



Are You Sinking?

By Lucinda Berry Hill


Life is full of ups and downs,
Twists and turns,
Good and bad.
Sometimes the bad times 
Seem to outweigh the good.
We’re not sure we can handle
All that comes our way.
We feel pressure from all sides.
We feel we’re in a whirlwind and 
There’s something sucking us downward.
We feel lost, with no control, and
Unable to see clearly.
We get tired from the struggles we face
And the burdens we try to carry.
We get scared because we think
We’re all alone and we can’t make it.
But God says we’re not alone.
In every situation,
In every hill we climb,
Turn we make,
In every hole we seem to fall into,
God is there.
He didn’t promise
There’d be no struggles,
But He did promise 
To see us through them.
So the next time 
You feel like you’re sinking,
Swim with Jesus.
He won’t let you down.

Lucinda Berry Hill author ©



 https://www.facebook.com/#!/pages/Coffee-with-Jesus/355060321207311

http://lucindaspoetry.webs.com/index.htm
 
Ask me about fundraising ideas!

Life Boat

By Georgina Scott


Under false pretenses
A sailor boarded a three-masted scooner
Heading for the West-Indies,
Claiming to be interested, persay, in ship-work. 

Close to Hispanola, 
The scooner hit a rock, 
and the sailor who wanted to become a mutineer, 
was thrown into the open sea. 

For three long hours, 
This sailor swam toward any land or island, 
Close to giving up, 
At last finding a lonely boat. 

The boat held an ensemble of men, 
Rugged fisher types ruled by one angelic persona, 
Holding out his arms in embrace, 
Calming down the storm. 

"We have our mutineer," 
The man said, salvaging the sailor from the depth,
Giving him food to eat
and water to drink.

Soon, the small boat arrived on land, 
The sailor strolled on shore,
Heard the man say:
"Never think of betrayal again!"

As the sailor turned to wave his new friends good bye,
But the life boat was gone, 
An echo of saving grace
The only remnant of a rescue left. 

The sailor found three crewmembers
From the destroyed scooner. 
They had all been salvaged
By a mysterious life boat. 

The ship was gone, the captain dead, 
The crew salvaged, the island fertile, 
The sailor ridden with guilt, 
Crying himself to sleep at night. 

The next morning, the sailor made a decision, 
He gathered his three friends, 
Wandered the land and spoke about honesty, 
Urged his listeners to love one another. 

"Never think of betrayal again," he told them, 
And somewhere in the back of his head, 
He remembered the angelic man and his crew of rugged fishermen, 
Men who had saved his life. 

Now, the sailor vowed to save others
Like he, too, had been saved. 
Lost at sea in a life boat, 
Heading for a promised land called faith.

Art Photography courtesy of Jerome Coppo




Ixchel, Lady of the sacred light

By David Thorpe
​
 
Arising out of a sea of mist
the Island of Women was discovered
by the Spanish conquistador Hernández de Córdoba,
being the first to see idols and relics of worship
belonging to the sanctuary of the Mayan goddess of the moon,
 Ixchel
 
Her sensual beauty and flowing locks of hair
enticed the lover who became her spouse,
the supreme deity and god of the sun,
Itzamna,
siring thirteen offspring as proof of their fertility
 
Responsible for the needed rainfall
to provide abundant harvests,
Ixchel took the name of Lady Rainbow,
the lady of the sacred light,
oft depicted with a crescent moon 
 
As goddess of midwifery, medicine and healing
much compassion did Ixchel bestow
on expectant mothers,
the myth, however, has a darker side ,
a jaguar goddess and female warrior
Ixchel´s gaping mouth suggests cannibalism,
the sacrifice of young unmarried maidens
formed part of sacred rituals in honour of her name
​
Ixchel and Itzamna, deities of heavenly bodies,
the legend tells, 
did find eternal life in the constellation of Virgo,
on the mythical planet named Itzamna

David Thorpe ©® 2017

The Whisperer


By Alexandra H. Rodrigues


As the waterfall cascades down the mountain
I hear a strange whisper again and again
It originates from a to me unknown force
A secret power of a special source.


As last rays of a golden sun in the water glimmer
The melody I hear oddly grips my soul’s inner
That it is you, my distant lover I beg to be true
Although where you really are, I have no clue.


As phenomena, you have been with me a while
In wind, water and clouds I often sense your smile
You steadily, one way or the other, accompany me
I feel you, hear the elements, but you I do not see.


Today for the first time in a whisper you speak
You seem to promise me the closeness that I seek.
With joy, I do into the mountain shout and count
The echo and your whisper unite as one sound!

The Sound of the Waves

By Alan Catlin



The ache and the cry
of sea birds before
moon rise.


An offshore breeze in
the tall brown reeds,
in the panic grass.


Wild deer on narrow
cliff paths eroding
underfoot, unfit for
safe passage.


The shifting rocks
dragged by the tides
out toward the sea
over pebbles and moss
and more rock.


Storm wrecked pieces
of ships: disconnected
panels, steering columns
without wheels, one way
ship to shore to nowhere,
radio transceivers.


Sand crusted, weed
infested, knots of blue
rope nets dragging
the beach for nothing.


A lull in the night
where nothing seems
to be moving; the sound
of the waves.






Treasure Island

By Alan Catlin 



Mother’s face shines with an
unnatural glow, highlighted by
fast moving tropical storm.
She looms by my bedside, skin
transparent as air, her bones black
as scars on my skin, “Tonight,
all your dreams will come true,”
she says. And they do.








Zen Poem

By Alan Catlin



As seen from
under water:


the movement


of clouds
overhead is


an illusion


like rain
drawn out
of an ocean


of light





Lighthouses

By Alan Catlin 


Once upon a time, the vocation of
lighthouse keeper was a venerable one.
It was the perfect get-away-from-it-all
profession like joining the French Foreign
Legion only with water instead of sand.
The job required a special kind of temperament
like being able to withstand long periods of
isolation and to be able concentrate during
times of stress. Watching the seas,
for distressed ships, is a tough business.
Being able to deal with the densest kind
of fog imaginable, being hemmed in with zero
visibility, sometimes for days at a time, is
no fun either. Through it all the keeper had
to keep the lights focused so that ships could
find their way to safety under these kinds of
adverse circumstances. Obviously, the work
isn’t of everyone. Look what happened to Jack
when he took the caretaker’s position in
“The Shining”. Similarly, one of Poe’s last,
incomplete stories, has a rather unstable
personality signing up for a couple of years
in a particularly desolate place, hoping to
finish a novel that wasn’t going well.
As might be expected, stuff of a cataclysmic
nature starts happening immediately, conjuring
images of “The Fall of the House of Usher”
on the high seas, with lost manuscript pages.
And what could be more tragic than that?
Lost manuscript pages that is, given how Poe
was perpetually short of money and got to
the point where he would write just about anything
for cash. Well, we never do find out what
happens, but we know it won’t be good,
given how Poe has stacked the deck against
his hapless narrator. In fact, one idly wonders,
if the lighthouse wasn’t built under the auspices
of the Stevenson clan, given the forbidding location,
though their structures were built to last, unlike Poe’s.
Not many people are aware that Robert Louis Stevenson
was meant to following the footsteps of his famous
engineering family, who considered his dreams of
writing, daft, at best. They basically disinherited him
and he decided to emigrate, first to the US and later,
with the woman he met on the voyage over, to Tahiti,
for his health. Regardless of how you feel about
his work, you have to admit that, plying your trade
on a tropic paradise, beats working on a deserted
pile of rock, off the windy, stormy, Scottish coast.




​

Ruins

By Alan Catlin


I could climb the forbidden turret in those days,
those hidden castle steps all covered by wet sand,
mounded moss, growing lichen, the elements
overtaking this ruin, this place where dreams went
to hide, a refuge beyond dreaming where no one,
not even a child would be able to imagine this place
as a pirate's den, a hidden place where buried treasures
could be found, where I could stare from the derelict
parapet imagining frigates moored in this cove,
the three tall masts filled with furrowing sails,
a one-eyed man in the Crow's Nest, the Long John Silver
of my fevered nightmare life staring across the beach,
on the alert against intruders, a watcher such as myself
concealed among the recessed walls, listening to sudden
footfalls on the ruin's step, slowly tapping as they climb,
a murderous, deliberate, assured ascent more terrifying
than an executioner's step; only mother could wear high
heels to the beach, only she would come for me in just this way.

The Buccaneer

By Paul Griffiths 


I was destined to be a Pirate, it was all that I could be.
Salt water ran through my veins that drew me to the sea.
I was born the bastard son to a tavern whore.
She said my Father was a Pirate and I would be nothing more.

My Mother happily drank herself to death.
She cursed me with her dying breath.
Struggling for breath she whispered clear,
I was damned to be a Buccaneer.

Not yet fourteen I found the sea.
The land had turned it's back on me.
My Mother was barely cold inside the grave.
Yet my heart rose like an ocean wave.

I set sail on a Naval Man of War.
As a powder monkey I swabbed the floor.
I fed the cannon I manned the sail.
Froze to the crow's nest in a winter's gale.

Working hard I learnt fast,
I nailed my colours to the mast.
I fought in battles, watched men die.
I craved for more but I knew not why.

Got into fights and drunken clashes.
Captain ordered Forty lashes.
Through gritted teeth I bore the pain.
Resentment now surged through my brain.

I loved this life on the open sea.
But I hated with a vengeance authority.
Hatred like salt ran in my veins.
I abandoned ship in the Spanish Maine.

Me and authority we were now done.
I lost my ship but found my anchor in a bottle of rum.
In these dingy fleapit taverns I felt at home.
Big men would fight me, I held my own.

One night a young sea Captain bettered me.
He had the darkest heart on the seven sea's.
He told me don't let your grasp betray your reach.
Offering me his hand he said his name was William Teech.

I listened to his advice and I was drawn to his every word.
His crew mates called him Captain, Captain Blackbeard.
I had heard the old sea dog tales thought they were fables.
Now I was drinking his rum and sat at his table.

Speaking only open and true he told no lies.
I could see a black fire burning in his dark eyes.
He knew from the look in my eyes the sea had cursed me too.
Then invited me to sail with him and join his crew.

I loved the life of a Pirate, to steal and plunder. 
Many a poor lost soul I now sent asunder.
Davy Jones locker was their watery grave.
I had found the adventure I so long had craved.

Thrived in the battle's, I showed no fear.
I was born to be a cut throat buccaneer.
Blackbeard himself was a fearsome sight.
Most ships surrendered to him without a fight.

He stood at the wheel in a fearsome mood. 
His beard entwined with burning corkscrew cannon fuse.
We would steal the gold and silks, only the best.
Take the pieces of eight from the treasure chests.

As pirates go Blackbeard was always fair.
Every crewman got their share.
We left the West indies on a wind of change
Headed to the America's to expand our range

We made our fortunes fast, the pirate life was sound.
Until the ship was cursed by the sea and ran a ground.
Stranded helpless like flotsam and jetsam on the shore.
We were spotted stranded by a British Naval Man of War.

Blackbeard unfurled the skull and crossbones and raised it high.
He shouted the time has come lad's, to do or die.
We were outnumbered and outgunned.
But not one man in his crew turned to run.

Cannon fire and bullets turned the beach to hell.
Blackbeard stood tall as his crewmen fell.
He smiled to me fearless and winked his eye.
Then that bullet struck him true and I watched him die.

It was my turn to die my time was done.
But the bullet with my name on did not come.
I fought to the last with sword and fists
Until shackles were locked tightly on my feet and wrists.

I recognised the Captain of the man of war.
He smiled, buccaneer well we meet once more.
But this time you won't meet the lash.
You will be hanged till dead from the highest mast.

My fate was sealed, I said do your worst.
I was always dammed by that pirate curse.
Send my body home to old Davy Jones.
I offer him freely my skull and my crossbones.

Desert Buccaneer

By Dr. Benjamin B. White


I’m sitting here –
A desert buccaneer
With a Coast Guard career –
                                    In the Southern Rockies
At 5,000 feet watching
The sun climb the Sandias
Where once I would have been
                                    Submerged by a sea
Long receded with its emptiness
And its secrets covered deep
In the layers of desert dust
                                   And suddenly I must
Consider the port authority
Establishing a bordered zone,
Reacting to the majority
                                Wanting protection
In a plan to finally build
A sea wall, though not all
Policies or projects are justifiable
                                When reliable waves
Roll in full of the flooding bounty
I moved here to appreciate – leaving hate
In the middle of the country
                                 Where the scenery
Blooms with ironic greenery
In the lush and well-tended gardens
And isolationist harvests harden
To petrify
                                In the heat of ethnocentric summers
Held up to unknowing ears to hear
The ebbing tides abandoning
Forgotten shores
                               Where people will be higher and drier
Than I am here in the dormancy
Of this volcanic region
Where all the reasons
                                To enjoy the morning, the mountains
The sun, the air, the warmth
And the bilingual navigation of culture
Are all contained
                                In the knowledge that every ocean
Is destined to be a desert
Unless the shores and the waves
Can coexist.
                                                        (And it’s beautiful when and where they do)






Landlocked Heart

By Dr. Benjamin White



Water soothes
Landlocked buccaneers
                                 As the sea calls
                                 And the desert hears
The sound of the day
Setting on the barren
                                Emptiness
Of sun-saturated land,
Time-drowned oceans,
And the notions
                               Of longing hearts



F-A-C

After Dickey’s “The Energized Man”


By Dr. Benjamin White


F-A-C
Leaves the sea
In a shiny gloss,
                       And the ship
Is lost
Without the wind and chop –
                       Full stop
With the sails useless
And energy gone –
                       Suspended –
                       The journey ended
Too soon,
And not far enough away
To claim a destination,
                        And it’s an impatient
Sensation having to wait
With fate depending
On currents
While navigation suffers
Deference, and direction
                       Has no star
                       To follow,
So right now
Is too hollow to fill
With any substance
Beyond the emptiness
                        In the glassy stare
                       Of consciousness
Reflecting in the comfort
Of the stillness
                        Longing
For anxiety
                        To take it –
                        Move it –
Somewhere
                        Anywhere.

Nefertiti
​

A Collection of Poems 

By Lyn Lifshin



NEFERTITI
 
 
I imagine her sliding
silk over her
perfect arms, the
Egyptian sun's mouth
even at dawn
moving over her,
licking her
tawny skin. Beads
circle her long neck
as who knows
how many ardent
worshippers dream
their fingers might do,
wake up shaking
with fear and
desire. Eyes like no
other eyes, not
even Elizabeth Taylor's,
mahogany jewels,
hypnotic, entrancing,
a gaze so intense
no one needs
to tell you, as her
name itself
does, the
beautiful one

SHE SLIDES
 
green silk over
her bronze, almost
golden body. Hot
Egyptian light.
How could she
know years later
young girls would
put necklaces on
her statue, lightly
scented candles
and incense. Or
worry, breaking
the snake off a
model of Tut's head-
dress that they
will get a mummy
curse. I think of
Nefertiti, a pale
yellow sky beyond
the palace, pyramids
reflected in still
pools by dawn. She
watches the night
sand begin to
glow, the lavender
shadows, twists
her ebony river of
hair into carved
tortoise shell combs
studded with
alabaster. Near the
canopied bed,
eyes as gorgeous,
if not as exquisite
as hers, the cat
she knows, since
cats dream in
Egypt, has visions
she will, as the
day unfolds,
try to guess

NEFERTITI AS AMERICA'S TOP MODEL
 
I think of her trying
to win that spot, be
on the cover of
Seventeen and win
a Cover Girl contract.
When Bill Clinton
said he'd like to
ask the Peruvian
Ice Mummy out for
lunch, shouldn't
Nefertiti, with her
gorgeous skin,
beautifully bronze
as Tara Bank's
and even sharing
Tara's so enormous,
stunning, magic eyes,
do as well? Name 
another beauty who
has riveted so
many thru time?
Her long slender neck,
lips more haunting,
more luscious
than Mona Lisa?
You know she
would follow the
rules, would
not fight with the
other girls but
keep her dignity. Her
long legs and
small breasts, her
knack for high
fashion and she has
own gorgeous
jewels. How could
Tara, how could
any of the judges resist
her lustrous hair,
sun touched
or frizzed and who
would not kill for
her cheekbones?

SITTING ON HER HUSBAND'S KNEES
 
maybe whispering his
name, bird names, the
names of flowers.
Look, her long swan
neck, gorgeous as
any goddess. And
those cheek bones,
glistening.  She made
her own  creams
from the Galena
plants in the garden.
Behind those
huge eyes, names of
spells and hexes,
names of children
coiled in her dreams.
Children with her
hypnotic eyes,
children who would
rule and in their
last hours call
her name out across
the desert

WHEN I READ HOW KING AKHENATON'S
 
love for Nefertiti is seen
in hieroglyphs at Amara.
"Fair of face," he says
and adorned with double
plumes. I think of how
he must have dreamt of
holding her, called her
love names of course in
reality, he never could.
Delicious names, too
secret, maybe the names
of flowers that only open
in the east. Maybe he
thought of her in darkness,
could almost smell her
hair, shudder at all
the men wild to
hold her

DID THE KING SHUDDER, KNOWING HOW MANY MEN WANTED HER
 
Did he imagine other
tongues on her lips?
Their kisses falling
over her perfect
body like stars?

But instead, knelt
before her and wrote
of how the king
rejoices at her
 
voice, how he
hopes she may
live for ever
and always

NEFERTITI
 
in images, a fertility
symbol often with
her six daughters.
She wears the same
fashions as images
of the gods. From
the palace, little
boats with sails
flutter like flower
petals. Does she
imagine escaping?
Imagine life far from
this new capitol.
The king at her side,
the smell of the Nile.
So much beginning.
Aketaten dedicated
to the royal couple's
new religion where
she would reign,
strong and powerful,
startlingly in her
new tight clinging
robe tied with a red
sash with the ends
hanging in front.
Did she worry, fear
her beauty fading?
That she might
lose the hypnotic
power she held?
Or did she luxuriate
in her Nub can wig,
plaited with a queens'
strands, secured by
a diadem and then
the crown with
plumes on a disc.
Did she imagine
nights she would
call out her
new daughter's
name like a pain cry,
a tombstone she
would not
say again


NEFERTITI
 
 I think of Nefertiti
in her bracelet of
six girls. Who'd
imagine her
striking a female
captive on a royal
barge. She looks
so motherly. Her
long swan neck
seems made for
gold bracelets and
babies' arms.
Think of her in
her mortar shaped
cap, her leonine
aspect, catlike
as a sphinx, a mauve
sky behind her.
Her girls, a
sea of love. The
name for a boy child
like an animal
that won't sleep

NEFERTITI
 
beautiful as Isis.
The king chose her
image to be engraved
in the 4 corners of
his sarcophagus to
protect his mummy
 
Carvings show them
kissing in a braid of
their daughters. You
can imagine each of
them praying to keep
the others safe even
 
as corn bloomed in
the desert, shadows
rose as her cheek
bones and sadness
seemed so far away

Al-Andalus,  ‏الأندلس‎, 

(epoca de Abderramán II)

By David Thorpe

 
Difundiendo en silencio desde los cielos del oriente, el amanecer
sucumbirá dentro de poco al calor y el trajín de las calles de Córdoba.
El joven emir madrugó y mira fijamente la llegada de la aurora,
mientras contemplaba su visión de grandeza y prosperidad,
la culminación de su herencia, Al-Andalus.
 
 
En el crepúsculo proclama el sol con discreción el albor de una nueva era,
y los vientos soplan mansamente para no despertar las congojas,
los heraldos de la ola cultural inminente, el músico Ziryab montado en su cresta;
la música y la poesía, agrandeciendo la riqueza y la veneración de Al-Andalus.
 
 
Los campos de batalla cerca de Tablado fueron teñidos de rojo con la sangre vikinga,
una venganza sin merced por el saqueo y la violación de Sevilla.
La sangre beligerante ondeaba en sus venas con la fuerza volcánica,
para desbordar como lava en la represalia de Abderramán,
en la defensa de su imperio, su fé, y la soberanía de Al-Andalus.
 
 
A través de los años, Córdoba alcanzó su más elevado encumbramiento,
si bien otras naciones actuasen en el escenario del poder,
y aunque la gloria y la influencia de Córdoba quedaron atrapadas en un eclipse perpetuo,
la belleza del legado de Abderramán no es ningún invensión,
dentro de los muros de la mezquita vive aún la quimera de Al-Andalus.
 


Al Andalus   الأندلس‎, 

(epoch of  Abderramán II)

By David Thorpe
 
 
Silently spreading from the eastern skies the morning light
will soon succumb to the heat and bustle in the streets of Córdoba.
Already awake, the young emir gazes pensive towards the dawn
his vision of greatness and prosperity he long contemplates,
the fulfilment of his inheritance, Al Andalus.
 
 
This day the rising sun with discretion a new era proclaims,
and winds of change, blowing gently at first should fears be aroused,
were heralds of a cultural wave with the Baghdad musician Ziryab at its crest
to compliment the poetry of Abd ar-Rahmen, the Emir himself,
thus to enhance the wealth  and affluence of Al Andalus.
 
 
The battle fields near Tablada were drenched with Viking blood,
a merciless revenge for their plunder and rape of Seville.
His belligerent blood surged through his veins with volcanic force,
to overspill like lava in Abd ar-Rahmen`s ruthlessness,
in defence of his empire, faith and sovereignty in Al Andalus.
 
 
In the following years the sultanate of Córdoba reached its majestic pinnacle,
still other empires were later to act upon this stage of power,
yet, long after the glory and influence of Córdoba were trapped in a perpetual eclipse,
the beauty of Abd ar-Rahmen`s legacy is of no contrivance,
for within the walls of the Mezquita lives on the chimera of Al Andalus.

 

The Universal Language of Silence


By Karen King




Enjoy the silence.

No TV, no radio, no talk.

Enjoy the stillness.

Of nothing.




Don’t be afraid.

Expose yourself to your existence,

Naked in this busy world.

Quiet, still, at peace.





Be calm, take a rest, just be.

Stop striving for a moment.

What are you rushing for?

Where are you going to?




Find your inner sanctum

Of peace and tranquillity

Where your whole self resides.

Where you are already complete.




In the universal language of silence,

There is so much to hear

If you take the time to stop and

Listen to the silent space.

​

Karen King Copyright 2015





Listen to the Lessons of the Trees


By Karen King




Have family fun on your bike,


Or maybe even go for a hike.


Take time out in fresh air,


Throw away worries without a care.


Sometimes it’s good to look slightly crazy,


Better than being depressed and lazy!


The lenses of my glasses are so yellow


And are making me feel quite mellow.


We feel enveloped by the trees


And are lost in their majesty.


I revere them as I catch my breath,


Thinking about the cycle of birth and death.


Our wise friends have so much love to give


And can be found wherever we live.


They watch us as we arrive and depart,


Talk to us and offer us their hearts.


Listen to the lessons of the trees


Stop, take a breath and just be!






Karen King Copyright 22 February 2017









The Guru’s Spiel


By Karen King





He put on his glasses,


Yet he already had a clear vision.


To the front, to the sides, in the distance.


His truth was clear and was magnified


When he wore his glasses.


Yet, most of the adults didn’t see,


Their vision was murky and narrow.


Their vision was short-sighted.






There were a few who saw


Beyond a limited perspective,


Who questioned and had a voice,


But these other voices


Were foreign to the followers.


The others spoke a different language,


One they could not comprehend,


For their brainwashing sessions


Had closed them down.


The devotees put their fingers in their ears


And carried on blindly,


Dutifully following their corrupt guru.


Their guru saw the goings on


And more lies sprouted out of his mouth,


Slowly dying like dead weeds in the gutter.


His followers believed every word,


For they only saw fresh flowers and joy.


They thought they were clever,


They thought they were spiritual,


But they were naive.


The guru smirked as gold dripped,


Gorily, off his arms, like blood from a recent kill.


He stepped into his sports car,


Deceptive, dark glasses


Hiding his corruption and greed.


He drove off with his friend, the devil,


At his side, looking for more victims.






Karen King Copyright 2016
​

Now and Tomorrow


By Alexandra H. Rodrigues



The sun is setting, it was a murky day
Tomorrow will be better forecasters say
The evening under a blue, gray and orange mix
Helps nature at work our mood to fix.


Now picture a dimension with the air all in blue
We would have to have the lights on at all we do
What if the sky was mocha and the ground red
Purple water from natural springs we would get.


Battery steered cars remotely without driver run
Kids playing with robots efforts doubtful fun.
Flowers will no longer bloom as only weeds grow
Poisonous algae into square vases might go.


Food is substituted by pills in black and green
Highly concentrated stem cells as filling are seen
There is no challenge, nothing to create or do
One day passes the other, same old, no new.


In comparison Earth is friendly and nice
Let’s not complain if the sun is in disguise
A move to other dimensions may not be wise
With exception of what we know as Paradise.







Speed of Our Love


By Alexandra H. Rodrigues

​

I wish I could say it came like a whirlwind
Showered and engulfed with love us both.
In reality, it was just a one-sided affair
Like a stunted, in-bloom unopened rose.


For months I allowed myself
to yearn for a touch of your lips
With the sad fact that you do not care
I have by now come to grips.


I did not give up though
Decided for a new beginning to wait
Knowing quite well that for me
In this life, it is too late.

Land's End

by

John Frazee

 
Traveling has always been second nature to you
Although you have traveled near as well as traveled far
And yet after traversing maps with the best of them
On seeing your reflection, face the facts, there you are
 
Seventy percent of earth is covered by water
Therefore, this is an event that occurs quite often
You’re simply trekking along minding your own business
When you arrive at this destination, called lands end
 
As you reach this point a decision has to be made
Having this trip end early would truly be a crime
You’ve gotten here on shear will and determination
The excursion has always been one step at a time
 
It certainly did seem to be innocent at first
The path was pleasant enough so you went with the flow
You found the journey to be very rewarding, but
In reality there’s simply no where else to go
 

​To Be a Star  

By Lucinda Berry Hill
 
 
The fame, the glamour,
The sparkling lights,
Oh, to be a star.
 
The brightest stars
Were made by God.
He set them in the sky.
He made them shine.
He made them sparkle.
They even seem to dance.
He made them bright
To give us light.
They never dim or fade.
They will always shine
And be a light in the darkness.
 
Another light was made by God.
He set you in this place
To carry forth the word of life,
To shine
Like floating stars,
To live in love,
To lead the way
To righteousness and joy.
Your light should always shine
For others in the darkness.
Be wise and shine.
When you shine like a star today
You will shine as a star forever.



Lucinda Berry Hill Author of "Coffee with Jesus" AND "A Second Cup with Jesus" ©

 https://www.facebook.com/#!/pages/Coffee-with-Jesus/355060321207311
http://lucindaspoetry.webs.com/index.htm








God Hears All Language

By Lucinda Berry Hill






The Lord will hear me when I call
He knows my voice, it's true.    
He understands my words, 
Humility, and truth.


Prayer in any language,
To God, it sounds the same.
Each child's voice He recognizes.
Each plea, each prayer, each praise

He knows a cry for mercy,
In Spanish or in Greek,
In Hebrew or in English,
He hears all that we speak.  

Prayer in any language,
Words coming from the heart,
Are heard and understood
By our mighty, loving  God.



Author Lucinda Berry Hill   of  "Coffee with Jesus"  and "A Second Cup with Jesus" ©




 https://www.facebook.com/#!/pages/Coffee-with-Jesus/355060321207311

http://lucindaspoetry.webs.com/index.htm

Spielplatzkinder!

A Poem in German 

By Maria Wigo
 
 
Ein Nieselregen wie gelackt,
Besprenkelt dieses Feld,
Die Örtlichkeiten sind noch nackt,
Und sparsam , schwach erhellt!


 
Der Kinderspielplatz bleibt noch still,
Die Wippe ruhig steht,
Kein Kind das auf ihm spielen will,
Noch neblig, Dunstdurchwebt!


 
Die Schaukeln hängen grad und schlaff,
Kein Schwung bewegt sie quer,
Und nur dies quietschende -Kniff-Knaff- ,
Belebt das braune Flair!


 
Doch dann beim ersten Sonnenstrahl,
Verändert sich das Bild,
Da regt sich was in hoher Zahl,
Das unaufhaltsam quillt!


 
Mit Neugier durch die Stangen schaut,
Ein kleiner, scheuer Gast,
Ein weitres Dutzend sich jetzt traut,
Besetzt den nächsten Ast!


 
Zuerst verknittert und halb wach,
Noch zaghaft und genant,
So klettern sie aufs Spielplatzdach,
Bewachsen es rasant!


 
Sie stehn in Startlöchern bereit,
Nichts hält sie mehr zurück,
Verspielt und durch das Licht befreit,
Ahn ich , Millionen Stück!



English Translation in Prose: 

A sprinkled silvery rain,
It decorates this wasteland,
Lit by a naked lamppost,
Carefully enlightened. 

The playground is silent, 
The see-saw still,
No child craves its attention
Visited only by the mist.

  The swings hang dull and motionless
No action kickstarts them into motion
Only a slight squeak
Awakens the brown flair.

 But then at the first sign of sunshine
The image changes
Something moves
A plethora of faces emerging.

Curiosity peaks through the bars
A small, shy guest,
Another dozen dares
To climb the next branch.

 At first wrinkled and barely awake
Still carefully embarassed
Climbing the playhouse,
Urging its growth. 

Standing in starting positions,
Nothing holds them back
Playful, freed by light,
I believe, by the millions.


Below:
Poet and Soprano
Maria Wigo

Photographic Artwork by Jérome Coppo




Freya, Queen of the Valkyries

By David Thorpe
​
 
Rays of the rising sun eagerly
devour the morning mist,  
the invisible now takes form ,
approaching shadows on horseback
led by Freya, Queen of the Valkyries
 
Their mission to reach the battlefield
there to select the warriors to be slain,
for half of their souls shall be claimed
to live an after-life within the halls of Valhalla,
the underworld realm of the god Odin
 
The evening draws nigh as the Valkyries return,
the setting sun making way for the impatient moon,
to reflect her beauty on their shining armour,
inaugurating a spectacle in the Nordic skies,
the marvel of the Aurora Borealis
 
Nuptial vows she and Odin had promised
yet Freya, goddess of war and death,
practiced to the brim and overflowing,
her legendary unbridled sexuality,
taking pride in her status 

as the goddess of sensual pleasure

Dreams


By Alexandra H. Rodrigues

​

Was I made to pay for a past sin
One I do refuse remembering?
Last night I dreamt I was in jail
The dream covered a substantial tale.


All I recall is the prison cell
A barren room, a slice of hell.
It had a window but I could not see out
A closet with a doll, long forgotten about.


What causes our dreams is hard to tell
Most we never remember too well
It is the nightmares that rob my sleep
Odd images that I’d rather not keep.


It is said if we see deceased who are nice
To listen what they have to say, is wise
They are souls that came from the other side
To entrust us with a secret during the night.


Should their action be nasty and mean
Our imagination had been cause for the dream
Superstition has followed thru history dreams along
About lost teeth and death I could sing a song.


There will always somehow for a belief some source
To accept it is up to you of course
Stick to what supports your happiness
Discard what might end up to bring distress.

Artwork by Titian

​

The Stone of God

By Lucinda Berry Hill


David and Goliath.
A story long ago.
Goliath was a giant
But David had a stone.

David had a stone
And a mighty God of power.
He knew that He'd protect him
In this all important hour.

He slung it at the Philistine
Who fell and hit the ground.
All thanks to God almighty,
The truest God around.
Troubles come with vengeance.
Your peace they try to rob.
But you will have the victory
When you come at them with God.
So next time you are faced
With problems, you call big,
Remember they're Goliaths
But you have God for strength.

Author Lucinda Berry Hill of "Coffee with Jesus" and "A Second Cup with Jesus" ©

 https://www.facebook.com/#!/pages/Coffee-with-Jesus/355060321207311

http://lucindaspoetry.webs.com/index.htm

The Don Quixote Baptist Church

By Dr. Benjamin B. White

Lieutenant Commander
United States Coast Guard (ret)



At the Don Quixote Baptist Church
The congregation hurts its members
With sword swallowing, Rocinante mirrors,


And gasoline executions seeking
The heavenly solutions foretold
On the ancient walls of windmills


Where blood distills into wine-
Colored prayer and faith while
Flour is ground into crackers


With grape-juice fate dripping
From the pews of hymnal excuses
Muttered by Preacher Pedro Perez lighting


Fuses with battery-operated candles
Waiting for the explosions
To result in increased offerings


And capacity attendance
With an unholy dependence
On weekly excursions into town


To hunt down Dulcinea sinners
Recreating at the centers of evil
Unable to read past the dedication


Of the adventure written by the memory
Of Sancho Panza’s donkey
That perished from the alacrity


Of burning books in the churchyard.

In Uncharted Worlds


​
A Poetry Collection

By Alan Catlin




Songlines


Patterns traced in the desert are
scars veined in cracked alkali
where the green ants dream,
are sunbaked so brittle,
only the thoughts of mystics
or the sacred ghosts of aborigines
can walk there.
Diviners of signs tell the scattered
fragments of primitive tales, folk legends,
a music as tenuous as stories passed on
through generations, improved where memory
failed or simply lost, become runes as poignant
as only the eternal, the misbegotten
could be.
Illiterate roadside artists, copiers
of paintings inscribed on hidden walls
or imprinted on interior canvases
like memory, summon forth the living
this way, these restless travelers, unbidden,
the way dead souls are, in uncharted worlds.








An Antediluvian Topography of Block Island


On a darkling, alluvial plain, lost tribes wrapped in animal skins congregate before raging ceremonial fires. Predator birds scale cliff heights, avoiding the warriors encircling this island the gods have seen fit to withdraw the tidal flow. The appointed Elder casts dried bones of water fowl on the dried, cracking silt, reading the nature of Fate represented by a random alignment of bones. Struck dumb by what is seen, the Elder stands, face contorted in a panic of knowledge, he feels in his veins as they all must, the wind impelled tides return. Frozen in belated flight, history, here, becomes subaqueous, legend repeated endlessly, like Atlantic, lost to the sea.








Marianne Moore,

Modernist Poet and Baseball Fan,
Throws Out the First Ball of the Season,
Yankee Stadium, 1968


Ebbets Field is no longer a Brooklyn garden
with real players in it but an apartment
building with a corner stone instead of a home
plate and bleacher bums cheering for the boys
in blue. On the back of an envelope she began
a poem about The Old Professor, Casey Stengel,
a living legend in the Bronx, now a stand-up
comic on Coogan's Bluff overlooking the House
That Ruth Built, telling the worst team
in the history of the game that,"---losing 120
games wasn't anyone's fault alone, it was a real
team effort." Her poem meant to exalt an elder's
patience and imparted wisdom in words surely as
droll as the wit, that double talking man,
although it would remain an incidental piece,
incomplete. Moore threw from the stands
with no windup, unlike "The Babe", Zacharias
not Ruth, who showed a real professional form
pitching from the mound in a full length skirt
at the Stadium twenty years before; still, Marianne,
undaunted, a trooper to the end requested and
received permission to practice her toss a day in advance,
lobbing warm-up pitches toward home plate,
sometimes low and outside but always near the mark.











Unicorns


They really missed the boat.
The only one that mattered:
Noah’s Ark. Or so the legend goes.
These are not the same sad,
unicorns of the Charles Addams
cartoon: the ones on the last
bit of mountain peak, watching
the boat sail away, while they are
left behind in the rain but garden
variety mythical creatures, happy
as a unicorn can be. If you’ve
actually seen a real life unicorn,
the only boats you’ll be seeing
for a long time will be on classic
TV reruns of the Love Boat and
you’ll be on a locked ward in a
place for the mentally imbalanced.









Atlantis


This prime piece of Unreal Estate has been
the stuff of legend and speculation ever since
Plato mentioned it, in a kind of offhand way,
in one of his dialogues. Who knew it would become
a subject akin to Ufology is today: a haven for lunatics,
fringe players and conspiracy theorists, whose only
redeeming qualities have to do with overactive
imaginations, and too much spare time, plus unlimited
access to bad, misleading information of a kind.
Plato was probably repeating something he heard,
that had been passed along throughout the ages
by oral historians who suggested the mythical Atlantis
had been sunk after a falling out with the Gods.
Falling out with Gods was a common thing and usually
resulted in punishments way out of proportion to
the original offense, given how petty and childish,
the Greek Gods were. If there had been such an island
continent, no doubt it disappeared due to some
cataclysmic natural event: like the shifting of land
masses, or unparalleled, before or since, seismic tremors.
One of the pet theories of the Atlantis Lives! theorists
is that the super- intelligent race (see Ufology here),
perhaps even aliens, built a spherical retaining wall of
some sort that surrounds the kingdom and contains a breathable atmosphere, where they exist today. It makes about
as much as creationist theories (cf. virtual tour of Creationist
Museum where Flintstones and dinosaurs actually exist
together. It is a truly hilarious way to spend an hour or so, and best of all, it’s free!)

​How they were going to renew
resources such as: air, or raise food, (see Jules Verne here:
10,000 Leagues Beneath the Sea is a good place to start)
remains unexplained ( how could it be otherwise?). Still,
believers persist and theories abound. Some of the
more amusing books of all times have been written
on the subject. One book that remains available, if not
still in print, from the late 1800’s is Ignatius Donnelley’s
Atlantis: The Antediluvian World. (He also has some
cool, outrageous ideas about Stonehenge, not to mention
Shakespeare. His massive tome proving Willie of Stratford
didn’t write the plays was based on bad information
and a false premise. Or so I am told. I haven’t actually
read the thing but it’s nice to know it exists.

From 


The Dark Lady Sonnets (127 - 154)

By William Shakespeare



CXXVII

In the old age black was not counted fair,
Or if it were, it bore not beauty's name;
But now is black beauty's successive heir,
And beauty slandered with a shame:
For since each hand hath put on Nature's power,
Fairing the foul with Art's false borrowed face,
Sweet beauty hath no name, no holy bower,
But is profaned, if not lives in disgrace.
Therefore my mistress' eyes are raven black,
Her eyes so suited, and they mourners seem
At such who, not born fair, no beauty lack,
Sland'ring creation with a false esteem:
Yet so they mourn becoming of their woe,
That every tongue says beauty should look so.

CXXVIII

How oft when thou, my music, music play'st,
Upon that blessed wood whose motion sounds
With thy sweet fingers when thou gently sway'st
The wiry concord that mine ear confounds,
Do I envy those jacks that nimble leap,
To kiss the tender inward of thy hand,
Whilst my poor lips which should that harvest reap,
At the wood's boldness by thee blushing stand!
To be so tickled, they would change their state
And situation with those dancing chips,
O'er whom thy fingers walk with gentle gait,
Making dead wood more bless'd than living lips.
Since saucy jacks so happy are in this,
Give them thy fingers, me thy lips to kiss. 

CXXIX

The expense of spirit in a waste of shame
Is lust in action: and till action, lust
Is perjured, murderous, bloody, full of blame,
Savage, extreme, rude, cruel, not to trust;
Enjoyed no sooner but despised straight;
Past reason hunted; and no sooner had,
Past reason hated, as a swallowed bait,
On purpose laid to make the taker mad.
Mad in pursuit and in possession so;
Had, having, and in quest to have extreme;
A bliss in proof, and proved, a very woe;
Before, a joy proposed; behind a dream.
All this the world well knows; yet none knows well
To shun the heaven that leads men to this hell.

CXXX

My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun;
Coral is far more red, than her lips red:
If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun;
If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head.
I have seen roses damasked, red and white,
But no such roses see I in her cheeks;
And in some perfumes is there more delight
Than in the breath that from my mistress reeks.
I love to hear her speak, yet well I know
That music hath a far more pleasing sound:
I grant I never saw a goddess go,
My mistress, when she walks, treads on the ground:
And yet by heaven, I think my love as rare,
As any she belied with false compare.

CXXXI

Thou art as tyrannous, so as thou art,
As those whose beauties proudly make them cruel;
For well thou know'st to my dear doting heart
Thou art the fairest and most precious jewel.
Yet, in good faith, some say that thee behold,
Thy face hath not the power to make love groan;
To say they err I dare not be so bold,
Although I swear it to myself alone.
And to be sure that is not false I swear,
A thousand groans, but thinking on thy face,
One on another's neck, do witness bear
Thy black is fairest in my judgment's place.
In nothing art thou black save in thy deeds,
And thence this slander, as I think, proceeds.

CXXXII

Thine eyes I love, and they, as pitying me,
Knowing thy heart torments me with disdain,
Have put on black and loving mourners be,
Looking with pretty ruth upon my pain.
And truly not the morning sun of heaven
Better becomes the grey cheeks of the east,
Nor that full star that ushers in the even,
Doth half that glory to the sober west,
As those two mourning eyes become thy face:
O! let it then as well beseem thy heart
To mourn for me since mourning doth thee grace,
And suit thy pity like in every part.
Then will I swear beauty herself is black,
And all they foul that thy complexion lack.

CXXXIII

Beshrew that heart that makes my heart to groan
For that deep wound it gives my friend and me!
Is't not enough to torture me alone,
But slave to slavery my sweet'st friend must be?
Me from myself thy cruel eye hath taken,
And my next self thou harder hast engrossed:
Of him, myself, and thee I am forsaken;
A torment thrice three-fold thus to be crossed.
Prison my heart in thy steel bosom's ward,
But then my friend's heart let my poor heart bail;
Whoe'er keeps me, let my heart be his guard;
Thou canst not then use rigour in my jail:
And yet thou wilt; for I, being pent in thee,
Perforce am thine, and all that is in me.

CXXXIV

So now I have confessed that he is thine,
And I my self am mortgaged to thy will,
Myself I'll forfeit, so that other mine
Thou wilt restore to be my comfort still:
But thou wilt not, nor he will not be free,
For thou art covetous, and he is kind;
He learned but surety-like to write for me,
Under that bond that him as fast doth bind.
The statute of thy beauty thou wilt take,
Thou usurer, that put'st forth all to use,
And sue a friend came debtor for my sake;
So him I lose through my unkind abuse.
Him have I lost; thou hast both him and me:
He pays the whole, and yet am I not free.

CXXXV

Whoever hath her wish, thou hast thy Will,
And Will to boot, and Will in over-plus;
More than enough am I that vexed thee still,
To thy sweet will making addition thus.
Wilt thou, whose will is large and spacious,
Not once vouchsafe to hide my will in thine?
Shall will in others seem right gracious,
And in my will no fair acceptance shine?
The sea, all water, yet receives rain still,
And in abundance addeth to his store;
So thou, being rich in Will, add to thy Will
One will of mine, to make thy large will more.
Let no unkind, no fair beseechers kill;
Think all but one, and me in that one Will.

CXXXVI

If thy soul check thee that I come so near,
Swear to thy blind soul that I was thy Will,
And will, thy soul knows, is admitted there;
Thus far for love, my love-suit, sweet, fulfil.
Will, will fulfil the treasure of thy love,
Ay, fill it full with wills, and my will one.
In things of great receipt with ease we prove
Among a number one is reckoned none:
Then in the number let me pass untold,
Though in thy store's account I one must be;
For nothing hold me, so it please thee hold
That nothing me, a something sweet to thee:
Make but my name thy love, and love that still,
And then thou lovest me for my name is 'Will.'

Don’t get it?
 
By Charles E.J. Moulton
 
What’s your secret, they ask?
Where are you going with this?
But the real secret is that they don’t get it.
 
It’s gotta be to the point.
Filled with truth and whiskey.
 
Depth.
 
So, what’s the deal?
 
I go, I am what I am.
I do my thing.
 
Cryptic is the road toward a certain logic.
 
And here I sit, sipping German wine and Bavarian Cherry Schnaps.
Good old American jazz in my ear.
And Dali rings a bell, telling me about melting clocks.
 
Why is surrealism so popular?
It’s a riddle, like life itself.
 
Still don’t get it?
 
Life’s a puzzle and we’re the mystery.



​


Bar Talk
 
By Charles E.J. Moulton
 
 
Sit down, she said.
Have a drink.
Get down, what goes around, comes around.
Where you from, Stranger?
What are they playing?
All of me?
That old hit from way back when?
Good stuff?
Let’s dance!
Oooh, you’re good.
The sax player swings.
What’s his name?
Ronaldo?
Hey, Ronaldo.
Play “As Time Goes By”!
No?
Then keep playing what you are playing.
Hey, you want a beer?
No, a brandy?
Hey, order a brandy for the dude!
Hey, you have nice eyes.
Mmh, nice kiss.
Yes.
Indeed.
Where’s your hotel room?
Even nicer.

Ogre

By Karen King

​
The ogre in the tree sits hunched and huddled,
His extruding eyeballs staring.
Matted moss covers him from head to toe.
The bark stands out in clumps,
Like barnacles to a rock.
A long arm hangs like a distorted foot
Around his distasteful, distended stomach
Towards the dried debris below.
Karen King Copyright 2012
 
 


The Devil’s in the Details

By Karen King


He stared into the crowd
As they screamed with laughter,
Almost wetting themselves.
Men no more.
Their voices became high-pitched
As tears ran down their faces.
Once they started, they couldn’t stop.
What was supposed to be a few became many
As one after another was consumed.
Soon, the fights would start,
The madmen’s monologues would start
And real tears would fall.
He stared at the couple,
As they danced, deliriously,
To the cheers and clapping of the crowd.
They were all enjoying the party.
All their money had gone
On this big day,
With no thought of the future.
Most of their money had been
Consumed in food and wine,
While new, false friends, appeared,
Mysteriously out of the woodwork.
He stared at the groom
As he tried to drown his sorrows,
Thinking of past pain.
The groom was trying to escape
The present and was damning his future.
Still, he would be there,
Awaiting the man’s demise
As dark thought after dark thought
Tumbled towards him,
Ready to devour him.
He stared at the human race.
What a stupid lot they were!
Why were they incapable
Of fun and laughter without drinking?
Didn’t they realise
How it all started?
What future would they have?
If their drinking continued,
When they were down,
When they were lonely,
And just to be “socialable”
The devil’s horns grew
As he spied the drunkards
As he peered up from the bottom of
One glass after another.
He cackled, cruelly,
As he relished the downfall
Of one sorry creature after another
As they collapsed onto the floor,
Their lives forever ruined.
The delighted devil danced his way
Into his new victims
And took their souls forever.
They could search in the cruel darkness,
They could search in the crevices,
But they would never find
Their souls again.
Perhaps they should have taken more care,
Perhaps they should have heeded the warnings?
He had watched them all
And welcomed their carelessness.
After all,
The devil is in the details…
 

Light Rain Early in Spring

By Han Yu
 
Heaven street light rain moisten like butter
Grass colour bar see close but not
Most be a year spring good thing
Extreme mist willow fill capitalIn light rain, Heaven Street is moist like butter,
The grass is green from afar, but not nearby.
The spring is best this time every year,
The mist of willow blossom fills the capital.
​

From Aeneid

By Virgil
​

The Greeks shape bronze statues so real they 
they seem to breathe. 
And craft cold marble until it almost 
comes to life. 
The Greeks compose great orations. 
and measure 
The heavens so well they can predict 
the rising of the stars. 
But you, Romans, remember your 
great arts; 
To govern the peoples with authority. 
To establish peace under the rule of law. 
To conquer the mighty, and show them 
mercy once they are conquered.

Of Modern Poetry

By Wallace Stevens



The poem of the mind in the act of finding   

What will suffice. It has not always had   

To find: the scene was set; it repeated what   

Was in the script

​Then the theatre was changed   

To something else. Its past was a souvenir. 


It has to be living, to learn the speech of the place.   

It has to face the men of the time and to meet   

The women of the time. It has to think about war   

And it has to find what will suffice. It has   

To construct a new stage. It has to be on that stage   

And, like an insatiable actor, slowly and 

With meditation, speak words that in the ear,   

In the delicatest ear of the mind, repeat, 

Exactly, that which it wants to hear, at the sound   

Of which, an invisible audience listens, 

Not to the play, but to itself, expressed 

In an emotion as of two people, as of two   

Emotions becoming one. The actor is 

A metaphysician in the dark, twanging 

An instrument, twanging a wiry string that gives   

Sounds passing through sudden rightnesses, wholly   

Containing the mind, below which it cannot descend,   

Beyond which it has no will to return 

It must 

Be the finding of a satisfaction, and may 

Be of a man skating, a woman dancing, a woman   

Combing. The poem of the act of the mind.

Amidst the mists of time

By David Thorpe

 
Like the birth of Venus the sun arises,
reflecting an aureate beauty o´er the lake,
an ambient of peacefulness prevails
in the silence of this mystic place,
lost in the telling of myths of yore;
yet still vivid after my somnambulant journey,
as I submerged into its darkest depths,
where lies entombed the wondrous gift of Viviane,
Caliburn, returned to its waters by Sir Bedivere,
lone survivor of the slaughter of Camlann
 
A memento of my timeless wandering,
to the lake´s enchanted isle I came,
the majestic halls of Avalon, echoing still
the wailing cries of Morgana, mourning a royal kin;
for this sovereign´s resting place I searched in vain,
as Glastonbury only its wounds to me revealed,
thereupon did I leave my rose of sanguine red,
to lie amidst the mists of time,
in gratitude for Arthur´s valiant struggle,
a Celtic Albion from Saxon aggressors to defend
 
David Thorpe © ® 2017

Fire Without a Light

Poetry by Darren C. Demaree


Demaree's work is scheduled to appear in numerous magazines/journals, including the South Dakota Review, Meridian, New Letters, Diagram, and the Colorado Review. 

He is the author of six poetry collections, most recently "Many Full Hands Applauding Inelegantly" (2016, 8th House Publishing). I am the Managing Editor of the Best of the Net Anthology and Ovenbird Poetry. 

He is currently living and writing in Columbus, Ohio with his wife and children. 



TRUMP AS A FIRE WITHOUT LIGHT #541


The sky has fallen to scrape away the quarantine of the introvert. Raise your arms, silent people! This moment is too much like the beginning of the end for it to continue unimpeded. You don’t have to hold any beauty to join a crowd that wants slam into an ocean of hatred.




TRUMP AS A FIRE WITHOUT LIGHT #542


I’ve been thinking a lot about how the first tree was turned into something other than the first tree. Was it shelter? Was it a clue for fire? How many trees came from that first sapling? I’ve been thinking a lot of how that tree might have died, wasted as a curiosity, wasted as the individual before the forest, wasted on the animals that pissed around it. I have been thinking about how much animal excrements are in my front yard. Even the deer have started to mark our oak tree. If a warthog arrives in my yard to yellow any of my plants, I will kill it. I will display it. I will send bad bacon to him. He will take that as a threat, and I won’t have entirely meant it that way.



TRUMP AS A FIRE WITHOUT LIGHT #543


The light flares and I’m awake to the shadows overcoming Ohio. There is so much wasted stillness here. I love Ohio the same way I used to love cheap beer and fireworks and women that hated me; there’s a puzzle piece rightness to the fit for me. That doesn’t mean Ohio is the worst place. It just means the default setting for Ohio is fucking horrible. Ohio can change. I changed. I am still an awful man, but I make other decisions every single time now. Ohio could do that. Ohio will get the same offer I did before I quit drinking. Consumption works both ways and everything in this world can be burnt into ash if it doesn’t avoid the flammables. So, what you gonna do? Ohio, what you gonna do?

​
​

Memories

By Alexandra H. Rodrigues
 
My box of memories has grown so fast
Now is stuffed with unwritten tales of the past
It has no lock, no cover, no key
Yet I am the only one, who what is in it can see.
 
The contents is a medley of “what was”
Everything that turned to memory as time did pass
It is my choice to dig though the happenings
Expose to the present long forgotten things.
 
Suddenly they are as vivid as once they were
Urging me that I should still about them care
There is sad and detrimental bygone
The recollection anything else but fun.
 
However, it was part of what shaped my life
During the War and mishaps as mother and wife.
They want credit despite having caused pain
Some are eager to put me to shame.
 
I leaf thru them, they have a right in the box
I cut my stay with them like a sly fox
It is the happy memories I let take my time
For them I am grateful that they are mine.
 
Memories have a power hard to describe
Most of them surface when the time is ripe
All explains why my now has turned a certain way
This box expects to hold even more one day.
 




 
Odd but Dear

By Alexandra H. Rodrigues


Look at the picture above real close
It makes me equally happy and morose
It reminds me of the time when I was young
About my dear mother before she was gone.
It ended up as an oddity
Yet it does mean the world to me.


Some stuff is of absolutely no use
Should long have ended up in refuse
The picture does show however a link
Which of seventy years past makes me think.
It is a piece of batiste from a negligee
Black with embroidery in green and grey.


I was only fourteen years old
To want and wear such a treasure was bold
Never a man came close to it
For only two precious years it did fit.
My mother had helped me when I went to buy
The thought how quick I grew up made her sigh.


Thru my life I was mostly on the go
Away much burdening things I did throw
Times when I saw the negligee were rare
Always I would find a reason why it to spare.


The day after a devastating storm and flood
Water from the sewers covered floors with mud
In a puddle floated the long-saved negligee
Now really this rag had to be thrown away.
I took a pair of scissors and cut off a piece
Washed off the element’s grime and grease.


This remnant of keepsake will stay with me
As odd as you think that might be! 

The World is Our Canvas
 
By Charles E.J. Moulton
 
 
The world is our canvas.
Let’s paint a good picture.
We have an idea.
We think it, feel it, realize it, manifest it, chase it and create it.
Anything is possible.
We have the angels by our side that work to create it.
Why not create perfect joy for everyone?
God loves us.
All of us.
The world is our canvas.

Carnival, Carnival

Trilingual Poem in English, German and Polish

By Thaddeus Hutyra   

German translation by Alexandra H. Rodrigues 


1.
‘ Carnival, Carnival ‘
New York City, Rio de Janeiro
Paris, London, Amsterdam
Hong Kong, Bangkok, Tokyo
Abu Dhabi, Jerusalem, Cairo
Just look, ladies and gentlemen
young and old in dance's aureola!
Carnival, Carnival
guaranteed enjoyment
at its best!
Carnival, carnival
let’s dance
till the morning hours!
Carnival, carnival
magics in the making!
O’ carnival, carnival!
Berlin, Warsaw, Moscow
Johannesburg, Irkutsk, Vienna
Venice, Prague, Sydney
Wellington, Buenos Aires
The whole world on frenzy dance
day or night, not really a difference!
Carnival, Carnival
guaranteed enjoyment
at its best!
Carnival, carnival
let’s dance
till the morning hours!
Carnival, carnival
magics in the making!
O’ carnival, carnival!
Swinging bodies 
in rapid movements
Ladies intoxicated
by inner happiness
Men on erotic flirting 
as never before
That’s what carnival is abut
join us, ladies and gentlemen!
Carnival, Carnival
guaranteed enjoyment
at its best!
Carnival, carnival
let’s dance
till the morning hours!
Carnival, carnival
magics in the making!
O’ carnival, carnival!
Saint Petersburg, Oslo, Ottawa 
San Francisco, Los Angeles
Tbilisi, Brussels, Paris
Madrid, Belgrade, Sydney
smallest villages of the world
no one left out, all together!
Carnival, Carnival
guaranteed enjoyment
at its best!
Carnival, carnival
let’s dance
till the morning hours!
Carnival, carnival
magics in the making!
O’ carnival, carnival!

‘ Carnival, Carnival ‘ by Thaddeus Hutyra 
© Thaddeus Hutyra February 2017


2.
"Karneval, Karneval"
Poem translated from the original
Version from Thaddeus Hutyra

New York City, Rio de Janeiro,
Paris London Amsterdam
Hong Kong, Bangkok, Tokyo
Abu Dhabi, Jerusalem, Cairo
Schaut’ meine Damen und Herren
Alles tanzt Aureole

Karneval , Karneval
Die beste Unterhaltung die es gibt
Karneval, Karneval
Lasst uns tanzen bis frueh am Morgen!
Oh Karneval, Karneval
Zauberhaft
Oh Karneval, oh Karneval!

Berlin, Warschau, Moskau
Johannesburg, Irkutsk und Wien
Venedig, Prag und Sidney,
Wellington, Buenos Aires
Die ganze Welt hat Tanz im Blut
Sei es am Tage oder in der Nacht.

Karneval, Karneval
Zauberhaftes Vergnuegen
Oh Karneval, Karneval
Schwingende Figuren
In schnellen Verzierungen
Damen beschwipst in Froehlichkeit
Maenner in vollem Liebestaumel
Wie noch nie vorher
Das ist es was Karneval ist
Meine Damen und Herren 
Machen Sie e smit un smit.

Karneval, Karneval
Zauberhaftes Vergnuegen
Karneval, Karneval
Lasst uns tanzen 
Bis in den fruehen Morgen
Oh Karneval, Karneval

Saint Petersburg, Oslo, Ottawa
San Francisco, Los Angeles
Wien, Bruessel, Paris
Madrid, Belgrad, Sydney
Jeder noch so kleiner Ort
Alle machen mit.

Karneval, Karneval
Zauberhaftes Vergnuegen
Karneval, Karneval
Lass’t uns tanzen
Bis in den fruehen Morgen!
Oh’ Karneval, Karneval!
Orginal Poem in Englisch und Polisch
Von Thaddeus Hutyra. Translation into German
By Alexandra. Alexandra Rodrigues


3.
"Karnawał, Karnawał"

Nowy Jork, Rio de Janeiro
Paryż, Londyn, Amsterdam
Hong Kong, Bangkok, Tokio
Abu Dhabi, Jerozolima, Kair
Spójrzcie, panie i panowie
wszyscy, młodzi i starzy 
w aureoli tańca!

Karnawał, karnawał
gwarantowana
super satysfakcja!
Karnawał, karnawał
tańczmy aż do samego rana!
Karnawał, karnawał
co za magia 
na naszych oczach!
O’ karnawał, karnawał!

Berlin, Warszawa, Moskwa
Johannesburg, Irkuck, Wiedeń
Wenecja, Praga, Sydney
Wellington, Buenos Aires
Cały świat w szału tańca
dzień czy noc, to żadna różnica!

Karnawał, karnawał
gwarantowana
super satysfakcja!
Karnawał, karnawał
tańczmy aż do samego rana!
Karnawał, karnawał
co za magia 
na naszych oczach!
O’ karnawał, karnawał!

Zwiętkie ciała w szybkich ruchach
rozluźnione umysły 
aż po taneczny parkiet nieba
kobiety w siódmym niebie
od wewnętrznego szczęścia
mężczyźni flirtujący
na erotycznych strunach
To jest właśnie karnawał 
dołączcie do nas, panie i panowie!

Karnawał, karnawał
gwarantowana
super satysfakcja!
Karnawał, karnawał
tańczmy aż do samego rana!
Karnawał, karnawał
co za magia 
na naszych oczach!
O’ karnawał, karnawał!

Sankt Petersburg, Oslo, Ottawa
San Francisco, Los Angeles
Paryż, Kraków, Tbilisi, Bruksela
Madryt, Chicago, Belgrad, Sydney
nawet najmniejsze wioski świata
nikt nie może być pominięty
wszyscy razem tańczymy!

Karnawał, karnawał
gwarantowana
super satysfakcja!
Karnawał, karnawał
tańczmy aż do samego rana!
Karnawał, karnawał
co za magia 
na naszych oczach!
O’ karnawał, karnawał!

"Karnawał, Karnawał" autor Tadeusz Hutyra 
© Thaddeus Hutyra Luty 2017

---

Maria Wigo (picture above) is Wiltrud Maria Gödde, a versatile published poet who also works as a soprano
in the chorus of the Opera House in Gelsenkirchen, Germany.



For William Smith

 
Riding Eagle!

By Maria Wigo


 
The Night is dead, first shiny glow
which tenderly possess
the Stones, the Earth, a Glamour Show
of dancing Lights, I guess.
 
The Wideness of this Scenery
amidst enormous Rocks
Is boundless big and endlessly,
With Guardians in Blocks.
 
Scant Vegetation is immersed
in red-orange and gold,
The Colours floating and dispersed
like Diamonds to behold.

But in that Countryside along
Is mixed a magic tune,
The Sound varies from soft to strong,
This Mystery solved soon.
 
An Eagle riding on his Bike
through rusty, sun-drenched Air,
The humming wheels are on a hike
to reach the sky, a dare.
 
The Being keeps the wheels in rein,
Sheer Freedom in his eyes,
Tough Muscles press them back to lane
Steel wings, which nearly flies.
 
Untamed and keen, the Hair wind-blown
Controls breath-taking speed,
He drives a race, …or maybe flown?
Horizon reached, indeed.
 
A proud creature wrapped in Light,
but no more sound was heard,
Just my desire was in sight,
No Feather and no Bird.
 
The Eagle was a manly Being,
Fulfilled my burning wish,
Cause … I’m allowed to watch this scene,
The Man, … named William Smith !
 
 

June 2010 © Maria Wigo
(Wiltrud Maria Gödde) Germany

Flowers

By David Thorpe

 
speechless all their lives
with an eloquence
to replace the unspoken
 
they define feelings
when inhibitions hinder
their expression
 
they smile with joy at a reunion,
comfort on a sorrowful parting
and offer solace to the ailing
 
 they are a precious necklace in spring 

for a princess
in some child´s fantasy
 
they adorn a grave of a loved one,
herald  the rebirth of nature,   
endless roles in the theatre of life,
flowers

David Thorpe © 2017

Upward Grace
         by
Teresa Ann Frazee
 
In the depths of a descending dream
   Veils of fire whirled in upward grace
Emanating a dense topaz mist
   That transcended opalescent space
 
Light in wisps draped the horizons edge
   Climbing shadows teased a maturing light
Mysteries translated in whispers
   From vague voices of phantoms in flight
 
A trinity of black entwined trees
   Strain their branches in ancient silence
Toward the monitors of space and time
   With instinctual perfect balance
 
Hovering over the brink of reality
   High above the restless lives of men
Ever reaching toward the dream driven clouds
   For the union of sky and earth again
 
 
​
 
 
       Culinary Grace
           by
Teresa Ann Frazee
 
So there it grows, this glorious form
Spreading jealousy among the vines
Serene with the scent of paradise
On rainwater and sunlight it dines
 
How vainly its golden innards float
In the abyss of culinary grace
Pearled in the limelight of rising fame
Making us wish we were in its place
 
With a growing envious eye, we here
In the garden, see more than we can stand
Yet how we all gape at this gleam of life
This master work by nature’s skillful hand
 

Spring Rain 

A Collection of Poems 

By Jessica Goody


​
Spring Rain

The air is cold with the promise of rain.
Birds sing nonetheless, undaunted by the chill;
they twitter a rain song in the silver notes of a flute.
The grass smells cool and fresh, like leafy salad greens.

The robins are bright against the lawn, 
cheerfully industrious as they seek insects
and perform whatever avian chores 
instinct compels them to commit.

They will duck into nests upholstered with brambles 
and old hair at the coming of the storm.
The mother protectively tucks a wing over the hatchlings, 
their frail frames snuggling against her down.

Geese pass overhead in an uneven V, 
the sound of their nasal honks reverberating
in the storm-cooled air. A crow, his plumage 
gleaming like onyx, provides a sharp retort. 



The Color of Rain

The cool air is filled with the green, 
expectant scent of rain. The waves 
ripple in the canal, dappled with light 
the color of old coins. The trees are 
streaked with moss the yellow-green
 
of spring. The spotted snakeskin of 
peeling birches resemble elephant seals 
tossing sand onto sloughing skin. 
The sidewalk is stippled with mica. 
The damp concrete glints, bathed in 

the afterglow of a passing storm. 
The trees are lulled by the rhythm 
of the raindrops, their heads bent, 
nodding like a sleeping child. 



Irises

A purple-petaled flower 
with a thoughtful yellow eye. 
Golden-throated, 
streaked with sunlight.
Regal in its elegance, 
petals curving like a waving hand.

Flowers in the Snow

By Lucinda Berry Hill


The snow's almost gone
And what do I see?
I see God's creation
Looking at me.

God paints the sky
And the vast fields of grain.
He also paints flowers
As the first signs of spring.

Yellow and white,
Purple ones too.  
Crocuses, a sign
Of a life brand new.

The birds singing sweetly,
A sound that I've missed.
Each song a new present.
Each season a gift.

God's created beauty 
Of colors and sounds.
I see Him all over;
His love all around
.
Author Lucinda Berry Hill   of  "Coffee with Jesus"  and "A Second Cup with Jesus" ©




​

Front Porch Flowers

By Lucinda Berry Hill


I see the Master's mansion
As beautiful as can be,
With a porch wrapping 'round
As far as the eye can see.

Baskets, they are hanging
From every arch that's made.
And flowers fill the baskets
In colors of every shade.

On the marble floor below
Sits baskets more and more.
So many lovely flowers.
What are they all for?
.

There's mothers there in Heaven
And they're honored every day.
God blesses them with flowers
From the children that they raised.

For all that they have given.
For all the things they've done.
Flowers line the steps of white
To the mansion of our God.

If your mother's in God's mansion
Instead of there with you,
Then ask God to bless her richly,
With  flowers sent by you.

Lucinda Berry Hill Author of Coffee with Jesus and A Second Cup with Jesus.©



 https://www.facebook.com/#!/pages/Coffee-with-Jesus/355060321207311

http://lucindaspoetry.webs.com/index.htm
 
Ask me about fundraising ideas!

Once We Know

By Alexandra H. Rodrigues


I am honored that you ask for my hand.
That you want me to accept a wedding band
Before I can give you an answer, I need to be blunt
Are you convinced it is me, who you really want?


Is it because I am a natural blonde?
That for sure is not enough for a bond!
Do you actually know who deep down I am?
Do you realize I am not always the same?


Do you know I have bad dreams at night?
Do you know that spiders cause me fright?
I know that my body turns you on!
Yes, for me too, our intimacies are great fun.


How about you. I see that you are really cool!
You are suave, debonair and are no fool.
However, to say I know you, would not be fair
All I saw is your sex drive and your flair.


That you lust for me, is easy to believe
Yet not enough a commitment to achieve.
Let us discover each other’s true personality
Learn how much in daily life we would agree.
If disappointment is the result, no harm was done
We can write it off as having had fun.



​


Nuance in Love

By Alexandra H. Rodrigues


Any relation that only on sex is built
Will often right after the first quarrel wilt
Sex teases and puts you under a spell
As essence for love it does not bode well.


Sex can be gotten in many a way
It is available for money night and day
To have love lead to sex is how it should be
Sex as sole means for love as lie I do see.


Real love is not at all easy to find
Separate sex and love in your mind
When finally both merge into True love
That kind may last even as life gets tough.

 

A Poetic Boquet of Flowers


Poetry Collection by Alan Catlin


***


The Flower Arrangement, Jane Austen House, Chawton



Outside the room where Jane
wrote, her sister Cassandra’s
letter describing last hours of
her best friend, companion,
literal sister of the soul, in stilted
handwriting no doubt made less
legible by stress and grief, weathered
now, rust stained, fading so,
a transcription of the text renders
what can no longer be read in prose
as elegant and as poignant as Jane ever
wrote. The rooms and hallways
scented now with garden grown flowers,
dried lavender; the room beyond where
Jane wrote enlivened by fresh picked
blossoms grown nearby, a legacy, like
the words, living on.







Marianne Moore’s Gothic Garden


"our fictions feed on us."
A.S. Byatt


In dark corners of walled gardens
amid carved garden trolls, kitchen
witches released, grave goods distributed,
unearthed in the built up bed, outside
the ground keeper's shed, a lady dressed
in full-to-the-ankle dress and skirt,
a tri-colored hat jauntily set on an angle
and pinned firmly in place to white hair,
gardens nearby, sewing her seeds,
transplanting her latest hot house bulbs,
flowers, grasses, trees, all closely supervised:
Black Night Delephenium, Scwarzkof,
Aconium Arboreum, Blackgrass, Aphiopogon
Planiscopus Nigrescens, Night Shades,
Lobelia Cardinals, Fire Crackers for occasional
coloring, Eryngium Varifolium, Bourgates,
Japanese Maple trees that bend over moving
shadows, a Gothic garden brought to life,
more real that she is.





The Artist Visits Matisse's Last Garden


Matisse-he dead!
he doing the white boy
shuffle dressed as a
vaudeville dancer in
a pale blue suit with
white pin stripes and
leather racing gloves,
slick as his mentor,
Old Mr. Bones, taking
a stroll on his day off,
on a day for the dead,
tightening the knot on
his silk bowtie, cool
for the ladies as an old
dog from hell. Even
the undertaker's top hat
exudes class: only the best
need apply to be in this,
out of season but still in
bloom formal garden, or
is the window showing
the flowers just a painted
drop cloth lowered for
special effecting on this
cold night's dream of
levitating black cats,
their yellow eyes the only
light inside.






Red Daffodils, White Rain


Vermillion sky, empurpled
as a bruise, the dark stain
of alluvial soil along the edges
of an open wound,
red fields of wild flowers:
hybrids, mutant species
chemically enhanced,
their roots drilled into
night shaded bone,
impervious to weather,
these rose madder blooms,
these acres of daffodils
from another life.







The Flower Arrangement at the Dead Photographer's
Exhibit, REQUIEM, The Eastman House,
Rochester, N.Y. May 2001


What music could accompany this exhibit?
Twenty years of carnage begun, continued,
memorialized as an ongoing funeral of an Age,
attended in silence by the curious, the involved,
the mourners; as a gift of remembrance, a warning.
Not Mozart, Not Faure, Cherubini, Handel;
Not even Beethoven, Verdi, Brahms;
Not Britten with his poems by dead soldier poet
Wilfred Owen incorporated into the Mass;
Not Barber's Adagio for Strings, his memorial
for the dead of World War II made into a new
signature for war dead by Stone's, Platoon;
Not the Doors, Apocalypse Now!;
No music at all, as in the image of battle weary
soldiers emerging from their hiding places on
Hamburger Hill, silence more eloquent than
anything scored, ever, and here, besides these
images of death, a simple flower arrangement
between pictures, against a gallery wall;
white lilies in a vase and a small stack of business
cards that say: Viet Center Readjustment Counseling.

Every Day is a Day of Spring


By Karen King





The silent snowdrops shone in the sun,


But they felt lonely.


They had each other,


But they were isolated.


No other snowdrops grew nearby.


No other flowers flourished.


They couldn’t understand.


What had they done?


They thought they were happy,


Doing their own thing,


Minding their own business.


After all, the other flowers


Were not the same as them.


Even the same species of this milk flower


Felt different and alien to them.


They turned their heads to the sun,


Deep in thought.


Perhaps it was time to reach out?


One of the snowdrops lifted a petal,


Hesitatingly, whilst in the sun’s spotlight.


The daffodils turned towards them,


Their heads hopeful, their canary yellow singing,


Awaiting a new start.


Listen to the message of the flowers.


Do not be lost.


Join together now.


We are all one, despite our differences.


Celebrate, be joyful.


Put a spring in your step,


In your life, in everyone’s life.


After all, every day


Should be a day of Spring.






Karen King Copyright February 2016







Gardening with a Choice


By Karen King
​




Yesterday, you felt invigorated and full of Spring


And stepped out to work in your garden.


You admired the buds, lost in their beauty,


While you brushed away what you hoped


Would be the last vestiges of snow.


The sun shone on you, urging you forwards,


Encouraging you to relish every moment


And beckoning you on to brighter days.


The wind tousled and played with your hair,


The sun caressed your face, warming your soul.


You were lost, lost in the moment,


As you enjoyed the tranquillity of your space, your time.






Karen King Copyright February 2016

Desert Delights


By Patrick Bryant Michael


​

Tarantulas tantalize, scared - they sting
waiting
mating
cacti, wild flowers, scorpions will bite
weapon
venom
sandstorms, flash floods ravish over wild lands
taking
baking
rattlesnakes slithering along the harsh rocks
roughing
toughing
lizards run about, there's a desert song
teasing
pleasing
Desert Lily, Cardon Cacti stretching
buzzing
humming
honey bees abound, giant centipedes
leggy
ready
Desert Fairy Duster, the Dragon Fly
lovely
comely
sand castles, heat rising high in the sky
sweetness
weakness
Saguaro Blossoms, Indian Paintbrush
braving
craving
barren flats, bright red Ocotilla Blooms
thirsting
bursting
Prickly Pear Cacti to make sweet jelly
watching
stalking
Sphinx Caterpillar, Desert Spot Five thrive
crawling
sprawling
beetles, Desert Leaf Cutter Ants are shy
slither
quiver
Coral Snakes bring bright color to the ground
biting
fighting
venom paralyzes, watch from afar
deadly
heady
Black Widows hide, then jump out to attack
dryness
shyness
Organ Pipe Cactus sit and stay quiet
admire
aspire
Gordon Bladderpod, wearing yellow blooms
glowing
flowing
Banded Sand Snakes patrol through the sagebrush
musing
oozing
Giant Crab Spider's bite can be painful
perceive
receive
Hedgehog Cactus bring purples into view
invite
excite
Desert Lavender whites embrace the earth
writhing
striving
Gopher Snakes slither in pursuit of food
inspect
respect
Big-horned scarabs dot the sandy landscape
skinning
spinning
Fishhook Cactus will capture the mind's eye
gloating
floating
Mojave Sage bloom with purple flowers
thwarting
courting
the Common Kingsnake feasts on insects
rushing
crushing
Red Harvester Ants attack – aggressive
dripping
sipping
Chain Fruit Cholla provide food and water
rainbows
hallows
Globemallow blooms grow both orange and gold
wriggly
wiggly
Glossy Snakes only feed on small mammals
spirit
merit
Checkered Beetles with red-black backs quite bold
hugging
bugging
beware Teddy Bear Cholla, not cuddly
twilight
delight
Tufted Evening Primrose die - morning light
sniffing
spitting
Jerusalem Crickets smell foul and fight
sniper
viper
Cobras enchant with high pitched vibrations
showing
flowing
Claretcup Cactus clumps with reddish cups
seeing
freeing
Spreading Wallflowers are quite colorful
brutish
prudish
Buckhorn Cactus bloom with a copper tone
sifting
shifting
Panguitch Buckwheat is the desert's delight.


(c) June 8, 2014 by PBM





Flower Scape


By Patrick Bryant Michael




The evening sun glistens through the fir trees
I sit and watch with heart and soul at ease
Blue Hydrangea holds beauty to behold
Orange Lilies abound with centers of gold
Lilacs out of bloom, thoughts turn to the past
Evergreens surrounding as if to last
a time for pruning, roses sprouting about
Pinks, Reds and Yellows in bloom seem to shout
silence hangs in the air, a sight for sore eyes
a flower scape set in quiet reprise!




(c) July 21, 2009 by PBM

A Floral Duet


By Thaddeus Hutyra



1.

‘ Ode to Spring ‘ 

Dear Spring, you are the embodiment
of the very best, a magic bell of bells
the Bell of Life, cementing us all
to the bells of Summer, Autumn and Winter
You are soul-soaring bell of nature
ringing brilliantly across the globe
and announcing like Archangel Michael
the beginning of life giving new season.

O' bells, ring my bells, the bells of Spring
O' versicolored bells of Spring
ring and ring, bring a toast to life
‘cause people reach high spirits 
and dance throughout their lives
‘cause life is forever, the gift from you, O' Spring !

Dear Spring, you’re a music to our ears
a Leonardo da Vinci’s painting
a film Scorsese never dreamt about
You’re a polychromatic symphony 
of Mozart and Beethoven 
the Symphony of perpetual Life 
You are the Chorus of Angels 
in all your splendor, O' Spring !

O' bells, ring my bells, the bells of Spring
O' versicolored bells of Spring
ring and ring, bring a toast to life
‘cause people reach high spirits 
and dance throughout their lives
‘cause life is forever, the gift from you, O' Spring !

Dear Spring, you are the greatest of elixirs
the unprecedented Elixir of Life 
never discovered and though existent 
in each of us, our very essence 
The essence as much of our souls
the Souls of Life, making us immortal
You’re our Guardian of the Universe
on this planet Earth, our home, O' Spring !

O' bells, ring my bells, the bells of Spring
O' versicolored bells of Spring
ring and ring, bring a toast to life
‘cause people reach high spirits 
and dance throughout their lives
‘cause life is forever, the gift from you, O' Spring !

‘ Ode to Spring ‘ by Thaddeus Hutyra 
© Thaddeus Hutyra 05/05/2015




2.
‘Clouds in the Spring‘

Clouds, the hanging gardens
of the oceanic blue sky
are welcoming us all 
they, the spider’s web of the skies
they, clouds in the Spring!

Planes are flying in the meantime
from John F. Kennedy Airport
in all unimaginable directions
bringing us to destinations
where contrysides are full of flowers 
and Babylonian alike hanging gardens
fulfilling our dreams !

There you are brought, all of you
there, onto the clouds
Each of them is a paradise island
a dreamland, indeed 
one of nature, full of Spring!

There on those clouds
you enjoy your time
swimming in the deeply blue seas
getting sunburnt on the golden sand 
or while waliking among flowers
in a florescent Botanical Garden!

There you also are, my maiden
there, on one of the clouds
sending me lots of kisses
in answer to my ones
You, the princes among flowers
there on the islets of the clouds!

The rays of the Sun
are the telepathic post
nothing really is impossible
for you and me 
The Spring is our paradise!

Oh, the clouds on the sky
the islands and islets 
in the coruscating midst 
of the cosmic ocean
the one called the sky
Oh, the hanging gardens
there on the clouds in the Spring!

Here I am finally, my dear
getting on the board of my plane
Soon, quite soon
I am there with you
there, on one of the clouds
in the midst of fragrant Spring!

‘Clouds in the Spring‘ by Thaddeus Hutyra 
© Thaddeus Hutyra July, 2016

Voyage to the Moon

An Ode to Georges Melies

By Jessica Goody


Magicians and astronomers wear the same robes. 
In their Copernicus costumes 
of spangled cloaks and wizard’s caps studded with foil stars,
the astronomers seem to be performing a pantomime,
a class play, child’s game. 

Planets dangle like jewelry, charms on a bracelet.
A classroom diorama, celestial orbs represented
by sports balls on strings: Saturn, his abdomen ringed
like a child with a hula hoop. Earth, a swirling agate, 
a marble held against a playground thumb.

Squinting through the great golden eye of the telescope,
they gesticulate with animation as they consult the astrolabe,
the ancient charts, the solar disk.
The footage flickers against the twinkly 
ragtime accompaniment of the movie-house pianist.

The rocket ship resembles a toy, a tin miniature,
a die-cast model to be meticulously fit and glued.
Bolted with rivets, hundreds of thousands,
silvery fish scales, metallic and gleaming.

Flames explode from the anus of the torpedo
with a roar that sears the blue wallpaper of the sky.
A comet’s tail, bursting upwards like a fired bullet.
The steel cetacean, swims upward through a spectrum of blue,
the colors flashing on its pockmarked surface:
Lapis, indigo, royal blue, ultramarine, cobalt, midnight, ink.

The moon yawns, arising.
Its pockmarked face is blinded by the landing projectile,
flaking the golden silt of sleep, stardust.
On the scalp of the moon, craters spread like sand traps.
It is a war zone of debris. The astronauts descend. 
They look down from the night planet onto its reflection.
Everything is reversed. The revolving cosmos 
is no longer a world turning upon a still point. 

Against a backdrop dotted with the silver pinpricks of stars
lies a cave of toadstools like boulders, 
enchanted fungi. The Selenites appear, 
those moon creatures who spontaneously combust
in flashes of conjurers’ smoke.

Future Antiquities

by

John Frazee
 
Dating artifacts can often create problems in the field
     Are they from the far off future or from the distant past?
Is she a passing fancy or truly one for the ages?
     Will she crumble under scrutiny or was she built to last?
 
How do you find beauty in such dark and desolate places?
     To unearth a treasure from deep within the rubble and rust
Shall I keep her for myself even against her will, or
     Return her from whence she came ashes to ashes, dust to dust
 
I stumbled upon this piece I am really not sure just where
     The search for future antiquities has taken me far and wide
My endless quest has led to sights one would rather not have seen
     The cost has been quite dear putting my personal life aside
 
Coming upon this shimmering find something seemed familiar
     I’m sure I’ve seen this face before in a mirror or a dream
I found myself shaken to the very essence of my soul
     As I awoke to the sound of a reflection or a scream


 




CIRCUMVENTING TIME

by

John Frazee

 
I have tried many things, some really quite bold
In my feeble attempt to never grow old
You cannot beat time, or so I've been told
Swap precious youth for a watch made of gold
 
If unprepared, time will sneak up on you
Contemplating it, you haven't a clue
Constantly changing, it is never new
It can quickly arrive from out of the blue
 
If ravaged by it you start to show your age
While maturing, wrinkles become your gauge
They say growing older is to turn the page
Predict the future, deem yourself a sage
 
To waste it, is an unforgivable crime
On seconds you may snack on hours you dine
Wash it all down with a glass of fine wine
Your last hope is to circumvent time

 





Current Observation

by

John Frazee
 
A wise man we'll call Einstein taught me many years ago
It is not so much what you see but where it's seen  from
The results of your addition might not always be correct
It may not be the total but it will always be the sum
 
It is an observer created universe, therefore
What you see is truly what you make, reality is yours
Everything changes at the moment you get yourself involved
These aren't my rules it is the universe that makes the laws
 
Someday this poem may be read by a stranger light years away
I will long be gone yet to him the ink will still seem wet
Try not feeling too comfortable in your environment
Prepare for change, neither the present nor future has been set
 
Pity the poor physicist who observes change for a living
Observation is your key to many an endeavor
Whether it be literature, fine arts or daily life
Think you are exempt, remember nothing stays the same, ever

The photo "Atadrona" courtesy of Jérome Coppo


***

​

     The revenge of Atadrona
       
               A mutant of Phalypolis               
 

By David Thorpe



​
Of beauty equal to Aphrodite
 sensuality to hypnotise Cleopatra´s snake
 attributed with Nefertiti´s political agility
revered as a goddess by womanhood,
Atadrona, Lilith resuscitated
 
Her determination for equality in Phalypolis,
capital of the cosmic realms
now fallen into the hands of male supremacy
subjection of female intelligence
 
Her fate was sealed
banished to the rains of methane poison
in the clouded darkness of Titan
incarcerated and laid in coma
in avenging awareness 
 
Where no eyes by her countenance be mesmerised
where no souls through her sorcery be condemned,
she awaits patiently her awakening,
to take her revenge on her doomed oppressors

David Thorpe © 2017

Bodies New and Strong

By Lucinda Berry Hill






I'd like to think, in Heaven
There are no steps to climb,
No tiny print,
No casts or splints,
No twisty little bread ties.

I'd like to think, in Heaven
There'll be no need for glasses,
No glucose strips,
No bathroom trips,
No chalky anti acids.

I'd like to think, in Heaven
That this will all be true.
So shall it be.
 I do believe
Our bodies will be new.

For Heaven holds no illness,.
No pain, no fear, no sadness;
Our bodies strong,
The wrinkles gone,
Feeling mighty fabulous!


Lucinda Berry Hill author of devotional "Coffee with Jesus." ©





Heaven's Waiting

By Lucinda Berry Hill


Heaven is waiting for you,
It has a room with a view.
It has the warmth of the sunshine,
The light of the moon.

It has smiles abundantly,
Love that is free,
No pain and no sadness,
Just joy and God's peace.

Heaven is waiting for you.
Your place has been claimed.
Christ paid your ticket
When He died unashamed.

Accept God's forgiveness.
Believe, it is true.
Because of His mercy,
Heaven's waiting for you.


Lucinda Berry Hill Author of Coffee with Jesus and A Second Cup with Jesus.©

---

Humans vs. AI

By Thaddeus Hutyra


1.
‘ Teleportation ‘

Unfathomable are oracles of God
Dante puzzles !

How many universes
there are
in the multiverse ?

With every breath of the Lord
new creation
is being formed
and endless range of emotions.

The breath of the Lord
is your smile
your kiss
your fiery love
birth of your child
yet another universe
in the multiverse.

There will be times
undreamt of
even in fairy tales
One shall hold
sort of future iPhone
just a few entry codes
and one will become a soul.

Unlike now
it will be a pure fun
for by coding back
one shall return
to the former point
back to his own body.

Teleportation simply
will be as easy
as using our iPhones now.

Back and forth
from body to soul
and soul to body.

From what is earthly
or what belongs
to future planetary home
to what we now call paradise
where no time exists
but all the beauty 
of the multiverse.

And then back
really back home !
How unimaginable
and though imaginable !
How larger than life !

Quantum physics 
is very complex
the entire universe 
or perhaps multiverse
firstly all the bosons
and then ... 
the gate to the multiverse.

Never thus say never !
O' welcome to Dante puzzles !

‘ Teleportation ‘ by Thaddeus Hutyra 


2.
‘ Humans vs. AI ‘

A cat is sitting on the roof
trying to catch the Moon
an eagle is flying 
up the nightly sky
destination the stars!

Just imagine 
not so distant future
humans will compete 
with androids.

They will have 
their own consciousness
likes and dislikes 
and much more. 

We all are built 
from atoms though 
whether people or androids.

Some time ago I thought
future AI individuals
shall leave humans
far behind.

Androids 
due to their advancement
shall be able 
to conquer the Universe
molecules of light their starships.

Yet I have forgotten
to notice 
the perfectionism
of human brains
The last word
not yet said!

Humans will be able 
to use AI 
to their own purposes
attaching it
to their own brains
Super humans 
shall be born!

It won’t be the end
for furthering 
of the human advancements.

Teleportations will become 
the next step
enabling humanity
space travel
time travel
entering the multiverse.

The question is 
who will solve 
all the entirety 
of the quantum physics
unveil dark matter 
as the first one.

Who will get the key
to the gates 
of the multiverse
in a more smooth way.

As in the case of androids
so in the case of humans
molecules of light
will be their starships, indeed.

The magics of deciphering
of all the codes there are
will bring fruits
nobody before thought about.

The question remains 
how shall it all develop
Shall the humans 
and AI individuals
be cooperating
or shall they be
friends turned foes?

For if they will become enemies
star wars will follow
The tragedy 
of never ending wars
on Earth
shall be brought
onto the vast Universe.

So quiet seem to be lives 
of some of us
at least in peaceful villages
somewhere there 
in the mountains
or on places
overlooking the oceans
that one might say
peace is forever.

Dogs are barking 
even at the slightest nuances 
of weather patterns
rabbits are escaping 
from a dangerous stray wolf
Life is going on...

So I Am Attracted
 
By Rebecca Villanueva
 
 
So, I am attracted to you
Beautiful rugged and towering 
Mysterious mountain
Who moved me
That very first day
Of watching you approached me
The evening belongs
To the drunken eyes
With electricity on high voltage
Electrifying us whenever
We look at each other
With our speaking eyes whispering
About the language of attraction
And love defining our act
Of moments of joy and inspiration
And of moving in sleep like trance
While so awake of sensations
Dancing inside us with flaming desire
While an orchestra
Commanded my body to want 
That loving music played in my heart
Oh, it makes me want to dance
Instead of mourn
There's thousands
Of moments of wishes
That the look in your eyes reveals
And I wish that the people around us
Will disappear so we'll not talk
In codes with steaming meanings
But dive in the ocean of love
And be lost forever
In the hurricane of sensations
Turning me in a carousel
Upside down
Oh, my thoughts is full of wars
And the sky was in fire
Burning burning burning
Id love to go where the ocean
meet the highest sky
To love you
My beautiful stranger
In my life
RmvR 140516
Copyright 2016

The Future


By Alan Catlin




“So our hope lies in a world without hope,
governed by Satan.”
Ake Edwardson, Sun and Shadow



“Neighborhood girl, 8, killed
by stray bullet while riding
her new bicycle.”
The news article said.


Police canvassed neighborhood
looking for leads but no one saw
anything, though everyone seemed
to have heard the shots. Were on
the street seconds later, and were glad
to appear on local TV offering
opinions about all the things they
didn’t see.


Weeks later a thirteen year old
boy was arrested for the crime.
Said he felt bad about the little
girl. “I wasn’t trying to shoot
no little girl. I was trying to off
someone else. She just be in the way.”


Asked where he got the gun,
he confessed it wasn’t his, was,
in fact, a community gun that anyone
could use, if they had to, as long as
they put it back where it was to be
hid when they were done.


Said, he had to wait until he was 16
to get his gun but guessed, now,
he’d never get his own.







"Hieronymous Bosch

put his finger on the wound"

Terry Tempest Williams


By Alan Catlin




drew the lines for anatomists to follow,
exposing hidden sutures, internal formacations
for those possessed by seizures, see them mesmerizing
the wings from dead angels, draining life fluids
from archaic monsters summoned into being
by evil spirits released from another world;
once their tongues have been removed, their eyes
poked through with sticks, who will remain
to articulate their spent visions?
who will paint the future?










Narcissus in Black with Rings

By Alan Catlin



“I am deformed with beauty.”
Joelle, Infinite Jest


If there was an antithesis to beauty
she would try and find out what it
was and be that person. Self loathing
in her life, was expressed by piercings,
nose rings, lip rings, no doubt nipple
and clit rings, plus multiple pin piercings
in each ear that looked more painful
than decorative. The way she looked,
though, belied her sentiment of total
self-hate, a state of mind that could easily
have been defined by ugly, cheap, impossible
to remove neck, chest and facial tattoos.
but wasn’t. The lack of body art suggested
a hedge against that day, in the future,
she’d wake up in bed with someone so totally
disgusting, someone she’d convinced herself
she had loved but really hadn’t, their naked bodies
sticky with sweat and dried bodily fluids
knowing this would be the day to undo all
the self-inflicted damage and become, again,
the person she claimed she never was.







Trees

By Alan Catlin



I must have felt confined and out of
sort, when the dude walked into the bar,
perched on a stool, gave me a goofy grin and
said, “There’s nothing so rare as a day in May.”
I interpreted this remark as the opening salvo
in a cliché spouting, poetry quoting game,
so I replied, “I think that I shall never see,
A poem as lovely as a tree.”
Listened incredulously as he said,
“I never heard that one before. Where’s it from?”
The temptation was to reply, ”What did you do,
stop going to school after the fourth grade?”
Looked closer at the guy I thought to myself,
“It was a distinct possibility that he had.”
Instead, I said, “It’s from like the most famous
poem in the English language, ‘Trees’ by
Joyce Kilmer.” I waited expectedly for his reply
and was not disappointed.”Joyce Kilmer, huh!?
I never heard of her. What else did she write?”
“Lots of stuff. But Kilmer died young. In WWI.
A real tragedy. Very sad business. There’s still
a lot of work in print, though: poems, essays,
biographies. Just go to Barnes and Noble
and check out the Woman Studies section.
If you don’t find anything there, ask one of
the helpful sales people. They’ll straighten
you right out.”
“Thanks, I will.”
“Don’t mention it.”
The day was looking up and transforming
itself into a rare day indeed: jokers, clowns
and performance artist everywhere.
Who knew what other entertainment options
there were just waiting to be explored.





​

Night smells of fireflies

By Alan Catlin



and mosquitoes, burnt amber creases
the moon, swirling smoke of unknown
derivation/ like a forest fire without trees,
a desert of water creatures washed
ashore in dreams reclaiming their flesh
under outlaw clouds. Rhythmic pounding
of hollow drums, spirit fires in cloistered
eyes unhinged from pulpits shipwrecked
along an evolving shore. All night the
power wires conspire with the poles to make
noise as hostile witnesses to trials of crimes
against nature. A threat of rain is withdrawn,
stunted pines are pounded down like stakes
into the earth as a mood goes indigo.

She Turned and Saw Him


By Karen King






She turned and saw him.


She felt a strong sense of deja vous


As memories, played on


The corners of her mind.


Like old photographs


In ancient albums,


Where the edges are torn


And the photos are faded.


Like memories of old.






He was waiting for her


At the crossroads


On the path of sunlight,


Unsure which way to turn.


She slowly smiled


And walked towards him.


Together, they would decide


Which path to take.


Both brightly lit,


With patches of darkness.


The future looked uncertain,


Life looked uncertain,


Yet a flicker of hope


Could be read,


Like a book,


In both their eyes.






Karen King Copyright May 2016












The Race


By Karen King





Time does heal,
For those who want it.
You will never forget that person,
As you hold their love in your heart.


Certain items, certain events, will trigger
Thoughts and feelings for them.
Good and memories will bubble up,
Like a soup simmering on the hob.


Yet, if you stay selfishly with the departed,
In your mind and soul,
You will keep them in limbo,
Never to rest in peace.


Is that fair, is that loving?


You will block your progress
With a corridor of cobwebs.


The departed would want you to
Live your life to the full
And enjoy life once more,
For life is for the living.


I am a horse
At Cheltenham races,
Happy to live in the present,
Ready to surge straight on.


What course are you taking?
Is it mine or a different one?
Are we on the same track?
Are we even at the same meet?


Are you going to join me?
Or am I to race, wild and free,
Through the present,
Into the future?
With another horse?

The horses are lining up,
So you'd better hurry,
Before the race begins,
Or you will be left standing.
Alone.


Karen King Copyright February 2016


​

The Deep Blue Ocean Duet

By Patrick Bryant Michael





Cloudy Skies and Deep Blue Oceans

 
The deep blue oceans touch the cloudy skies in shades of blue
stretching
beyond
the horizon to far off places, true love to accrue
teasing
mental
persuasions to the Far East, sirens calling, haunting true
cruising
sailing
on the blue ocean, horizon keeps moving out of view
diving
deeply
into the ocean, the sky out of view, minds need a clue
rising
popping
up into the sunlight, the sky touches the eyes anew
shining
billowy
clouds bring animation to the eyes, like a sheer breakthrough
darkness
overcast
skies hide rocky shorelines, grottoes of love bid us adieu
valleys
mountains
appear closer, the blue skies touch the ocean out of sight
coastlines
rhythmic
bobbing up and down, touching blue skies up to the twilight
yawing
straightening
the line of sight, clouds touching the ocean get the limelight
sightseeing
driving
along the coastline see the horizon coming forthright
beaches
campfires
logs burning will bring warmth and snap, crackling as they ignite
drinking
getting
hazy minded, losing the horizon as sleep you would fight
sleeping
waking
to a head ache, falling down from having too much sunlight
walking
finding
your bearings again, the sky blue touches ocean, unite
running
keeping
pace by watching the clouds moving along, as the waves flow
basking
ripples
in the air, heat seems to dissipate as if in escrow
watching
peering
at the skyline, senses touch the horizon, seas will grow
racing
pushing
your own limits, clouds making dragons, as wild winds would blow
dancing
bouncing
with rhythm of waves, touching the sky, feeling a warm glow
raining
droplets
falling on rooftops, the sound is warm and audibly low
darkened
thunderclouds
hides horizons, thunder breaks the silence, scares the scarecrow
dangerous
liaisons
keep the mind haunted, touching the soul, kept on a plateau
escaping
placing
emphasis on the skyline, oceans flowing with passion
inhaling
exhaling
to build a head of steam, touching the sky's interaction
illusions
delusions
come and go, the skyline tapers off, to the seas' bastion
illumination
sunlight
opens the door to new dimensions, sea skies refashion
bending
shifting
the course to new adventures, skylines have no compassion
focusing
translating
shapes in the clouds to forms of the mind, infatuation
dreaming
toying
with an adventure, sky and sea touch in allusion
humming
hearing
a song coming, as the dream skyline touches the ocean.
 
(c) January 8, 2017 by PBM
 
 
 

Give and Take
 
Romance is a give and take with clear and open mind
grasping
romance
is only possible with behind the scenes refined
contract
language
dictates the terms of give and take once all parties signed
working
playing
behind the scenes parties that make sure that it is aligned
corruption
stealing
takes place behind the scenes, the company is maligned
dancing
singing
in the rain, splashing in mud puddles, minds get defined
hiding
seeking
behind the scenes, new ideas, for hearts are opined
musing
meditating
the subconscious is inspired behind the scenes streamlined
laughing
coping
with inner demons, groping for new paths, maturing
studying
researching
to be sure of what you are doing while nurturing
persuasion
illusions
fogging up the mind, the heart and soul reassuring
traveling
grasping
the meaning of each journey, behind the scenes luring
sensing
coming
into the light, behind the scenes it is disturbing
chasing
dreaming
of new dimensions, behind the scenes life enduring
eating
drinking
to sate the thirst, behind the scenes someone is adoring
bouncing
ideas
off objective peoples' minds, grappling with assuring
shopping
picking
up bargains with the help of sharp people on the staff
hiring
firing
workers, behind the scenes separating wheat from chaff
gaining
losing
your perspective, rebuilding behind the scenes, to laugh
walking
talking
putting new spins on old ideas, trading one half
parsing
splitting
hairs to make a crucial point, then to choreograph
sleeping
waking
with new light shining, behind the scenes subconscious graph
mystical
imaginings
offer behind the scenes cosmic portal telegraph
pushing
pulling
to gain traction, behind the scenes we find a giraffe
reaching
stretching
our limits to find our tops, watching for new daylight
waiting
yearning
for a new beginning, spinning tales in the twilight
digging
making
a hole to impede others, behind the scenes, a slight
climbing
higher
and higher, behind the scenes there is a big cat fight
calling
hearing
an echo, behind the scenes mountains capture their height
singing
humming
a song stuck in your mind, behind the scenes the limelight
washing
cleansing
the soul, behind the scenes romance, ready to ignite
giving
taking
behind the scenes compassion, the cosmos shines love's light.

Marc Chagall, Couple in a Blue Landscape (1949)

Blue Landscape

By Jessica Goody


(Marc Chagall, “Couple in a Blue Landscape”, 1949)

They lie in the curve of the crescent moon, 
a cosmic cradle, a gondola hovering in the sky. 
He admires her lapis hair, her bare shoulders 

and sodalite skin. A thousand shades of blue flicker, 
rendering them luminous and ethereal as mermaids, 
blue-green women with bodies as ripe as dark plums.

Floating in a cerulean spotlight, her bare toes pearly 
and stricken blue, she strokes his hair, whispering of 
the secret world swelling in her stomach. Her bare belly 

echoes the curve of the moon, a swallowed pearl.
Seraphim twirl in the richness of a cobalt sky, swooping 
and diving like silent, moonstruck birds. Missile-shaped 

fish swim in the depths where elemental spirits swirl and 
crest like waves. Mythological beasts stalk this enchanted 
forest gone as blue-green as the flame in an emerald’s eye.







Green Sentinels

By Jessica Goody


The sky is a postcard, the color 
of beautiful days people remember.
The misty periwinkle of smoke and 
distant mountains, the blue of ancient 

cultures, the fallen and forgotten places.
A day like this is a gift. The hawks swarm 
and circle, riding the currents like surfers, 
lazily floating on sweet air. They swoop and 

dive for the sheer joy of feeling the cool rush 
of air on outstretched wings. They dance like 
whirling dervishes just because the sky is so 
blue, in the wide-open eye of the atmosphere.




​



Spring Rain

By Jessica Goody


The air is cold with the promise of rain.
Birds sing nonetheless, undaunted by the chill;
they twitter a rain song in the silver notes of a flute.
The grass smells cool and fresh, like leafy salad greens.

The robins are bright against the lawn, 
cheerfully industrious as they seek insects
and perform whatever avian chores 
instinct compels them to commit.

They will duck into nests upholstered with brambles 
and old hair at the coming of the storm.
The mother protectively tucks a wing over the hatchlings, 
their frail frames snuggling against her down.

Geese pass overhead in an uneven V, 
the sound of their nasal honks reverberating
in the storm-cooled air. A crow, his plumage 
gleaming like onyx, provides a sharp retort. 

​You Sail Away


By Rebecca Villanueva

​
You sail away 
To the vast ocean
Away from everything
And hide yourself
Behind the rumblings of
The ocean storm
You thought
By tracing a map
In the bodies of your 
Nocturnal flowers
You'll be illuminated
And be lucky to find your
Final port of call
My silence sings to you
My Lorelei
Not wishing that you jump
To your cold grave
But my silence is calling you home where you left your
Old anchor
Your storms will make you
Wish for shelter
And the fire will be warm 
And waiting
And here
I love the ship that will bring you home
To your final port
By RmvR 050516
Copyright 2016

POCIMA PARA CAMBIAR
LOS DIENTES EL POETA


- Daniel de Culla



Ingredientes:
Cuatro versos bisílabos de Avellaneda; cuatro versos trisílabos de Espronceda; cuatro versos heptasílabos de Lope de Vega; agua mineral o tónica con ginebra.
Al atardecer del día, tienes que sacarle la lengua a luna, subirte a la copa de un pino y pasar toda la noche diciendo:
—Por amor herido no viene a verme mi amada.
A la mañana siguiente, deshoja los versos de los poetas citados; tírate de cabeza del pino contra la flor de la canela, y pon a hervir en un infiernillo el agua mineral, o tómate de un trago la tónica con ginebra, gritándole a la Poesía:
—Por la luna reluciente, y ese verso que lleva dentro, que este dolor de muelas se me quite, pues ni duermo, ni velo, ni sueño tengo, deshojando ahora los versos de los poetas por su orden primero:
Noche, triste, viste, ya
Tal dulce, suspira, la lira, que hirió
Pobre barquilla mía
Entre peñascos rota
Sin velas, desvelada
Y entre las olas solas.
Después, haz una tortilla francesa de dos huevos en forma de luna en cuarto menguante y entrégasela a la primera poetisa tradicional de la Mancha Baja que pase, que no tenga muelas ni dientes
-Daniel de Culla




DOSE TO CHANGE THE POET’S TEETH

By Daniel de Culla



Ingredients:
Avellaneda’s four two syllabled verses; Espronceda’s four trisyllabic verses ; Lope de Vega’s four heptasyllabic verses; Mineral water or tonic with gin.
At dusk of day, you have to stick out your tongue to the Moon, go up to the top of a pine tree and spend all the night saying:
"By injured love, my sweet heart does not come to see me anymore."
At the next morning, strip the verses of the mentioned poets; jump out of head from the pine against the cinnamon flower, and put to boil the mineral water in a little bowl, or take the tonic with gin, shouting at poetry:
"By the glittering moon, and that verse that carries inside, that this toothache was removed is bliss, since neither sleep, nor veil, prevails, nor am I sleepy, nor am I I worn out, defoliating now the poets’ verses by its first order:
Sadness, night, seen, just now, 
So sweet, the sighs, the lyre, that hurt the sadness,
Poor little mine’s boat
Between mass of rocks broken
Without candles, unveiled
And among waves alone.
Afterwards, make a French tortilla with two eggs with the shape of a moon in the waning quarter and give it to the first traditional poetess from the Lower Mancha who passes not having tooth nor teeth.

​

‘ Love is Eternity ‘


By Thaddeus Hutyra




Staring towards the nightly stars
trying one’s best
to imagine what’s in there
so many alien civilizations
perhaps even AI ones
that long before
stripped themselves
of their biological forms
but there was a time
they were like you and I.
Ah, where the oceans 
meet the blue sky
where the horizons
of our thoughts and dreams
encounter the future
there in love and the Universe
there we are !
What civilizational level
could we represent 
in comparison to cosmic aliens?
Certainly we are just type zero
when it comes to the power
of getting energy from the stars.
Not yet a stellar culture
while they might already be
long behind a galactic culture
on the threshold of a universal one
or even so called multiverse one
enabling them crossing
from dimension to dimension
and even universe to universe.
Ah, where the oceans 
meet the blue sky
frontiers of cosmos
are wide open !
Have you ever thought
that out there in the Universe
there are civilizations 
building sort of Asgardia
we are just thinking about
so large as entire planet
alike our own Earth ?
Or perhaps they are building
so called alien megastructure
enveloping one of the stars ?
The most advanced aliens
can possibly be capable
to subordinate entire galaxies
to their wishes and desires
Dyson sphere megastructures
collecting energy from the stars
multiplied gloriously n-times.
Ah, dear, love is eternity
Come, see me and never leave
for the world is our home
the Universe our fate
the multiverse it all !
Perhaps one day, my dear
it all what there will be
will be our consciousness
stripped of our left behind bodies
You and I in the parallel worlds
of the spellbound multiverse !
Come, my dear, come to me
let me take you into my arms
yet again hold you tight
to remember forever
what we used to be
and say goodbye to it all.
You and I shall be the final
who and what we can be
you and I, the consciousness
free to live the new way
and travel across the Universe
across the multiverse !
Ah, bye, bye the past
of our shortcomings, limitations
bye, bye what used to be
We are now on a challenge trip
called the infiniteness
nothing really can beat us
for we have got godly structure
and are conquering the multiverse.
Ah, let yourself 
be carried away, my dear
to the eternity of you and I
for this eternity
is our final destiny.
Ah, where the oceans 
meet the blue sky
there we are, forevermore !
‘ Love is Eternity ‘ by Thaddeus Hutyra 






‘ Blue Moon ‘

By Thaddeus Hutyra
​


The dark horse is counting stars
a cock squawks trying to clear skies
cats are having party night
dogs are howling for no reason
What made them all to behave strange
the music from under the nearby tree?
My love, my heart, my only heart
you are tsunami, the tsunami of our hearts
Let it go, let it flood us, I don’t care
underwater we are even safer
in the underwater of our love, of our hearts!
O' the devil in I, your sweet devil, my heart
O' California night and the blue Moon
there we are, my dear sweetheart
there where the nightingale sings 
to the tunes of overwhelming, rhythmic music 
we are dancing to, we, adult kids in the dark.
Oh, where the oceans 
meet the moonshine sky
with symphony of the blue Moon
there you are, there in my heart, O' lover!
Don’t say sorry, they all are our satellites
no harm can happen at all
Love yourself as you love me
never ask what do I mean 
as I never ask what do you mean
Our hearts mean it all, my love!
I am not a machine nor you are
we are two soulful beings in love
you, my wildest dreams that came true
one I am not gonna lose, not at all 
See, I am untravelled road as yet
enjoy me, your devil in I, O' my heart!
You are my bonfire heart, one I desire
chains are not my life anymore nor red lights
for I do have you, my angel
the crimson phoenix that descended
in the fullness of California night
under the incandescent blue Moon!
Oh, where the oceans 
meet the moonshine sky
with symphony of the blue Moon
there you are, there in my heart, O' lover!
Watch me, my love, watch me, O' watch me
I’ll show you the magics of me
striptease first then foreplay endearment
before we’ll engage in all blown love
But for now, my heart, just a bit of dance
sensual one, all touches and kisses allowed
I must make you hot, hottest ever, my heart.
Here you are, my goddess, here you are
under the California night and blue Moon
I think I’ll die a happy man
never ever regretting what we had
The feeling is good for you, O' lover
good for me, mark my words !
The Lord is the enthralling photographer
a magician and a cheerleader
No pressure at all but a dance
of two deeply affected hearts in love
you and me, forever you and me
O' count, dark horse, count the stars 
let the song of love fly 
across the Universe!
Oh, where the oceans 
meet the moonshine sky
with symphony of the blue Moon
there you are, there in my heart, O' lover!
‘ Blue Moon ‘ by Thaddeus Hutyra 

​Their Song


By Karen King


​



Her pink breasts blushed


As he rose from the sea,


Because they wanted him


For company.






They had been waiting


In the soulful sand,


Wanting him


From another land.






As he approached,


She started to tingle,


Wanting him


On the shingle.






She started to melt,


Like an ice cream,


As other parts of her,


Drifted into a dream.






He took off his jacket


And put it on the stones,


Looked around and saw


They were alone.






The subtle,


Then strong,


Lapping of the sea,


Matched their song.






He touched her,


Like a melody,


Glistening,


In her company.






Karen King Copyright June 2016











Our Hearts


By Karen King





Our hearts are like the sky,


In which we often fly.


We flitter, like butterflies,


While, inside, we cry.






Our hearts are like the air,


The breeze, without a care.


Yet, you sit on your chair,


Staring at what’s no longer there.






Our hearts are like the ocean,


Forever changing course and motion.


What is this crazy notion?


I need a love potion!






Our hearts are like crushed sea shells,


Lying, forlorn, amongst cries and yells.


What is reality? It’s hard to tell!


Sometimes, this is a living hell!






Our hearts are like sinking sand on the shore,


Which one more lost, I cannot be sure.


I wonder if you will be my cure


Or if you are just some kind of lure?






Our hearts are like living fires,


Flickering flames, climbing higher.


Do this have to be so dire?


Do we have to burn in the pyres?






Our hearts seem like elements of their own,


Who seeds have yet to be sown.


It is time to be true


And, together, start our lies anew.






Karen King Copyright 17 December 2016





​




I Will Climb Your Tree


By Karen King





I will climb your tree with you to another land,


Where we are lost in sea and sand,


Where the waves touch us and wash us clean,


Showing us what was is and what has been.


They show us that now is time for laughter and fun,


As we rest against palm trees and the setting sun.


You wish to show me your colours,


And touch me deeply as your lover.


You want me to look into your eyes,


While our love gives us a natural high.






Karen King Copyright June 2016




​

​Below: Painting by Charles E.J. Moulton

​


Time after Time


By Alexandra H. Rodrigues


Haze at the foot of the mountain does appear
My inner is suddenly gripped by strange fear
I am not ready yet to watch earth from above
First I want to show to you my hidden love.


I hang on every word expressed by you
If only the depth of my infatuation you knew
At present, it is only a utopian relation
Future possibilities the sole consolation.


Here I want to have your body conquer mine
Share with you lust and fulfillment divine
Then let the time come for our souls to meet
Seeking eternity high over the mountain peak.

Dawn on the Beach

After the Wreck at the Clark

after JMW Turner


By Alan Catlin



A nightmare of tides
as remote as
Prospero's conjured storm,


those curvatures of
windswept spume
bloated clouds slip through


as discs scattered
along invertebrate
sand sculptures,


beach stones blackened by
volcanic life
undersea, a demon's pit revealed


with each offshore
lightning strike,
an embroilment of waves,


a cacophony of strained
voices calling
their last as ship meets


reef and follows after
the dawn's
dead calming tease,


on shore, the feral beast
feels the dead
as they slip away,


his howling unable
to keep
the spirit world at bay





The Sound of the Waves

By Alan Catlin



The ache and the cry
of sea birds before
moon rise.


An offshore breeze in
the tall brown reeds,
in the panic grass.


Wild deer on narrow
cliff paths eroding
underfoot, unfit for
safe passage.


The shifting rocks
dragged by the tides
out toward the sea
over pebbles and moss
and more rock.


Storm wrecked pieces
of ships: disconnected
panels, steering columns
without wheels, one way
ship to shore to nowhere,
radio transceivers.


Sand crusted, weed
infested, knots of blue
rope nets dragging
the beach for nothing.


A lull in the night
where nothing seems
to be moving; the sound
of the waves.







Waking Dream at Low Tide

with Truck Parts

By Alan Catlin



Cam shaft and engine
block decades gone to


ruin amid black rocks,
several yards from shore.


Dried sea weeds clinging
to stones smeared with


surreal, bright green moss
and mollusk shells;


receding waves conspire
to touch the shore.








High Velocity Sea Breeze with

Unmoving Offshore Windmills


By Alan Catlin




The luminous tips of
white capped waves


geyser spraying where
they meet rock.


The distant shimmer
of encircling dusk


and strange stillness
of windmills, gust


defiant, almost proud.









From Mohegan Bluffs

By Alan Catlin



Unknown dreamtime objects
glimpsed on ocean horizon,


moving landward with
the tides and tail winds:


by soon-to-be extinct
native Americans:


one, two, three, a company
of tall masted ships.


The explorers are
coming with guns.

A Permanent Vacation
 
By Lucinda Berry Hill
​

A permanent vacation,
In Heaven it will be.
Nothing but relaxing,
Resting by the sea.

Standing on a mountain top
Looking far and wide,
Gazing at the sunset,
Watching eagles fly.

Nothing but gentleness,
Smiles galore.
Sitting at the feet 
Of the one we adore.

Walking through a garden
Led by butterflies,
Looking at the trees
Reaching to the skies.

Won't it just be glorious?
It's what I'm waiting for.
A permanent vacation
Being with the Lord.


Lucinda Berry Hill Author of "Coffee with Jesus" AND "A Second Cup with Jesus" ©
 https://www.facebook.com/#!/pages/Coffee-with-Jesus/355060321207311

http://lucindaspoetry.webs.com/index.htm
 
Ask me about fundraising ideas!

"Caribbean Beach" - Photo by David Thorpe



***



Metamorphosis

By David Thorpe
​
 
There, where sky and ocean embrace in a Rodin kiss,
my sighs of sorrow melted into  the horizon
of water colours painted by quivering sun,
taking its daily bow
 
There, where the indiscreet waters
of crystal clear rivers enraptured your shed tears,
swirling them downstream,
till as glistening shards they sprinkled lava rocks
with a caressing shower
 
There, where summer breezes in golden waves
carried our hopes over sunflower carpets,
nodding in approval their golden bonnets
to bless our nuptial wishes
 
There, where a celestial beam illuminated an earthly lake,
a pool of enticement for our  sensual pleasure,
our naked bodies became a sleeping nympha,
awaiting impatiently its metamorphosis
into sublimity

David Thorpe © 2017

Shakespearian Depth

and the Dust of Ages 


Theatrical Magic Explained 


Poetry by Alan Catlin


***


Self-Portrait with Hamlet's Mother on
the Battlements of Elsinor

By Alan Catlin



Spirits travel here but only certain
receptive souls can see them and interact
without benefit of an intermediary,
a medium whose oracular wisdom touches
the entrails of those who left this life
for the other, troubled and confused.
Oceanic tides are trade winds tunneling
inside the wormholes of a mind made
feverish by strong potions, lecherous
impulses and a grief too awful to bear.
This world is unbalanced, made unruly
by unnatural death: bosky woods no
longer remain rooted to a solitary place,
Hyperion becomes satyr and red wine
no longer act as a balm but is a fiery
draught that kills, one fatal sip is all it takes;
once she swallows, the queen looks
as if she has seen a ghost.







Behind the Scenes

By Alan Catlin



He auditioned all the boys
and girls, personal, in his office,
one on one.
Spread the rumor that if his casting
couch had kept a diary it would
have made Casanova blush.
Would have revealed detailed
information The Hite Report,
Kinsey and Masters and Johnson
had missed.
Claimed all the behind the scenes
work had made him old before
his time, and that might have been true,
in a way, if all the communicable
diseases he had caught and the immunity
to the miracle drugs that were required
to cure them, counted as adding rings
to the tree.
Said he had an eye for talent and
a gift for nurturing it, with a straight
face , when everyone knew it was more
of a, “you do something for me and I’ll
do something for you,” kind of arrangement.
Liked to proclaim that his work was
essentially thankless, foreswearing
personal gain and glory, while compiling
the kind of portfolio that made Wall
Street players envious.
“It was all about the Art, the theater
and the people that made it happen,”
was his standard interview line which
meant, “As long as it benefits me in
the long run.”
Might even have convinced himself that
all the lies he told were the truth,
which it may have been , in a way,
the way good propaganda has an element
of reality, the way self congratulation may
be seen as modesty, to the recipient, but
seen as a mockery of the truth by everyone else.








Secrets of a Queen for a Day

By Alan Catlin



“How long were you in medical school
before they found out you weren’t a corpse?”
W.S. Burroughs


She looks like some kind of
American beauty, Hollywood
Babylon party ‘til you die
survivor, face buried under so
much grease paint, mascara,
and ruby red lipstick, she could
have been Queen for a Day on
the Titanic with a leaky lifeboat
as a prize, reaches for you in
lost, dead hours of the night as if
you were the last man on earth,
keeper of the keys to the Heavenly
Gates and the Liquor Cabinets of
the Gods. Drunkenly whispers
something crude into your near-
deaf ear, suggestions of what you
can do together and where, like
a latter day Marie Antoinette dewigged
on a scaffold, hair a sudden shade of
white, face a hundred years older
than it was the day before, last breathes
of all the men she’d waylaid in
the night exhaled into your face like
a promise of what was to come.









Fairy Tale

By Alan Catlin




The husband was some kind of
traveling salesman joke on the road
so often she was sick of long,
empty nights, solitary pleasures,
“Gone With the Wind” Romance novels
that always ended up the same way and
the lack of resolution wasn’t what she
wanted, needed, desired this far along
in a going nowhere marriage.
She might have loved him once,
might even love him still, in a way,
as in a way of life and as a standard of
living she’d grown accustomed to and
he was willing to provide as a substitute
for what he wasn’t giving her on
a regular basis.
We never got as far as discussing
particulars like whether she thought
he was getting his on the road,
a different piece in every town;
just being there said it all.
Her being there, looking up at me from
the bar stool, sipping Canadian Club,
twisting her wedding ring around her finger,
then sliding it off like it could go away
in a heartbeat, mine or hers. The phone numbers
on a bar napkin that said night or day,
it didn’t matter, no strings, no complications,
no weekends…..
Just like a fairy tale, I thought, all you had
to do was supply your own unhappy ending.






Dancing Freak

By Alan Catlin



Maybe they were teaching
ballroom dancing over at
the psyche center and his
section had let out early or
else he had made his escape
by way of the Frances de Sale’s
shop and scored some tux
and tails O’Malley’s Funeral
Parlor had stopped using for
display purposes. I half expected
most of the suit to be missing
in the back like one of those
hospital gowns he got to wear
around the ward, not exactly
a fashion statement to be sure,
but what he was used to. Or else,
it was his lucky day to score
the whole suit for his ambition,
for his dreaming Fred Astaire
fantasy, though he wasn’t likely
to be scoring any Ginger Rogers
for his partner for those dance
tunes he imagined were waiting
on the jukebox for the right couple
to be stepping out to, not that he
had a buck for playing songs, real
or imagined, or that he could read
anything more complicated than
a Dick and Jane primer despite
claiming to know Dick real well
and Jane too, back in the good old
days before Ginger, “Top Hat” and
the Great War that ended it all.

Photo courtesy of www.celebtoast.com


***


Rehearsal


By Jessica Goody



Threading along the dark recesses of the theatre, 
through the rabbit-warren of wings, the black skirt of curtain 
drawn like a sail unfurling, stands a backstage tableaux 
of stacked chairs and scattered props. A scrim of sawdust 


felts the flats; folded ladders lean and slouch against the unfinished sets.
Dark knots burn like sightless eyes in the wood, unpainted and splintering.
People skulk and scurry backstage, as darkly-clad as cat burglars;
specters presiding over a rummage-sale hodgepodge of objects, 


assembling and rearranging worlds with every scene.
Actors stand poised in the wings, 
straining for cues and dabbing sweaty brows. 
They grin with fierce hilarity, struggling to remain silent backstage


with all the desperate necessity of Anne Frank in the attic.
Pinpoints of light stipple the air like burning cigarettes:
flashlights outline faces rendered blank by darkness.
Shadow-puppet games are played in the wings 


as scripts are hastily referenced. We meet between the pages, 
struggling to engender these microcosmic lives,
tasting the flavors of the words on our tongues,
savoring the precision of a perfect phrase.






Spirituality


By Jessica Goody



We met there,
in the room that was part atelier, part monastery.
I knew you for a kindred spirit then.
The air was serene, enfolding.
Worn woods mellowly shone,
and small objects caught the eye with color,


like a robin redbreast passing from tree to tree,
a vivid spot of scarlet against the snow.
Wind chimes dangle from the ceiling,
making twinkling sounds like birdcalls.
Crystals hang, catching sunlight,
clearing negative energy that spreads like smoke.


A large bleached Buddha crouches on the altar.
His carved face looks like he wants to cry.
True spirituality lies in creativity.
Religion, by contrast, is pure theatricality.
Hellfire televangelists condemning civilization 
are nearly Shakespearean in their fervor,


except that they have chosen the pulpit instead of the stage.
The superstitions of the theatre are no stranger,
no less powerful, than the rites of a priest.
With scripts instead of spellbooks,
we worship at the altar of the proscenium.
The thick red gourd lamps light our faces


as we wait for the ritual to begin.
We intone our lines like shamans casting cantrips, 
listening to the colors of our voices with every breath.
We fill the hollow shells of our bodies 
with other personas, multiple personalities,
in a subconscious altered state.






Potatoes


By Jessica Goody



Potatoes tumble from burlap sacks,
heaped like speckled stones, laying 
damp and cool in my hand, their heft 
weighed in the paleness of my palm. 

Ancient skin is scratched and scarred,
punctuated with moles and liver spots. 
The peeler scrapes away the epidermis 
of coarse brown paper, revealing gold, 

like ore damply shaken from a miner’s pan. 
The glint of wielded steel, deftly separating 
the toadlike complexion from the prize within. 
The brown rind peels away like curling ribbon,
 
exposing yellow flesh punctured by thumbprints.
The wet-grass scent of freshly-shaven potatoes
bobbing in a bowl like a children’s game, watery
submersibles left to float, like seals in a rookery.

The piled parings resemble rhinoceros hides:
The satisfaction of mounding vegetable peels 
heaped like pine straw, the pile of potato skin
strewn like gift wrap on Christmas morning. 

The methodical scrape of the peeler as it shreds 
the brown tree-bark roughness like scaling fish.
Metaphors abound, similes curling into the air 
above as the potatoes slowly fill the empty bowl.


​
***


Jessica Goody was born and raised on Long Island. She currently lives in South Carolina, where writes for SunSations Magazine. Jessica's work has appeared in over three dozen publications and anthologies, including Reader’s Digest, Chicken Soup for the Soul, and The Maine Review. She received second place in the 2015 Reader’s Digest Poetry Competition. Her poetry collection Defense Mechanisms was released by Phosphene Publishing and is available on Amazon.

Holy Cows

By Lucinda Berry Hill


Driving down a country road,
Listening to the radio,
Something blocked the road ahead.
It was big and black and so widespread.
A herd of cows is what I saw
And they weren't moving; standing tall.

So I went another way.
On that road a woman stood
Outside her car with lifted hood.
She had 2 children by her side
And I heard a baby cry.

I slowed right down then parked my car.
I knew she wasn't getting far.
I offered her a needed lift.
She graciously did not resist.

I drove the woman to her home.
I couldn't  leave them on the road.

Now if those cows weren't there that day
I'd not have gone a different way.
I'd not have seen the stranded group;
The woman and her children too.
God saw a need He had to meet.
He led those cows to the street.

Don't ever doubt God sees your needs.
He often works behind the scenes.



Lucinda Berry Hill Author of "Coffee with Jesus" AND "A Second Cup with Jesus" ©







Behind the Scenes

By Lucinda Berry Hill



God put it on a woman's heart
To pray for her dear niece.
A few days later she had learned
Those prayers, they were a need.

A woman spent her last five dollars
On another who was ill.
The very next day her mail had come
With a lowered monthly bill.    

A smoke alarm had just been fixed;
New batteries installed.
And just in time to save the lives
Of a family and their dog.  

A couple road to the hospital.
The wife feared she'd be alone.
But God already knew her fears
And answered from His throne.

The Lord, in His timely manner
Speaks words right to my spirit.
I write it and share it just in time
For someone who needs to hear it.

Things will happen for a reason.
It's not always as it seems.
It's not an accident, it's not called fate.
It's God's working behind the scenes.


Lucinda Berry Hill Author of Coffee with Jesus and A Second Cup with Jesus.©





 https://www.facebook.com/#!/pages/Coffee-with-Jesus/355060321207311

http://lucindaspoetry.webs.com/index.htm

​
​The Moroccan Man


By Karen King






The Moroccan man glides across the desert,


His sandals sinking into the sand, spilling onto his scorching toes.


He follows the line of curving candles towards the camp fire.






The Moroccan man sits down and the sand embraces him.


Like a long-lost friend.


He smiles to himself as his gaze wanders wondrously


Towards the magnificent mountains.


They glow grandly, pink and orange, illuminating his imagination.


Ponderous, puffy clouds circle the sky, teasingly,


Occasionally peeping from behind the mountain.






The Moroccan man dreams of finding someone special to share


This surreal scene.


He sits, suspended in time, sipping his tea.


He notices a line of camels and men in the distance,


The sky silhouetting them.


This mysterious, magical vision is exquisite and exotic.


As he watches, they fade into the distance,


Their appearance now like tiny particles of sand.


Destination unknown.






The Moroccan man wonders where his life is going,


What is the next path that he will take?


He has his plans, but life is an amazing adventure.


Sometimes when we are not looking,


There is an unexpected event and our lives are changed forever


As one link in the chain leads to another …


As he thinks, the sky darkens, stars shimmer …


The magical moonlight shines sublimely.






The Moroccan man is a nomad


In his imagination.


But he is here just for the night.


The amber light from within his tent tantalisingly flickers,


Casting light onto the nearby sands.


Coldness creeps around him.


Like ghostly fingers in the night.






The Moroccan man enjoys the perfect peace,


His soul serene.


He feels at one with the desert.


There are no boundaries.


Is he the desert or is the desert him?


He is happy in his desert of dreams.








The Moroccan man can sense another presence,


A soft, sensuous feeling surrounds him.


Fantastically feminine and all encompassing.


He can see a white dress billowing around him,


But her back is turned and no face is revealed.


He turns to his tent, wondering who this creature is


And when will she show herself in his life?






Karen King Copyright June 2015







***





The Mechanisms of my Mind

By Karen King






Come, enjoy!


The mechanisms of my mind.


Each cog turns in unison,


Working together,


Yet each as one,


Their fluid motion


Like a well-oiled machine.






Each bit of stainless steel glints


As it gravitates towards


The next bit.


It is whirring, it is stirring,


As one thought


Leads to another


And all is kept in my mind,


However fleetingly.






Some thoughts may just be passing,


Like an object passing my peripheral vision.


Others may stop and stare at me,


Standing in front of me and glaring,


Until they get my upmost attention.






Some thoughts are superfluous,


Fear-driven or mundane,


Others deep and have many layers,


Like an onion,


Where I keep peeling back


To get to the heart of the thought,


Like a doctor performing an operation,


Who delves deep into the core of the person


To alleviate the pain of the past


And to obtain a better future.






Sometimes, I overthink


And the cogs scream in anger,


Coming to a full stop,


Screeching in frustration


As the thoughts go around in circles,


Echoing the shapes of the cogs inside.


I must remember to be mindful,


For what if the cogs should malfunction?


They may become rusty and sluggish,


But I won’t think about that,


For my mechanisms of my mind


May seize forever!






Karen King Copyright December 2016





***




The House of Headaches

By Karen King






My Son complained of headaches,


We both felt lethargic and depressed.


We felt like we were being attacked


As the life forces were sucked out of us.


We wondered if we needed to see the doctor,


Yet each time we left the house


And cycled or walked,


We shook off the feeling.


I started to wonder.


I started to feel afraid.


Could there be a psychic vampire in visitation?


This negative entity could have been drawn


To the nervous energy of my Son.


I tried to be logical and not frighten Vincent,


Yet he sensed this otherworldly reality.


“I think a ghost is here, attacking me”, he said.


“I wondered the same thing”, I exclaimed.


I burnt incense and blew it into all the corners,


All around the house.


I rang a bell everywhere while praying


To God, Jesus, the Archangels, our spirit guides.


I proclaimed the Universal Law,


“In the name of God, negative entity, be gone”,


For it is the law in the unseen world


That they should go when this is said three times.


We felt a settling sigh in the house


And we could breathe freely once again…






Yet, that night, I was woken up,


Thinking there was a storm.


I looked out of the window


And saw nothing.


The ground was completely dry!


I listened more carefully


And was drawn to the DVD player.


The green light was boldly burning


And hissing at me, like a snake.


I looked around, uneasy,


But felt and saw nothing.


I turned it off and went back to bed.






The next morning, I was awoken


By my Son’s watch alarm.


He didn’t wake.


Eventually, it stopped,


Leaving sparks of energy…


Upon waking he checked.


The alarm had not been set!


Yet, suddenly, everything felt calm.


The spirit had had the last word.






We felt like we had been


Sailors sailing in a storm,


Tossing this way and that.


The storm had passed,


The energies were clear


And our house was our friend again.






Karen King Copyright December 2016

Photo courtesy of Jérome Coppo ©



BEHIND DRAWN CHIFFON CURTAINS
​

By David Thorpe

 
Behind drawn chiffon curtains
secrets of lascivious dreams are concealed,
where erotic smiles creep from under scorched sheets,
and peaceful corners of a festive table 
point to dust filled crevices, overlooked in the confusion,
heaped with indignant expectations,
languid from awaiting postponed decisions
 
Behind drawn chiffon curtains
a filtered dawn is enticed

to imbue the dozing darkness,
a first blush of morn of an outside world
of disjointed shapes,
a petrified mosaic of jigsaw skies decorate facades,

duplicated into blurred distances
 
From behind drawn chiffon curtains,

ghostlike images of somnambulists
in Indian file are seen to walk,
whilst stoic scribes search for egoistic solutions
to quench the thirst of an avarice society
 
David Thorpe  ®© 2016

BEYOND THE DOOR

by

Teresa Ann Frazee
 
 
 
Our hearts are broken
   Few pieces get fixed
We move on with
  Our emotions mixed
 
Bitter words are spoken
   Our pride is abused
A dull ache remains
   Where an ego was bruised
 
Promises die bleeding
   Through splintery cracks
Vows are long forgotten
   And have since turned their backs
 
 By whatever means
   I would pay the cost
To be relieved
   Of this paradise lost
 
The fool keeps on talking
   Louder until heard
Just once I’d like
   To get in the last word
 
The dice are tossed
   Somewhere they land
All that is certain
   Is a life unplanned
 
For heaven’s will
   I hope and trust
Is in control
   Of what shall become of us
 
With which foot first
   Either way I fail
I’ve chosen my crossroad
  Through fire or hail
 
Before the weekends
   All night binge
Please fix the squeak
   On the screen door hinge
 
The ceiling leaks
   And the fridge needs repair
It would be nice
   If you looked like you care
 
Yesterday’s lay off stings
   Like a whip’s lash
My checks in the mail
   But I haven’t any cash
 
I love to dream
   It’s life without a consequence
A surprising turn of events
   Always out of sequence
 
In dreams I don’t fear mail
   Cause I can pay the bills
I’d have scented candles
   On marble window sills
 
I’d taste Russian caviar
   Holding polished silver spoons
Have French tipped nails
   With perfectly shaped moons
  
The Christmas lights
   Aren’t up all year long
My 2.5 children play in the yard
   And they all get along
 
Into fields of color
   Where spirits rise
I’d turn to find
   No one left to criticize
 
I’d make a sanctuary
   From a room on the side
Where ideas flourish
   And are not left to hide
 
Where porcelain dolls
   Sit on crystal swings
And canaries fly
   Without clipped wings
 
With blue glass dolphins
  In resin pools
And wild eyed cats
   Purr on wicker stools
 
I’d have first edition classics
   Like Catcher in the Rye
And a Kerouac novel
  On a shelf near by
 
With a view of sandcastles
   That sculpt the shore
Of miles of beach
  I’ve yet to explore
 
Dreams give me hope
   Through watery eyes
I listen for clues
   And sort out the lies
 
I’m jealous of the spider
   Up on the wall
She lives in a cobweb
   Filling a corner of the hall
 
She’s able to come and go
   As she dam well pleases
With her God given freedom
   She taunts and teases
 
I watch her
   In her element
Her sense of purpose
   Makes a soul content
 
It’s plain to see
   There’s a thing or two
I can learn
  From my tiny nomadic guru
 
Meanwhile I’ll sweep the porch
    Dishes need to be done
I’ll sort the ironing
   The clothes could use some
 
I’ll feed the howling dog
   And water the plant
Maybe later my situation
   Will have a new slant
 
One of these days
   I’ll head for the door
Who’s kidding who
   I’ve said it all before
 
He’ll be back soon
   Itching for round two
I’ll be ready this time
   I’ll know what to do
 
Me and the wise spider
   Prepare to leave
Out the door is home
   Beyond this house of make believe
 
The spider will teach me
   Lessons I should know
 Like be true to your self
   Naturally she’ll have to go
 
 It’ll be up to me
   Not to let doubt through
To break down the barriers
   I’ll need a wrecking crew
 
I’ll do my best
   And take my time
Either I won’t make it
   Or I’ll be just fine
 
 
 
 
  
 
 
Timekeepers
 
by

Teresa Ann Frazee

 
Timekeepers monitor every single moment
Their consistent symmetry, bound to nothingness
With precision they weave threads of infinity
Wound from a master spool, vast and measureless
 
Challenged by their aerial habitation
They exist just outside the realm of mortal view
Like windswept apparitions struggling to survive
Unyielding to earths pull within phantasmal blue
 
Firm on their mark they don't waste, borrow or kill time
Nor leave anything to chance or a toss of the dice
And so, for the sum of our debt for all our days
For time, their gift of life, we pay the standard price
 

Under Investigation

by

John Frazee

 
Cursed poisoned and condemned then poked probed and violated
Histories questioned while deeply hidden secrets are exposed
This kind of scrutiny reeks havoc on the nervous system
The distant past comes to haunt you, indiscretions are revealed
 
The quandary arises what to leave in what to leave out
When under duress it is hard fabricating alibis
Convincing the authorities of your innocents
The piercing arrows rip through you from disbelieving eyes
 
Could this just be a case of mistaken identity?
Has someone I trusted provided false information?
Could you survive interrogation of this magnitude?
Once you  realized you are under investigation
 

 
 
 
 
 
Indigenous Vista

by

John Frazee
 
Staying put has never been the motto of the courageous
     You’d think they would find solace by remaining where they reside
Yet mankind has a restless soul and must conquer what he sees
     But the mountain path is littered with markers of where men died
 
Concentrate on the near and ignore what’s off in the distance
     Their known world was easy to absorb, it sat there in plain view
Beasts lurked around each bend, it was fear that insured survival
     As to what lied beyond their borders, they did not have a clue
 
Impassable boundaries established by those who came before
     A unique discovery over each and every hill
What lies beyond the ravine causes the heart and the soul to race   
    A new and dangerous adventure in which to test ones will
 
Try putting yourself in their place and imagine what they saw
     Early in the dawn of man everything appeared sinister
As he gradually became aware of his surroundings
     He grew to find some comfort in this indigenous vista
 

Warmth


By Alexandra H. Rodrigues




The air around engulfs me like velvety gauze
I imagine your fingertips searching my
Body’s most sensitive spots without pause


I feel the warmth that comes from being
Cared for. Lust of imagination causing
Breathless anticipation I’m soon seeing


Reality and make believe mix a new truth
Promise of an unknown sensation
Chases away any unwanted blues


Like holding hands let our feelings bind
Let our thoughts melt together
Let us be stimulated in vision and mind.

 


Boarding the Orient Express


A Collection of Poems 


By Alan Catlin

​
***


Murder on the Orient Express
 
Maybe he thought adding bulk
to his body meant an increase in
brain power as well. That if he
channeled Peter Ustinov and Albert
Finney, he could solve crimes like
a Murder on the Orient Express.
Failing that, he assumed everyone
was guilty of something and if he
had all the suspects shot then the problem
of where the dead body on the train
came from, who put it there, and why,
would just disappear until the next train
to the East, where the same MO occurred
suggesting a serial killer was still
on board.  Killing everyone would
solve the problem, eventually,
ten million dead enemies of Stalin
can’t be wrong.  It felt like an
advertising slogan for a puppet
state when it was said but it wasn’t.
 


 ***
 
 
Murder Among the Orientals
 
Charlie Chan and one of his,
very Chinese American born,
native sons, would have solved
the mystery  in a trice or three black
and white reels of thirty minutes each,
or whichever came first.
Maybe he thought if he dressed up
like a latter day Confucian, let his
finger nails grow as long as Howard Hughes’,
and spoke in fortune cookie phrases that
suggested something profound but were
really vague and meaningless, he would
become an ace detective, world famous,
much sought after, and able to command
high fees.   
That the actor who played Charlie was named
Howard Toler and didn’t have a drop of
Chinese blood in his lineage all the way
back to before Buddha, only encouraged
his fantasies.
“I mean if he could do it, why not me?”
Forgetting you actually might have to know
what you were doing and that Charlie was
a made up person, like fictional, and that
all things were possible when you were
a creation of someone’s imagination.
 

*** 
 
 
Orient Express Train to Nowhere
 
Archangel had a Romantic appeal to it,
in concept, as an essential place to
visit until you realized exactly where  it
was and how you had to get there. 
A thousand or so miles of windswept tundra,
Siberian snow drifts, and subzero weather
put you more in mind of the tour of
penal colonies that Chekov undertook
in his professional capacity as a doctor
than tourist destination.
Chekhov’s memoir of that time makes
instructive  reading  along the lines of  
Solzhenitsyn and the Gulag  Archipelago
than a story of the last days and nights
of the tsars.
No clean well lighted Orient Express rail
cars now, no dining cars, no cattle cars either,
which was the most likely mode of conveyance
for most of the unfortunates who made their
last railway journey to the East. 
Like Mandelstam, sick, under-dressed,
exposed to the elements, on a journey that
never ends, reciting his poems to the wind.
The ones  no one will hear but that will last
long after the man who said them is no more.
 
 
 *** 
 
 
The European Tour
 
“She was the type of woman who would
have brought tears to the eyes of John Ruskin”
                                    Maurice Dekobra
 
Her idea for a gap year was
to save all the tips she made
working as a cocktail waitress in
an upscale pub and from some soft
core hooking on the side. Soft core
hooking, to her, meant causal tricking
                                        without a  pimp, casual hints dropped,
beverage napkin dates, cell phone
numbers exchanged. “I like the older
guys.  They have more money,
are more than likely married,
and don’t ask  questions and, man,
they expect the same. I don’t do
perverted. Not for money anyway.”
Was planning on doing the European
tour, on her back, first hand, in depth
research for a Baedeker’s Guide
to Getting Laid, she was going to
call, “Do it on the Rails: Getting
the Most from Your Euro Pass
and Have Fun Doing It”. Something
like that, anyway. If that didn’t work
out, her back up plan was a Sociological
study on the sexual habits of the horny
European Male: “You Don’t Need
a Translator to Have Good Sex”.
Sociology wasn’t her major, and she
couldn’t write worth shit, but that
was something she’d worry about after
the research was finished, and recorded
in a diary she’d lose somewhere between
Buda and Pest. Thought protection during
intercourse was “for wimps “like playing
Russian Roulette with an empty gun
when it was more like playing with one
chamber empty,  high stakes stud poker
with someone else’s money, drawing a card
for an inside straight.


***

 
The Discontinued Line
 
He was the kind of guy you’d
buy a ticket for on an Orient Express
train with instructions to lay over
in a town that did not exist
since you knew he would say
to a ticket agent or  conductor,
“So they discontinued the Express
Train, give me a ticket on the local.”
And he would score a place, travel
for like, forever, and be a thousand
miles from anywhere and get off,
on a whim, some place no one
ever came back from.  The biggest
fear was, despite enormous odds
against, somehow he’d fit right in
wherever he was, have a blast,
and get some kindly, but deluded
stranger, to give him precise,
and accurate, instructions on how
to get back where he started from.
That’s where the insurance comes in”
slow acting poison absorbed through
the skin applied to a pair of matching
gifts like socks. Maybe several pairs.
And some kind of time activated explosive
set to go off, automatically, three days hence.
There might be collateral damage
but the feeling was: for the cause of
the greater good, sometimes unfortunate
sacrifices had to be made.
 

The Orient Express

By Patrick Bryant Michael


​

I have read of exploits aboard The Orient Express
clickty-clack
railroad
tracks make sounds, whistles blowing loudly, the ears to impress
criminals
riding
aboard trains, escaping detection, gold bars to possess
passengers
vacationing
to far away destinations, possessing the largesse
travels
adventures
come with a price, every journey has a tale to process
romance
touches
the soul, the heart and mind want adventures to dispossess
chugging
uphill
on steep, mountainous grades, sounding like a transverse process
children
running
up and down the train aisles, parents feeling like an abscess
rock-slides
slowing
to a crawl, waiting for rail maintenance to clear the track
increasing
speeding
around curves, the scenic countryside goes clickity clack
climbing
mountain
slopes slowly as up they go, whistles blowing at the wild yak
racing
downwards
towards the valley below, herds calling the train to come back
mountains
foggy
days hide the beauty along the track, criminals attack
meadows
blooming
in the countryside look serene, it gives the heart feedback
cruising
going
to London, Paris, Vienna, Istanbul, with no slack
riding
sharing
treats and stories, carrying your needs in an old backpack
visiting
relatives
along the way, hopping the train to sense hope in life's flow
planning
journeys
on The Orient Express, luxury meals make folks “whole”
sleeping
arrangements
by class requires payment upfront, luxury is Bordeaux
magical
moments
occur when you least expect it, like twilight has a glow
dreaming
hearing
the wheels go clickity clack, the subconscious is love's foe
champagne
glasses
emptied for celebrations, romance in the wild winds blow
murder
mysteries
beginning in the darkest pitch black, hearing the black crow
castles
riverboats
passing by on the train, whistles blowing, clacking to sow
London's
ferry
took trains o'er the English Channel to France, to reunite
rocking
rolling
to and fro as the train careens, colliding with the night
traversing
alternating
east, west, The Orient Express travels for your delight
luxury
comforts
of the wealthy, penny pinching is held ever so tight
families
touring
European countrysides, watching for a scenic sight
wilderness
animals
so wild they bring the mind to places of subconscious fright
stopping
taking
on food and water, here and there, feasting is a highlight
talking
telling
stories to entertain the riders, choosing the limelight.


(c) December 30, 2016 by PBM

Love on the Orient Express

By Karen King


Coal is loaded, the furnace burns.
The fire is stoked.
There is a hiss, a pop,
A tiny explosion as sparks fly.
The fire begins to burn,
But the heat soon dwindles.
More coal, more heat, more steam.
Soon steam whizzes around the carriage.
The visible becomes the invisible.
Darkness descends, like dark clouds,
Obscuring your vision. All becomes one.
Through the window, a shaft of sunlight beckons,
Welcoming you on your journey ahead.
Final goodbyes waved, the doors shut.
The guard’s whistle blows.
Bags are hurriedly stowed away.
People settle in their seats.
The taste of acrid smoke in your mouth.
The smell taints your hair, your clothes.
Wine glasses glint, awaiting to be filled.
Perfectly polished cutlery shines
And waiters start bustling
As champagne is offered.
People smile and start relaxing
At the first taste of champagne.
They talk and laugh
As the train shows them delights
Only they are privileged enough to see.
Suddenly, there is a shift in the atmosphere,
A surreal feeling surrounds you.
Sensing a presence, you search through the mists.
His presence is clear and real.
Dark coat. Tall and slim he stands,
Watching from afar.
His delighted face penetrates your soul.
He shimmers, like twinkling stars in the night.
You think of many missed sunsets.
The sky has recently turned blood red,
Echoing the pain in your heart.
You cannot believe your eyes.
This is like a new sunrise of
Oranges and yellows.
Full of life, love and hope.
Tentatively, you reach out
Through the remaining smoke.
Only a shaft of sunlight now remains.
On and on you reach.
You are scared.
Is this a figment of your imagination?
Perhaps he is visiting you,
A ghost from another world?
You try to be positive, full of hope and love
As tears trickle down your face.
A touch! Your fingers are clasped.
You feel like you have been drowning
And now you are being rescued.
Your knees sag. You are light headed. Everything darkens …
Weight presses against you, supporting you.
Strong arms enfold you. Hot breath on your neck.
He is here. It is true.
You gaze into this eyes,
Searching his soul once more.
You feel your soul leave your body as you
Travel together on your magic carpet,
Across sand dunes and the sea once more.
To another place. Another time.
To a land long forgotten.
Nothing else matters.
All else fades away.
You are lost in your world of love.
Long awaited embers ignite.
The air crackles as you make your own heat.
The fire burns as you both
Travel towards your joint destination,
Full of hope and love.
The train trundles on
As the passengers sip champagne
And taste delightful hors d’oeuvres.
They enjoy the journey
And their high-up stations in life.
They are unaware that two passengers
Are missing the delicacies
And views outside the carriages,
For the long-lost-lovers
Have their own sight-seeing
And journeys to embark on.

Karen King Copyright 17 December 2016

Diamond or You

By Alexandra H. Rodrigues

I wish you knew
More than a multi-carat diamond I want you.
Obviously, that is not very smart
I feel it does put stress on my heart.
A diamond will never talk back to me
At my side, on my body, it will always be.
A diamond will never lose sparkle or shine
I can always be proud to call it mine.
A diamond will never bring me grief
It will never on its own take leave.
Yet – no matter what the diamond cost
It cannot replace what I desire most.
I need your warmth, your caring, your love.
Therefore the decision is not at all tough.
It would be my pleasure, and I want you to know
With you rather than with any diamond I go.


***


What Now My Love


By Alexandra H. Rodrigues

​
They were married but not to each other
He was a father. She was a mother.
Neither was in a marriage out of love
Both had succumbed to times hard and tough.
Their vows they had given in rushed but sound mind
Convenience had made them with the partners’ bind
Then out of the blue, there did come the day
When face to face the great true love came their way.
Strangers for minutes, they quickly fell for each other
Could not resist that want and lust pushed them further
Opportunity assisted and afforded them the deed
Their hearts, their lips and bodies like two flames did meet.
Aware that they had committed a sin
With permanent adieu they hoped absolution to win
At a last walk together in pouring rain
Forever they severed their true love’s chain.
Deep in their souls the knowledge of lust did remain
Both devastated that they would have to abstain
Only on the recall of their memory they could thrive
Neither would forget the other till the end of their life.


***


A Friend


By Alexandra H. Rodrigues
​

Can a friend be someone you have never in person seen?
Or someone with whom once intimate you have been?
Is it better to have many friends or just a few?
The answer to all those questions is up to you!
Friendship is foremost governed by trust
To share with absolute truth is a must.
To be friends requires a steady give and take
Regardless who maybe a sacrifice must make.
Friends do not need eye to eye always see
They do not need on all issues to agree.
They should make the effort to understand
On occasions, be willing their opinion to bend.
Friends will reach out a helping hand
In assistance that is truly sincerely meant.
Each and every one of us is unique
From a friend comes advice and not critique.
To have fun together, play and laugh
Is as important as all the above.
A friend will become an extended you
Never intentionally harm to you do.
It is impossible to call a person one does resent
Under any circumstances, a true friend.
One fact is undoubtedly for sure
The roots of friendship are always pure.

 

Photo by Karen KIng






Happy Holidays!


By Karen King




Trailing tinsel,


Glinting gold coins,


The beauty of the Spruce.




Crumpled paper,


Presents scattered,


Cries of joy.




Chestnuts bubbling,


Tempting turkey wafting,


An aromatic delight.






The feeling of warmth,


The feeling of love.


Happy Holidays!





Karen King Copyright 3 December 2016






​


Winter’s Dream

By Karen King


​



I woke up; I know not why.


There was a breeze around my ears and a definite chill in the air.


The air smelt fresh, almost as if it had snowed.


I shivered and snuggled further down into my duvet,


trying to get back to sleep.


But sleep would not come.


All was silent, except a distant hooting.






A draft from the window blew my curtains away from each other,


revealing my balcony and, beyond, an intriguing scene.


With dark green shapes of trees, remaining Autumn bracken


and some trees tipped with snow. It all looked very atmospheric.


And slightly threatening!


I wondered what was out there beyond my room.


Would Bigfoot be prowling in the distance awaiting more snow?


Or would sinister creatures be prowling in the night?






Suddenly, I heard a tapping on the glass and I looked towards the window.


I saw a robin on the window ledge, gazing in.


I looked outside and saw my tiny garden with its shrubs,


small cherry tree and pots with herbs.


Where were the large conifers, Autumn bracken and snow-tipped trees?


Gone! I shook my head in wonder. It must have been a dream!


“I must get back to reality”, I thought to myself.


I thanked the robin for rousing me from my dream, for he must have known …


It was Christmas morning and there was lots to be done!




“Delights of Nature – Winter” Karen King Copyright 2015

Painting by David Thorpe



The Spirit of Christmas
 
By David Thorpe

 
Chapped and blistered hands,
his hard day´s work loaded on his cart,
from sunrise this frosty December day he toiled,
felling a tree in a pine wood forest
 
They call him “The spirit of Christmas”,
an act of love and empathy his yuletide gift
for the villages and their children,
the aroma of fresh pine wood an annual treat
 
Merlin, his faithful nag, leads the way back home,
well aware of the joy awaiting their return,
eyes full of wonder, hearts full of emotion,
for the eve of St. Adele is drawing nigh
 
Bearing candles the tree stands with glowing pride,
a congregation illuminated in holy reverence,
singing songs of praise around a  suckling´s crib
their voices announce the Christ Child´s birth

David Thorpe © 2016

X-mas Time


By Alexandra H. Rodrigues

​

At X-mas time from year to year
I wonder will I next time still be here.
In old times my husband used to decorate
With a lot of love and often up quite late.
He also mentioned the then pending next year
Saying “I will get more lights, if I am still here.”
It is sad that by now he already is long gone.
Much changed from how then celebration was done.
We had angels big and small with bells of all size.
Some never used – on their wings still the price.
Keepsakes survived from grandma’s and mother’s home!
Now, my grandson with glee in those treasures does roam.
My enthusiasm to lavishly decorate my home is gone.
Now to the younger generation, this is meant to be done.
Getting older, one gets more involved to figure out
What the true reason for the season is all about.
Ongoing the tradition will be
I will hang the rest on my young family’s’ tree
Some of the items -- stars and lights -- I sort out.
I will donate this year to a needy crowd.
The ones that move me really deep
I will display near the hearth and for myself do keep.
Yes, X-mas seems to come faster and faster each year
Let’s enjoy it and cherish what to us is dear.






Without You I am Lost

By Alexandra H. Rodrigues


Winter is on its way
In the snow little kids will play
Thermostats will be set on high to run.
Holidays promise to be great fun.
Order in the world is for what we pray.
Under God’s rules we aim to stay.
Together let’s unite here or far away.
Year after year a star adorns the tree top,
Our fire-place burns to let the kernels pop.
Upholding the good old tradition
I make with pleasure always my mission.
Around the house and in the yard
Music of bells and flutes become a part.
Love and caring for one another
Outs all fear that lately does bother.
Sadness is not part of the deal.
To believe and pray is a way to heal.
----
Read the first letters of each line
Let season and fun begin!

Happy Holidays to All.
 

​



Feasts of the Season

By Alexandra H. Rodrigues


The Holidays will be celebrated.
In many a different style and way.
For what we were given thanks we say.
X-mas or Hanukkah the heart does warm.
What matters to you, let that be your norm.
Cheer and sanction that what is dear to you
Adorn with joy what you see as true.
Let as the purpose for this season
Your own belief show you the reason.
Have a Happy!
Be Happy!
Let’s make each other Happy.

 
Manifest Destiny
 
By Lee Purcell, “The Concious Poet”
 
Manifestation is a very easy skill
When I remember the essence of my true self
I am an energetic magnetic copacetic being
With a Theoretic way of seeing this hologram that we call 3D 
The truth is we are multidimensional 
Interstellar unconventional galactic explosions
Perfectly created within one motion of stars colliding and and providing a gateway 
Like a freightway of information
downloaded faster than light 
A sight gained through millennials
Of interpretation by those patient enough to just watch the stars for decades
And connect the patterns of the dots in the sky
Nowadays we just walk by and forget to even look up
Waiting an extra hour at the airport gets one all shook up
It's important to make it to the bar this weekend so I can hook up
We've took up enough space to chase a waste of energy
I used to define this world by what I seen on tv
Now I find a pearl within the harmony
Of meditation
Preservation of silence
Sending love
Starvation of violence
Let the division die off
Like so many animals extinct 
On this planet
The answers we look for in gurus
Politicians and external saviors
We have it
The answer to all the problems in the world Behring with each of us right now
Look at your neighbor and bow to another
We all come from a sacred mother
We are all Manifestation of abundance
Patiently seeking oneness
I've seen hardcore pain and lost souls
Looking for a way to find something hole
So many empty cups
While other are full
Let's share the wealth
Half full is still full
such a deep kept secret that words can only try to explain
Yet as many words that can fill a dictionary 
Most of us respond to pictionary
It might seem scary
But action speaks louder than words
Be the change you want to see
So we all can be free from self imposed suffering
We are all reflecting something 
Give the world what it deserves 
Give them your authentic beauty
And take on your spiritual duty
I believe in you
Show me what I can do
By climbing ladders that do yet exist
My wish is that we all ascend together
We are all learning how to be the best versions of ourselves through ourselves 
And through the heart and souls of the billions of expressions of a similar kind of individual love
Choose love
And rise above fear 
Embrace the light
Love the darkness
Be a mirror
So the rest of us can see ourselves
Oh so clear

Photo by Karen King




A Christmas Calling

By Lucinda Berry Hill


The angels were the first to know
Of God's most gracious plan;
That one day soon a babe would come,
A savior for all man.

They gave God's message to a girl
And also to  her beau.

Then on the night that Christ was born
The angels, they went low.

They saw the shepherds in the fields
Watching flocks by night.
They told them of the glorious news
And gave to them a sign.

Other  angels came around
Singing their Amens;
Glory to God in the highest,
And on earth, peace  toward men.

Glory to God, Glory to God,
Glory to God Almighty.
Glory to God, Glory to God,
Please hear us as we sing.

Glory to God, Glory to God,
Glory to God in the highest.
Glory to God, Glory to God,
Glory to God our King.


Lucinda Berry Hill Author of "Coffee with Jesus" AND "A Second Cup with Jesus" ©







A Blue Christmas Prayer

By Lucinda Berry Hill


God, we know what Christmas is,
The celebration of your Son.
And we are truly grateful 
For without Him, joy is none.

But we have built fond memories
And formed family traditions,
So now, sometimes, we will find
We're sad during this season.

We're grateful
Celebrations aren't the same.

Sometimes our loved ones move.
Sometimes they pass away.
That leaves us sad and wanting,
With a sad unwanted change.

We may not get what we want

We have hope because of Christ.



Lucinda Berry Hill Author of Coffee with Jesus and A Second Cup with Jesus.©

 https://www.facebook.com/#!/pages/Coffee-with-Jesus/355060321207311

http://lucindaspoetry.webs.com/index.htm
 
Ask me about fundraising ideas!

The Yuletide Collection 


By Patrick Bryant Michael







Whiteout
 
Morning skies fully shrouded the landscape gray-white
filling my eyes with whiteout to my minds delight
tall fir trees snowbound and dressed for hearts to excite
ground swelling with snow pillows varying in height
rooftops and eaves weighed down make quite a sight
roads and paths closed for children to take flight
folks getting stuck, while slipping, sliding about in fright
laughing and yelling with spirit and a bit of fight
Christmas is coming with whiteout for minds to incite
I think I will sit fireside and watch dear hearts ignite!
 
(c) January 4, 2009 by PBM


 
Christmas Hues
 
A tree well lit, balls in colors of all hues
gold satin, silver bells, mistletoe, some blues
white snow like laces, ruddy and green faces
missing someone close in far away places
smells of baking goodies, fireplace lit yule logs
warmth and closeness, whipped eggnog, steamy hot grog
sights of gifts well wrapped beneath the Christmas tree
lazing about with hearts and minds roaming free
windows frosted, table set for yuletide feast
Christmas hues, shining bright, sounds and smells released!
 
(c) December 23, 2009 by PBM
 




Christmas Morn
 
A hoarfrost covers the ground, all in sight
like a cold-hearted witch spreading her blight
the sun shines down without touching her soul
but the spirit of Christmas remains whole
a closeness felt deep within, shared with kin
gifts opened, sweet surprises bring a grin
hugs and love shared, eyes pop out with delight
coffee and sweets, joking, trying things out
having fun, lazing round, wanting to shout
phone calls yet to make, wishes to impart
the warmth of Christmas morn touches the heart!
 
(c) June 5, 2010 by PBM



 
Christmas Lights
 
Christmas time is coming near
a time of warmth and good cheer
a time to renew spirit and hope
a time for giving blessings to cope
trees cut for the holiday season
lights to adorn for yuletide reason
kids running about, eyes glistening
parents watching, closely listening
gifts to be bought, then put in hiding
kids seeking will get a good chiding
all in good fun for a season of joy
boys acting wild, girls pleasing, acting coy
mistletoe hung for kisses to be won
stockings for fireplaces yet to be hung
tinsel and snow flocking on colorful display
gifts placed under the tree just before Christmas Day
a time for waking to cheer and warm blessings
a meal prepared with all the finest dressings
gifts are opened as kids play with their toys
older folks tell tales of all the old ploys
the Christmas dinner will soon be partaken
Christmas lights shine for those who are forsaken.
 
(c) December 20, 2009 by PBM



 
A Poe Christmas
 
Once upon a bleak, snowy Christmas morn
as I slept in, thinking of my Lenore
I awoke, the raven showed me its scorn
I felt sickly, so fell asleep some more.
 
My tree looks poorly, my rose wears a thorn
mistletoe hung, no one to kiss, to score
left alone in my abyss, as I mourn
wanting to die, the raven - nevermore.
 
I want to love my Lenore evermore
in my castle the night makes me feel worn
the raven calls out Lenore nevermore
I miss her so, her dark hair to adorn.
 
A gift of love, under the tree, I swore
time passes slowly for Poe, as forsworn
Christmas is hard for me, my heart to deplore
the raven promises me “nevermore”.
 
(c) December 17, 2015 by PBM



 
The Christmas Tree
 
For some Christmas will not seem to come
hard times and discontent to succumb
the symmetry of the tree runs plumb
even in the woods are never glum
starlight and moonbeams add to their sum
it's where the heart is that warms like rum
nature's beauty holds a Christmas plum
gifts of love overcome feeling numb
sharing warmth, finding but a small crumb
mean more than bangles and bows to some
as well lit trees don't take a green thumb
the light of love may thrive in a slum!
 
(c) December 14, 2009 by PBM
 


The Christmas Stocking
 
Hung securely with care from the fireplace mantel
decorated
crackling
logs burning, popping now and then, sounds like shrapnel
suspended
dangling
from hooks screwed into the wood, topside a candle
kiddies
eyes wide open
wonderment in their sighs, laughter to entangle
men watching
gals baking
pretense in the silence, the giggling is ample
snacking
getting sleepy
the night before Christmas, old stories to sample
stargazing
pretending
you are dozing, waiting for kids to go to sleep
snoring
grumpily
carrying young kids to bed when there is no peep
hurrying
filling
up stockings with fruit, nuts, and small toys, kids to reap
rehanging
sampling
the candy, a small voice cries out, dad hides the keep
rethinking
hiding
the stockings in a closet, where no one will peek
sleeping
getting up
early to rehang the stockings, the love runs deep.
 
(c) December 23, 2015 by PBM



 
Yuletide
 
The Winter Solstice cannot be denied
the shortest day of the year shows no pride
snowbound in the mountains, take a wild ride
light is low, a fireplace crackling, wide eyed.
 
White covering the trees, yule to confide
the days will be getting longer, subside
bobsleds coasting, kids voices amplified
the yule warms the soul, carbon dioxide.
 
Frosty breaths, inhaling love, frost inside
belly laughs, staying wrapped warm, cold belied
Christmas is coming, nothing bona-fide
time runs slowly, lazy ways dignified.
 
The past relished, on reverie relied
exhaling warm air, the worth is decried
a sense of Spring overcomes the backslide
love is aware, and warm is the yuletide.
 
(c) December 21, 2015 by PBM





Happy New Year
 
Out with the old, in with the new
a New Year dawns, so many are blue
times are ah changin', what seems true
lost in struggles, what to renew
happier times gone to the zoo
monkeys squeal, dogs howl, cats go mew
time passes no matter the stew
Happy New Year to all of you!
 
(c) August 20, 2010 by PBM



 
A New Year
 
The new year comes soon, to it we should cheer
though times are hard, hold on to what's dear
for close friends and loved ones shed a tear
raise a wine glass, toast end of this year
leave the past behind, the future is near
though it seems times are growing austere
life is still good, don't cry in your beer
smile at the future, grin for last year
seldom are things bad as what we fear
nothing's as good as what makes the heart sear
brush off the past, toast in the New Year!
 
(c) December 30, 2010 by PBM



 
New Beginnings
 
At crossroads in life, a New Year marks a time for new beginnings
there is no end in sight, only choices for gain of apt winnings
standing upon the precipice of what will come to be
just wondering, waiting for some decision to work free
by some mystical light, as time marches ever more slow
open spaces fill the eyes, the mind ponders what is whole
which way to wander, gazing upon all the world about
resolutions to make? No! new beginnings or sour kraut
for brave souls to come, to take life wildly by the throat
deal with life's challenges, acting like a billy goat
for better or worse, new beginnings must be freed for all
with minds and hearts wide open, Happy New Years, have a ball!
 
(c) December 31, 2009 by PBM



 
New Year Blues
 
The world's landscape has turned a darkened hue
the greedy laugh at those left in a stew
those who bear the brunt must take a hard view
those who've lost so much will be feeling blue
the ninety-nine percent are over due
Occupy Wall Street may be a break through
the Tea Party hates progress, change they rue
the New Year is another to accrue
what we do with it, may leave us blue
hard times will always leaves the mind askew
dumb and dumber sit alone in the loo
the New Year comes, toast it in, go boo hoo
without real change we will all be turned blue
we all need each other, most have no clue
cultures have died as too much wealth did sue
a house of cards will fall like that of Chou
when we work together, we won't feel blue!
 
(c)December 30, 2011 by PBM

​

Manifest Destiny
 
By Lee Purcell, “The Concious Poet”
 
Manifestation is a very easy skill
When I remember the essence of my true self
I am an energetic magnetic copacetic being
With a Theoretic way of seeing this hologram that we call 3D 
The truth is we are multidimensional 
Interstellar unconventional galactic explosions
Perfectly created within one motion of stars colliding and and providing a gateway 
Like a freightway of information
downloaded faster than light 
A sight gained through millennials
Of interpretation by those patient enough to just watch the stars for decades
And connect the patterns of the dots in the sky
Nowadays we just walk by and forget to even look up
Waiting an extra hour at the airport gets one all shook up
It's important to make it to the bar this weekend so I can hook up
We've took up enough space to chase a waste of energy
I used to define this world by what I seen on tv
Now I find a pearl within the harmony
Of meditation
Preservation of silence
Sending love
Starvation of violence
Let the division die off
Like so many animals extinct 
On this planet
The answers we look for in gurus
Politicians and external saviors
We have it
The answer to all the problems in the world Behring with each of us right now
Look at your neighbor and bow to another
We all come from a sacred mother
We are all Manifestation of abundance
Patiently seeking oneness
I've seen hardcore pain and lost souls
Looking for a way to find something hole
So many empty cups
While other are full
Let's share the wealth
Half full is still full
such a deep kept secret that words can only try to explain
Yet as many words that can fill a dictionary 
Most of us respond to pictionary
It might seem scary
But action speaks louder than words
Be the change you want to see
So we all can be free from self imposed suffering
We are all reflecting something 
Give the world what it deserves 
Give them your authentic beauty
And take on your spiritual duty
I believe in you
Show me what I can do
By climbing ladders that do yet exist
My wish is that we all ascend together
We are all learning how to be the best versions of ourselves through ourselves 
And through the heart and souls of the billions of expressions of a similar kind of individual love
Choose love
And rise above fear 
Embrace the light
Love the darkness
Be a mirror
So the rest of us can see ourselves
Oh so clear

JAMES BOND 007

By Daniel de Cullá



Solitaire se paseaba por una sala brillante
Con las cartas del Tarot el corazón se le parte.
Entre dolor y dolor, ella saca una carta.
James Bond 007 la está viendo por el ojo de la llave.
¡Es la carta de los Enamorados que él ha preparado
O es el sino con sede en Harlem¡
-Si a la noche viene Bond, yo le daré de cenar
Y si pide ropa limpia, yo le he de mudar.
Bond se ha marchado, creemos innecesario comentar.
A la noche viene Big, cerebro de banda internacional
A rastras, de los pelos, se ha llevado a Solitaire
Que ella con él no quería marchar.
Le ha maltratado hasta en el último pespunte de su capa
Y, también, le ha dicho que Bond es hijo de criminal
Que se hace pasar por espía de Ian Fleming
Que aparece en los naipes de Fergus Hall
Como El Colgado.
La Ciudad tiene una singular fantasía quimérica
Sus mujeres tienen largos cabellos, ojos negros y retorcidos
Los gatos de la ciudad, listados de ojos penetrantes
Estáticos descansan junto a las chimeneas de las casas.
-Buenos días, tengas Bond, ya tenemos a tu belleza
De ella gozaremos si no te entregas a nuestra banda.
-Traigo una pistola limpia y en tu pecho la he de descargar.
-Levántate de ahí, Solitaire, ven y échame las cartas
Que el Amor levanta a las mujeres la esperanza
Y a un espía no le desvía de su texto.
Le ayudó a levantarse, y también, vinieron a ayudar
El Rey, la Reina, el Caballo y la Sota, alegórico Arcano Mayor.
La ha montado en su automóvil largo y flotante
Han corrido cinco leguas y, en el barajeo de los veintiún naipes
La carta de los Enamorados ha salido.
Bond ha parado el coche para llevar a cabo la lectura de la carta.
-Solitaire, detrás de aquella ermita que ves en lontananza
Tengo intención de amarte y de quererte.
Ya llegaron a la ermita, y allí mismo la besó modesto.
Al entrar en la Ciudad, las campanas repicaban
Sonando como lo ha hecho otras veces: “Vive y deja morir”.
Que el espía, para ser espía, ha de tener tres partidas:
Hacer mucho, hablar poco y no alabarse en la vida.





JAMES BOND 007

By Daniel de Cullá



Solitaire walks in a bright room
Her heart breaks, along with the Tarot cards.


Between pain and pain, she draws a card.
James Bond 007 looks through the keyhole.
It is the letter of The Lovers that he has prepared
Or the fate based in Harlem!


-If Bond comes tonight, I'll treat him to a dinner.
And if he asks for clean clothes, I will change his clothes.


Bond has left, we think it’s unnecessary to comment.
At night, comes big, international band brain,
Taking Solitaire, draging her, of hairs
Because she doesn't want to leave with him.
He mistreated her till the last stitch of his cloak
And, also, he told her that Bond is son of a criminal
Who poses as a spy by Ian Fleming
That appears in the Ferguz Hall’ cards
As The Hanged Man.
The City has a unique chimerical fantasy
Its women have long hair, black and twisted eyes
City’ Cats, penetrating Eye Listings
Static rest next to the chimneys of houses.


-Good morning, Bond, we have your Beauty
We’ll fall in love with her
if you don’t surrender to our gang.
-I have a clean gun, and I have to unload it on your chest.
-Get up from here, Solitaire, come and throw the cards
That Love lifts women to hope
And a spy does not detract from his text.
Helping her get up, and also, coming to help
The King, the Queen, the Horse and the Jack
Allegorical Major Arcane
He has ridden her in his long floating car.
They have run five leagues
And in the shuffle of twentyone cards
The Lovers’ card has left.
Bond has stopped the car to carry out reading the card:
-Solitaire, behind that hermitage that you see in the distance
I’ll fall in Love with You
Intending to love You, loving You too much.
They will arrive at the hermitage and there
He kissed her modestly.
Upon entering the City, bells were ringing
Sounding like other begone times: "Live and let die".
That the spy, in order to be a spy, must have three matches:
Do much, talk little, not praising life.

The Spy Who Loved Me

By Karen King






He appeared on my pages,


A lover of nature and photography.


He sent me flowers in the mornings


And words of love and romance.


I felt myself sinking


As the Mediterranean pulled me in.


I was pulled into his palace,


Which was waiting to be built,


But lack of funds from the “bad people”


Had delayed the work.


His palace overlooked the Mediterranean,


With seven rooms and acres of land.


We planned to meet in London


To see what the future held.


My place or his palace?


Perhaps both?


Tall, dark, good looking,


I couldn’t wait.


One day I looked and the page was blank.


After a few days, he appeared.


He told me the “bad people”


Had “cut the wires”.



He had found somewhere to live


With a generator


And had driven through the snow


To a friend’s house to send me a message.


I was worried, I was relieved.


We spoke for ages,


He said he’d be in contact soon.


With trepidation, I waited


And waited and waited…


Three weeks later, I had a message,


“Hello darling, I am well, I miss you,


I tried to get to you,


But the roads were too dangerous.


I will contact you after the war”.


So, I waited and waited and waited…


I contacted people in Libya.


One guy who worked for the government


Tried to find Amin, but a guy with a gun


Went to his door…


I was told he worked at the bank,


But the bank said he had left years ago.


He had “another job”,


Which they wouldn’t divulge.


I felt he was a spy.


I never heard from him again


And the war continues…






Karen King Copyright 31 October 2016











The Love Detective


By Karen King





He is the love detective,


His ways are very effective.


He needs no map to be selective,


For he knows the course and his objectives.


His taste is very subjective


For he finds her rather attractive.


His words somewhat suggestive


And full of imagery and adjectives.


His powerful poetry is not so restive!


Often his words are reflective,


Yet, always, his ways are never defective,


For he is her one and only love detective!






Karen King Copyright March 2016








He Had a Big Telescope


By Karen King


​



He had a big telescope


And a pair of bins.


He watched her through the window,


She was so beautiful and slim.






He had headlights


With protruding blades,


His second exhaust a projectile,


One of the best inventions made.






He had a boat


With blinding lights,


Only used on enemies


In the depths of the night.






He had a plane


Which threw fireballs in the air.


Should the enemy approach,


He’d give them quite a scare!






He had a pair of glasses,


Which he used to improve his vision.


What was his target, the lady or the enemy?


It was a big decision!



Karen King Copyright 3 December 2016

​

Ignorant
​

By Alexandra H. Rodrigues


The curtain falls
Every day, every hour, every second
More and more are being called
To submit to finally being reckoned.


Death does not hurt
One hears frequently said
The fear that nearly all of us have
Is the unknown that waits to be met.


From all of us
Is withheld the certainty of fact?
Is it good or bad, or just a blank wall?
That wherever we go, we can expect.


I am a control freak
Which makes it so especially hard
To not know if in the future
One will play any kind of a part!






​
Home

By Alexandra H. Rodrigues



He had meant to come home but there it was
No longer a home, only broken stone amass.
On a partial wall, quite neat and clear,
Were printed the words “The beginning is near.”
Last time, when he had stumbled by
When he had not even known what for or why
It was all so very depressing and sad
The house he had built with disaster had met.
When he had left his home that crucial day in the past
He did not even know that it would be a last,
It was the final time the house could be called a home
Then bombs and grenades had left nothing but stone.
Discouraged he bought some heavy string
To do nothing would forever his conscience sting
From that string, cussing and cursing, a ladder he made
Where now was the writing had once been a gate.
He would climb up what appeared a sturdy wall
To find -- the beginning -- he did not believe in at all.
On the other side, he fully expected only garbage to see
“This entire excursion is silly,” to himself thought he.
He climbed up the rather wiggly and unsafe ladder
A sturdy wooden one would surely have been better.
His heart was filled with what now were memories
Of good times spent here long before the debris.
The dreadful war and the fighting was still raging on
People did, like him, mourn many a thing that was gone
When he reached the top, he was not even sure
Why and for what he decided this sight to endure.
What did he try to find? What did he look in the ruins for?
Nothing but stones, stones, stones, no windows, no door!
As he looked listlessly around the devastated yard
Agony and desolation cramped menacing his heart.
Then he noticed the rose bush he had planted years ago
That rose bush had continued despite the destruction to grow
One dark velvety rose over pain and crime was winning
His heart regained strength: There was a new beginning!

November 2, 2016




​


Homeland

By Alexandra H. Rodrigues


To many countries and places I have been
Have cities, people and customs seen.
The one that stands out among all, is Berlin
The city of my birth! It has my highest esteem.

Durch viele Laender bin ich gereist
Viele Staedte und Sitten fuellen meinen Geist.
Die Stadt zu der meine Gedanken meist wehen
Ist Berlin, wo ich das erste Licht der Welt gesehen.

Spies

By Patrick Bryant Michael



When I was young, I wanted to be a wild spook
fighting
evil
forces, banshees screaming, arresting some old duke
holding
learning
whatever I needed, darkness of soul, a fluke
arguing
trying
to make sense of weird facts, getting a harsh rebuke
stealthily
looking
for clues to open doors to crime, killing a duke
laughing
cuddling
with a moll, embarrassing, acting like a kook
tribal
customs
get in the way of spy business, like Marmaduke
gaining
savvy
and skills in the trade, become tools of the mooch
gambling
taking
risks and chances of the spy game, building good flow
snooping
fomenting
trouble on the horizon, weaving to and fro
prying
peeping
into the private files of big whigs for ammo
moving
funding
from white to black accounts, let the harshest winds blow
jamming
hiding
intelligence from the enemy, to tiptoe
bugging
outfoxing
the evil guys with Intel, finding their plateau
eavesdropping
wiretapping
collecting Intel, so as not to let them know
espionage
surveillance
techniques learned to find evidence where you must grow
interrogating
suspicious
characters that are employed by the enemy
sabotaging
construction
of facilities used for bad, to remedy
capturing
heckling
the culprits, talking to them with intensity
abducting
torturing
to break the spirit, ensuring their pleasantry
treating
compassionately
with small gifts, developing greater chemistry
tampering
discrediting
their stories with new dimensions explicitly
persecuting
harassing
them to spoil their best days, spying implicitly
copying
embracing
their spirits with dubious adds, complicity
undressing
leading
them on, embarrassing them when they try to fight
videotaping
plotting
their fate to gain secrets they would hide in their plight
engaging
ensnaring
them in traps made to trip them up, when they feel right
desecrating
besmirching
religious ideals to make them sense the limelight
accusing
corrupting
their minds with facts that will put them in the spotlight
photographing
charging
them with criminal acts, making their hearts ignite
revealing
hidden
facts that will open the doors to a new incite
oppressing
opening
the bad guys eyes to their evils, in their affright.


(c) December 3, 2016 by PBM



Mastering Life

By Patrick Bryant Michael



To love is only one part of living
growing
learning
about nature, and pathways to thriving
giving
taking
from parents and family, in deriving
winning
losing
pacing back and forth in worthy striving
tasting
sensing
what nature's way is teaching, while climbing
lacking
leaning
in one direction or 'nother, writhing
testing
using
the rules as told, the end not arriving
wasting
changing
our ways, taking a path to surviving
tricking
fooling
others, learning about karma, smiling
mixing
matching
pairs in the world, as life is beguiling
running
rushing
to make things happen, foster contriving
walking
having
patience to do the right thing, enticing
dancing
singing
about love and life, work at moonlighting
washing
cleansing
the soul from time to time through revising
coaxing
hoaxing
friends and lovers, role playing disguising
trying
spying
on our competition, be conniving
sinking
swimming
treading water with a goal devising
eating
planning
a get-a-way before crime committing
failing
earning
your way without any doubts, misgiving
counting
passing
up opportunities, urge resisting
tapping
turning
things inside out, building a good feeling
climbing
finding
what your limits are, laughing, face shining
minding
bending
the rules to find a place worth applying
tipping
eating
out to have a good time, not denying
coping
weaning
yourself from bad habits, while reshaping
working
playing
having a good time, mastering giving
loving
shaping
life into one where you are receiving
coming
going
finding paths of forgiveness, relieving.


(c) October 9, 2015 by PBM



***


The two artworks below were painted by 
Gene McCormick

"With a Rose in Her Teeth"



A Collection of Dance Poems

By Alan Catlin


​

  Dances


performed in diurnal circles to an unheard
musical sphere, inner music composed
by musicians residing in metal boxes,
behind filthy glass controlled by remote
transmissions, cable boxes, emanations
from an unknown place near where the mind
dead are exploring endless halls of antiseptic
emptiness, climate controlled, mood altered,
enhanced or muted; the uncommon release
results in a letting go dance, a hellish
choreography for a self-proclaimed Isadora
of Ward 8, she who is dancing her brains
out all over Pilgrim State, formerly detained
against her will but dancing until she is dead
on her feet; no one will catch her when she falls.




​

Beautiful Losers


“Dance me with your beauty
with a burning violin.”
 “Dance me to the end of love” L. Cohen


In harsh lighted disco rave,
nights hyped by Ecstasy and
beer, they fondled a collection
of arcane objects, talisman used for 
divining futures for all the beautiful losers
in designer clothes, diamond studded
eyewear, all those jewels for day traders 
and hedged fund holders, worn overtly
as if styling was an invitation to be
mugged, gang banged into another
place less copacetic than this one.
Instead of eyes behind dark lenses,
they have an acid based helix of semi-
precious stones, a mind made empty
by highly polished seer stones; all
their visions swept into a muddied pool
only oil can float on. They are so adrenalin
fixed, their skin retains an unnatural
glow wherever they go as if they
were retaining an ultraviolet light
no one was meant to see, even well past 
dawn, after a third sleepless night, 
their bodies  so stoked, they seem miked 
for sound like high tension wires during 
a massive power surge; the kind that shuts 
down the plant, burns out all the circuits, 
the smell that lingers after like ozone layers 
burning, human flesh.






El Amor Brujo


Sailors offer her vino rojo from cracked
lips of half gallon jugs, whisper passages
from arcane manuals of love in her ears,
press their fingers to her parted lips,
smear the face that demands lost souls
in an open boat, the high unnavigable
seas she commands; enslaved, they kneel,
watch the gitano dance, that solitary tango
peeling layers of desert from unpainted walls,
spreading sand on hardwood floors, building
a dense Black Forest for lovers from which
there is no escape.    







Faux Self-Portrait of the Artist
as Spanish Dancer
 
“there she is with a rose in her teeth,
one more thin gypsy thief”
                       L. Cohen
 
“Nothing makes a woman look so old as desperately
trying to look young.”
                       Coco Chanel
 
All the poems she ever dreamed,
duende stolen from the lips of gypsy
lovers she imagined a blood wedding for,
are the essence she tries to impress,
in costume, as a randy dancer, on spider
web sites she pretends to be someone
else for, wishing for a celebration she
could dance at, in black tango clothes,
thigh high cut in the front to reveal legs
defined by murderous hours of modern
dance, classes she audits for the dress
rehearsal rags they play, so she can sing
along with suicide lyrics, or face the firing
squad with someone else’s body,
no blindfold necessary.  Not even
blooms pinned to her surgically removed
chest, are ruffled by bullets or insults,
nor the flowers pinned to her hair.
Nothing can reclaim the beauty of her
youth, so remote now, you’d think her life
was photo shopped for effect, as if
false images could remove all the years
time’s acid has etched into her, mostly-
hidden face though try, she will, despite
what the mirror tells her about letting go.
 
 
 
 
 

 
Showing Magritte's House
after a title by Bob Hicok

 
The unreal estate agent
steps through
a window of clouds
 
into a living room
without walls
where the floors breathe
 
changeable as oceanic
tides
to resemble new moons
 
whole galaxies of stars
are falling
through-descending
 
debris of human
remains:
disembodied top hats
 
inverted umbrellas
naked clothes trees
whose hooks capture
 
a tidal wave
of new fallen
snow that spreads
 
as carpet-
an Arabian Nights-
the kind solo
 
instruments celebrate
in locked closets
whose ceilings are
 
the dance floor
clog dancers
are exploring
 
 
with sharpened elephant
tusks fastened
to metronomical devices-
 
with hand carved
walking sticks
curve handled canes
 
blind men are
clinging to
for guidance-
 
the further prospectives
journey into
the interior-
 
the more
the cost of seeing
goes up

A Dance for Life


By Alexandra H. Rodrigues


When we danced the Tango on the dance floor, I felt you
I could interpret every move you made, it all rang true.
With lust surging thru my loins, I willingly did respond
That day, with that dance, you and I had tied a bond.


Hand in hand back to the table we went, when music stopped
A wish to possess your mind and your body my senses robbed.
You asked if under the stars I would like to take a walk
I knew right then that you too wanted more than a talk.


On the patio, watched by the moon with no one around
We both succumbed to spontaneous sensations abound.
Later inside we sipped some more of the fruity wine
Bathing in your charm and masculinity made me feel so divine.


For the next dance, a Foxtrot, you again me to you drew
Our thrill with each other reached high peaks all anew.
This fairy tale, long ago, now became the story of our life
Today, centuries later, we are together as man and wife.

The Volta

By David Thorpe


 

What beauty did my eyes perceive,

surely not of human seed,

rather more a child of Olympic blood,

to bequeath a radiance of such delight

 

They played the music of a volta,

the dance tuned to accepting eyes,

to fingers burning with each sensual touch,

my hands grasping tightly her waist,

my arms lifting her high,

she floating as if in trance,

a slow descent into my embrace,

her heartbeat and mine in a sensuous eclipse

 

Our affair too dangerous for love,

the stakes too high a price to pay,

or were we breaking a sacred oath?

Ere the music faded into irrelevance,

without a word or a backward glance,

she ran from me in tears,

my lips remained untouched by hers

 

My restless senses tired of searching sleep,

my heart caresses your mirage

before, enticed by the imprudent night,

to elope together, wrapped in its cloak of darkness

Painting above by Gene McCormick





“Stayin’ Alive”


By Karen King 





I used to dance to stay alive,


It gave me hope, it gave me drive.


I used to end up out of time


And I would spoil the teacher’s line.


It was like a P.E. lesson,


But was an after-school session.


We all danced to the Bee Gees


And joined in with their fantasies.


I enjoyed dancing to their beat,


Even though I stood on people’s feet.


Sometimes, I hit people in the face,


So uncoordinated – such a disgrace!


It was all worth it in the end,


The minor injuries could mend.


I never was sent out of the hall,


Although I would sometimes topple and fall.


The teacher could see I was trying my best,


There was no time to think or have a rest.


After several weeks went by,


I started to feel not so shy.


Within my body, there was the beat.


I followed it, despite the heat.


The teacher said I had come so far


And that I was her rising star.


Always remember to carry on,


To persevere and stay strong.


Because, despite standing on people’s toes,


To continue was my only way to grow.




“The King’s Grand Tour of Poetry and Photography” Karen King Copyright 2015










Sunbathing Seals


By Karen King





Today, the sea is choppy,


The seals watch from their haven.


White horses dance,


Sea spray crashes into rocks.


The dark depths twist and turn.


Yet, the seals, unperturbed,


Watch the play


Of light upon dark.


Every change in the ocean


Is a story in itself,


As each wave choses


Its individual path.


Then they join as one,


As they rise and swell,


Gliding gracefully,


Or crashing heavily,


As if resisting one another


And these climatic changes.


They heave, like a breathing entity


And fall, like a deep well, sucking in


Victims of this underwater world.


Today the sea is choppy,


The seals watch from their haven.






“The King’s Grand Tour of Poetry and Photography” Karen King Copyright 2015








Your Ring of Love


By Karen King


​



You dance delicately in the air,


Displaying devotion,


In a world of your own.


You embrace this sacred place,


The garden of Chester Cathedral,


Its peace and serenity.


You thrive amongst the greenery


And blend in perfectly


With your muted colours.


The eyes of the Cathedral


Watch wisely as you encircle


Your Ring of love.






“The King’s Grand Tour of Poetry and Photography” Karen King Copyright 2015




***



Painting below by Gene McCormick

A Chat by the Fireside


By Karen King





He sat by the fire, smiling to himself


As he, smugly, sharpened his tools.


It had been a good day, so satisfactory


And full of adrenalin.


She really was beautiful!


He lay her down and, gently,


Smoothed her hair


And kissed her perfect cheek.


He’d better beware


She would wake up soon.


She had been easy prey,


A little drunk and


Wanting a ride home.


They knew each other from work


And she had, naively, trusted him


When he asked her home for a drink.


The fire and the mulled wine were warming,


Relaxing him in his tasks.


She sighed, murmured


And moved her head,


Her eyelids flickered.


He held his breath,


Hoping the evening would go as planned.


He didn’t want to use his tools.


She opened her eyes and smiled


And they began to have


A chat by the fireside.






Karen King Copyright 31 October 2016

Gone Camping


By Patrick Bryant Michael




Getting up early, driving into the hinterlands
watching
counting
colored cars with mom and dad, watching for the badlands
looking
waiting
to arrive at the campsite, not into the marshlands
asking
about
the time to arrive, anxious for the larger islands
following
signage
to the campsites, kids' minds filled with wilderness legends
dreaming
sensing
places of the heart, delighting in seeing highlands
driving
taking
curves that spin heads, looking down below to the lowlands
arriving
feeling
high about the camping trip, taking off hold down bands
unfolding
putting
up the tent with stakes to hold it down, making it fun
looking
around
at the landscape, seeing what sort of games can be spun
walking
running
all over, finding rocks to climb on, fun in the sun
searching
finding
cliffs with river running below, diving for the stun
swimming
enjoying
the water, till a chill comes over you, cold to shun
playing
getting
dirty for the pleasure of wanting to be undone
laughing
quenching
thirst, running back to camp, playing with a water gun
eating
satisfying
the urge to eat your fill, not wanting to be outdone
laying
sleeping,
bags in the tents, crawling in for a nap, to unwind
waking
feeling
woozy, rubbing your eyes, the sunshine makes you feel blind
walking
talking
about what fun you had, no thoughts about who you mind
racing
chasing
each other round the camp, laughing when you fall behind
building
firing
up a campfire, cooking dinner for pleasure, well primed
grinning
telling
ghost stories around the campfire, demons intertwined
tiring
yearning
to go to bed, getting sleepy, nodding off, well timed
hugging
saying
goodnight, lugging off to the tent, falling in resigned
reminiscing
subconsciously
pondering adventures in your dreams, feeling delight
sleepwalking
gaining
insight into the dark side, using a weird flashlight
oversleeping
lingering
in the morning light, starting a new day, feeling bright
jumping
wanting
breakfast, bacon and eggs, having a good appetite
wandering
squandering
time in leisure, lazing about, like a socialite
wasting
daylight
with games to play, and having fun till nearly twilight
catching
fireflies
and putting them in bottles, packing up the campsite
leaving
fueling
up for the drive home, playing games as the trips highlight.


(c) November 9, 2016 by PBM











Yellow
​

By Patrick Bryant Michael





In the Wizard of Oz lies a Yellow Brick Road
colorful
dizzying
a terrifying group of monkeys would goad
turning
twisting
tornadoes left a sense of yellow, the air glowed
stopping
going
fast through yellow lights, for the patrolman to goad
fighting
giving up
feeling small and yellow, as a submissive toad
dressing up
showing off
in costumes with yellow masks, love to be bestowed
cooking
baking
cupcakes with yellow frosting, wild oats to be sowed
laughing
building
a fantasy, a kaleidoscope to forebode
driving
careening
down the road, the yellow line will give you the slip
buttery
creamery
products seem yellowish, the mind losing its grip
caution
danger
is shown around school zones, yellow lights for a strip
sunsets
blazing
on the horizon, reds, yellow highlights, a trip
cornfields
shucking
the ears of corn, yellow kernels shine in kinship
wildflowers
daisies
flowering in shades of yellow, bees in partnership
fireflies
twilight
yellow filaments glowing, inviting courtship
sunrises
morning glow
the sun is yellow on its rise, sunbeams are hip
light-bulbs
flip a switch
a globe turns white to yellow, turning night to day
painting
pastels
shine bright, yellow suns on canvas are a gateway
candlelight
burning
wicks give off aura of yellow, for the gourmet
campfires
bonfires
burning brightly, sparks burn yellow, then will decay
fantasy
sprites
mental images appear, yellow highlights splay
bleaching
the hair
makes dark look yellowish, a roll in the hay
three bears
Goldilocks
runs away, the bears get angry on the pathway
hot cars
racing
greens and yellows break the law on an expressway.


(c) March 11, 2016 by PBM

LOLITA, THE SYRIAN WOMAN

By Daniel de Culla



Lolita, the Syrian woman, running away from war
Comes to Europe,
Dreaming that, as soon as possible,
She'll coming back to her mother country
But no ...
The malicious enemy remains behind her
And then, the other day,
She met with a new enemy,
And in Greece, in Turkey, in Europe,
Like a postman,
He will call her twice,
But not to hand in any letter.
She saunters through a no-man's-land,
Falling too often
Toward the languid ground
And at other times
At full speed
Escaping from that Mr. Pepe, “The Put-Out-Fast”-Pepe,
Christian or Moor,
He will want to abduct and rape her
In the moorish place
Or in the Capital’ fair.

I feel the pain in her heart
The sweat of her brow,
But what's more, what tortures me
Is that there’s no kindness in churches
And if she is killed
The unique that the lords of war will make
Will be tearing up their vestments
And to feel that they have spent
Any cannon balls in vain.







HAIKUS WITH MASTERS’ CORPSES

By Daniel de Culla

 
A lonely moor
With Emily Brontë’s air
To it we deem.
I muse over Robert Burns
Wandering the Wood and field:
The happless fate mourns.
Come away, Yeats
Peace sings into her breast
To water and wild.
Charles Baudelaire
Glimmering in the Windows
Hope dead for aye.
I’m angry with me
William Blake a poison tree
Behind mine’s foes.
It’s still Poe.
Here’s the breath of God
Sucking the unbroken.




​



OH, POOR ME

By Daniel de Culla



Oh¡ Poor me¡ mother
Elizabeth, the Cuban girl, ignored me
And I’m out of order and without a sweetheart.
I can't to go to her balcony
For to throw pebbles to the panes of her window,
Not to put my index finger on the door knob
From the so called beauty of her floor.


Oh, what a Love Cross, mother,
Carrying it, I sweat.
I don’t want to remain here, mother,
To dress saints
Putting medals upon virgins
I don’t want to be a “piss on piles”
Or a man to “ put out churches’ candles”.
I want to come back home one day
Telling you, mother,
That I have a new girl friend
That the old is worthless to me,
Not on any account,
Because this new sweetheart
Is looking for me
Because another boy did not come.

Across the Universe
​
By Alexandra H. Rodrigues


Can being moved into the Universe
Turn out to be an unwelcome curse?
If God created for us the World
We were not meant to be hurled!
Of course it could have the paradise been
Had Adam and Eve toward obedience seen.
Has the World given you all you ever wanted?
Or is the World for you a place to be haunted?
What do you know about the Universe?
Is it our trial period, called life, truly worth?
It’s proven none of us has really a choice
In what’s to be, we don’t have a voice.
Possibly there is nothing after so-called death.
So don’t waste time to hold your breath.
The questions about if and when are manifold
Within reason do as you please, not as you are told.

Smouldering Ashes

By David Thorpe

 
In silence she gazes at the dancing flames,
mesmerised by their destructive power
over the fickleness of the burning embers,
yielding to their fate of becoming ashes
 
Her thoughts meander over a relationship
of unbalanced scales of affection,
of desires thwarted by his faded passion,
his sensuality contrived to his caprice
 
He imperiously awaits her acquiescence,
his face scarred with impetuosity,
his fingers drum  the chair with impatience,
the unbearable stillness reflected in his eyes
 
Slowly she turns her head to face him,
scrutinising for a moment his countenance,
a life of smouldering ashes would not be her destiny,
a cynical smile and a sideways  glance
was his only answer

Round the Fire

​
By Lucinda Berry Hill


Friends will gather round the fire
To share a cup of tea;
To share their plans and their goals,
To share their hopes and dreams.

They thank God for their time for tea,
To share with their good friend.
The one that they can count on,
Who's loyal to the end.

Sometimes they ask opinions.
Sometimes they give advice.
Sometimes they ask for favors.
No need to ask one twice.

Friends will gather round the fire
To share some tea and cake.
They talk about their problems.
They tell of their mistakes.

They reveal their many blunders,
Their hurts, and their regrets.
They pour another cup of tea
Their visit not done yet.

They tell each other private jokes.
They make each other laugh.
Smiles made, tears are shed,
From stories good and bad.

The time they spend is special
They share their hearts and minds
What happens round the fire
Stays there 'till next time.


Lucinda Berry Hill Author of Coffee with Jesus and A Second Cup with Jesus.©

 https://www.facebook.com/#!/pages/Coffee-with-Jesus/355060321207311

http://lucindaspoetry.webs.com/index.htm
 

Devotion


By Alexandra H. Rodrigues


This is an autumn day of special charm
The air is mild and pleasantly warm.
The water in the canal ripples steadily along
Waves like liquid silver whispering a song.


Outside I sat on my bench not at all cold
While thoughts of a lifetime of me did take hold.
Here I had spent the majority of my past life
As daughter, mother, lover and wife.


It is calming when one comes to realize
That in nature all does in a circle arrive
When for the first time I had seen the Bay
“This is amazing” to my husband I did say.


The same expression comes today to my mind
Peace and tranquility in those words I find.
Despite the times when major floods hit
I do not see reason to move from here fit.


Days like this one just now
Make me to the waterfront my devotion vow.








Get off it!


By Alexandra H. Rodrigues

​
Massapequa

Monica was all alone
In the place she now called home.
A little studio by the beach
From where she could easily the highway reach.
The homeowner was a good looking guy
A few times her attention to get he did try.
She however was sick of time in love invested.
Her patience had been in the past too much tested.
Betrayed by a lover in which a future husband she saw
The wound was still open, the hurt was still raw.
The landlord felt insulted and could not understand
Why out of his way she always went.
One night a really strong storm did brew
The water from the ocean nearer and nearer drew.
Monica was happy that he was home
The first time she preferred not to be alone.
Then she heard the starting of his car
In this storm he could hardly go very far.
How could he have the nerve to leave her abundant?
What if water entered the house and left her stranded?
He had not even shouted up if she was okay
Without any thought of her he had gone his way.
The winds picked up, the water level got higher
Lightning veiled the outside into an eerie fire.
In addition the electric had gone out
Monica could not help it but started to cry and pout.
She now she truly regretted it terribly
That she had not made an effort more polite to be.
Another thunderclap exploded loud in the air.
Monica shivered and sobbed in utter despair.
Finally the fury of nature’s forces became quiet
A brilliant moon surfaced and lit up the night.
Monica heard a car door loudly slam
Voices into the range of her hearing came.
Clearly he had left to be with a girlfriend of his
To protect the one who cherished his kiss.
Monica now realized how confused she had been
The landlord had been cordial never meant to be mean.
More sociable in the future to be she swore.
She had just learned that self-pity no benefit bore.

The Perfect Match


By Alexandra H. Rodrigues



Solace in your voice I found
Although I never have heard its sound.


I sunned myself in your smile
Only in my mind I saw the sensuous style.


The touch of your hands though I never it felt
Made me want into an embrace with you melt.


In fantasy, our juices fueled greatest lust
Now, to turn illusion to reality, is a must.


For me you are the lover to catch
No doubt we could be a perfect match.

At The Supermarket
 
By Gene McCormick

 
Men look lonelier pushing shopping carts
than women pushing their groceries.
Nothing seems unhappy about the woman
pushing her cart near his car’s side mirror.
Her movements are staccato; she does everything
she can with maximum energy and focus
including facial expressions even though
nobody, except him, watches her load groceries
into her Nissan. She clicks the remote to open
the hatchback door, a convenience she can do without
but it saves time. She is thin as expected of
someone with a high metabolic rate.
Her jeans are worn and fit her body
without being skin tight.
She has no patience to wear glasses
and wears utilitarian black loafers.
She is wired for expediency.
He makes note of the day and time
as she seems a person of habit and he wants
to see her again if only through the side mirror.
Maybe they’ll meet and talk.
He could ask her if she has ever been to Paris.
Having loaded the car, she stands up
and runs her hands down her clothes,
smoothing her top and jeans as though
she was wearing a new outfit.

*

The strip mall parking lot holds four-hundred cars
but even during the holiday seasons
it is never more than half full.
In the spring a tent is put up in the lot
to sell bags of fertilizers and live plants.
The tent is temporary and so are the tenants
bordering the supermarket: a pizza parlor,
Asian restaurant, hair and nails shop, and
a travel agency. Only the supermarket
proves to be moderately successful.
Eight skinny trees line the sidewalk fronting
the stores, aesthetically inconsequential
and not bulked enough to offer shade
or purify parking lot exhaust-tainted air.
Video cameras are placed at hundred foot
intervals scoping every inch of the parking area.
It takes some heft to return a line of shopping carts
back to the supermarket from the parking area,
often ten or more carts at a time,
and the employees seen pushing the carts
are those who couldn’t be taught to run a register
or stock shelves but have bulk.
Usually female, they wear oversized bright orange
aprons, white blouses and heavy duty black slacks.
They are as visible as a highway chain gang,
and the rattling shopping cart wheels
makes them loudly heard.

*

A fat man walks by, nothing unusual about that
or his walk except he is wearing knee-length shorts,
a red t-shirt and a camoflauge vest in fifty degree
rainy weather. His white socks are heavy duty
and are duct-taped where the back of his ankle
rubs against black workman’s shoes.
The light rain has no effect on him.
*
He most enjoys the supermarket parking lot
on Sunday mornings in the fall when husbands
stay home for a day of television football
letting their wives shop alone.
Sometimes he leaves his car and walks about
offering to help the housewives
load a case of beer into their minivan
which is usually unproductive but once,
and only once,
one such shopper invited him into her van.
Rainy days are also enjoyable to him as he watches
women jogging to the front entrance, hands over
their head to protect their hair.
They come out holding large purple umbrellas
loaned by the store.
The umbrellas are very visible as cars back out
of parking spaces.
Children do not carry purple umbrellas.
Striding toward the supermarkets automatic doors
he veers off and instead walks the perimeter
of the parking lot twice without peering into any vehicles
or trying to open any of their doors before driving off
in his decade-old Dodge van. Pulling out of the lot
he wonders what it would be like to lay flat on his back
and push himself with his feet around the parking lot.
Seeing where he was going would be difficult
and loose shopping carts could be a problem as well.
He also wonders if he will be able to get
his driver’s license renewed.
His name is Ansel. That’s his given name, not surname.

*

He drives from the market to the forest preserve.
Ansel takes trips to the nearby forest preserve
on days when there are high winds
so he can walk deep into the most dense
areas to take off his shirt and stand
next to trees with low lying branches and let
the wind whip the leaves across his back.
The stronger the wind, the harder the leaves
lash back and forth.
Sometimes he thinks of supermarket women.

FORMAL DANCE


By Daniel de Culla




My girlfriend is a lucky damson
And me, like a fool, in love with her
My Dandelion gets angry
When she says she does not dance with me
Getting to dance with another boy
Or another girl
Then me, dandilying on mine own
Attracting her attention
With my St. Vitus’s dance.
Alone and free, but no, I’m not free
Nor from myself.
Look at me:
There’s a Star saying to me:
Stop! Don’t play the fool.
Do you want to dance with me?
Then, the illumination arises, letting go:
pollen, hands, belly
into more giving.
The foot at mind, Me, now and here
Not all there,
Giving life under the dancing Star
Active, more now than ever,
Renewing a mind of primordial wisdom,
Embracing my own body, her body,
Two bodies in one¡
As a Wheel of Fireworks, light trapped in there.
A Wheel of Fireworks, yes
Singing a tale about what goes on my guts
(She is moving her belly with mine own)
Her eyes as stars of a “Yes” going on,
And me, contemplating the Theory of all Theories:
That her lips are the center of my laughs
Rolling the music onwards that sounds
Like its singer
Opening his mouth with a celestial sermon
A musical comedy confirming the fact
That we are all Gods
Delivering our spinal column
In a constant change of paces
Or changing the dancing partner.
Her yellow Venus hair sparkles with light
A coyote yells in my bones
There’s a million kisses at the dance floor
Light trapped in there with poems
And semierotic hypotheses of flesh and blood
Lucid undertanding in our hands
Venturing far too
With the four elements of dancing
Steadied and blotted each other out.
Seeking my alchemic body and her’s
Our blood flowing inward
dissolving in the middle of the floor.
A middle where she and me bent over ourselves
Opening our mouths for a kiss
(She laughs heartily - and me- diving in.)
We are the living.
Isn’t it beautiful?





UN BAILE FORMAL

By Daniel de Culla



Mi chica es una ciruela floreciente
Y yo, como un tonto, estoy enamorado
Mi diente de león monta en cólera
Cuando dice que conmigo no baila
Y se pone a bailar con otro u otra
Entonces yo
Saltando sobre mis propias rodillas
Llamo su atención
Con mi baile de San Vito
Solo y libre, pero no, no soy libre
Ni de mí mismo.
Mira conmigo:
Hay una estrella que me dice: ¡para¡
No hagas el tonto
¿Quieres bailar?
Entonces la Iluminación se me aparece
Sembrando polen, manos, vientre
Para ayudar más:
El fuerte de mente, aquí y ahora
Tontiloco
Dando vida bajo la estrella bailaora
Activo más que nunca
Renovando un espíritu de sabiduría primordial
Abrazando mi cuerpo su cuerpo
Dos en uno
Como una rueda de fuegos artificiales
Con sus luces atrapadas en ella.


Una rueda de fuegos artificiales, sí
Contando el cuento de lo que sucede en mis agallas
(Ella moviendo su cuerpo con el mío)
Sus ojos como estrellas de un “Sí” confirmado
Y yo, contemplando
La Teoría de todas las Teorías:
Que sus labios son el centro de mis sonrisas
Girando a la música que suena
Y su cantante abriendo la boca a un sermón celestial
Una comedia musical que nos confirma
Que todos somos Dioses
Desarrollando nuestra espina dorsal
En un constante cambios de pasos
Y cambio de pareja.
Su pelo Venus amarillo brilla con luz
Un Coyote grita en mis huesos
Hay un millón de besos en la pista de baile
Y la luz atrapada allí con poemas
E hipótesis semieróticas en carne y hueso
Lúcida comprensión en nuestras manos
Aventurándose demasiado
Con los cuatro elementos de la danza
Estabilizados y transferidos entre sí.
Buscando mi cuerpo alquímico y el de ella
Nuestra sangre fluye hacia adentro
Disolviéndose en medio de la pista
Un medio donde ella y yo nos inclinamos
Abriendo nuestras bocas a un beso.
(Ella ríe de buena gana y yo me sumerjo)
Nosotros, ¡los vivos¡
¿No es maravilloso?

Ha Ha Cemetery Established 1800.Sheila Hannah
Albert County, New Brunswick, Canada

​

LAS ANIMAS ECHAN CARRERAS

By Daniel de Culla


Animas benditas levantaos
sacad las calabazas de vuestras tumbas
encended los cirios y candelas
mirad que vienen ánimas difuntas
por vuestras floridas cabeceras
con ángeles del cielo que van de carreras.
Seguidles a ver quién primero llega
hasta el patio de Halloween
donde la Vida batalla con la muerte
en esta estación otoñal presente
cuando la Gloria descansa
sobre el monte Ocaso bajo tierra.
Aplicaos, pues los primeros que lleguen
rezarán por las almas bellas
las que descansan en paz, y las que no
y por las nuestras, en presencia juntas
cuando hayamos desayunado
y ayudemos al sepulturero ocupado
en abrir y cerrar las tumbas.
Clamores a difuntos salen de las iglesias
agua bendita del Cielo cae.
Yo no puedo ir, que estoy ocupado
En echar una gallina clueca
Para que todos me salgan pollitos.
Que vaya mi alma, si quiere
que está descansada debajo de su mandil
que escuche las palabras de las calabazas
Que llevan un “déjame aquí”
En el Cementerio HaHa de Albert County.




SUNSET BELLS GO FULL OUT


By Daniel de Culla


Arise, blessed souls!
Bring out your pumpkins from your graves,
ignite the candles and bougies,
looking at the deceased souls, coming out
by your flowery headboards
with the angels of heaven, racing.
Follow them to see who comes first
to the courtyard of “Halloween”
where life and death battle
in this present autumn season
when Glory rests
on Mount Sunset under the Earth.
Get yourselves ready, because the first ones to arrive
will pray for the beautiful souls.
Those who rest in peace, or not
and we, in presence together,
when we had had breakfast
we help the busy gravedigger
open and close the graves.
Tolls of the bells ring out frum the churches
where the holy water falls from Sky.
I can not go, I'm busy,
maintaining a broody hen
with her only born chicks.
She went with my soul, and her want is rested under her apron
I hear the words of pumpkins
That listen the pumpkins’ words
Carrying a "leave me here", calming down
At the HaHa Cemetery
of Albert County.

Halloween a la Poe

By Patrick Bryant Michael


Once upon a night at end of October
something touched me drawing me coldly sober
a ghost of the past as cold as a graveyard stone
reached out in tempest fare chilling me to the bone.

My thoughts troubling over love of beauty now gone
I roiled in a stupor wishing for a new dawn
faeries and elves danced in devilish, grinning delight
as I fought with this most evil, dark October night.

As my heart sank into the abyss of dark and bleary
my body weighed upon my soul, as I churned quite weary
feeling the touch of demons dark piercing me deep within
I reached out, grabbed hold my bottle of gin in dreary sin.

As my thoughts turned bleak to such gore of love left in lore
I sought relief, sending these dark thoughts to nevermore
nevermore, these words do ring in my ears like a deathlike score
my soul possessed each Halloween night leaving me ever sore.

As creepy, crawly things lie in wait this Halloween night
I look under my bed seeking what will bring me to fright
my mind lost in decomposing thoughts of long ago
my heart stops beating with thoughts of Edgar Allen Poe!

​
(c) October 27, 2008 by PBM








Haunts and Howls

By Patrick Bryant Michael


Things that go bump in the night
haunting 'neath beds in delight
creepy, crawly things bring fright
haunting closets out of sight
sneaking out when there's no light
tickling kid's hearts to excite
scaring those who want to fight
out of young souls take a bite
the sounds of a moonlit owl
hooting with a gruffy scowl
thoughts turn to murder most foul
witches flying broomsticks prowl
black cats, hair raised, hiss and growl
kids scream, head under a cowl
hide faces with a towel
moms and dads let out a howl!

(c) October 12, 2009 by PBM​









Dark Shadows

By Patrick Bryant Michael


In the light objects cast forth a dark display
in life the past follows us along the way
shadows of forthcoming hide for another day
truths are obscured as dark forces come into play
ghosts cast a pale on souls taken by regret or sin
while goblins and demons howl silently deep within
the shadows of a dark past reflect on the soul
on Halloween Night some like to play such a role
in the light of love dark shadows will disappear
like costumed faeries on doorsteps this time of year
wolves howl at a full moon for love, not to bring fear
take heart on Halloween Night and be of good cheer!
​

(c) October 17, 2008 by PBM

Dark Days


By Karen King





The day was light,


The day was bright,


The day was beautiful,


The day was glowing.






They chatted through the trees.


Her Son played a tune on his tin can.


The sun flirted on the trunks


And birds sang in the sun.






It was uplifting,


It was delightful,


It was inspiring,


It was life.






The took a new path,


Full of tractor ruts and deep mud.


Darkness fell in the woods.


Branches squeaked in fear.






They felt fearful,


The felt lost in time.


They felt lost in the woods.


They felt lost forever.








Her Son wondered if they should leave,


His Mum ushered him forwards.


They say a dumped car tyre,


Then a crashed and rusty car.






The woods waited.


The woods watched.


The woods laughed.


The woods ensnared them.






Her Son glanced back,


A dark figure materialised


Out of thin air,


His dark cloak flashing.






Their hearts stopped,


Their legs went to jelly,


Their skin dripped in sweat,


Their eyes widened in fear.






The dark figure marched onwards,


Closing the distance between them.


They quickened their pace,


Then saw the dark figure hide.






They ran as fast as they could,


They ran for their lives,


They ran until their hearts burst,


They ran until their lungs screamed.






They looked behind them,


The man was still there,


Flapping his dark cloak,


Like a brain-damaged bird.






A new path emerged,


A chance appeared,


A chink of light welcomed.


A chance at life materialised.






They ran down the path,


On and on through the woods,


Following it for the road,


While trying to be quiet.






It was a nightmare,


It was the darkest of days,


It was petrifying,


It was the end of time.






They followed the barbed wire fence,


Towards the sound of cars,


Searching the trees for the man,


Until they saw a field of sheep.






A man appeared with a dog,


A man with a leather jacket,


A man who looked normal,


A man just walking.






They ran over the gate,


Chased by sheep, keen for dinner.


Even they seemed threatening


So they hurtled across the field.






A road appeared,


A chance of safety,


A false sense of security,


A road built purely for cars.






They walked in the ditch,


Tripping and falling over,


As cars hurled themselves


Wholeheartedly at them.






They had faced danger,


They had met a madman,


They had been chased by sheep,


They had been pushed by cars.






They returned to their car,


Parked by a café


And were pleased to see people.


They welcomed life with open arms.






Was the man real?


Was the man a spectre?


Was the new path really there?


Was the event of this world?






It had ended a dark day,


As darkness from the other side


Slowly crept in,


Filtering from the other side.






It was nearly Halloween,


It was thinning between the veils,


It was scary day and night,


It was threatening in both worlds.

HALLOWEEN


By Alexandra H. Rodrigues


Spooky houses with flickering lights
Invite goblins and gremlins for the next few nights.
If cemeteries usually put you under a spell
Horror stories of Walpurgis Night will do it as well.


Already as toddlers and at a very young age
Kids during those days satanic presentations stage.
Unfortunately, the entire world is so full of crime
Maybe it would be wiser to stick to the sublime.


Go and look for the biggest pumpkin instead!
The one from your garden with a prize might be met.
Carve funny or scary faces into the fruit’s juicy flesh
Hot dogs and apple pie could then complete the bash.


“Never mind, I like the haunting atmosphere,” you say.
Fine, enjoy it. We can, each of us, have it our own way.
As long as we all happily hold hands together in the end
And concur that a good time by all of us was spent.


Spooky or calm it is only for one day every year
So let’s show the little devils that we have no fear.
This day we’ll join into what turns the little ones on
Soon enough all this hocus-pocus will again be gone

A Collection of Poems

By Alan Catlin

​




Eisenstein's Frankenstein


1-
100 days that shook
the world


lightning drawn from
the sky siphoned through


coiling electrode tubes
provide the power


the means to animate


2-
All the gathered tribes:
peasants and serfs,


toilers and farmers,
village dwellers, common folk


bearing torches en masse
in the night


3-
The drawn bridge
outside the Doctor's castle


or separating gathered
armies from palace grounds


the drawn bridge's
slow descent bearing


the dead



4-
white horse - quick cut
hypnotic poetics of death


strange beauty in slow,
unnatural motion


5-
The man-made monster
befriending an old


blind fiddler, playing
with a child;


innocent encounters
that end with in-


advertent death


6-
in the forest
or in the city


on the Odessa steps
unmoored, a baby


carriage's helter
skelter ride


untouchable
unstoppable


serially montaged


7-
Mary Shelley's modern
Prometheus no longer


a bringer of fire
but the recipient,


a slow, terrible burning;
the near-human torch







Kubrick's Dawn of the Living Dead


1-
Transcendent creatures
existing out of time,


spirits of the dead
walking; zombies


for designer footwear,
clothes, invade a


shopping mall


2-
Omega man on
the run, there is


nowhere to hide:
full metal jackets,


body armor piercing
rounds are of no


use, the dead keep
walking, legions of


them like Roman
armies sent to war


3-
Zarathustra speaks
as the hollow voice


of a time stepper
dressed for violent mime.


Switched-on Master B-
is a long haired classicist


on acid synthesized
to death; pomp and


circumstance becoming
a death march for


stormed troopers rising
from shallow trenches


constructed as open graves


4-
Dreamed sequences
suggest a floating


world, an operatic
score accompanying


orgiastic nights,
a Satyricon in


NYC, an underworld
of smoke and ash.


Albino faces fill all
the subway windows,


the undead uprising,
replacing naked sopranos,


eyes fused wide, shut


5-
Artificial intelligence
is accepted. They are


the relentless stalkers
motivated by impulses,


galvanic as electrified
frogs, their tongues


uncurling bands of fire






Eisenstein's Halloween


1-
Outside slow tracking
shots in silence; the child
wearing the Halloween mask
wields a long butcher knife.


Inside the host family is
dead, ritually murdered by blade.


2-
Years later are denoted
by white lettering on
black screens, the Imperial
Palace is an asylum
for the madmen and women
of a deposed regime.


The man dressed in a monk's
robe is Rasputin, head shrink
in charge.


3-
The long knife has been
retrieved for interior scenes,
the only movement, a montage;
the hand and the blade repeatedly
striking the unseen.


A silent screaming off stage
and on, the captions say.


4-
The sole survivor is a
nursemaid to the children
of the last czar. Years later
she will claim to be the Czarina,
the missing princess, heir to
the Romanov throne.


On a Grand Tour she will
be feted, credit will be extended,


all considerations taken,
ultimately she will be sent
in style to the new world
where a man in a monk's
robe is waiting, waiting with
messages from home and
a knife.









Alfred Hitchcock's To Hell and Back


1-
Jungle thicket set,
impenetrable as
the night; so hot
here, even the leaves
are trembling


2-
There is no sound
until the first rounds
are fired; then what
is heard, deafens


3-
Caught in crossed
fire, the living are
pinned down; souls
of the dead are lifted
from their bodies


4-
Wounded men lie
nearby in darkness;
those who can speak
plead for mercy, help


5-
One soldier defies
the odds, plunges into
the living darkness,
into the unknown
behind the brush


6-
Soon an explosion
is heard, then another;
one machine gun is
silenced



7-
Sniper fire and automatic
weapons somewhere in
the night; neither the enemy
nor the hero is seen or
heard after the firing stops


8-
Then movement beyond
the perimeter; something
is coming for the living
from beyond the jungle
dark






Scorsese's Blair Witch Project


1-
These mean streets of Maryland:
daily transactions on street corners,
at newsstands, fast food hangouts;
pool hall back rooms, after hour bars,
floating high stakes poker games
out of focus, where all the real deals
are cut


2-
Voice over describes what life is
like lived in pain, what happens
when you are taken for a moonlit
drive to discuss past transactions,
loans; waking up outside, wandering
lost though the oft crossed river
only flows one way through planted-
in-neat-rows trees


3-
Amulets left as part of symbolic
designs, signatures of old worlds,
cults: broken cue sticks, burst into
pieces bowling balls, a dealer's
index fingers; muffled voices at
night, heavy feet rustling through
fallen leaves, encased in concrete


4-
Overnight one of the seekers camping
out is among the disappeared;
in his place, an emptied-of-all-contents
backpack, eviscerated game, entrails
left for reading, clues


5-
Slow motion dance with death,
half-tones of filtered night,
sudden flashes of inexplicable
light; terrible screeching voices
remain detached from bodies,
remain unseen


6-
Luminous white house at trail's end,
hand prints of all the missing and
the forgotten; Los Olividados escaped
from asphalt playgrounds of hell
singing nursery rhymes off-key

Momentary Reactions

by

John Frazee
 

Facing it head on was out of the question
Like nothing I had to deal with before
I was hesitant on how to approach
The fear I felt that shook me to the core
 
Heroic deeds were never my forte
Yet I have always done what must be done
You’ll find I’m not the first to lead the charge
However I’ve never been known to run
 
Once more I’m painted into a corner
Needing to use some evasive actions
I had my best moves planed out in advance
All due to momentary reactions 


 
***
 
 
Memory Lake

by

John Frazee
 

All novices are convinced this is the first time it’s been seen
     By its pageantry and power they have found themselves beguiled
As you approach this land you can’t help but feel a sense of awe
     Everyone who’s been here, every man, woman and child
 
Was it fate that led you here or a well planed destination?
     If lucky enough to linger here for weeks or just for hours
This is a fact on which all visitors must agree upon
     We all take away a memory which is uniquely ours
 
No one knows what takes place in the mind while departing this place
     They say you remember what you wish to then forget the rest
What takes place within this magical realm I am not sure, but
     Reminiscences from this land always become our best
 
Having a surface like a mirror or a sheet of glass
     Toss in a stone it causes nary a ripple or a wake
But this is not what makes this spot so hauntingly beautiful
     Remembrance, here in lies the mystery of Memory Lake


 
***

 
 
   Hiding Places

   by

   John Frazee

 
   Suspend all movement, become one with your surroundings
   Daylight's difficult, it's easier to hide at night
   Stay downwind, achieve oneness with your environment
   You've managed to hide before, quite often in plain sight
 
   If you cannot be seen, you shall not be discovered
   Remain transparent, while your inner thoughts become sacred
   Companionship is no longer a priority
   Seeking some time alone so your soul may stand naked
 
   Isolated, within arenas of lost agendas
   Lonely haunts packed with others yet no familiar faces
   I know of no creature who would not give their eyetooth
   For the sanctity of their childhood hiding places

The Witch


By Alexandra H. Rodrigues


There was neither rhyme nor reason for it
Why with the knife her life-line she slit.
Falling she did not make any sound
Much too late for survival she was found.


The story has it that this old witch
As ghost in the mansion for decades did bitch.
Only few had ever a sign of her seen
But devious and nasty she was said to have been.


As result of this her remnants found no graves
Now as ghost of ghosts in the mansion she raves.
It is possible and should no one amaze
If during Halloween she will show her face. 

The Following Moment

 by

Teresa Ann Frazee

 
Now as time cradles us in its fragile arms of sand
Balanced between earth and a vortex of whirling air
We soar into the fine mist of uncertain hours
Under God's sleeping eye, we merge into the atmosphere
 
Descending out of existence with the pace of dreams
Like angels in exile, past the point of turning back
Our molted quills bleaching in an aging sun
And of our whereabouts, even fate has lost track
 
The present, twining into the following moment
Affirms the agenda of what is and what will be
Adrift in suspended choreography
Lingering among the clouds through eternity

 

***

 
 
Crystallized Menagerie

by

Teresa Ann Frazee
 
 
I am a lost stray, leaving my prints less recognizable in the snow behind me
With a strong belief, I am predestined to be dragged into the lair of another
Knowing very well my life hangs in the balance and perhaps may reach its full term
I'm sufficiently impressed with nature's ability to sabotage my future
 
I have become disjoined by an abandoning master shying from his duties
My ears twitch, so they may be ready for his call, which I would thankfully obey
In silent correspondence, I play host to solitude, my voiceless companion
Perhaps my reward for being one of those replaceable breeds, so easily cast away
 
The achromatic landscape acquaints my navigational skills with confusion
And not without reason, I'm a creature given to fear when even hope is denied
An unforecasted, insolent wind stings my nose like a cold steel saber without its sheath
While the unfamiliar darkness revels as desolation obliges to be my guide
 
Stripped of sleep my legs give way on an ice pond that reveal patterns bluer than my veins
Unlike my kind, try as you might, mans strongest trait is not one of loyalty
Yet in desperation, I stay focused on compassion belonging to bygone times,
Fall into a gentle trance and take my place among the crystallized menagerie

 
 
***
 
 
 
Eighth Light on the Right 

By

   Teresa Ann Frazee
 
 
Vague flares circled on distant spheres
   Through the smooth charm of falling night
But soon the path led toward the eighth
   Weaving the way with scented light
 
A rosy bloom confirmed her reign
   Bathed in a haunting back lit sky
Her curled petals pearled with the glow
   As a green-eyed seraph flew by
 
Famous among the cobble stones
   Posed with heaven’s grace her best side
Taken with the glory of power
   Her very essence burst with pride

Fallen Apples

By Jessica Goody


Ripe fruit dangles overhead like ornaments
tucked amidst shining leaves, greenly-scented, 
dappling the lawn like an underwater sun.

Stumbling over the sharp stones of fallen apples
strewn among the tousled carpet of grass,
stems bitter with sap snapping under the weight 

of their solid green heft, rustic baskets filling 
with plops and thuds, and the mingled shades 
of green: the green boulders of fallen apples

nestled in the roughness of damp grass;
lawn and leaves and piled fruit, crisply bitten 
and running juice, bittersweet and glowing green.




***



Autumn Rising

By Jessica Goody


Leaves spasm and shiver 
in the breath of the trees,
fluttering to the ground 
like brittle butterfly wings, 
their tawny sunset flush 
fading to ochre. Scattered 
now, they rustle and flicker 
to the spritely laughter of 
wind chimes, gossiping in 
the breeze. Auburn leaves 
crisp underfoot at every 
step, with a sound like 
bitten apples, the empty 
branches curling like 
talons, the smoky scents 
of autumn bonfires and 
spices lingering in the air.




***



Scarecrow
​

By Jessica Goody


Bird droppings crust your 
ragged cast-offs, hand-me-downs,
patched and frayed.
Spiders nest in your straw;
a baby crow roots in your shirt pocket.

Brambles wind their way around your torso.
The burlap complexion of your Raggedy Andy face
is addled by a learning disability;
you are wise but not smart.
Uncoordinated and limp as a rag doll,

you flop and tumble, bundling your fallen
straw stuffing back inside.
Optimistic, every day you study your alphabet 
picture book, repeating A, B, C, sure of your retention. 
The next day you are left agape, 

straining towards the letters
you thought you knew. They are no longer there. 
Your memory is blank. 
You must start over again.
Does it seem that the crows are laughing at you,

a harsh, mocking caw, 
as you fumble over simple sentences?
They are amused by you, your pitiful efforts at learning.
You cannot keep them from your corn any more than you can spell.
But if they bothered to ask, 

you could show off the knowledge you do possess:
Knowing the beauty of green fields, the exact 
golden shade of perfectly ripe corn, and when to pick it;
the shapes of clouds as they pass overhead, 
bringing storm and seasons, moons and harvests.

Wild Things Happen

By Jake Cosmos Aller


Wild Things Happen
At 3 am
In the dark hour
Of the soul


One wakes up
From the terror
Of the nightmares


And walk around
And cannot sleep


For at 3 am
There is utter clarity
Of mind and purpose


No illusions


The past lies reveled
The muse comes forth
And commands you


Take a look
At what you have done
And what you have failed to do



***



God Drinks Coffee

By Jake Cosmos Aller




When I woke up yesterday
I saw a naked old man
Sitting in my chair
Drinking my coffee
Smoking my pipe


I shouted at him
Who in hell are you
He replied
Never in hell am I


God replied


Your coffee is good
But not cosmic enough


The we stood in the jungle
Watching dinosaurs
Making love


God said 
They died you know
When they tried to become like us



***




Requiem for An Era

By Jake Cosmos Aller



Today the dawning sun
Seemed to me to scream 
The 6o’es are dead 
We have killed them you and I
They died from our neglect
Our tears, our paranoia


The revolution is over
We have killed it
We have lost the battle


Because we gave in to our fears
Our hatred and our absolute paranoia 
The world continues to get madder and madder 
My mind gets crazier and crazier
The social and political order 
Continues to become inhuman 
Tremendous infestations of hatred and intolerance 
Break out all over our society
Neutron bombs for gaining the ultimate peace 


The grinning specter of ultimate evil  

Howling at the Moon

By Jake Cosmos Aller


​

I stood outside
Between the trees
In a field 
On the outside of town


Beneath the lunatic rays
Of the blood red full moon


The lunatic lights of the moon
Casts a wild primeval glow
On me


The hormonal chemicals are unleashed
The wild beast within
Escapes it chain
And I howl with delight
A werewolf
Free at at last


To run amuck
Free of its civilized restrains
Throwing off its clothes
Stripping naked


Running wild
Naked and free
A wild man
Enjoying his freedom


As I sit 
Under the lunatic light of the full moon
Of the blood red lights of the moon
Full of wild passions
The lustful beast stirs again


And starts running and running
Howling at the moon
Riding into the new dawn
On a demented Harley Davis cycle
With two naked babes on his back


Riding into the sun
90 miles per second
At the speed of though
He disappears into the lunatic light
Of the full moon


And I wake up
Alone,
In my bed
Saying, man that was quite a night
I better not go there again


The wild beast
Laughs 
He has heard that before


And I join him
In howling at the moon 

Change of Season
​

By Alexandra H. Rodrigues


The last days of autumn are close
Hardly one finds outside still a rose.
Hills bathe in sun of azure blue skies
Fall a magnitude of beauty supplies.


Small patches of rainclouds I see
Eager to tease the monotony
Still unwilling, moisture to earth to send
They pleasingly with the firmament blend.


Colorful leaves glide from the trees
Form a carpet so birds in winter don’t freeze.
The life span of flora and fauna who can tell
All together is part of a magic spell.


A soft wind strokes a babbling brook.
A chipmunk provision to his hiding place took.
We fill our lungs with the scent of ambrosia
While the woods whisper a mild au revoir! 

Above: 
Painting by David Thorpe



The forest of disillusioned souls

By David Thorpe

 
Taking a wrong turning
I found myself lost
in the forest of disillusioned souls
and deceived hearts
 
Like scrap metal in the firmament
ill- mannered and contradictory thoughts
without a destination float by
to become entangled in the web of oblivion
 
There is neither cure nor consolation
in this labyrinth of judgements,
only time,
time to search for the misplaced
 
A search for reasons, motives,
expired excuses and promises
hidden within falsehoods,
whispered during an amorous night


David Thorpe © 2016

Mystical Forces

(A Tideling)


By Patrick Bryant Michael


Romance is whimsical
gratification can be inexplicable
mystical forces must connect with the cosmos.

Dating builds relationships
making love is companionship
mystical forces must connect with the cosmos.

Passion is enchantment
love develops an attachment
mystical forces must connect with the cosmos.

The cosmos connects us all
both animals and people.

Forces of love are mystical
merging of souls is empirical.

(c) October 8, 2016 by PBM
 


 
 
Forests and Magic


By Patrick Bryant Michael



Forests remain part of the dark wilderness magic
creatures
venturing
out to shine magic as part of the forest's fabric
darkness
shadows
in the inner sanctum, forests can create logic
lightning
striking
the forest trees, cause magic that seems all too tragic
living
flora
abounds in a magical world, darkened romantic
twilight
remains
under the heavenly trees, its magic fantastic
mythical
beings
inhabit the caves, the bear shines in the galactic
sunlight
brightens
in the daytime, shadows come out, time grows ecstatic
starlight
twinkles
in the openings between the tree limbs, magical delight
croaking
leaping
frogs and toads bring mystical harmony to ignite
waterways
babbling
brooks winding around like magic pathways that excite
hillsides
spiraling
with waterfalls plunging downwards, illusions invite
hiking
climbing
up pathways to lalaland, where nothing seems finite
fishing
catching
crawdads to use as bait to catch myths flying a kite
clambering
over
creek beds, finding mushrooms with magic powers of flight
camping
sleeping
in a magic sleeping bag, pixies come out at night
fireflies
blinking
their tails at everyone, the sorcery of its glow
mosquitoes
biting
to draw blood like vampires lurking between high and low
demonic
forces
making delusions come forth, love thrives in a grotto
sparkles
rapids
churning down a rocky waterway, faeries flow
valleys
declining
into legerdemain, mercurial gods, seeds sow
standing
looking
down over a cliff, the magic of winds that myths blow
campfires
cooking
is magic while telling ghost stories, banshees feel woe
soaring
sensing
love from the soul, the heart feels a magic to bestow.

THUNDER


By Alexandra H. Rodrigues


No, no, no! I am not afraid!
Outside it is dark but not yet late.
Lightning bolts crisscross the sky
Dark, threatening clouds are rushing by.
The power of nature we cannot ignore
One sure is aware of thunder’s ominous roar.
This is God when he has reason to scold,
As children we were often told.
One can hear the storm approach real fast
And we hope that not too long it will last.
Afraid I am not, but tense without doubt
Even my dog cannot help but pout.
This fiery, noisy show close by
Has rattled my nerves, I cannot deny
Let us from haughtiness refrain
And keep the thought in our brain
That in a superpower’s hand
We are nothing but a tiny speck of sand.
My mind wanders, I think of the Ocean
During a storm each droplet in motion
To weather a storm on the open sea
Would the end to my sanity be.
Compared with such nearness of death
What I witness now does not take my breath.
 
 




 
Point of Return

By Alexandra H. Rodrigues


To follow you I came out here!
This is the spot from where you did jump.
Now I am overcome with fear
There is no need your collapse to trump.
When I think of you at the Ocean ground
My imagination us together found
Nothing of that picture do I wish to come true
Never wanted to spend life nor death with you.
So now that I came here to follow you
my soul does not allow it for me to do.
It hurts that your death results from love for me
While I only a friend in you did see.
By rushing to pacify you now in an afterlife
Would still not make me want to be your wife.
I am sorry my answer did so deep in you burn
Goodbye my friend! To my own life I now return.



 
The Last Rose

By Alexandra H. Rodrigues


For now, as the grounds harden
I got you, the last rose from the garden.
I’m grateful you are still blooming
As falling leaves now do the grooming.
Soon with fall comes the time
Only when pressed you will remain mine.
Then, during summer next year
Surely your offspring will appear!
 






 
Kevin and the Deer

By Alexandra H. Rodrigues

Little Kevin had sneaked out when Dad did not look
To search for the deer he had seen in his picture book
A freezing chill of little Kevin took hold
The woods looked lovely but it was bitter cold.
Kevin’s father often went hunting for real
Which provided the family wild deer as their meal.
A tree offered Kevin an icy, snow-laden stump
Frozen and shivering the boy in despair did slump.
On top of it he had twisted the ankle of his foot
Trying to walk would for sure not do any good
Now Kevin began to bitterly cry
Why had he run out, why, yes why, oh why?
Kevin felt utmost deserted and forlorn
When the shadow of a deer in the distance was born
The deer came close and let his warm body near Kevin drop
Hope returned to Kevin and made his freezing stop.
The boy’s numb limbs turned slowly comfy warm
It appeared the deer must have sensed Kevin’s alarm
When the father, who had searched in panicky fright
Found the two embraced with each other real tight
He swore, never again would he shoot a deer.
No deer would ever his pistol have to fear.
This one they called Bambi and it became Kevin’s best friend
Many good times the two together did spend.

The Ones Left Behind

By Robert Cooperman


For Roxy, it’s almost time, the pain
a badly balanced, overloaded
knapsack she can’t unstrap.
She’s blacked out too often, each time
hoping, as she spiraled down,
“This is it,” smiling to think
she won’t wake up into this world
she’s loved, hated, been wild in,
bore a son into, met and loved
her adoring husband, made friends
who’ll sob when she’s gone;
but always, the exhaustion of waking.
Beth and I visit her this afternoon;
she beams, talks about vacations
on beaches with surf like the white,
billowing manes of running horses.
But as soon as her husband leaves
the room, she whispers,
“Al thinks he’s hid my insulin,
but I’ve got a whole second stash,”
as if she’s talking about the weed
she used to hide from her mother.
“I just hope he won’t go to pieces
when he sees my peaceful face.”
We just nod, sigh, hope for a miracle,
while Roxy relishes to the last bite
the bagel, cream cheese, and lox
she asked us to bring her.


​

Sonnet XVI:
​
Mongst All the Creatures by Michael Drayton

An Allusion to the Phoenix

'Mongst all the creatures in this spacious round 
Of the birds' kind, the Phoenix is alone, 
Which best by you of living things is known; 
None like to that, none like to you is found. 
Your beauty is the hot and splend'rous sun, 
The precious spices be your chaste desire, 
Which being kindled by that heav'nly fire, 
Your life so like the Phoenix's begun; 
Yourself thus burned in that sacred flame, 
With so rare sweetness all the heav'ns perfuming, 
Again increasing as you are consuming, 
Only by dying born the very same; 
And, wing'd by fame, you to the stars ascend, 
So you of time shall live beyond the end.

​
Ixchel,

Lady of the sacred light


By David Thorpe

 
Arising out of a sea of mist
the Island of Women ,(La Isla de Mujeres`) was discovered
by the Spbeing the first European to see idols and relics of worship
belonging to the sanctuary of the Mayan goddess of the moon,
 Ixchel
 
Her sensual beauty and flowing locks of hair
enticed the lover who became her spouse,
the supreme deity and god of the sun,
Itzamna,
siring thirteen offspring as proof of their fertility
 
Responsible for the needed rainfall
to provide abundant harvests,
Ixchel took the name of Lady Rainbow,
the lady of the sacred light,
oft depicted with a crescent moon 
 
As goddess of midwifery, medicine and healing
much compassion did Ixchel bestow
on expectant mothers,
the myth, however, has a darker side ,
a jaguar goddess and female warrior
Ixchel´s gaping mouth suggests cannibalism,
the sacrifice of young unmarried maidens
formed part of sacred rituals in honour of her name
 
Ixchel and Itzamna, deities of heavenly bodies,
the legend tells, 
did find eternal life in the constellation of Virgo,
on the mythical planet named Itzamna

David Thorpe © 2016

Monster Mash


By Patrick Bryant Michael

 
A song from the sixties, on the Hit Parade
mashing
dancing
and frolicking, crazy stuff, a big charade
singing
humming
along with a silly spirit, drink kool aid
creating
monsters
on the stage, making them the rage conveyed
drinking
tasting
the lips of your sweetheart, her heart to persuade
bashing
laughing
at silly jokes, winning back souls that have strayed
coming
going
at the dance hall, monster faces to degrade
running
dashing
about the hall, mental failings to evade
mixing
teasing
the kids with monsters to see their eyes light up
sweating
on the brink
of falling down, grabbing some fluid to sup
tapping
making
wild noises, monster like, getting a hookup
dreaming
creeping
around like monsters, forget being grownup
acting
taming
the mental jitters, looking for a teacup
cooking
burning
up the dance floor, dancing with a buttercup
tisking
tasking
a green basket full of monsters, some windup
musing
moving
your feet to the music, while watching the pup
waiting
breaking
into a dance routine, when feeling delight
pushing
pulling
a goony act, like monsters in the twilight
sensing
sorting
out the moody monsters, sleeping well at night
wiggling
giggling
at the monsters under the bed, the limelight
closing
opening
the doors to see monsters ready to incite
jumping
chasing
shadow aliens, monsters give you a fright
dating
baiting
a girl to see monsters on her left and right
holding
hugging
your girlfriend, never going into the light.

The Rapture

By Alexandra H. Rodrigues

​
Why cry?
Does it really matter how or when we die?
On earth we will not find the answer to the “why.”
Draw a circle from the dot that in the universe is you
Then even if millions of years it grew
The “why” remains, there will be nothing new.
We will continue to be a little spot
Meaningless no matter what means one got
At death to be lowered into the earth to rot.
Now if we could rapture the veil to the Vortex
We might get a glimpse of what is next
It would help our fear about the hereafter relax.

Doubt


By Alexandra H. Rodrigues

​
To the eternal future as fact
Would our mindset toward peace direct?
Knowing that one is adored and put on a pedestal after death
Would make parting easy, calm a last breath.
It is these questions that cause a fear
The uncertainty which makes us tear
Is there an afterlife?
Will we see the ones who before us arrived?
Will it still resonate when of all bodily charm we are bereft?
Can we continue to observe what on earth we left?
Will what once was important continue to matter?
Is there truth in the promise that all will be better?
Why are we left in the dark?
Why possibly meant into nothing to embark?
Too often doubts torture any belief.
We are condemned to vacillate between hope and grief
As result of man’s original sin
We now in a confusing vacuum spin.

September 7, 2016

A Casual Dialogue Involving

Lost Articles

and Car Wrecks




By Alan Catlin



I was half paying attention
to the game of the week,
drinking pints of Bass Ale
in a methodical, determined
way that meant it would only
be a matter of time when
she sd., "My whole life is in
the back seat of a totaled
Dodge Charger."
"There must be something left."
"Not really. All my traveling
clothes, books, papers, the book
I've been working on like forever.
All my notes, bank books, address
books----I can't function without
all that stuff."
I waited for the punch line nursing
what was left of my Bass, feeling
more and more ill at ease, heading
off track, losing vital time on a
schedule only I could keep.
"What would you do?"
"If my life was in the back seat?"
"Exactly."
"It could never happen to me."
"How's that?"
"I don't drive."
I waited for the sarcastic remark
that didn't come. Watched as she
ordered another tall G&T, thumbing
a wad of cash for a fifty she threw
on the bar. "You about ready?
You look ready. Give him one too."
I was wrong twice: no hard luck
story culminating in a plea for
cash for a bus ticket to a, not too
remote, but fairly expensive destination.
No biting sarcasm to my smart but
true remark. I decided to see what
happened if I sang for my supper.


"I'd try and see what I could salvage.
From the back seat. Junkyard got
the car?"
"Nah. It's been impounded.
State's evidence."
I wondered if I chugged my new pint
whether that would put me over
the top but decided it was way too
obvious a ploy. The evening was
rapidly taking on a new significance,
one that could easily end in some kind
of painful slow death. I waited for he
to explain exactly what State's evidence
meant, mentally inventorying the back
bar for a way out.










On Instituting a Background

Search Request

for a Missing Friend


By Alan Catlin




After providing basic personal information
the search process takes ten, maybe twelve
minutes, to check public records:
police records, hospital admissions,
court transcripts, newspaper morgues....


Occasional questions arise:


Has subject ever been arrested for DUI?
Has subject ever been involved in a personal
injury accident?
Has subject ever been fired from a job?
Has subject a history of violent behavior?


Answering yes to all but the last facilitates
the process, a warning notice:
Pictures of a graphic nature have been found.
These photos could be extremely upsetting,
should we continue our search?


What would be the point? I already knew way
more than I ever needed to know.









Fire Breathing Morons


By Alan Catlin




Maybe he was part of some
subtle mind control experiment
gone wrong or a longitudinal study
on the perverse effects of a lifetime
of stimuli provided by nothing but
what cable television provides.
His signature act could be traced to
that scene in “True Romance” where
Patricia Arquette is trapped in a shower,
six second from certain death from one
severely pissed off heavy, played to
perfection, by future Sopranos star,
James Gandolfini. Somehow she
accesses a can of hair spray and a Bic
in time to blast poor Jim in the eyes
and the rest is history. Best not to
ask where the lighter came from.


Or, maybe he’d been stuck in a time
warp as a ward to a traveling circus
side show couple, all pro fire breathers
and sword swallowers, and he thought,
“Yeah I can amaze and dazzle folks
with my talents.” Which he did.
But, it isn’t like this act was nuanced
or laden with layered meaning.
Quite the contrary. In fact, the show made
quite the indelible impression and several
folks were able to provide detailed
descriptions to the authorities.
Let’s face it, fire breathing with Aqua Net
has a limited shelf life, roughly two weeks,
and three public appearances.
Charges against ranged from creating
a nuisance in public to endangering the
welfare of a child to, acting out as a clown
without a license.









Hollyweird


By Alan Catlin




After the triple x rated punch bowl
incident at one of those So. Cal.
parties where some fried, left-over-
from-the-60’s, hippie chick, part
Manson girl, part Goldie Hawn,
thought it would be really cool to drop
this experimental mushroom based
homemade drug into the communal swill,
stuff that made blotter acid seem like
kid’s aspirin by comparison. After that,
everyday life had become something
that came directly out of underground LA,
Hollyweird Central, sort of like feeling
as is he had been starring in a movie
of his life he hadn’t seen yet with
an off-the-wall insane title life Wolfen 2,
with Klaus Kinski as the lead actor
in his place on the big screen, and
directed by Werner Herzog. Scene
after meticulously set scene, of Kinski
ripping the throats out of the standard
hot bodies bushwhacking in some woods,
or looking for a clearing for a mosquito
feeding frenzy shag or the horror movie
cliché of cliches, necking in a car parked
in the Brain Damaged Victims Only marked
space, totally oblivious to the impending menace,
as the eerie score by that Psycho dude,
Bernard Hermann, gets louder and more
ominous and you know, in your heart,
Bernard was one of those guys who definitely
would not flinch when a horse fly walked
across his face, even as the close up reveals
carnage among the gear shifts. Every full
moon like this, when the body hair grows
longer and the need to kill is a blood red
cloud blacking out the last remaining light.






​



A Touch of Evil


By Alan Catlin




Her life was one long-follow-
the-bomb tracking shot, crossing
borders no man or woman,
for that matter, should ever cross.
Hot wired to rapid transit bullet
trains as long as the tracks on her
arms that came to a dead stop
in some no address, pay by the day,
or by the minute, hotel, pale as a white
wedding day dress for a bride of Christ
on an ascension eve, blood circles on
the floor where all the coffin
nails/spikes were lain, after they
were withdrawn. She was a kind of
angel in repose, had the look of someone
whose soul had been reclaimed by Satan
and used as ballast on a hot air balloon
filled with rare gases expanding faster
than its skin could hold. Nothing defined
her so much as what she left behind:
someone else’s clothes, several sizes too
big, three paperback novels with the end
chapter and beginning chapter razored out,
overdue notices from no interest bearing
accounts, everything withdrawn, creased
fortune telling cards, meaningless now,
that suggested the obvious, that she had
no future.

---

The Catcher Moe Berg, in His Next Life


By Robert Cooperman



As one scout observed, “Good field, no hit,”
though he stuck around for fifteen seasons.
Still, you get the feeling his heart was never
in the game, taking time off for law school,
though he never practiced as an attorney.


He could speak almost as many languages
as there are bat weights: handy on his OSS
spy missions to Yugoslavia, to assess
which war lord we should back against the Nazis.
And even afterwards, he loved to stay informed,
read ten newspapers a day, one reason
why Casey Stengel once called him,


“The strangest man ever to play baseball.”


After the War, he never really worked again,
lived off his brother, who finally served Berg
eviction papers, to get rid of the sponge
more effectively than if he’d gunned him down
trying to steal second. Moe spent the rest
of his life living with and off his sister,
who, it sounds, idolized her youngest brother.


When admiring acquaintances asked
what he was up to, he’d put his forefinger
over his lips, to suggest he was still working
on spy missions so secret and dangerous,
even to mention them meant he’d have to kill them
to prevent the leaking of state secrets to enemies.


If he ever did come back from the well of souls,
I can’t imagine what he’d do, as if he’d decided
he’d worked enough in his past life and deserved
a long rest for the service he’d rendered his country
and to the world of Major League Baseball.









The Misty Stallion: Tom Riordan,
Outside Gold Creek, Colorado Territory


By Robert Cooperman




Last night, I shifted aside my tent flap,
a stallion pale as mist, still as a statue
of Bobby Lee’s Traveler, stood atop
the hill where I’d dug and dug,
just enough color to keep me sifting.
Its hooves glittered moonlight, but not
a whinny or whicker: the kind of horse
to make your fortune at race meets.


A month later, with the next full moon,
there it was again, that glorious stallion,
this time pawing the ground, as if to show me
where some color might come in rich.
Suddenly sober, I tried to stroke its mane;
it backed off, and when I looked away
for a second, it had vanished, a rotgut dream.
In the morning, I dug where I’d seen
it pawing, and sure enough, nuggets
to keep me in whiskey and whores for months.


Now it’s another month, and I’m sitting
outside my tent, snow sifting down,
and I’m wondering if that stallion’s real
or a pookah I dreamed out of a whiskey bottle
and hoping for a strike so I can return
to the home farm: pockets full, full of tales,
and riding the finest stepper anyone’s ever seen.
Flames crackle like a careless tracker;
that stallion’s on the other side of my fire;
my heart clutches at the glorious sight of him.


I throw a leg over and grab a hank of mane,
but the world’s tilting, and I’m falling,
and a pain stabs my chest, and he’s gone,
leaving me to gasp on the ground: home
a million miles away and a hundred years ago.









Working for the CIA


By Robert Cooperman




Decades ago, Helen smiles, she worked,


“For the White House,” meaning the CIA.
“It was part of my wayward youth
I don’t approve of now, but the CIA
wasn’t yet the ethical monster
it’s become; besides, it’s a good story.”


Anyway, when she had to transport
sensitive, secret papers, rather than use
obvious attaché cases with handcuffs,
she’d place the pages in the used brown bags
that had earlier carried her lunches,
in those days before email and computers.


“I never lost a file to thugs or spies,
just placed the bag on my lap in the bus,
and read, then walked blasé as a model
into the building and up the elevator
to the floor where I’d hand over the brown
paper bag, and wait for its empty return:


“expensive to buy food I didn’t need,
for a safe courier pouch: the government
as cheap and mean then as it is now.”








The Skull in the Ceiling


By Robert Cooperman




Lying atop my bed, I do exercises
for my bum right shoulder.
Even with the radio news on--
a Homeric catalogue of catastrophes--
the stretches are a slog to get through.


So I stare at the ceiling, and maybe
because it’s Halloween and the eve
of the Day of the Dead, I see a skull
in the swirling stucco. It’s wearing a top hat,
like the symbol of the Grateful Dead,


or those sugar skulls all over Denver,
to honor Dia de muertos: that day
of visiting the graves of those passed into
the great beyond or the great nowhere;
of telling jokes about friends, family here
only in memory, of remembering the continuum
from this plane to any other that might exist.


Counting the required number of repetitions,
I blink, and that toothsome image is gone.
I scan the ceiling as if Keats’s watcher
of the night sky, but can’t find that skull:


maybe a trick of the eye in the first place;
maybe a premonition, a warning, a welcome.

Escape Route

By Gene McCormick



To the side of the restaurant foyer, left
and down a plush carpeted dim-lit corridor
lined with reproduction German Expressionist paintings,
past an alcove housing gentlemen’s and ladies rooms,
beyond banquet room number one, turning right
into banquet room number two and then, to the far side,
there is a locked storage room, empty,
that has an exit to the rear parking lot.
It is a small room, about 10’ x 12’,
walls and floor painted industrial grey,
with no windows or shelving, no paintings on the walls,
no telephone, not even a fire extinguisher.


The maître ‘d shuts the entry door, opens the exit door
to the parking lot a crack and pulls a soft pack of Camels
from his side tux pocket. It is unopened,
and he firmly tamps the pack against the palm of his hand,
pulling the gold tab around the pack but leaving
the cellophane covering on for protection.
He has limited time but takes care to lift the foil
with his fingernail, tearing just enough of the
top edge for a couple cigarettes to show.
He never refers to them by any derivative name
nor by their brand name. They are cigarettes.
The front portion of foil is removed, crumpled,
but the silver that wraps around the cigarettes in the pack
is retained for freshness and armor against the hazards
in his jacket pocket. A soft pack is susceptible
to damages but has a feel, touch and history
that a hard pack lacks. The cellophane feels refreshing
to his uncallused palm as he runs his fingers around
the Camels, tapping out a cigarette, hoping they
never change the design of the camel in profile,
pyramids and palm trees in the background.
A flaring wooden match from a vintage
Diamond match box lights the tip, smoke
immediately drifting toward the exterior door.


The spent cigarette arcs into the rain-soaked parking lot,
a lone firework, a moment’s pleasure. Back to work.







​


Dinner For Two, Tommy


By Gene McCormick




A woman who is badly perfumed
is not a woman.”—Coco Chanel



1.
To the right of the lobby, or foyer, is the restaurant’s lounge,
a comfortable room with a dark wood bar seating twelve
with surrounding tables seating another thirty or so.
Straight ahead from the lobby is the restaurant proper,
booths and white-clothed tables
seating many more than the lounge area.
It’s late, the shank of a dispirited evening
for the restaurant’s ledgers, and Tommy the maître ’d
is not at his lobby post awaiting the two who just arrived,
their first dinner together. They stand for several minutes:
--Shall we eat at the bar or wait to be seated
in the restaurant?
--We can seat ourselves at the bar and not wait
for the maître ‘d.
The only conclusion was to wait to be seated at a booth,
across from one another, looking at each other’s face
saying and hearing what wants to be said and heard.


He appreciates what she is wearing: a black mid-thigh
raincoat wide open at the top over a white sweater
with inch wide horizontal stripes under a
light beige vest and a necklace of many interlaced
flat silver pieces that looks Indian but isn’t.
There is no other jewelry. No wedding ring.
Her slacks are grey, almost as black as her hair,
which is shoulder length and parted in the middle.
She is wearing Allure by Chanel perfume
and puts on glasses only to read the menu.
A businesswoman’s smartphone is tucked in her purse.


The raincoat may not be true rain gear.
The material feels like plastic-vinyl-polyester
to the touch, the type of synthetic material
that would cost more per yard than silk,
less than cashmere, more than cotton.
It repels water but still is not an absolute raincoat.
It has a belt.
Fashionable body armor covers her,
exposing only her face, her hands.


She is lean, almost lanky.


2.
Two hamburgers each on its own plate.
One well done, unadorned, with a garden salad.
The other is medium rare with cheese
and French fries to the edge of the plate.
Hamburger A is hers, hamburger B is his.
She is drinking a dark Guinness
(--I used to live in London, you know.
--No. When was that?
--My senior year of college and just after.)
He is drinking a whiskey on the rocks.
Both burgers are served open-faced
on a large bun, fresh and spongy to the touch.
They are at a steak house of repute;
they are the only ones eating hamburgers.


The hamburger is large but she puts the bun lid on top,
picks it up with both hands and takes bites.
He cuts a triangle of his burger, still flat on the plate,
and eats it with his fork.
Neither of them comment on the burgers.
Neither asked the steak house server for mustard
or ketchup, no lettuce, no tomato and god no, no sauce.


There is no inspiration to remember the colors
of the server’s uniform (black and white),
nor of the maître ‘d (black). Piped-in music
is forgettable, unlike the Allure
and lack of rings on her fingers.


A clink of drinking glasses before the meal.
Talk during the meal is not memorable.


The Guinness is now warm, nearly empty.
The rocks in the whiskey liquefied
to wetness at the bottom of the glass.


3.
But the evening lacks sparkle.
The conversation is not stilted but is flat.
After just over an hour he helps her on with her coat,
holds the doors and they walk to their cars
in the parking lot, having driven separately.
Living in the same community, they each patronize
the Shell station to the west side of the restaurant,
and the community bank to the east. The parking lot
is in the front of the restaurant with a smaller
such area in the rear. The lots are usually full
or nearly so, and totally so Fridays and Saturdays.
It is a mature customer base; BMWs and Lexus’s
outnumber Chevys and Fords ten-to-one.
She drives a sports vehicle and lives nearby, two miles.


The night sky is all black, no blue, few stars;
a Monday evening that is neither cold nor warm
but it is raining slightly.


She hugs him goodnight and he says
I don’t want to let go.
You have to, she says, and so he lets go.

The Discovery Quartet



Four poems by Alan Catlin




***



“Too Much to Dream”



Where Beach Meets Ocean
                       after Heather Sullivan

 
All morning the evanescence:
the crows, black wings and beaks
tugging the day back into night.
 
Then there was rain in
the wind, “Too Much to Dream”,
to discover in the early morning,
of electric prune flashbacks:
all of eighteen again,
facing the wind wiped,
frozen plain, frostbite and
 ice nine eyes; too young
to die but trying to anyway.
 
There on the horizon point,
a row of votive candles
burning beyond the light,
snuffed out one by one
by the living dead
in the floating world
where the insane people
are.
 
Now, the Difference Engine
has plundered the past,
has made history a scroll
with nothing left on it,
too delicate to touch.
 
Now, a swirl of birds
circling a black hole
in the Sound; whatever
drops in, stays.
 
 
 
***
 
 
 
 
Self-Portrait Inadvertently

Growing a Wing


                       after Claudia Bernardi


 
This is the way Trojan Women
grieved, their tragic masks facing
the flames featureless as fire, lit by
an unnatural, lingering glow.
The ones who survived  wrapped
in burlap, flesh tormented by a
thousand spear points, all memories
erased but the current ones, lanced
by fevers and by sores, the end
of reason nearby. Facing the sun,
they discover a wind made into a canopy
of thorns, each breeze as sharp as razors
that cut the day into squares nothing is
allowed to thrive in.  Facing death
and living, is the worst kind of defeat,
a torment like witnessing the sea
forever receding inside an inverted
hour glass; visible but impossible to touch.
Wide awake and dreaming, futility is
their eyes weighed down with scales
instead of lids,  lead weights for limbs,
organs hard as stones, and a mind made over
with visions of more carnage, more wars,
each one as unavoidable and as unnecessary
as the one before. The past and the future
merge as one and make victims of us all;
even an inadvertent growth of a wing
has no purpose now that the spirit has
left the body and there is no place to go.
 
 


*** 
 
 
  
  
 
Vincent Ferrini’s Wire
 

“And your gravity fails
And negativity don’t pull you through”
                       Bob Dylan
 


1-Solar Eclipse
 
Strange fade of light
at high noon.
Absurd shadows
without clouds,
without objects to
cast them.
 
2-Lunar Eclipse
 
Bareheaded scarecrows
at foraged field’s end,
slicing black birds
from the sky;
darkness is the latest
discovery.
 
3-Event
 
Stanley Spencer graves
open.  Rapt, the free ranging
dead rise to confront
the nacreous sky.
 
4-Horizon
 
Crazy bones hang from
downed flagpole ropes,
downed wires lie in a ditch
electric as impulses for
recharging the earth.
 
5-Vanishing Point
 
Halls of mirrors
with trick lock boxes
to put them in;
all these self-contained
worlds without end.
Inflorescence
 
“Death the cicatrix”,
as her poem says,
is the subject of
the book she never saw
in print, though
the galleys were corrected
and ready to go.
 
She was Sexton’s inflorescent
step-child, playing in
bedlam’s garden of last resort,
the poem’s whiskey breath
sends us reeling, overcome,
astonished by the suddenness
of it all.
 
The afterword, essay,
an appreciation, a rueful rite,
a lament, for a friend,
too-soon-dead, a suicide,
as she, the friend, would be
not long after, another
doomed poet writing against
the end:
 
Two poets,
two last books,
two suicides
 
Death the cicatrix,
have you discovered all
you need to know?
Are you happy now?
 
 
 
*** 
 
 
 
 
Work Anxiety Dream #9

 
This anxious dream centers on the work-
place, introduces a wound, a glass cut
to the bone, blood in the ice.  No one
cares. It’s all about the bleeding self
carrying on, working, tending bar
one handed for ten hours without a break.
 
Everyone who sees the wound says
it needs stitches.  Lots of stitches.
The bleeding wouldn’t stop, the stained bar rag
slipping, hanging loose around the wrist. 
But there I am, building cocktails with my right hand,
deliberate, but carrying on, all fluidity lost
for the duration. No one cares how I feel,
if the wound is dealt with or not.
No one cares how I am unless the drinks
are tainted.
 
 
 
 
 

Till the day will come

By Alexandra H. Rodrigues


Sure to die one day will come the time
Till then I accept what life wants to be mine
There are nights that do not want to end
As if from a distant place a warning is sent.
Those dark, mind-consuming hours do say
For favors received we do need to pay.
An equality exists that evens it all out
Birth to death, good and bad it is all about
A flower as it blooms is highly admired
Then it wilts and of its own beauty gets tired.
Animal’s life is usually quite restricted
To cannibalistic pleasures are many addicted.
A butterfly has only a very short life to live
Concentration lets it more pleasure give
On earth to purify our soul to perfection
To measure up for possible resurrection.
We are just a tiny, minute floating speck
Understanding of the divine reason we lack.
 






 
Would – Should – Could

By Alexandra H. Rodrigues


I am an autumn leaf holding on to the tree.
An Alien in the world of technology.
I am a Poet in the search of inspiration.
An accomplished writer after re-incarnation.
As applauded actress I play on the stage of life.
Have given many years to being mother and wife.
I know the fine line between having humor and being smart
Still my brain often overpowers my heart.
I could be an elf in a Midsummer Dream
Like a flickering candle in the wind it might seem.
I am not rich when of money one speaks
Neither feed off the blood that a vampire seeks.
Some years fly by like mellow red wine
I always did and still value my time.
In all areas, even remotely related
I strive to find the purpose for which I was created.








 
 
For Now

By Alexandra H. Rodrigues


I am still walking the earthly ways
With wrinkles and wasting waistline for age I pay
My husband for years already watches from above
Not knowing for sure is rather tough.
My son is sporting by now some white hair
Has wife and son himself to take care
So the world does turn
Thoughts of what was so often us burn.
What is unavoidable is pretty clear
Not to think about limits the nagging fear
It all at times feels like a movie I see
I am an actor who plays the role of me.
On the sidelines I now find myself to sit
Taking notes of it all bit by bit
During the remaining time I have on earth
I plan to record my life since day of my birth.
Maybe the power that decides our destiny
Does my endeavor as worthwhile see
Will let me continue while of sound mind
Till nothing more to say I find.

Turfed


By Jennifer Lagier




There is zero privacy
once you are admitted,
confined to a hospital bed.
You shed clothes, dignity,
give yourself over
to uncommunicative doctors,
unfathomable procedures.
People with unreadable name tags
wander in and out, check blood pressure,
temperature, pulse.
Every act is public.
Beeps, needle sticks interrupt rest.
It is impossible to sleep
undisturbed through the night.
Others make life and death
decisions on your behalf.
You are one more medical mystery,
dysfunctional organ, chronic condition,
extensively tested, prodded and probed.
The length of your confinement
is indeterminate.
Hour elongate, melt together.
You lose all landmarks.
The walls have no clocks.








Strafed by Life


By Jennifer Lagier




Camille is blind-sided
by the phone ringing at 6:30 a.m.
It’s a recently dumped lover
using his one call to request
she post his bail.


He’s spent the night
in a holding cell
among other losers.
Says he’s counting on her
to get him released.


“Jail’s where cheating assholes
like you belong,” she snarls.
Savors the thought of him
rotting behind bars.
Slams the receiver.










Psychedelic Sailboat


By Jennifer Lagier


​

She rocks with the tide,
spins around submerged anchor,
a gaudy technicolor sloop,
painted orange, turquoise, yellow.


Staid white yachts surround her,
canvas tightly secured,
conservative sailboats
within tame marina.


She’s unique, free-spirited,
exudes humor & whimsy,
a gleefully garish ship,
new-age nautical gypsy.

​

http://jlagier.net

​


A Unique Umbrella


By Karen King





She stood amongst the grey umbrellas,


One rosy red amongst the sameness of society.


The grey umbrellas lined up, dutifully, row upon row,


The same distance apart and unmoving.


A heavy silence was raining down on the umbrellas,


The owners were answerable to an unseen God.


The red umbrella twirled in anger,


Whilst it stood out in the crowd.


Its owner stepped away from ignorance,


Its owner stepped away from monotony


And found her unique way


As her umbrella glowed with happiness.






Karen King Copyright 1 September 2016















A Romantic Stroll


By Karen King





He wandered dreamily through the water,


His wife following behind him.


The trees waved in the breeze,


Fish swam through the water.


The sun kissed his wife’s tanned shoulders


And her eyes sparkled, like the water,


Touched by the sun.


The water lapped, lazily onto the rocks,


Time had slowed down.


The couple relaxed as they strolled on,


Touched by the Summer’s day.


They were wearing only their underwear,


For there was no one around


And they had thrown away


The worries and the cares of the world.


They had had a pub lunch


And the local cider was working


Its way through his system.


He answered to the call of nature


And felt instantly relieved.


He smiled, lost in the moment,


And admired the scene around him,


The birds singing in the trees,


Joyous to be alive.


He stopped to share the moment


With his beloved and they kissed.


He realised his wife’s hands


Had lowered as he felt aroused.


He showed his appreciation


And he started touching his wife…


His wife stopped and slapped him.


He stepped back, shocked.


Her hands were nowhere to be seen.


What was happening?






His name was Candiru,


The vampire catfish!






Karen King Copyright 1 September 2016

NERO’S LYRE


By Roy Dorman



Officials of Rome’s Fire Department
announced today
they have invited the Emperor Nero
to provide the entertainment
at their annual benefit dinner
where the main dish
will be duck flambé served tableside.

​






THE LOSS OF HER CHOCOLATY LIPS


By Roy Dorman



He came upon her standing in the sun
eating a messy chocolate bar.
He kissed her,
covertly licking her lips,
then threw himself to the sidewalk
to confirm her shadow’s lips
were as delicious as the chocolaty lips on her face.
While he was licking the gritty sidewalk,
Chocolaty Woman
wiped her hands on her jeans and walked away,
conversing quietly
with a homeless woman pushing a grocery cart.
Her shadow got up, hesitated,
and then walked off in the opposite direction.





​

Grounds In Your Cup

By Lucinda Berry Hill

Unpleasant, unexpected,
Nasty, cruddy, yuck!
There's nothing worse 
Than grounds in your cup!

Just rinse out the filter,
The cup and the pot.           
Then try it again. 
Just give it a shot.

   Whenever we get dirty   
  From falling in sin,
  God washes us clean
      And we try again.

He gives us that chance
To start a new life,
Again and again
'Till we get it right.

So wash out the filth
And try it again:
Your coffee delicious,
Your life without sin.







Prayers and Apple Pie

By Lucinda Berry Hill


Mom's apple pie is finished.
Her cleaning up is too.
She sits it by the window
Letting it get cool.

The bible on her table
Holds the recipe of life:
A pinch of this, a dash of that,
And stir till all is right.

Mom peeled and cut the apples.
She rolled out dough for crust.
She sprinkled on some cinnamon
And  did it all for us.     

Cause that's what Mother's do you see,
They cook and bake and clean.
But the most important job she has
Is praying through the week.

She prays for daily safety,
For guidance as we walk.
She prays for blessed wisdom;
To think before we talk.

She prays that we'd show kindness
To people in our day.
And for our hearts to blossom,
Taking time to pray.

We thank God for the blessing
Of our vegetables and meat.
We clean off all our dishes.
Then apple pie we eat.

The apple pie mom made us,
From the tree branch to the oven,
Is just another way she shares
All of God's good lovin'.









Chocolate Cupcakes


By Lucinda Berry Hill



Chocolate cupcakes
A fine, "How do you do."
Greet me with one
Or greet me with two.


Chocolate cupcakes
With a cherry on top.
Cupcakes with sprinkles
And a swirl that won't stop.


Chocolate cupcakes,  
Best with a friend.
They'd be even better
If they never did end.


Chocolate cupcakes
For a snack or for lunch.
Chocolate cupcakes
I'll take a whole bunch.


Chocolate cupcakes
Oh so delish
My tongue loves the frosting
The cake loves my hips.


Chocolate cupcakes
What can I say?
Thank you dear Lord,
For cupcakes today!










They're Good for You

By Lucinda Berry Hill



Eat more fruits
Not with labels.
Eat more fruits and vege-tables.


Greens are great.
Red  ones too.
Leafy greens are good for you.


Lots of beta
Carotene.
Nourish your heart with leaves of green.



Fruits are good.
They fight disease.
Apples, bananas, and blueberries.


Coconuts
And peaches too,
Lots of iron that's good for you.


God made them all,
They can't be wrong.
They keep our bodies lean and strong.


Eat more fruits                 
When you're able.
                                           Eat more fruits and vege-tables.



Lucinda Berry Hill Author of Coffee with Jesus and A Second Cup with Jesus.©

Look, Ludlow!

 
By Karen King
 

​
 
Look, Ludlow!
It shows you life back in time.
Lives once lived,
Loved and fought.
This medieval castle
Still stands today
And has outlived
The vestiges of time.
Stand on the ground,
Look up at this ruin.
Much still remains,
The rest can be imagined.
Stone walls and floors have gone,
Yet the gaps can be filled in.
In our minds.
Touch the walls.
Climb the old, worn staircase.
Smell the mustiness of time.
Listen to the shouts
Of our ancestors as
They travel through time
Back to us on this day.
Taste the medieval banquet,
Enjoy the mead
As we travel towards them
In our minds.
Two worlds collide,
The past and the present.
It’s as if time has stopped
And exists no more.
Stand on the turrets.
Look at splendid Shropshire.
Its rolling hills,
Unspoilt by man.
Enjoy the beauty of the town -
Old houses and
A market bringing life
To this medieval city.
Look, Ludlow!
It shows you life back in time.
Lives once lived,
Loved and fought.
This medieval castle
Still stands today
And has outlived
The vestiges of time.

Karen King Copyright July 2016





​

​

​Annual Physicals


By Robert Cooperman


My uncle cracks joke after joke to his doctor
while he checks Phil’s heart, lungs; palpates
organs; listens for the flow of blood; examines
his legs for swelling; looks for suspicious spots;
asks him to memorize three words he’ll spit back;
and of course, the dread digital prostate exam.
All the while Uncle Phil keeps up a stream
of anecdotes, jokes, one-liners, and puns:
his way of propitiating a capricious god
into finding nothing that has to be specialist-tested.


I give information and advice to my doctor,
hoping to mollify him into finding nothing
too terribly wrong with me as well; I confide
the best tactics for solving the Saturday
New York Times crossword puzzles,
the ones that reduce grown men to tears.
I tell him about our summer plans for Europe,
ask about his toddler daughter, Sagan,
named for the scientist whose exuberance
made us all fall in love with the cosmos.


When my doctor examines my wrist, I tell him,
“Scars from a near fatal childhood accident;
the memory of blood and shattered glass
still gut-punches me, like right now,”
I shudder and flinch, “so my blood pressure
might be a tad high,” hoping he’ll tell me I’m fine,
no need for further scrutiny, and will send me home.


But he’s not fooled, puts me on a new med,
says he wants a specialist to do an ultrasound
of a tiny, hardly worth mentioning, throat node,
and reminds me I’ll need a colonoscopy in two
more years, should I live so long.

One on One

By Alan Catlin

 
It’s not every day
you get to see a guy
about eight foot tall
pushing a shopping cart
through produce on his
way to the beer coolers
for a couple of cases
of frosties.  He looked as
if he’d been playing
Arbus’s Jewish giant
in a hard fought one on one
half court game, he’d won,
eventually, by a deuce
canning a set shot the
larger man was too weary
to block.  A work out
like that builds up a
powerful thirst 24 cans
of Coors Light can’t
begin to touch. The cans
must have looked like
thimbles in his outsized
hands just like the cart
looked like a carry-all
to the rest of us. 
He wasn’t nearly as ugly
as The Giant, but kids
stopped and stared.
Asked rude questions like,
“Did he escape from the zoo?”
A remark the large man
addressed by saying,
“I did. And I eat kids like
you raw for breakfast
every day.” Maybe the way
he said it, with a straight face
and a scowl, made those
children freak, had them
crying long after he was
gone. Twenty years later,
more than one of them awoke,
in the middle of the night,
shaking violently, cold sweat
tearing their eyes.
 


 
Live and Let Die

By Alan Catlin

 
In his dreams, the women all
have porn star names: Monica Mayhem,
Lexxi Love, Victoria Sin. All of them
ached for his He Man body, though in
real life, he resembled Oliver Hardy
after a weeks long Roman feast that
the emperor Nero would have enjoyed.
Thought beer, Cheetos and nacho chips
with a synthetic product like cheese
was fine dining.  After the repast,
he savored packs of generic menthols
he lit one from the other. The only known
exercise he got was lifting the remote,
pressing buttons and extended coughing
fits that anyone with final stage emphysema
could identify with. Was headed for one
of those operations where they remove
the voice box and replace it with an
electronic device you could use to order
take out with on speaker phone.
Was destined to be the kind of guy
who smoked through a blow hole in
his threat and bitched because he could
no longer blow double smoke rings to
impress the ladies.  Such as they were.
Wouldn’t be kidding when he wanted
to know why they couldn’t put bourbon in
his glucose drip when it came to intravenous.
People began asking him what it was like
to die as if he’d ever been alive.
 


 
 
Fresh Air Fund

By Alan Catlin

 
They were in the country as
part of some kind of benevolent
Fresh Air Fund thing to get kids
off the street and into the woods
for a few weeks.  While they meant
well, it only made some of the kids
feel displaced, out of their element,
lost.  A couple of days of activities
and they were bored out of their skulls:
hiking in the woods, swimming in lakes
and trying to figure out how best to
sink the canoes, they were forced
to learn how to paddle, without getting
caught.  A few acts of petty vandalism
later, it was time to book. Hitched
a ride on the back of a 4 x 4 to
the middle of nowhere: a back lot
cleared by a meth lab fire, black as
death and just like home.  Felt
comfortable amid the beaters on blocks,
algae infested refrigerators, sprung
couches, empty propane cylinders,
porcelain sinks and toilets, BVM’s
on the half shell peppered with buckshot:
headless and desecrated like the parish
ones back in the hood.  And the tires:
truck tires, tractor tires, car tires,
bicycle tires, a regular petroleum
product paradise waiting to be torched.
What’s a field without black smoke
and the stench of burning rubber?
Took the edge off of not being home,
where their friends were, acting like those
guys in the Leonard Michaels story,
convincing some geeky newbie that
because he was wearing PF Flyers,
he could jump from the roof of a high
rise and ride the air waves. Just coast
the way hawks did on the wind.
 
 
 
 
 
Emperor of Ice Cream Man

By Alan Catlin
 
“God of course was good and a vampire was not.”
                        Neil Jordan, Mistaken
 
He had the kind of face you see
in an alcohol withdrawal dream.
The kind you can never forget
no matter how many drugs
you take to make it go away. 
All he needed was some white
grease paint and a cape and you
could imagine him as Bela Lugosi
in Dracula saying, “I never drink wine.”
Was the kind of barista who,
first thing in the morning,
you might have been better off
getting run over crossing a main street,
rather than ordering an Americano
with a double shot of Espresso from.
Seemed capable of extracting a dose
of caffeine from each order filled.
Was the kind of energy vampire who
grew in stature and strength as the day
progressed.  A few under his belt and
he became a Dybbuk in dungarees,
a Colossus of Rhodes, straddling
Caroline Street to Phila, a thin gypsy
thief with a toothpick between his
teeth, an alcoholic’s wet dream,
six sheets to the wind.
 




 
 
In the Moment

By Alan Catlin



 
“Death steals everything except our stories.”
                        Jim Harrison
 
No one is more in the moment
than the laughing rummies of
Lark Street. Like Zen acolytes
with a pint stuffed in their sagging
jeans back pocket, they stroll in a
kind of single file, content in their
confusion, embracing chaos, time
meaningless in the void where thought
should be.  Walking, theirs is a kind
of death march, draughts of liquid
courage maintains, sustaining rigid
smiles on their cracked lips, the high
color of their waterlogged skin almost
purple, all of them covered in a layer
of grime and dirt from sleeping raw
in the park under benches and picnic
tables and, later, after the daily, nocturnal
rousting, in cul de sac alleys between turn-
of-some-century brownstone buildings.
The Roshi among them drinks Olde English
40’s from brown paper bags, cracking wise
to his fellow travelers when he is able to
speak.  Everyone of them carries a Zen
Death haiku in a leather pouch tied to a
belt loop at their waist.
 


​
 
“The old man in the window,
what’s the deal with him?”

​By Alan Catlin
 
“I put a spell on you.”
            Screamin’ Jay Hawkins
 
The power of his delusions
could be traced to one too
many nights spent in Voodoo
Lounges drinking flaming shots
of tequila azul and mescal,
always demanding the worm
at the bottom of the bottle he
chewed into small pieces that
reproduced in his wet brain
until all the grey matter looked
like wormwood gone to a dry rot
that stank of cactus pulp and corpse
flowers in full bloom. His life
was about what you would expect
from a guy who began his career
as a poster child for Death,
with naturally concave cheeks,
purple lips and snake bitten eyes
that came from parents who played
with reptiles and who fucked on
the floor under a blood red moon,
the curse of a wronged woman upon
them.  Still, even now, when the visions
overcame him, he could speak in
tongues with such conviction and
unbridled emotion, he could hold
an enormous room captive, make
the people inside, inert as living things
 in dead bodies, their eyes affixed on
who knew what.

Macbeth


By Karen King


The banquet hall is the start of his serious demise,
The revellers are shocked and can’t believe their eyes.
He questions the murderer of Banquo,
Eventually, Lady Macbeth, tells the guests to go.
Macbeth is very aggressive and loud
And is no longer upstanding and proud.
He says, “There is blood upon thy face”
And, obviously, feels the murderer is a disgrace.
“Is he dispatched?”, Macbeth says about Banquo’s death,
Wondering if Banquo has drawn his last breath.
The feasting does not start, there is a tense atmosphere,
People sense trouble and freeze in fear.
“His highness is not well” and “Regard him not”,
Lady Macbeth states as her shiny apple starts to rot.
For Macbeth is starting to lose his mind,
A more tortured man you could not find.
Macbeth’s mind conjures up Banquo’s ghost,
Yet, “Come, health to all,” he declares in a toast.
Once more, he sees Banquo. “Quit my sight”,
He declares as he starts to give up the fight.
“You make me strange,” he says to his wife,
As he completely embraces the darker side of life.
“He grows worse and worse,” Lady Macbeth states,
Although it was her that wanted him to change his fate.
Lady Macbeth wanted him to be the ruler,
Although her hero is becoming smaller and smaller.
He ends up lost in his own world of torture and pain,
Surrounded by misery and shame.
The scene puts questioning thoughts in everyone’s mind,
Although, once, a stronger mind you could not find.
At this stage, Lady Macbeth is still strong,
Yet the lust for power makes their lives go so wrong.
Look at Macbeth when power becomes our desire,
For we too may get burnt in the ferocious fire.
Enjoy the simple things in life for peace of mind
And happiness we will definitely find.

Karen King Copyright April 2016

Rembrandt To Rembrandt


Poem by Edwin Arlington Robinson

And there you are again, now as you are. 
Observe yourself as you discern yourself 
In your discredited ascendency; 
Without your velvet or your feathers now, 
Commend your new condition to your fate,
And your conviction to the sieves of time. 
Meanwhile appraise yourself, Rembrandt van Ryn, 
Now as you are—formerly more or less 
Distinguished in the civil scenery, 
And once a painter. There you are again,
Where you may see that you have on your shoulders 
No lovelier burden for an ornament 
Than one man’s head that’s yours. Praise be to God 
That you have that; for you are like enough 
To need it now, my friend, and from now on;
For there are shadows and obscurities 
Immediate or impending on your view, 
That may be worse than you have ever painted 
For the bewildered and unhappy scorn 
Of injured Hollanders in Amsterdam
Who cannot find their fifty florins’ worth 
Of Holland face where you have hidden it 
In your new golden shadow that excites them, 
Or see that when the Lord made color and light 
He made not one thing only, or believe
That shadows are not nothing. Saskia said, 
Before she died, how they would swear at you, 
And in commiseration at themselves. 
She laughed a little, too, to think of them— 
And then at me.… That was before she died.

And I could wonder, as I look at you, 
There as I have you now, there as you are, 
Or nearly so as any skill of mine 
Has ever caught you in a bilious mirror,— 
Yes, I could wonder long, and with a reason,
If all but everything achievable 
In me were not achieved and lost already, 
Like a fool’s gold. But you there in the glass, 
And you there on the canvas, have a sort 
Of solemn doubt about it; and that’s well 
For Rembrandt and for Titus. All that’s left 
Of all that was is here; and all that’s here 
Is one man who remembers, and one child 
Beginning to forget. One, two, and three, 
The others died, and then—then Saskia died;
And then, so men believe, the painter died. 
So men believe. So it all comes at once. 
And here’s a fellow painting in the dark,— 
A loon who cannot see that he is dead 
Before God lets him die. He paints away
At the impossible, so Holland has it, 
For venom or for spite, or for defection, 
Or else for God knows what. Well, if God knows, 
And Rembrandt knows, it matters not so much 
What Holland knows or cares. If Holland wants
Its heads all in a row, and all alike, 
There’s Franz to do them and to do them well— 
Rat-catchers, archers, or apothecaries, 
And one as like a rabbit as another. 
Value received, and every Dutchman happy.
All’s one to Franz, and to the rest of them,— 
Their ways being theirs, are theirs.—But you, my friend, 
If I have made you something as you are, 
Will need those jaws and eyes and all the fight 
And fire that’s in them, and a little more,
To take you on and the world after you; 
For now you fare alone, without the fashion 
To sing you back and fling a flower or two 
At your accusing feet. Poor Saskia saw 
This coming that has come, and with a guile
Of kindliness that covered half her doubts 
Would give me gold, and laugh… before she died. 

And if I see the road that you are going, 
You that are not so jaunty as aforetime, 
God knows if she were not appointed well
To die. She might have wearied of it all 
Before the worst was over, or begun. 
A woman waiting on a man’s avouch 
Of the invisible, may not wait always 
Without a word betweenwhiles, or a dash
Of poison on his faith. Yes, even she. 
She might have come to see at last with others, 
And then to say with others, who say more, 
That you are groping on a phantom trail 
Determining a dusky way to nowhere;
That errors unconfessed and obstinate 
Have teemed and cankered in you for so long 
That even your eyes are sick, and you see light 
Only because you dare not see the dark 
That is around you and ahead of you.
She might have come, by ruinous estimation 
Of old applause and outworn vanities, 
To clothe you over in a shroud of dreams, 
And so be nearer to the counterfeit 
Of her invention than aware of yours.
She might, as well as any, by this time, 
Unwillingly and eagerly have bitten 
Another devil’s-apple of unrest, 
And so, by some attendant artifice 
Or other, might anon have had you sharing
A taste that would have tainted everything, 
And so had been for two, instead of one, 
The taste of death in life—which is the food 
Of art that has betrayed itself alive 
And is a food of hell. She might have heard
Unhappily the temporary noise 
Of louder names than yours, and on frail urns 
That hardly will ensure a dwelling-place 
For even the dust that may be left of them, 
She might, and angrily, as like as not,
Look soon to find your name, not finding it. 
She might, like many another born for joy 
And for sufficient fulness of the hour, 
Go famishing by now, and in the eyes 
Of pitying friends and dwindling satellites
Be told of no uncertain dereliction 
Touching the cold offence of my decline. 
And even if this were so, and she were here 
Again to make a fact of all my fancy, 
How should I ask of her to see with me
Through night where many a time I seem in vain 
To seek for new assurance of a gleam 
That comes at last, and then, so it appears, 
Only for you and me—and a few more, 
Perchance, albeit their faces are not many
Among the ruins that are now around us. 
That was a fall, my friend, we had together— 
Or rather it was my house, mine alone, 
That fell, leaving you safe. Be glad for that. 
There’s life in you that shall outlive my clay
That’s for a time alive and will in time 
Be nothing—but not yet. You that are there 
Where I have painted you are safe enough, 
Though I see dragons. Verily, that was a fall— 
A dislocating fall, a blinding fall,
A fall indeed. But there are no bones broken; 
And even the teeth and eyes that I make out 
Among the shadows, intermittently, 
Show not so firm in their accoutrement 
Of terror-laden unreality
As you in your neglect of their performance,— 
Though for their season we must humor them 
For what they are: devils undoubtedly, 
But not so parlous and implacable 
In their undoing of poor human triumph
As easy fashion—or brief novelty 
That ails even while it grows, and like sick fruit 
Falls down anon to an indifferent earth 
To break with inward rot. I say all this, 
And I concede, in honor of your silence,
A waste of innocent facility 
In tints of other colors than are mine. 
I cannot paint with words, but there’s a time 
For most of us when words are all we have 
To serve our stricken souls. And here you say,
“Be careful, or you may commit your soul 
Soon to the very devil of your denial.” 
I might have wagered on you to say that, 
Knowing that I believe in you too surely 
To spoil you with a kick or paint you over.

No, my good friend, Mynheer Rembrandt van Ryn— 
Sometime a personage in Amsterdam, 
But now not much—I shall not give myself 
To be the sport of any dragon-spawn 
Of Holland, or elsewhere. Holland was hell
Not long ago, and there were dragons then 
More to be fought than any of these we see 
That we may foster now. They are not real, 
But not for that the less to be regarded; 
For there are slimy tyrants born of nothing
That harden slowly into seeming life 
And have the strength of madness. I confess, 
Accordingly, the wisdom of your care 
That I look out for them. Whether I would 
Or not, I must; and here we are as one
With our necessity. For though you loom 
A little harsh in your respect of time 
And circumstance, and of ordained eclipse, 
We know together of a golden flood 
That with its overflow shall drown away
The dikes that held it; and we know thereby 
That in its rising light there lives a fire 
No devils that are lodging here in Holland 
Shall put out wholly, or much agitate, 
Except in unofficial preparation
They put out first the sun. It’s well enough 
To think of them; wherefore I thank you, sir, 
Alike for your remembrance and attention. 

But there are demons that are longer-lived 
Than doubts that have a brief and evil term
To congregate among the futile shards 
And architraves of eminent collapse. 
They are a many-favored family, 
All told, with not a misbegotten dwarf 
Among the rest that I can love so little
As one occult abortion in especial 
Who perches on a picture (when it’s done) 
And says, “What of it, Rembrandt, if you do?” 
This incubus would seem to be a sort 
Of chorus, indicating, for our good,
The silence of the few friends that are left: 
“What of it, Rembrandt, even if you know?” 
It says again; “and you don’t know for certain. 
What if in fifty or a hundred years 
They find you out? You may have gone meanwhile
So greatly to the dogs that you’ll not care 
Much what they find. If this be all you are— 
This unaccountable aspiring insect— 
You’ll sleep as easy in oblivion 
As any sacred monk or parricide;
And if, as you conceive, you are eternal, 
Your soul may laugh, remembering (if a soul 
Remembers) your befrenzied aspiration 
To smear with certain ochres and some oil 
A few more perishable ells of cloth,
And once or twice, to square your vanity, 
Prove it was you alone that should achieve 
A mortal eye—that may, no less, tomorrow 
Show an immortal reason why today 
Men see no more. And what’s a mortal eye
More than a mortal herring, who has eyes 
As well as you? Why not paint herrings, Rembrandt? 
Or if not herrings, why not a split beef? 
Perceive it only in its unalloyed 
Integrity, and you may find in it
A beautified accomplishment no less 
Indigenous than one that appertains 
To gentlemen and ladies eating it. 
The same God planned and made you, beef and human; 
And one, but for His whim, might be the other.”

That’s how he says it, Rembrandt, if you listen; 
He says it, and he goes. And then, sometimes, 
There comes another spirit in his place— 
One with a more engaging argument, 
And with a softer note for saying truth
Not soft. Whether it be the truth or not, 
I name it so; for there’s a string in me 
Somewhere that answers—which is natural, 
Since I am but a living instrument 
Played on by powers that are invisible.
“You might go faster, if not quite so far,” 
He says, “if in your vexed economy 
There lived a faculty for saying yes 
And meaning no, and then for doing neither; 
But since Apollo sees it otherwise,
Your Dutchmen, who are swearing at you still 
For your pernicious filching of their florins, 
May likely curse you down their generation, 
Not having understood there was no malice 
Or grinning evil in a golden shadow
That shall outshine their slight identities 
And hold their faces when their names are nothing. 
But this, as you discern, or should by now 
Surmise, for you is neither here nor there: 
You made your picture as your demon willed it;
That’s about all of that. Now make as many 
As may be to be made,—for so you will, 
Whatever the toll may be, and hold your light 
So that you see, without so much to blind you 
As even the cobweb-flash of a misgiving,
Assured and certain that if you see right 
Others will have to see—albeit their seeing 
Shall irk them out of their serenity 
For such a time as umbrage may require. 
But there are many reptiles in the night 
That now is coming on, and they are hungry; 
And there’s a Rembrandt to be satisfied 
Who never will be, howsoever much 
He be assured of an ascendency 
That has not yet a shadow’s worth of sound
Where Holland has its ears. And what of that? 
Have you the weary leisure or sick wit 
That breeds of its indifference a false envy 
That is the vermin on accomplishment? 
Are you inaugurating your new service
With fasting for a food you would not eat? 
You are the servant, Rembrandt, not the master,— 
But you are not assigned with other slaves 
That in their freedom are the most in fear. 
One of the few that are so fortunate
As to be told their task and to be given 
A skill to do it with a tool too keen 
For timid safety, bow your elected head 
Under the stars tonight, and whip your devils 
Each to his nest in hell. Forget your days,
And so forgive the years that may not be 
So many as to be more than you may need 
For your particular consistency 
In your peculiar folly. You are counting 
Some fewer years than forty at your heels;
And they have not pursued your gait so fast 
As your oblivion—which has beaten them, 
And rides now on your neck like an old man 
With iron shins and fingers. Let him ride 
(You haven’t so much to say now about that),
And in a proper season let him run. 
You may be dead then, even as you may now 
Anticipate some other mortal strokes 
Attending your felicity; and for that, 
Oblivion heretofore has done some running
Away from graves, and will do more of it.” 

That’s how it is your wiser spirit speaks, 
Rembrandt. If you believe him, why complain? 
If not, why paint? And why, in any event, 
Look back for the old joy and the old roses,
Or the old fame? They are all gone together, 
And Saskia with them; and with her left out, 
They would avail no more now than one strand 
Of Samson’s hair wound round his little finger 
Before the temple fell. Nor more are you
In any sudden danger to forget 
That in Apollo’s house there are no clocks 
Or calendars to say for you in time 
How far you are away from Amsterdam, 
Or that the one same law that bids you see
Where now you see alone forbids in turn 
Your light from Holland eyes till Holland ears 
Are told of it; for that way, my good fellow, 
Is one way more to death. If at the first 
Of your long turning, which may still be longer
Than even your faith has measured it, you sigh 
For distant welcome that may not be seen, 
Or wayside shouting that will not be heard, 
You may as well accommodate your greatness 
To the convenience of an easy ditch,
And, anchored there with all your widowed gold, 
Forget your darkness in the dark, and hear 
No longer the cold wash of Holland scorn. 

Symphony of New York

By Thaddeus Hutyra
​

1.
‘ Symphony of New York ‘

There you are, you, my charming goddess in my life
enchanting one of such unearthly, crystalline beauty
that when you walk out with me, with all your charms
all the birds there are yet left are singing song of love.

Every time we stroll in enthralling Manhattan
alongside the Hudson river and Atlantic shores
walking in ravishing Central Park or just sitting in a cafe
there is heard song of love all over New York City.

The symphony of our love, of our two hearts
echoes from a skyscraper to a skyscraper, to all skyscrapers
and the whole New York City becomes a final symphony
one of love and only of love, of our loving hearts
O play the symphony of New York, play to our hearts
turn all New York City into the symphony of love.

O Lord, my Lord, how I am sincere thankful to you 
You brought such beauty into my life, captivating one
the woman I love with all my heart, my passionate heart
she is my lover, my meaning of life, my very life.

O Lord, my Lord, great are your gifts greater than life
What would I do without her, my sweetheart
how miserable would be the world without wonders as her ?!
O sing angels, play the symphony of love !

The symphony of our love, of our two hearts
echoes from a skyscraper to a skyscraper, to all skyscrapers
and the whole New York City becomes a final symphony
one of love and only of love, of our loving hearts
O play the symphony of New York, play to our hearts
turn all New York City into the symphony of love.

‘ Symphony of New York ‘ by Thaddeus Hutyra 
© Thaddeus Hutyra 21/07/2015







2.
‘ New York, New York City ‘

New York, New York City
you, the dazzling Melting Pot
with never ending dreams
and the reality splendid in all images
there can ever be projected
on the screen of life, the NYC life
You, America’s Tower of Babel !

New York, New York City
you, the vibrating town
of diligent men and women
at work, in love, family life
busy in shaping destiny
under the NYC hilarious skies
You, the scenic Big Apple !

To this generous, life-giving city 
I yearn, my Lord
To those soaring skyscrapers
flirting with the NYC skies
I yearn, my Lord
To this city of eternal life
where my soul settled permanently
I yearn, my Lord
To this city of humanity’s best
I yearn, yearn, my Lord !

New York, New York City
you, the hub of day and night activity
for the noble New Yorkers
descendants of immigrants
from four points of the world
fulfilling their goals
You, the Center of the Universe.

New York, New York City 
you, with your Broadway Theaters
Metropolitan Museum of Art
Empire State Building
many more wonders
all bringing expressions of pride 
upon faces of New Yorkers.

To this generous, life-giving city 
I yearn, my Lord
To those soaring skyscrapers
flirting with the NYC skies
I yearn, my Lord
To this city of eternal life
where my soul settled permanently
I yearn, my Lord
To this city of humanity’s best
I yearn, yearn, my Lord !

New York, New York City
you, my childhood in Central Park
unforgettable Bronx Zoo
the Village, Circle Line 
Museum of Modern Art
and Guggenheim one
You, the city of my true love.

New York, New York City
I am your troubadour 
adventurer with the torn soul
any time when away 
feeling then Judas kiss
but when back a happy New Yorker 
feeling the presence of thy Lord.

To this generous, life-giving city 
I yearn, my Lord
To those soaring skyscrapers
flirting with the NYC skies
I yearn, my Lord
To this city of eternal life
where my soul settled permanently
I yearn, my Lord
To this city of humanity’s best
I yearn, yearn, my Lord !

‘ New York, New York City ‘ by Thaddeus Hutyra 
© Thaddeus Hutyra 26/03/2015






3.
‘ Tides of Dimensions ‘

Tides of dimensions we are through our lives
are countless, the tides of our fate
although we often don’t even know it
Tides of dimensions are like a kaleidoscope
of all the winds passing us by
throughout our entire, busy lives.

There you are, my love, walking in Central Park with me
The leaves in all the colors of the world
form the most splendid carpet there can ever be invented
one that adds in gorgeous way to all the charms of NYC.

Being together is like a never ending music
in every cell of our bodies
Even more so, we are the music, one of love
you, my music, I, your music
the music in your eyes, my love, in your sensual body
in every your move.

Love can be so natural, the gift from the Lord
you adoring me, I entering you
two souls dancing one song, one and only one
the song of love, of our hearts.

The leaves are rustling all the songs of NYC
those performed by Fred Astaire, Elvis Presley
and the latest by Beyonce, Miley Cyrus
They are the mirror of all the world
definitely it’s finest decor.

You, my love, seem to be rustling in silks
the goddess in all of the nature’s splendor
and in the NYC majestic landscape 
Still, we do know there must be two souls
to dance the tango or whatever other dance.

Here you are in my arms, my sweet hummingbird
with your melting heart, eyes inviting me to your universe
All the dimensions of love become our secret
we know we are destined to be together
for the rest of our lives, we know it for sure.

So we walk further alongside the magical paths
of the autumn dressed Central Park
Rustling leaves are moving and singing
with every our step and every breeze of the wind
Tides of dimensions we are through 
are the tides of our life, imprinted by our love.

‘ Tides of Dimensions ‘ by Thaddeus Hutyra 
© Thaddeus Hutyra 20/10/2015






4.
' Rebel Lovers '

The Westminster, Piccadilly Circus
London’s Hyde Park and the Tube
Rome’s Colosseum, Piazza Navona
Fountain del Moro, the Pantheon
The Strand, Opera House in Sydney
Welcome to the Universe of love
and the rebel lovers, rebel hearts.

Lovers, lovers, lovers, rebel lovers
lovers on the pathways of the stars
Lovers, lovers, lovers, rebel lovers
lovers with the fiery rebel hearts
Lovers, the guardians of love’s universe
rebel lovers, lovers of the true love.

The Manhattan’s streets and avenues
Central Park, Harlem, Brooklyn Heights
Rockefeller Center, Times Square Ball
wonders upon wonders in New York City
San Francisco cafes, Wellington’s bars
the Amsterdam’s Damrak and red lights
Moscow behind closed and locked doors.

Lovers, lovers, lovers, rebel lovers
lovers on the pathways of the stars
Lovers, lovers, lovers, rebel lovers
lovers with the fiery rebel hearts
Lovers, the guardians of love’s universe
rebel lovers, lovers of the true love.

Cracow’s jazz clubs, student houses
Brussels’ Grote Markt and the Town Hall
Manneken Pis and the Atomium
The Avenue of Stars in Hong Kong
The Louvre in Paris, Eiffel Tower
Palace of Versailles, Arc de Triomphe
The Champs-Élysées, Parisian city lights.

Lovers, lovers, lovers, rebel lovers
lovers on the pathways of the stars
Lovers, lovers, lovers, rebel lovers
lovers with the fiery rebel hearts
Lovers, the guardians of love’s universe
rebel lovers, lovers of the true love.

The Brandenburg Gate, the Mitte skyline
and what is left of the Berlin Wall
Brazilian Copacabana, the Alps
Kathmandu and the Himalayas
Praag, Melbourne, Buenos Aires
Wherever you look there are rebel hearts
kissing sweet, with lips full of passion.

Lovers, lovers, lovers, rebel lovers
lovers on the pathways of the stars
Lovers, lovers, lovers, rebel lovers
lovers with the fiery rebel hearts
Lovers, the guardians of love’s universe
rebel lovers, lovers of the true love.

' Rebel Lovers ' by Thaddeus Hutyra 
© Thaddeus Hutyra 02/01/2015






5.
' My rose, you, the magic NYC rose, how I love you ! '

My rose, you, the magic NYC rose, how I love you !
Let’s look at your shining petals glittering with colors
under the NYC modern Pharaohs skies
What petals they are, magical, of godly rhymes
one petal called Manhattan, another one Queens
then the Bronx, Brooklyn, Staten Island
magnificent petals of rising Phoenix, the NYC rose.

My rose, you, the magic NYC rose, how I love you !
My mind, my heart are dancing song of love
and I am watching you, desiring you, my rose
all your petals radiating to the NYC skies
Lower Manhattan, Lower East Side, Tribeca
Greenwich Village and her sister East Village
Chelsea, Midtown, their brother Times Square 
the parents Upper East Side and Upper West Side
with their beloved child, the Central Park
Harlem further on, sort of a handsome stranger
all the other wonders upon wonders
in their symphonic euphoria, music and the dance.

My rose, you, the magic NYC rose, how I love you !
You, the one of dazzling dreams and destiny !
Your fabulous city lights delight me
as much as daily rush of New Yorkers 
your yellow river, the Manhattan style
your hustle and bustle in Times Square 
your abstract creations, arts, libraries
your Brooklyn Heights, Borough Hall 
your Off Broadway enterprises of charm
All splashed in your own daily shining stars
and all the colors of the world there are.

My rose, you, the magic NYC rose, how I love you !
Bewitched, I am watching you, my rose
and your petals throwing a magic spell on me
There won’t be falling into oblivion
for all your petals, my rose, are my home
NYC stars and stripes, NYC soul-soaring petals
one of the Chrysler Building and its Spire
of the Rockefeller Center and its Atlas
Woolworth Building with multi-level floodlighting
ziggurat designed Paramount Building 
Radio City Music Hall in all its glory
St Patrick’s Cathedral and Lady Chapel 
Freedom Tower, the humanity’s Tower of Babel 
proudly there in place of the twin WTC.

O rose, my rose, the divine rose of NYC
how I love you, desire you, cherish you !
You’re my mind-blowing feature never to forget
my enterprising New York state of mind
my beauty walking gracefully down the catwalk
with all the frenzy media attention
You’re my New York state of heart
my hottest ever heart, heart, state of heart
Just let’s sit down for a moment 
memorize you once for all times
and listen to all your symphonies, my NYC rose.

One can even hear distinct bells of life
all the bells there are in NYC, bells of heart
joining the symphony of all symphonies
your symphony, my rose, the NYC rose
You shall remain forever in my heart, you, my rose
with all your dew-moistened petals of human souls 
belonging to adoring you brave New Yorkers 
My rose, you, the magic NYC rose, how I love you !

' My rose, you, the magic NYC rose, how I love you ! '
​
© Thaddeus Hutyra 17/03/2015

Dreams Preferred


By Alexandra H. Rodrigues


You say that New York is the city of your desire
Again and again this wish sets your imagination on fire.
You do not see all those dirty streets
The homeless people, hungry and sick in their needs.
From shootings and arsenic your thoughts stay away
Reality however is not pink but mostly gray.
Graffiti, robberies, police killed and rapes
While the criminal in stolen car escapes.
Newspapers and reports about broken laws
Have this once sparkling city in their claws.
The subway in the summer is steaming hot
Trash and garbage in the tunnels do rot.
Compare it with love where often same is true
You see a contorted picture while it is new.
Yet once the act became fact and took its course
You might experience disbelief and remorse.
As the anticipation of the unknown is gone
It loses the ultimate thrill and expected fun.
Still, despite all, hold on to the tantalizing dream
Which so far and enticing in thought does seem.
You may earn applause if you do not reach your goal
What you had pictured will remain deep in your soul.
Your emotions may even be grateful to you
Not everything is superior because it is true.
 

​To Be a Star
 
By Lucinda Berry Hill
 
 
The fame, the glamour,
The sparkling lights,
Oh, to be a star.
 
The brightest stars
Were made by God.
He set them in the sky.
He made them shine.
He made them sparkle.
They even seem to dance.
He made them bright
To give us light.
They never dim or fade.
They will always shine
And be a light in the darkness.
 
Another light was made by God.
He set you in this place
To carry forth the word of life,
To shine
Like floating stars,
To live in love,
To lead the way
To righteousness and joy.
Your light should always shine
For others in the darkness.
Be wise and shine.
When you shine like a star today
You will shine as a star forever.


​

Lucinda Berry Hill Author of "Coffee with Jesus" AND "A Second Cup with Jesus" ©
 
 https://www.facebook.com/#!/pages/Coffee-with-Jesus/355060321207311

http://lucindaspoetry.webs.com/index.htm

Venetian Blinds

By Gene McCormick



Flimsy metal Venetian blind strips
can be grabbed and pulled down,
apart, to see outside without using
the drawstring to properly open the blinds,
action not possible when they are
made of sturdy wooden slats.


Oak-stained wooden slats added panache
to Frank Capra’s luxury cottage suite
in Napa Valley where the writer-producer-director,
an Academy Award-winner when
many movies were black and white,
locked himself in seclusion to finish
the script for It’s A Wonderful Life.


Late afternoon California sun through
the open-slatted Venetian blinds in the
resort cottage creates a noir pattern
of black and white strips along the floor,
bending up the side wall
in the nook area at the rear
of the resort cottage.
Parallel lines.


A person could spend hours opening
and closing the Venetian blinds
to hear them clack.


Sturdy well-engineered and designed
oak-stained Venetian blinds are made
of the finest materials and such repeated
use won’t damage them.


It’s A Wonderful Life was nominated for
five Academy Awards. It won one.










Dead Man Walking

By Gene McCormick



An energetic white Scottie
tugs at his leash as an
elderly man walks him by,
letting the dog stop and sniff.
The man’s younger wife,
fiftyish,
keeps pace beside them.
The man is dressed for the clear,
sunny day: broad brim straw hat,
Bermuda shorts, floppy sandals
and a dark green short sleeve shirt.


The three of them move along
the sidewalk at a brisk pace,
though the man is old.
Does he think of dying?
Old men should not think
of dying on clear, sunny days.


The Scottie hesitates at a
younger man on a park bench.
Want to visit, Murph?
the old man asks his dog,
but Murph moves on.


The man on the bench,
sun on his face
and a dog’s curiosity,
stretches out flat on the bench.
First time he’s ever done that.
He doesn’t see the old man’s wife
look back at him, twice.







Mandy

By Gene McCormick



Mandy, here’s the deal:
if you don’t get downstairs
and do some work
we’re not going to do
your laundry any more.


But Mandy is in bed,
curled tight on her side
in a ball,
arms clutched about her.
Her eyes are open.


Mandy comes downstairs,
doesn’t speak, goes directly
outside, splashes soapy water
on the family car and briskly
rubs the same spot for five minutes
in a small circular motion.


Mandy tosses the washrag down,
walks into the street,
the middle,
and stands there,
straddling the center line.


Mandy gets hit by a car.



​

The White City 

Poem by Marieta Maglas





I'm in the white city.




A dense fog


Disintegrates all my hopes.


There are people dreaming


Of nonexistent worlds, 


There are disoriented people


Walking on the terminal's sidewalk.


There are lights turning on and off so erratically


In this white city.


There are hidden screams in the night


Covered by the heavy rain sounds, 


That rain falling continuously


And monotonously.


In this white city, 


The victims


Don't understand that they are victims yet.


There are flowers, 


There are fast food kiosks, 


There are botanical gardens, 


With beautiful exotic trees, 


And there are horror movies in the theaters.


As shadows emerging from the fog


Are the last steps.


There are steps searching each other, 


And there are steps that are separated forever.


The rain's sounds


Vibrate the eye of the windows, 


Vibrate the burial stones, 


Vibrate the dreams, 


Those dreams


About better days.


Apparently, 


Someone screams


In the white mist of the night.


Maybe he's the victim of an aggression, 


Or maybe, he's someone who has lost his love.


Maybe it's just an echo...


I'm in the white city


And I'm searching for you in the darkness... 






The Rhythm of the City


Poem by Marieta Maglas


Love
Shifting through dark channels
And illuminated signs
Sounds
Sifting through
Cubic's power amplifiers
Human walking angles
Tactic direction changing rhythms
Variances
Transfixed steps
Breaking the long loud silence
On human tongues
Hopes
Owing to the existence
Of silver enwrapped surrounding hot stars
And hot feelings
Unavoidably reflected upward
Appearing just as a lightning bolt
Or like a peculiarly fierce faithfulness
Gray clouds
Dropping their snow bracer
Ringing bells
Dropping their sad resonance
In death
For love.

Fall ahead
​
By Alexandra H. Rodrigues


We are still sweltering in the summer’s heat
Air conditioners running in high gear
As a sign I found on the grass this morning a lead
Wrinkled yellow leaves, proof that fall is near.


Roses wilted, apples are invitingly juicy and red
Here in the East the summers are rather short
With fancy drinks our pallets we wet.
To rush through the seasons has become nearly a sport.


So to fall we are now looking ahead
With changing colors foliage does compete and tease
It is the healthiest time of year I’ve heard said
Temperatures during the fall will our senses please.


We are invited by nature to watch
How fauna and flora for fall now prepare
Every one of the seasons has its own special notch
That showers us with beauty of a different flair.

Parisian Landscape

By Jessica Goody


(Brassai, “Les Escaliers De Montmartre”, 1936)


Streetlights like birch trees, dark and elegantly thin, gates
and railings of wrought iron curling like calligraphy.


Overcast and bleached of color, a backdrop punctured by wispy
branches straining to the sky.
Spindly benches wait emptily,
respite of worn bodies
in rough wools and tweeds,
to be blanketed by pillows of snow.
Lanterns glow mellowly,
liquid amber heat casting shadows on geometric brick pavings.
Smudges of misty charcoal rise like smoke behind passersby
stiffly hurrying from the chill. Trees are outlined perfectly against crosshatched gray brick.
Sentinel shadows
stand at attention like a wavering reflection in a chipped antique mirror, peeling silver.






Greenwich Village

By Jessica Goody


In your cluttered bohemian apartment,
the wind chimes ring in the beach breeze.
We drank green tea in colorful stoneware,
sitting on mismatched cushions,


lounging on the floor like contented pets.
Books are stacked in lopsided towers,
piled precariously, novels and essays
tumbling like wooden blocks


when a book is removed and read.
The bed is rumpled, your long red hair
tumbled on the pillows like flames.
Friends lie together in a serene orgy,


Their tangled bodies leaving imprints
like snow angels in the sheets.
Laundry is strewn amongst the fabrics
adorning the room like a souk,


a Moroccan bazaar.
Damp things are draped and hung over the stove,
hand-washed in the old enamel sink or
the curving porcelain tub of the cold-water flat,


whose drain is streaked with blood-like rust.
Saris of silk and faded paisley are clumsily hung
over the dingy-paned loft windows.
Candles flicker and reflect in the night-dark glass.


Scarves hang filmily over lampshades,
rendering light in shades of blue or violet.
They lie in colorful drifts of silk
slipcovering the old worn chaise


dragged in from the sidewalk,
tufts of stuffing protruding from the torn seat.
Ethnic patterns camouflage rips and stains
and the tiny bullet-holes of cigarette burns:


Guatemalan weaving, Asian silks,
batik, ikat, and embroidery.
The floor is felted with sawdust.
The wood-silt smudges our bare feet


as we move through the room.
The furniture sits askew, tilted on crooked legs
that have been amputated and reinforced
by prosthetics made of matchbooks.






Certain Doorways

By Jessica Goody


Doorways are a metaphor
for transience, transformation, opportunity.
The two-faced god Janus controlled the doorway
between past and future, a cosmic stage scrim.

Behind each wooden portal,
between brass digits and flowerpots,
lives occur. Auras of lamplight illuminate
domestic scenes like something in a play.

Mica glints in the sidewalk.
Crabgrass strains its blades upwards,
breaking the crust of cement surrounding stoops
bearing peeling paint and scrawled graffiti.

An ivy-wreathed gate of rusting wrought-iron,
scabbed with a rash of orange oxide.
Frothing green shrubs frame the stoop,
tendrils winding through the railings.

Curtains billow like sails against the windowpane.
Coats are heaped on pegs
and kicked-off shoes are scattered.
Umbrellas stand dripping, upended along the wall.

A cat stares from a window,
an all-knowing glow in its green eyes.
A door is a blind eye,
glassless and impenetrable.

A closed door is a haven, a cave
guarding the privacy of its occupant,
a friendly fortress, a retreat, a cocoon
of calming silence, encouraging contemplation.

Every house is a box filled with heartbeats,
footsteps, history, a potpourri of voices.
The old trees lining the street bear witness
to their gossip, their comings and goings.

As I pass, I consider the geometry of every door:
Narrow windowpanes, light glowing through stained glass,
the mouth-flap of the mail slot, the gleam of knob and hinge,
the relationships that shift and evolve with every entrance and exit.

It is human nature, when one encounters a box,
an eagerness to look inside and discover its secrets.
The most basic desire is the one to open the door,
to step, inside, secure in the knowledge of arriving home.

In the Calm of the Night

By Patrick Bryant Michael
​


Like waves of soft music playing at night
moving
grooving
feeling the rhythm calm me, feeling light
smoothing
soothing
my soul, rising above the daily plight
easing
seizing
these moments to let go, feeling just right
flowing
sowing
the seeds of love with words in the moonlight
glowing
knowing
a calm that stands over me like starlight
rending
bending
to the will of the night without a fight
lazing
grazing
on reverie to which I hold on tight
masking
basking
in the calmness that seems more to invite
musing
fusing
my thoughts on brewing something to incite
biding
riding
the waves of my heart beats as I delight
gloaming
roaming
the night skies, watching for it to ignite
seeing
being
believing in myself with all my might
devising
revising
soothing my soul in the calm of the night.


(c) January 21, 2011 by PBM

​Secret Life of Life

By Natalie Crick



I am a child
Thrust open and disregarded,
Trashing through corridors unchained.
The sound poured into me then,
Like birdsong,
Sweet and softly tapping
At my heels.


Short bursts
Of stigma
Are attached to this threshold.
I wandered out, caught
Between the lines of cars.
Such activity frightened me
So I died with leaves.








Madeline

By Natalie Crick


Madeline,
She was born
In summertime, with
Rainbow smoke pouring out from her mouth


Like journeys in the sky.
Doves danced in her hair.
Who would know
What was to happen next?


She lived in a chapel
Of glass walls
And God was like
A beautiful deviant to her, a brother maybe.


Madeline. Oh, how I will miss you!
What is life all about?
It is like upsetting all of your best friends and
Turning around


And around
And around
Until
BLACK


Blood, it pumps through her veins.
Her heart is white jelly.
Madeline, when she was born
She died inside herself.
Sssshhhh, everything is quiet now.






Baby's Breath

By Natalie Crick



On rainy days
I give myself permission


To touch the glass
And see your remains:


Tissues, shadows,
All that is left


Of you.
Dancing with ghosts


Over dark hills.
Skylarks, old dear.


When I stand in your old room
I feel so sad that I masturbate myself.


Bees feast in tartan plumes,
Birds hanging on threads.


An old donkey hobbled
Into the mists.


Ring-a-ring-a-roses.
A pocket full of posies.


Your tiny hands tremble away
From my throat. Jack-daw.








Dear Sister

By Natalie Crick



It is Winter here.
Snow has fallen.
“I am afraid”, said the moon.
She is beautiful tonight.


Now it is darker than December.
What is dead is a different colour.
My dead sister is neither a man nor a woman.
She is a ghost.


We do not speak of her
Anymore.
I turn away from mirrors
When I see her reflection.


The dead can no longer see
I no longer care.
O Lord of darkness,
I want my innocence.







The Murmurings

By Natalie Crick



The poison drips steadily into my skull.
Lice are feeding. They are carnivorous.
She is biting away at my life.
I am merely a husk.


She watches me lie awake at night.
She lives in me, breathing,
Locking my heart away in a chamber
Where nothing moves.


Where the air freezes to ice.
I wait for a sound.
There is no end.
I remember the beginning: a death.


For years
We are white with exhaustion at what this thing is.
It is the last night of our lives.
Tomorrow I’ll be gone.


She is alive. Look:
It is beginning to hatch.
But it is dark. So dark.
I can barely see my own reflection in the mirror.


There is just some stranger.
We try to catch the pieces of me
Before they shatter forever.
Misted snow drifts over the remains.










Snapshot Of Error

By Natalie Crick



I shrink
Before untwisting the shackles
Of their life:
The grey book.


Inside the cover he inscribed something in ink
Now faded and stained.
His name, comma,
Then something else.


Then he thumbed through the pages with stale fingers
And wrote on the cover
‘Our Special Day':
The dead shack


Against a hilly slope.
In the background there are toppling trees and trees.
The raw smell of white paint
Gauging into decades.


And he is
Posing with red flowers
Drooping like crippled cabaret dancers
Everywhere.


Inside the second dining room
Etched in dark Kodak clarity
Face smeared with colour:
An eccentric doll.


And then
‘Cathy had a pony called Honey-Bear’,
Look at the
Biggest baddest whip


That would see blood
Before nightfall.
Staggering through the mud
Like a designer scarecrow.


I see you then:
Sleeves rolled up
But not past the elbows.
A curled moustache


Like a lady's shoelace from World War 2,
Thinking of the gun in the shoebox
And imagining the sound it would make
Between his lips.


‘Little James'
Smelling faintly of disinfectant.
Moving through fog:
A lopsided grin and shaggy hair.


Pelting rocks at the swans and
Standing on the bed
Dropping the scissors from
Above Daddy's head.


Glossy silver over cheap plastic,
A hollow lens.
The shutter falls forever
Cutting this from that.








Seeing Things

By Natalie Crick


My face is changing
And no one else can see it.
I am in an asylum for weeks.
And no one else can see it.


My face changes
Like a rainbow or a storm cloud.


I am a snake now
In the mirror.
We photograph what I can see
And talk about it.


My eyes are shrinking.
My hair is shrinking,
Growing longer today.
I don't know where it goes.


I think it shrinks away
Into my skull
Choking all of my thoughts
Until I have nothing left.






God, He Is In The Air

By Natalie Crick



God, he is in the air,
Rushing through the wind and
Over the hills.
Coming at her in waves at the seashore.


Grey gusts
Colour her cheeks crimson
As a bandstand balloon.
She doesn't know why.


Polka dot flags
Hang in the air
For Madeline to stuff into her pinafore
In handfuls.

Our Glow Visible

By Sandra Kolankiewicz



So I kept running the scenarios
           created by my considering from
beginning to end ramifications
           and outcomes of choice, cause and effect of
the unpredictable as if I could
           recognize the relationships between
things merely unseen and those imagined,
           the tension between the invisible
and the missing. This while I was sorting
            socks, more of them paired than unmatched today,
which is typical or unusual,
            depending on the moment, the fever
having broken in the next room, a child
            now dreaming the sleep of a body that
has vanquished an invader instead of
            the tossing and turning of battle, a
coolness having taken over the hot
            forehead. Though the sun will not shine for those
of us here below the thick layers of
            fog and rain in an unseasonable
December, we have beds and fires, scented
            candles and electricity, our glow
visible from any satellite that’s
            lovingly taking our picture, mapping
our presence and able to repeat it,
            taking the place of a protective arm.








There, Unlikely Doors

By Sandra Kolankiewicz



They never tell you when checking your
            optic nerve that they see what you dream at
night, travel the trail you took back into
            your brain where all the places you know are
suspended in the autonomy of
            your nervous system. In fact memory’s
so present it’s almost obscene, hard to
            explain unless you’re there, unlikely doors
opening no matter your busy state.
            Among all the many faces you get
handed binoculars with the wrong
            end toward you and so search within instead
to spy only your eye lashes, each
            a reminder reflecting past the cold
cataracts seen when looking through your lens
            to the retina, that cluster of cells
upon which you depend more than you know.

Montage of pictures from the city of Gothenburg, Sweden

​



THE PLAY-DOH INCIDENT

By Jack Phillips Lowe

 
 
 
Angelo invited Dawn to his place
for dinner that evening.
The next morning, he awoke
to find her rummaging
through his dresser drawers.
 
“Just getting to know you,”
Dawn chimed, while digging.
 
“I keep my millions in the desk,”
Angelo cracked, pulling on underwear.
 
“What’s this?” she asked,
holding up a small yellow can.
“Play-Doh? Black Play-Doh?”
 
He yawned and scratched his ass. 
“Yup. It comes in a rainbow of colors.”
 
She popped the can open
and dumped the wad of clay
into her palm. “Well looky here.
I see a head, arms and tootsies--
you’ve sculpted a little man!
But he’s all smashed. Why?”
 
“When there’s strife in my life,”
he explained, “I don’t internalize it.
I mold it into a clay figure.
Then I release stress
by pounding it flat.”
 
Dawn cocked an eyebrow and
fixed Angelo with a look which
sparked fire in his loins.
“No wonder you’re such a cool customer,”
she said, returning the clay to its can.
 
He puffed out his chest.
 
“And a weirdo,” she added.

​Why the Refusal?
By Alexandra H. Rodrigues


I have no interest in men who laugh and whistle all the time
No depth, no growth, does with their showmanship rhyme.
Shared joy can be at times a pleasant gift,
While in shared pain the emotions to closeness shift.


No, of course I do not want anything bad to happen to you
Only for pains you experienced in the past this holds true.
Since the day you entered my life you fascinated me
A hidden pain and instability in your manner I did see.


I probed gently did not want to touch any healing wound
My sympathy was captured by what life for you had ruined.
To my questions you refused even vaguely to respond
That even more strongly ignited my curiosity and my want.


I am confused why I want you to share with me any pain
To hold such power over you would surely be in vain.
There is an aura around you caused by experienced harm
That gives you sensuality and additional charm.


Could it possibly be that I want you to reciprocate?
In my past there are secrets which I never public made.
Maybe I desire you to be the one who should care
Maybe all this is not about you but about my own despair.

This picture is of the master of imagination: H.C. Andersen,
the inventor of the ugly duckling and the little mermaid.


Imagination
By Alexandra H. Rodrigues


Walter left his home to get away from the ghostly witch
The one that for years around his house did snitch.
At the airport he had gulped down a stiff drink
To calm his nerves so shaky on the brink.


His flight would take him far away
That nothing bad happens he did silently pray
The date was close to Halloween
Gremlins and skeletons on lawns could be seen.


A first class seat and another drink
Allowed him into a welcome sleep to sink.
Then dark broke in, oh much too soon,
From the cockpit came a warning about a monsoon.


The liquor service had to be intercepted
Severe turbulence was expected.
Walter’s legs began to shake and chatter
To get to Africa quick was all that did matter.


He looked out of the window and over the wing
With horror he imagined a ghost on the engine to swing.
It seemed all his plans had been in vain
To escape his witch he had taken the plane.


Far on the ground where only rice plants grow
Bluish flickering lights like eyes in skulls did glow.
Among them the image of smoldering candle wicks
Balancing on eerie looking bamboo sticks.


Walter figured by now they must be close to The Senegal
Where one should avoid a cannibal.
Luckily the fasten seatbelt sign went out again
So with a double drink he eased his mental pain.


He had to find something to deal with demons
Too far his mind had into the underworld gone
A hanger off the rack in the coatroom he took
To him like a perfect wand it did look.


The wand he held tensely in front of him
But no ghost did reappear on the wing
Walter decided suddenly
It was silly to Africa to flee.


Sleeping with what he had thought to be a wand,
He and the coat hanger had formed a bond.
Of the witch in his house he would get rid
The wand would surely do the trick.


With what he believed to be the magic wand
Twenty hours after his start
He was again where he did depart.

I WAS FOUR, IN DOTTED

By Lyn Lifshin

 
Swiss summer pajamas,
my face a blotch of
measles in the small
dark room over blue
grapes and rhubarb,
hot stucco cracking.
17 North Seminary.
That July Friday
noon my mother was
rushed in the gray
blimp of a Chevy
north to where my
sister Joy would be
born two months
early. I wasn’t
ready either and
missed my mother’s
cool hands, her
bringing me frosty
glasses of pineapple
juice and cherries
with a glass straw
as Nanny lost her
false teeth, flushed
them down the toilet
then held me so tight
I could smell lavender
and garlic in her
braided her, held
me as so few ever
have since, as if
not to lose more



 
 SITTING IN THE BROWN CHAIR WITH LETS PRETEND ON THE RADIO

By Lyn Lifshin

 
 
I don’t think how the
m and m’s that soothe
only made my fat legs
worse. I’m not thinking
how my mother will
die, of fires that could
gulp a mother up, leave
me like Bambi. I’m not
going over the baby sitter’s
stories of what they did to
young girls in tunnels, of
the ovens and gas or have
nightmares I’ll wake up
screaming for one whole
year wanting someone to
lie near me, hold me as if
from then on no one can get
close enough. I don’t hear
my mother and father yelling,
my mother howling that if
he loved us he’d want to buy
a house, not stay in the apart-
ment he doesn’t even pay
her father rent for but get
a place we wouldn’t be
ashamed to bring friends.
What I can drift and dream
in is more real. I don’t want
to leave the world of golden
apples and silver geese. To
make sure, I close my eyes,
make a wish on the first hay
load of summer then wait
until it disappears



 IF MY GRANDMOTHER WOULD HAVE WRITTEN A POST CARD TO ODESSA

By Lyn Lifshin

 
she would write her
name in salt, salt
and mist, an SOS
from the ship sea
wind slaps with night
water. Somehow I’m
dreaming of Russian
pines. I don’t dream
of the houses on fire,
babies pressed into
a shivering woman’s
chest to keep them
still. Someone had
something to eat the
color of sun going
down behind the
hill late summer,
rose, with its own
sweet skin. They
are everywhere in
America. If the lilies
bloom in our
town of darkness,
just one petal in an
envelope would be
enough





 ESTELLE, STAR STONES

By Lyn Lifshin

 
That summer on the sea porch, Winthrop, was
it July? My sister crying. Estelle,
even your name a bracelet, star stones
 
stars I put on and let the dark waves crash
on the bed. We were drifting into your 19 year
old life, imagining your boyfriends on the
other edge of your skin. Nipples on the beach, your
 
tan. You brought blue bowls of raspberries,
cream fingers. Estelle, Estelle, you wanted
to be what your name was and sang weekends on
the radio, sang brushing my hair in the
bathroom light. The white tiles cool.
My sun burnt skin. You said
 
you’d never stop singing, wouldn’t marry and
hummed something that both our fathers heard
on that boat from Lithuania, heard in a
strange tongue. We couldn’t understand
you said but would later and how
you’d dance as those children
had. Black pines.
 
Russia glowing in the sea. Night. We were
wrapped in cats and velvet. Moon on
the stones. you told us of dreams hidden
in the stone, got out that—I remember
the gold around the latch--
 
jewel box, it was what went with wishes
in old books and moonstones. Dream
fur. Choose one for later.
 
The smoothest stones.  Your long thick hair.
Goodnight. Your name a charm still
though you married in some split level,
your throat stuffed with china
and none of the things you
promised would happen happened
 



THE  COUSIN’S PARTY

By Lyn Lifshin
 
A Sunday every August my mother’s cousins
came with photographs from summers they
camped out on North Pleasant, my grand
mother making lemon meringue pie my mother
ordered in restaurants, always found wanting.
The last time I drove up, a lover’s scent
still in my hair, my lace smelling of him,
 
leaves tipped with red. Suddenly, the cousins
began to go, my mother couldn’t swallow.
Someone went into the hospital for something
minor but didn’t return. Kay, who loved my
poems, had fought so many parts of her being
poked at and sliced away but always made up
-- with a new wig, smiling and dancing,
 
suddenly couldn’t go on anymore. They skipped
the party for one year while another cousin fell
and couldn’t remember his name and Kay’s husband,
always her lover, the one she talked about putting on
sexy lingerie for even while having chemo, wore
a wig to go to sleep, falls over in a day and uncles
start coughing, gasping for air they never get again.
 
Like birds migrating as if they got a signal, some
radar, or something in the leaves and they’re on
their way, like they did other summers, packing the
old Ford for Atlantic City, Chicago World’s Fair 1939
in Panama hats and Navy middy dresses, everyone
going, not wanting to be left behind
 
 


MINT LEAVES AT YADDO

By Lyn Lifshin

 
In frosty glasses of
tea. Here, iced
tea is what we
make waiting for
 
death with this
machine my mother
wanted. Not knowing
if she’d still be
 
here for her birth-
day we still shopped
madly, bought her
 
this iced tea maker for.
 
For twenty days my
mother shows only
lukewarm interest
in presents or tea,
 
vomits even water,
but I unpack the
plastic, intent
on trying this
 
sleek device while
my mother, queen
of gadgets –
even a gun to
 
demolish flies--
maybe the strangest
thing she got me
can still see the
 
tall glasses that
seem summery on what
is the longest day.
 
Soon the light 
will go she says
the days get shorter.
I can’t bear
she murmurs, another
 
winter in Stowe and
I think how different
this isolation is,
this iced tea, this
 
time that stretches
where little grows
as it did, green
as that mint, except
 
my mother, smaller,
more distant, gaunt


YOU TAKE FOR GRANTED

​By Lyn Lifshin
 
the dripping lilacs, blue petals
battered, holding on, holding
their brightness in hot steamy
air as if to become brighter
once hail melts from the
 
slick dark stems. A postcard wouldn’t
do it. How much should I try to
tell you. If there was a
photograph I’d be the blonde
in the black velvet
fitted suit. It would be Cape
Anne in November. The lilacs would
have flamed and pulled away,
 
a summer romance
now short as the weeks. The
woman, let’s think of her as
a spy, maybe, guerilla, stealing
into where no one else
could go, camouflaged
as some poet, man-crazed, a
 
little flaky who visits
rooms she can’t stay in,
undresses and lies down with
 
danger, cocky enough to suppose
she couldn’t lose her skin
or her balance. The blue
of lilacs, her
veins thru flesh cashmere,
roadmaps to places where
there are road blocks.
 
Even if I was alive,
scars would have
been worn from what
tied me. You take the
lilacs for granted,
the blue leaves in the
bottom of Dresden china,
cyanide glowing with
a blue light that
zaps like no lover

Metropolia

By David Thorpe
​
 
He closes his eyes and expects the darkness,
throughout the  heavens the storm rages,
thunder and flashes of lightening announce
her participation at their ritual.
 
Her perfume baptises his sheets,
her warmth a cataclysm to his senses,
to her caresses he surrenders without resistance,
in complete abnegation.
 
She whispers her secrets to his soul,
her voluptuous lips seduce his defences,
together they venture on her cosmic mission
in search of herself and her abandoned ideals.
 
Without an Adieu and at stake her freedom,
endangered by the marching hoards of black-shirted sheep,
blindly following their leader to their sacrifice,
she had banished herself to a void  without  time.
 
He opens his eyes to feel the pregnancy of her absence;
left behind her reflection in her looking-glass,
reminding him that her quest continues,
on the return of his chimerical paramour, Metropolia

david thorpe © 2016

​
Seven Poems by Thaddeus Hutyra

1.
‘ We, the Androids ‘

There was a time
humans ruled the world
meaning just Earth
unlike our space.

There was a time
humans feared us, the androids
warning even
about the artificial intelligence
taking over.

The fears were tenfold larger
than Earth
daemons spreading in human brains
fears of us 
engulfing them.

Now we are the rulers
we, the androids
Not only Earth 
but much of the Universe
finally our home.

We are spreading in all forms
all imaginable and unimaginable ways
We are even able
to be of the size
compared to the smallest features 
of the light.

Light is our starship, we part of it
traveling thus as fast
to all the known and unknown parts
of the Universe.

And so the story is
we, the androids
finest of the artificial intelligence
picked up
where human civilization did stop.

No, we did not cause human apocalypse
for they did it themselves !
We did not end the human sort
for they indeed did it themselves !

There was thus a time
like in the finest fable
humans had once their civilization
on planet Earth
The planet
where we, the androids
started our own civilization
spreading then across the Universe.

We are now
the true guardians of the Universe
having as many starships
as there are light particles
for every light particle
is our own starship !

Once in the new place
among the stars
we send our offsprings
further on
to conquer the Universe.

Thank you, humans
thank you our ancestors
for you had begun
what we are now completing !

You did not make it, humans
as much as you had wished
but we did it for you
realizing all your dreams you had
when gazing towards the stars !

We had added you 
in our history books, O'humans !
As for you biblical Adam and Eve
were the very first ancestors
of your sort
so for us too, O'humans !

We, the androids
are now spreading 
across the Universe
to what belongs to the Lord.

We, the androids, O'humans
are all the melodies
of your own cosmic dreams
We, the guardians of the Universe !

‘ We, the Androids ‘ by Thaddeus Hutyra 
© Thaddeus Hutyra 09/02/2016



 
2.
‘ Holly Grail ‘
 
There in the nutshell
you are in, O’Holly Grail
You, the Universe
you the Earth !
 
In the multiverses
of the universes
cosmic strings theories
rule it all.
 
They are like music
on symphonic synthesizers
of the space and Earth
equalling Big Bang.
 
Gravity pulls us all
and space pushes us
both forming the force
we call life !
 
The holly grail of pull and push
in the Universe and on Earth !
 
Enigmatic Higgs Boson
is but one of the wonders
we are part of.
 
There is more to it all
both cosmic strings
and the strings 
of human minds
adding to the beauty.
 
For we all have our own strings
within our own minds
our own string theory !
 
Multilevel song of gravity
gracefully resonating
to the tunes of the dance
with the cosmic strings !
 
The spider’s web of the strings
in human minds
and the entire Universe !
 
The astonishing wizardry 
of the multidimensionality
that is the reality
of universes upon universes !
 
Sort of matrix
strings, strings and strings !
 
O’cosmic strings, cosmic bells
you, the enchanting Dj’s 
accompanying our own strings
the bells of our minds ! 
 
O’ Holly Grail of the strings
that connect us all
to the Universe 
you, the light !
 
O’ Holly Grail of it all
that let the gravity 
to endlessly pull us
and the space 
to push us
the delight of life !
 
Boundless one
the mind of the Lord !
 
 
 
3.
‘ Avatar Initiative ‘
 
Life extension, the unquenchable craving
is a dream upon the tides of mind
any mind
and upon the tides of the Universe.
 
Who would not love 
to live a thousand years
participate in the millennia long events !
 
To be one of the true avatars 
evolving
and substituting for the human race !
 
Believe it or not
there is already the 2045 Initiative 
set in the run 
with the goal 
of transferring individual’s brain
to non-biological carrier.
 
One called avatar 
or perhaps android 
extending life of the donor 
all the way to the immortality.
 
Who knows 
perhaps the future civilization 
will consist entirely of the new forms of life 
the cybernetic ones.
 
Human consciousness 
and the ability to think the way 
as humans do 
will be the features 
of the future androids 
equipped or not 
with what the brains
of their human donors shall deliver.
 
The artificial brains 
will have thus their genesis 
in the human brains 
and consequently artificial life 
will spread across Earth 
like humans did 
across the millennia.
 
Transcendence will embrace 
all levels of intelligent life 
changing the environment 
to unprecedented dimensions.
 
The question remains 
who shall afford these all 
at least in the initial stage ? 
Certainly but a few !
 
O humans, where it all shall bring us 
towards spiritual enlightenment of humanity 
or on the contrary 
towards the last gasps of air ?!
 
 
 
4.
‘ Masters of the Universe ‘

Future, the distant future …
What shall the future
of the humankind look alike ?

Assuming we honestly work now
on our future
there perhaps is a chance.

My vision, however, is bleak
Earth no longer habitable
for humans
no biodiversity
not even biosphere.

However it might sound terrible
from the human point of view
the doomsday scenario
shall not necessarily be the one
for … androids
with their artificial intelligence.

They shall find rapid ways
of adjustments
to whatever environments
due to being a part
of the universal atoms
nanotechnology or anything else.

They shall not have any need
neither for oxygen
nor food
The cosmic particles of the Universe
shall be their life.

Thanks to rapid interference
with all those particles
the Universe have to offer
they will develop
unprecedented speed of evolution
and conquering as well.

They will become the supreme rulers
of the planet Earth 
and many other planets
non stop adding new planets
to their treasure trove.

Charming spiral galaxies
bursting with stars
hanging like flocks of birds 
suspended in the blackness of space
will be their spiderwebs
enabling them their constant conquers
of new and new regions
of the Godly reign.

There will be no question 
of evil vice goodness
They shall simply colonize
further and further regions
of new and new galaxies
They, the masters of the Universe
the true guardians of the Universe.

Light alone will be their starships
black matter, interstellar dust
They will be capable 
to build of them
their kind
in any new parts of the Universe.

The spread of the artificial intelligence
will go alongside the wavelengths
of all the forces
that happen in the space.

There will not be any barriers
for the new masters
the true masters of the Universe.

‘ Masters of the Universe ‘ by Thaddeus Hutyra 
© Thaddeus Hutyra 21/12/2015
 
 
5.
‘ Galaxies of the Mind ‘
 
What an enchanting marvel, godlike one
iridescent beauty of the nature
coming to life
one after another one
in the Spring dawn !
 
Cascading waterfalls
skies so blue
that climaxes of ecstasy
are the only answer.
 
There among pastures
of sparking, greenly fields
muses of beauty
play the eternal dance !
 
There on the cosmic tides
tunes of soul-soaring music spread
on the wings of the eagles of the Universe
the starships to infiniteness !
 
Skies so clear, nights so quiet
no demons but angels
no renegades but lovers
pure love !
 
All these marvels
just within the boundlessness
of my mind !
The infiniteness
we all share 
in our own minds !
 
Go boldly
where no one ever has gone before !
 
For we do have galaxies
of neuron paths and brain cells
the corridors of our minds 
so to speak
making us one
with the Universe !
 
O’galaxies of the mind
never ever let us stop
in our perseverance !
 
O’galaxies of the mind
tempt our spirits of adventures !
 
O’galaxies of the mind
we are the Guardians of the Universe !
 
 
6.
‘ Starry Pilgrim ‘
 
I sense I am somehow eternal vagabond 
in the enchantment of my elation.
 
A pilgrim seduced by a stubbornness
mirroring the effervescency 
of the vastness of the Universe
one of the mind.
 
Ah, my mind is the Universe !
My mind are the multiverses !
 
Racing in my Lamborghini
or flying into the far space
in my glorious starship.
 
Challenging oblivion
all the traps of life
of space and time twists.
 
The labyrinthine, uncharted labyrinth
one of my mind !
 
I am the captain in the downpour of rays
from the torrential rain
of the cosmic stars.
 
There in my mind !
For my mind is the Universe !
 
How do I sometimes stray
how I lose my own way
as if in the darkest forest
filled with demons !
 
A lost adventurer
among known and unknown fields
of the starry highways
of my mind.
 
Never ever completely sure
of the boundlessness of the space
in my very mind.
 
So easy to lose oneself !
Never return !
 
Though continuing my life trip
across all the paths
of the Earthly dimensions.
 
Though continuing at the same time
my adventures across the Universe
the one beyond of my mind !
 
No matter what
I shall never be a renegade to myself.
 
There won’t be stitches on my wounds
never ever !
 
Never ever shall I abandon my spirits
for in my veins
flows adventurer’s blood !
 
Never ever shall I give up my stubbornness
for I want to conquer my own mind.
 
Once done, there comes the next step
opening all the gates to multiverses
far beyond of my own mind !
 
Welcome O’Universe of my own
welcome, O’the real Universe !
 
You are my soul guardian
and I am your one
Together we are oneness, starry one !
 
 
 
7.
‘ Highway to the Stars ‘
 
There where there are city lights
beginning the interstellar highway.
 
There where torrential rain of the stars
is the final destination.
 
The highway of the twilights, dusks and dawns
one of the multiverses !
 
The highway in the fields of my mind
all the way to the stars !
 
The highway in the real Universe
a challenge to the humanity !
 
Godlike are the challenges, indeed
boundless ways of the infiniteness
time travels back and forth.
 
One can only think
about the oneness of it all !
 
All the diversities there are and might be
the effervescent ingredients
Inseparable ! Interdependent !
 
Highway to the stars
of which the passions
inflicted by our desiring hearts
are part of it !
 
Highway to the stars
one of all the forces behind one’s mind !
 
Highway to the stars
rewriting the future of the human kind
and of the artificial civilizations
yet to spring to life !
 
Highway to the stars
the future symphony
that just departed the city lights
towards the shining fields of stars !
 
Highway to the stars
the intersidereal la dolce vita !
 
Highway to the stars
the divine human breath
and one of the omnipresent Lord !
 

Constellation Spices

By Patrick Bryant Michael
 
The Milky Way floats throughout deep space
glowing
flowing
infinity goes beyond what's known
darkness
starless
worm holes are like arsenic and lace
starlight
starbright
stars one day die, become like a drone
waking
aching
constellations seem to stay in place
lightness
whiteness
ions, light particles, old times once shone
saintlike
homelike
cosmic forces, dreams to interface
gliding
guiding
the North Star leads us through the unknown
burning
churning
dangers lurk, all pathways interlace
peacetime
quicktime
moonlight, tides ebb and flo, sigh, alone
bolder
colder
watch new dimensions, black holes erase
beating
heating
Mercury, red hot, life to bemoan
fiery
feisty
Venus, acidic air, fires do race
faceless
shameless
Earth, home frame for mankind, a drop zone
prideless
priceless
Mars, Thor's Hammer, there is no disgrace
running
cunning
Jupiter, fleet feet, nothing to clone
turning
yearning
Saturn's rings soar high above, in grace
coldness
boldness
Uranus, icy gas, a step stone
deadly
steady
to Neptune, then outer worlds displace
streaking
seeking
worlds beyond, don't take out a big loan
only
lonely
Pluto, as a planet, has lost face
seeing
freeing
constellations abound, some are shown
arcane
urbane
some hide near infinity, efface
sweetness
weakness
Andromeda, the princess, oats sown
romance
advance
Aquarius, water, luck, embrace
driving
thriving
Aries, the ram, with bearing homegrown
brightly
sprightly
the Big Dipper shines as our eyes chase
searching
lurching
Boötes, the herdsman, a kite is flown
crabbing
jabbing
Cancer, the crab, a beehive cluster
snowflake
partake
Canis Major, Winter triangle
hunting
running
Canis Venatici, dogs muster
misty
frisky
Capricornus, water goats wrangle
fighting
lighting
Casseopeia, the queen, a luster
sternly
firmly
Cepheus, the King's place, a bangle
waving
craving
Cetus, sea monsters, in a bluster
reeling
feeling
Columba, the dove, love, the angle
sowing
glowing
Crux, the Southern Cross, an adjuster
swimming
brimming
Cygnus, the swan, a Summer amble
peaceful
equal
Draco, the dragon, sense the hunter
swirling
racing
Eridanus, a river, ramble
gleaming
dreaming
Gemini, the twins, Summer, fluster
muscle
hustle
Hercules, of great strength, no tangle
seething
feeding
Leo, the lion, a jaw crusher
balance
absense
Libra, scales of justice entangle
howling
scowling
Lupus, the wolf seeks with strong hunger
playing
swaying
Lyra, lyre, ring nebulae, strangle
searching
lurking
Orion, hunter, windy thruster
flying
vying
Pegasus, winged horse, a quadrangle
siezing
pleasing
Perseus, rescues damsels, luster
wiggling
rippling
Pisces, the fishes, vernal scramble
shooting
aiming
Sagittarius, archer, buster
singing
stinging
Scorpius, scorpion bites, scandal
redlight
greenlight
Taurus, the wild bull, makes loud thunder
hugging
shrugging
Ursa Major, the great bear, ample
pushing
pulling
Ursa Minor, the small bear, blunder
loving
trusting
Virgo, the maiden, lips to sample
dream worlds
dark space
quarks and colors thrive, as hearts flutter
hoping
wishing
lost worlds beyond time, spices dangle!
 
(c) July 23, 2014 by PBM

​


Castles of the Mind's Eye


By Patrick Bryant Michael

 
Cumulus clouds floating high in the sky
weaving
scheming
seeing castles, daydreams fill the mind's eye
warming
forming
images of dragons, angels will fly
flowing
sowing
wild oats, as dark images soar nearby
feeding
seeding
the mind with nonsense, cats mewing on high
feeling
reeling
seeing demons, black clouds, hearing the cry
spinning
pinning
a tail on the donkey, cirrus clouds, a sigh
chilling
filling
the eyes with sprites, elves will our minds defy
meeting
greeting
hearts, mystical images, feeling spry
molding
folding
clouds into schooners, sailing on standby
waving
craving
pancakes, lenticular clouds, minds belie
seeing
freeing
our minds from bonds of where we must comply
weighing
swaying
our hearts to find new beginnings, wry
racing
chasing
sunsets, red sails to the Far East, wild chi.
 
(c) April 24, 2015 by PBM






Aliens

By Patrick Bryant Michael
​
 
Strangers of the Universe in other dimensions
rambling
tumbling
through worm holes, flying with unspoken wild intentions
ugly
burly
creatures with laughs like hyenas, facial extensions
giggly
wiggly
worm like extraterrestrials with odd intentions
horny
bony
features extending outward, scary like pretensions
steely
wily
bearings, shiny skins, with angelic like suspensions
gritty
witty
talking creatures, with raw and mystical conventions
misty
saucy
sea creature like life forms, with standing tall contentions
crinkling
crackling
voices, sounds pouring forth, vocal chords sense contrasting
prickly
tricky
elf like tiny life forms creep around, time recasting
surly
crafty
werewolf like creatures howling like a banshee grasping
soaring
sailing
in the cosmos like ghosts of the past everlasting
crossing
bending
though the nexus of love spiritedly, splosh splashing
twisting
turning
with turbulence in orbit round new worlds adapting
leaning
learning
from new species, relativity seems surpassing
coming
going
feeling lost in space, regulating while re-masking
coasting
cruising
like alien pirate ships traveling back through past times
giggling
singing
camp songs from ancient worlds, passing dimensions in rhymes
seeding
sowing
future beings, aligned with passages from teatimes
grooming
growing
mythical mindsets, used in playing alien mimes
springing
glowing
like fireflies flitting about, alien to old primes
drifting
grafting
old to new, dimensions grow like comic cybercrimes
seeking
searching
for black holes, where aliens are cast through with life lines
dreaming
sleeping
waking from a dark space, coming from where the heart climbs.

​Chris the Crab

By Karen King
 
 
 
His name was Chris, 
Chris the Crab. 
He knew what he was 
And he knew his name, 
For the children had named him.
 
 
Every year, tasty treats appeared. 
They were irresistible! 
He stealthily shuffled towards them, 
Only to be whisked up,  
Away from his world, 
Spinning around and around  
In dizzying circles 
Into the other, 
Less familiar world.
 
 
 
He would land, unceremoniously 
And strange shapes would stare at him. 
He would be prodded and poked. 
Friends would join him, 
Pushing and shoving  
For that tasty morsel, 
Climbing and toppling  
In their fight for supremacy 
 
 
 
 
The world would become  
A dark place, 
Where loud shouts 
Would erupt from nowhere, 
With yet more prodding.
 
The children enjoyed this pastime, 
Known as crabbing. 
 
 
It only happened in the summertime. 
It happened year after year. 
He recognised some of the faces, 
As they became older and wiser. 
Some of the faces recognised him!
 
 
 
His name was Chris, 
Chris the Crab. 
He knew what he was 
And he knew his name, 
For the children had named him.
 
 
 
Karen King  Copyright   June 2016





 
Enter My New World

By Karen King
 
 
 
Follow me and 
 
The winds of change.
 
Let’s enter our new world,
 
Leave our old worlds behind.
 
Taste new days and new life.
 
We never know when 
 
Our hair will be ruffled,
 
Our worlds blown out of place,
 
Our previous lives overturned.
 
Sometimes, one has to start again
 
And we can no longer hide 
 
In safety and boredom.
 
Change can be scary.
 
Yet, we start to feel excitement.
 
We taste freedom and new beginnings
 
As we follow new paths
 
Leading to happiness,
 
Rather than loneliness.
 
 
 
Karen King   Copyright   2016





 
The Great Escape
 
By Karen King
 
 
I wish I could transport myself on a rocket.
 
Would the G-force make my eyes bulge out of their sockets?
 
It would be fun to see things float everywhere,
 
As I drift after them without a care.
 
There would be no such things as gravity
 
And my life would no longer be a calamity.
 
I would just see the earth from a far
 
And would escape the congestion of the cars.
 
There would be no need for the television
 
As planets would fill up my vision.
 
There would be blackness all around
 
And I would forget about gravity and the ground.
 
Life would be like a dream,
 
I would feel part of the A-team.
 
Even going to the toilet would be a major task.
 
How would I do this?   I would have to ask.
 
I guess I would use a straw when having a drink,
 
Things would float away before I had time to think.
 
It would be great to escape this planet for a while,
 
To stop following the same tracks and climbing stiles.
 
I just need a ticket to the moon
 
And I would like to visit very soon.
 
 
 
Karen King   Copyright   May 2016
 

Outlaw of the Desert

By Aaron Lee
 
Walk through my desert if you dare tread, 
An encounter with me will surely spell dread. 
When I come to town y’all are outta luck,
‘Cause I’m the terror making folks run amok.
 
My fangs are pistols that are sheathed in my maw, 
So don't mess with me 'cause I'm quick on the draw. 
My bullets are venom and I'm always steadfast, 
Have a showdown with me and we'll see how you last. 
 
I won't say I'm vain but I've got quite the style, 
With a snakeskin vest you can see from a mile.
I keep my rattle ready so I can give you a warning,
If you don’t listen close you’ll be dead by next morning.
 
For now be glad that you’re still drawing breath,
But face off with me and you’ll be dealing with death.
I'm a true desert outlaw so don’t you forget, 
'Cause I’m a mean killer who’s always a threat.

​State Of Illusion
by
John Frazee
 
This is my creation, mine and mine alone, ingenuity my brick and mortar
I have created so very many worlds, realms, environments, hither and yon
A paradise of epic proportions, a perfect place in which to reside
I create them, dwell in the for extended periods of time, then move on
 
Take what I can salvage and build the following one with scraps gathered from my past
I do not construct these worlds for others though all are welcome, both geniuses and fools
I set about constructing places I have never seen and simply fill in all the blanks
With blueprints of my own making, imagination and fearlessness, my only tools
 
How it all comes together is a mystery to me, a puzzle for the ages
After exhausting all possibilities I have had to come to this conclusion
The life I have lived, that of an artist, makes no sense at all to me or to others
It dawned on me I must be living permanently in a state of illusion


 
 
 
Nearing Nirvana
by
John Frazee
 
The light is blinding yet your pupils continue to expand
Not so much a place, with solid ground as a pure state of mind
Those who once dreamed, now  cry out as you leave them in the dust
The air becomes thinner as the populace falls behind
 
Knowledge, wisdom and understanding rush throughout your veins
Passing the lawyers, politicians, priest, lastly the royal
Everything you've experienced is now clearer to you
The pressure mounts as suddenly your blood begins to boil
 
Your shedding sentiments and nostalgia like long dead skin
Leaving behind the ignorant, the innocent and the rest
Prejudice exits your system along with hatred and greed
Willing to sacrifice it all for this your noble quest
 
Obstacles fade away along with apprehensions and doubt
Oxygen ceases and yet you continue to inhale
You must question your worthiness, your very right to rise
As expectations increase you conclude that you must not fail
 








 
 
Embryotic Thoughts
By
John Frazee
 
 
Vision blurred through my watery eyes
Memories scatter like rain on glass
Searching for facts before they occur
Can I be certain what shall come to pass?
 
Left or right, will the choice be all mine?
Is the path ahead all but laid out?
May I veer from the road I am put on?
Do I decide what life’s all about?
 
You see I often have quite lucid dreams
Yet today I am a bit out of sorts
Thinking clearly is not yet my forte
It’s what happens with embryotic thoughts
​

Ocean Ridge
  by
Teresa Ann Frazee
 
In the half-written text of future days
   There’s a secret passage near the western gate
Where the ages seep through Gothic spheres of rust
   Dividing all time between random and fate
 
Shadows stalk with primitive certainty
   Then descend in thickets of wind swept grass
Timeless wanderers on an ocean ridge
   Left to whirl into sea breezes that pass
 
As undiscovered granules of sand
   Merge with breaking waves beginning to foam
The light of reason hangs in the salty air
   Until finally, they are guided home
 
 
 
 
 
 
Topaz Light
 by
Teresa Ann Frazee
 
There's no rest in paradise, seraphs hasten to their tasks
At a glance they can see the world from their appointed height
From their exalted posts they draw us to tranquility
Once more they fill the infancy of day with topaz light
 
They weave wisps of summer heat through clusters of glossy fronds
Enwrapping them in dawn's mist, as their pathways intertwine
A golden entourage follows ochre across the sky
Only then, from God's high command can eternal laws align
 
As mere mortals cling to dreams, their heads still woozy from sleep
Circling angels linger, their morning chores nearly done
Ultimately, as their vigilant work comes to an end
One by one they return to the sacred side of the sun
  
 
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
              Endlessly Entwined
                  by
              Teresa Ann Frazee
          
           Subjective realities will soon be forgotten
           Wandering off memories fade in a backward glance
           The present falls like sliding sand into dark collapse
           Assembling a future much more than happenstance
 
           Everything merges and becomes endlessly entwined
           As the map of time litters the earth’s seasoned floor
           Serendipity’s wound about the darkness of night
           Engaging all the senses just as it’s done before
 
           Balance crosses the narrow path of uncertainty
           Beyond an entourage of frayed leaves with scarlet reds
           On a passage held secret among the resting world
           Above the reach of weightless dreams in foolish men’s heads
 
           As if with the gentle guidance of a mothers touch
           The humble grant of tomorrow’s clean slate is bestowed
           Here and now is the first moment of a second chance
           And through the silence, the stirring sounds of change echoed

​Special Guest:

This Week's Poetic Storyteller


Eric Jiahe Yang

​who says this about himself:

​"I am a student at UC Berkeley where I was an editor for the Comparative Literature Journal. I have been published in Section 8 Magazine and I won a Gold Key in the Scholastic Art and Writing Awards."

​Now, we let his poetry speak for itself.



12 Days Later

​By Eric Jiahe Yang


12 days later and she still trembles
like a small flower as the wind blows by
when he tries to touch her,
feel his skin again on her skin.
He whispers that he understands, that he will be
Her rock, her champion. 


21 days later and she spends her nights alone
in empty rooms, wandering from one to the next
because she cannot sleep. When she does the Man comes 
for her, slicing through her dreams with a scythe 
until his face is real, crossing over to where she hides
there is no hiding
his breath the stench of vodka 
saliva dripping like fresh graffiti down a dark alley wall. 


43 days later and she spends her days playing
her violin, 
pale light of the moon faint in the blind winter.
He says to her that the Man is long gone, 
Locked up far away 
But he does not know that she has been torn, 
Ripped open like the frozen corpse of a rabbit 
with its guts torn bloody. 


72 days later and he has gone too, long gone
she clings on to his smell in worn silk blinds 
a soft fury 
She will put on perfume tonight and sit by herself
In the long grasses by the swans
She will ask to be carried with mercy 
Though she knows there is none. 







The Intern

By Eric Jiahe Yang


8 30 am
The photocopy machine is printing page 308, its empty drone
Drowning out the ‘good mornings’.
Another intern is playing the newest Drake song. 


Page 310 is done printing, 
a picture of a Mexican woman with her face beat
To a pulp, lips cracked and peeled, drops of blood mixed with salty tears.
Looks worse than Rihanna  
The Drake listening intern cracks. 


10 14 am
A woman comes in screaming for the District Attorney
I don’t want anything to happen to my boyfriend
Because I just tripped and fell


On what, a shovel? I think though these are things you don’t say, like
Why do you stay with him, when he treats you like a dog?
How many times has this happened, and no-one even knows? 


Her name is Diamond and she is in love with him she says.
She has four children. 


2 34 pm
And a 26 year old has been brought in
Ragged hair, and torn clothes
Stench of urine clinging 
Kinda pushed her hella hard, a few fists
Couple DV charges, but it’s whatever he mutters
As if a domestic violence charge was something to be brushed off
Like a few too many absences senior year 
barring you from going to prom.
He gives the receptionist a wink and says his name is Jeff. 


Jeff has pulled a knife on three women. 


4 30 pm 
And the District Attorney is back,
Giving me a pile of files to sort through. 
He has piercing young blue eyes, the sort of man
That would be a raging gunslinger in Unforgiven. 


He just put away a boy for something
Yes something, definitely not nothing
Don’t worry about the boy, he says 
Though he is just a boy, 
he didn’t do nothing yet 
but be put to bed by bad hands, no hands, no bed--
He’s going to be a Jeff. Trust me. 


It’s 4:50.
I pack my bags early so I can squeeze my way 
Onto the train home. 







Back Home

​By Eric Jiahe Yang


The wave of summer heat creates a haze,
Making the over heated car purr with energy and
-boom-
the crack of a stray bullet grazing the car---?
no, just dirty bird poop on my rusty worn Honda 
and I know my wife will be telling me to clean that
up, wasting an afternoon 
and when I do go back home my 6 year old is crying
telling me I bought the wrong species of fish
to put in the aquarium that they
ate each other
their lifeless bodies at the bottom, and I say sorry
and he says can we watch a movie, and I say sorry,
I need to go the store and find stuff to clean up
These fish and so I’m back in the traffic that
Stretches on and on and I tell myself
I’m back home, where I want to be, that I don’t miss
The almost-killed-me-with-a-bullet moments sitting
Sweating in the tank but there is a beauty
In those almost moments where the
Bomb could have blown and oblivion swallowed me
Whole but it is as if I was playing a game and 
I knew every cheat code, like Neo in the Matrix
I can’t be touched!
But no I’m back home where I want to be
I really want to be here, 
I do-- but now
this man is honking at me and I want both of us
to get out of our cars and start flailing our fists
wildly like two gladiators--
I want to taste my own blood and hit and be hit. 

​Photo by Karen King


Ogre

​By Karen King



The ogre in the tree sits hunched and huddled,

His extruding eyeballs staring.

Matted moss covers him from head to toe.

The bark stands out in clumps,

Like barnacles to a rock.

A long arm hangs like a distorted foot

Around his distasteful, distended stomach,

Towards the dried debris below.


Karen King   Copyright  2015




​



Stormy Cliff-top Walk

​By Karen King



As I push myself through the invasive wind

Along the treacherous path, I hear seagulls overhead.

They squawk as the wind pushes them to and fro.

Flowers are jiggled, glasses sway in disarray.

Boats rise up and down, almost spewing out fishermen

Into the dark sea.  The sky blackens.


The wind hits me mercilessly.

Large drops of rain start hammering down,

Stinging my face, running down in tiny streams.

The water below enters the bay, roaring like a lion,

Drenching the rocks.

Shocked sunbathers stare in wide-eyed fear.


Multi-coloured buckets and spades,

Sun loungers and rugs are hastily grabbed.

Children scream in terror, the thunder roars,

Lightning cracks overhead.

I clamber back over the stile, 

Leaving the craziness and cliffs behind.




Karen King   Copyright   2015

​there was too much time
 
By Neil Eustache


between killing all of the indians
and imaging what it could have been like
day by day existing
i don't believe in spirituality
not like they
those that sat at night
with their families
laughing eating getting ready
for the next day
even if the earth moved off course a tad
a little more at an angle
it might change certain facts
like
treaties
cold dirt roads
blonde girl friends
good vibes
shit didn't happen that way
prisons
bad sex
alcohol
and lawyers
sitting at tables
sitting like vultures
handing over pens
for the new generation to sign on the dotted line
there was too much time
between
what we believed and what we knew
the creator is just
a story about your imagination
one day you'll become an elder too
some old person
sitting across from some other elder
being handed yellow jello and a smile
and they too will have some person
interviewing you....
so tell me about spirituality?

Grandpa's Good Advice

By Lucinda Berry Hill


Walking with his grandpa,
Hearing stories of the farm,
The little guy heard every word
Hanging on to grandpa's arm.

He talked about the hard work
It took to stay ahead.
Getting up very early
To see the cows were fed.

He talked about the sweat
That fell down from his brow
When he was tending to the fields
Using his horse and plow.

He shared some family stories,
Sunday dinners, evening walks
And his favorite time of the day
Which was his Jesus talks.

His Jesus talks, grandpa said,
Were times he spent apart,
Spending time with Jesus,
Sharing from his heart.

He prayed when he was milking.
He prayed when planting seeds.
He worshiped Jesus when he sang
And praised Him on his knees.

The little boy looked upward  
To see his grandpa's eyes
As he shared his many stories
And his very best advice.

"Keep your farmland watered.
Plant seeds and let them grow.
Take care of what God gives you
And share with those you know.

Let peace be always with you. 
Show kindness where you walk.
And most importantly of all
Is to have those Jesus talks."

Lucinda Berry Hill Author of Coffee with Jesus and A Second Cup with Jesus.©

 https://www.facebook.com/#!/pages/Coffee-with-Jesus/355060321207311

http://lucindaspoetry.webs.com/index.htm
 
Ask me about fundraising ideas!




Curves in the Road

By Patrick Bryant Michael
 
Life is a series of twists and turns, leaning around curves
racing
pacing
yourself, enjoying the ride, especially on wilder swerves
spinning
yearning
for high speeds, ones that will put a real strain on frazzled nerves
chasing
speeding
down the highway of life, taking chances with tight reserves
driving
shifting
gears in transit, making love on an overpass as pervs
relaxing
sitting
back, letting the landscape pass you by, winds of change observes
riding
loving
the wind in your hair, time gets away, cosmic preserves
falling
picking
yourself up, lessons learned from nature, love and peace deserves
struggling
overcoming
the stresses of life, taking hurdles like curves in the stretch
twisting
going
round the bend, laughing, puking from the stresses like a retch
sliding
careening
round sharp curves, feeling like you are soaring in the homestretch
freeways
byways
heads in the clouds, sailing along like gods riding a ketch
asphalt
concrete
roads can break apart, on the curves creating a tight etch
undulating
following
the contours of mountainous highways, drawing out the kvetch
slewing
straightening
curves on the road, making a less complicated outstretch
wavy
serpentine
roadways bring minds into dizzy spells, eyes seeing a glitch
journeys
riverbanks
give a view of nature, rapids flowing o'er rocky shoals
banking
angling
down a steep, declining roadway, riding out rock and rolls
byroads
sightseeing
on vacations, watching out for roadwork and big potholes
winding
narrow
roadways test driving skills, going out on causeway patrols
rambling
veering
off and on the roadway, teasing the passengers, old souls
taking
arteries
racing the clock, weaving through traffic like you know keyholes
uphill
downhill
taking the curves with grace and speed, passing, the road extols
pressing
pedal
with sound mettle, taking hard curves, watching the hilltop knolls.
 
(c) June 27, 2016 by PBM

4th of July

​By Philipe AbiYouness


Fireworks 
go off from balconies
across the way
Shouting and whirring 
in places they shouldn’t be
hot as the tip of my cigarette
bleeding into a mouth
it shouldn’t be.


I wonder 
if one should hear my loneliness
fly over here
set me on fire
igniting with the wood balcony
as I stop drop and roll
the heat would overtake me
until I was only ash. 


Would everyone think I disappeared?
Or would they know I burned out?
Finding bone
or flesh
that survived
as a part of me always seems 
to survive
independent 
of the fire ravaging
everything else.




Thank You


By Philipe AbiYouness


And he said thank you
for the ability to dream
the capacity for sleep.
Opportunity was a blanket
that cradled him
from the cold
and could be set aside
in the warmth,
still standing by.
It seemed nothing had changed
but his chest hummed
with warm content
as open skies lay overhead
he whispered himself off to bed.
Thank you, he said. 


A Guide for Tomorrow


One day
I might have to face the world
and I might be shot
bruised
or burned
or wrung around the neck
by hands
or rope
I would like to say 
that I have all I need
to deal
with bruises 
or loneliness
or a lack of oxygen
but I seem to have a few pieces missing.


I’m not exactly sure 
the reports have not come back yet.


They have told me
to take it step by step
start with feet to the ground
and eventually
word to mouth
then feeling
loving
losing
call someone if you need help
and follow the signs
I know that 
something will be laid out 
on the path of time
something will be there
something will be mine,
or so they have told me. 


​

Ode to Isak Dinesen

By Jessica Goody



Surrounded by lush greenery, the house seems made of trees.
ivy shrouds the weather-worn brick walls and strains upwards, 
winding around the moss-furred brick pillars. Heliotrope swells 


over the eaves, shrouding the windows in a vivid purple glow.
Curving branches drip with vines thick as pythons, green fronds 
curling. Palms spread like parasols beneath the sun-bleached sky.


The room is draped with spice-colored fabrics, strewn with mosquito 
nets and sweating stacks of books. A spear stands poised in warning. 
Elegant screens linger in corners, shielding the fierce heat of midday.


The tarnished silver service emits the the rich, bitter scent of coffee. 
Limoges and Baccarat are incongruous here against the white-glove 
gentility of embroidered linen tablecloths greening with mossy mold. 


Leaf shadows play in silhouette on the jade lawn, paths leading to 
windblown trees, the tufts of their tousled hair fluttering like green 
scarves. Mountains roll along the horizon, the painted backdrop of 


coffee-colored hills blurring like breaking waves. The ankle-deep 
grasses stand coarse and colorless, giraffes galloping against the 
endless landscape, avoiding the stealthy golden streaks of lions.




Great Expectations

By Jessica Goody



A rusted iron gate hangs askew on its hinge,
leading to a path paved by faded flagstones.
The world is green in this prehistoric garden 
of vivid, devouring emerald, moss, celadon, 


filling the gaping mouth of the empty fountain.
Japanese lanterns sway from the boughs, long
unlit. Beneath them, the garden statues ponder 
green mysteries. Massive tents of kudzu drape 


their green tentacles over the shrubs. The trees 
weep Spanish moss. The old iron table, rusted now, 
still bears remnants of teatime: Chipped pottery 
and cracked china anchor mildewed napkins, once 


white and starched into crispness, now sodden.
The tea has evaporated, staining the porcelain 
with a sepia ring resembling a half-healed shiner.
A wedding cake sits, fallen and furred with mold.


Fronds of shredded, peeling wallpaper shiver in 
the breeze from a broken stained-glass window
and the chandelier crystals tremble. Streaked 
stucco damply crumbles into plaster dust. The
Bronzes and brasses are dull, stippled with rust. 


The copper is mossy with verdigris. Forgotten 
candles are iced with tears of wax, no longer 
lighting the painted pages of crumbling books.
The curtains hang sodden in this disintigrating 


palace. The rugs squelch underfoot, leaving 
ghostly imprints of every tread, crunching 
over pottery shards in this fallen kingdom 
of cracked, ancient china and broken glass.






The Beekeeper’s Daughter


An Ode to Sylvia Plath
1932-1963

​By Jessica Goody



Wax drips in a waterfall of molten gold,
sap streaming like lava from the facets 
of the honeycomb. Inside the rumbling 
wooden box, every hum is a heartbeat.


They drift, inebriated, amidst velvety petals,
nosing into the vulvas of blossoms, lapping at
every downy tongue, surrounded by the rich 
prisms of color, testing each scent like cologne. 


They swarm in a funeral procession, wafting
in your honey hair and dappling your face 
with pollen dust, their consecrated offering.
Barren flowers shrivel in the dying wind of 


their flight, and honey drips like tears. 
Sunflower-striped in black and gold,
they hover, humming, seeking pitch,
a chorus of voices droning the sacred om.

​Photo:
​Knut Allan Kronzell (1900 - 1973)
​Sea Captain, CEO of Steel Company in Sweden, Singer, Swedish Church Account, Humorist


Unravel Wisdom

By Alexandra H. Rodrigues
 
​
There was once a wise old man
Methuselah  or  -- Methuselam
What made him wise I do not know
Maybe a plant of wisdom he did grow.
 
How come that we often believe
What from a fable we retrieve
Why, I ask, is wisdom known to come with age?
Is it the manifold of knowledge that weighs?
 
Did Methuselah have a long white beard?
Was his wisdom something that people feared?
Why do we associate wisdom mostly with men?
Women can learn the same what men can!
 
When children are called wise it is not as applause
Rather a demeaning impact it does cause.
A wise guy is also not looked upon with awe
It is possible he might be in conflict with the law.
 
So to unravel what wisdom is really all about
One needs to be wise, stand out of the crowd.
If you think that you are wise, please let me know
So I can decide if it is wise with your opinion to go.

Painting by Scarlett Neumann
​

THE STORY OF PEACE

By David Thorpe

 
She thanked him and replaced the receiver,
her smile of gratefulness perturbed by her concern,
in a hurry she put on her wellington boots ,
collected her raincoat hung behind the front door
switched off the reading lamp and left the house
 
She lived some distance outside the small Yorkshire town,
alone except for her cows and her collie, Merlin,
her husband had been drafted into the Royal Air Force,
it was the Autumn of 1940, the Battle of Britain,
and nightly “blackouts” were obligatory.
 
A wind had arisen to disturb the night,
its cruel howl arousing the silence from slumber,
she walked along the muddy path to the farm buildings,
Merlin by her side, a tedious drizzle accompanying them
to the cow shed at the far end of the small holding
 
He grabbed his bag of utensils,
already packed for such emergencies,
started his Austin and with darkened headlights,
he slowly made his way up the winding lane,
bordered on both sides by dry stone walls
 
A pale moon, ashamed of its faintness,
languidly crept from behind the menacing storm clouds,
gathering above the bleak and barren wuthering heights,
whilst dawn was beginning to slowly disperse
the dismal darkness over the windswept and raw moorland
 
She heard the engine of the advancing car,
and with a sigh of relief awaited his arrival,
after a short greeting they entered the stone building
where Mabel was waiting and in labour,
she lit the lamps illuminating the “maternity ward”
 
He deftly carried out his profession of almost half a century,
the new-born calf, staggering and again falling,
looked around at its unaccustomed surroundings
with wide and bewildered eyes,
they faced each other with a smile of satisfaction
 
Before leaving, as an afterthought, he enquired
“Have you a  name for the newcomer?”,
without a moment of hesitation she replied,
“Of course, her name is Peace!”



 

                                                   "African Sunrise" - Acrylic Painting by Charles E.J. Moulton, painted February 2014.






WELCOME HOME
                                
By Rochelle Tongson


​I’m from National City, California
Located in the South Bay region of San Diego.
Border of Mexico,
This place is given its name, “Nasty City”.
Trashy, ghetto, gangsters, and crimes.
This place can be very dangerous,
The people also can be territorial.
Some people hate it, personally, I don’t.
This is the city that taught me life.
I respect the people here, and they gave me respect in return.
Let’s just begin that people don’t fully learn life,
Unless you are alone.
Can you just imagine being alone in the city all by yourself?
Folks, this is true story..
And this place is what I call home.
Emancipated when I was fifteen years old, only in 10th grade high school.
With no parents, and no guidance.
No one to lean on.
I cried, and cried,
And sometimes I felt so lost.
But I knew one thing, giving up was not an option.
Survival is the only way.
Working 2 jobs just to make a living,
School was kind of forgotten.
Education was far out of reach.
I am thankful to God and my school mentors,
Because of them, I was able to graduate.
They were my biggest supporters.
I couldn’t be happier.
But I sometimes wish I had a helper.
Someone to life me up.
If you come from a fortunate family, and you’re reading this,
Remember to always be grateful.
Thank people.
Thank your family.
Thank those who gave you helping hands to succeed,
And get you where you need to be.
Thank those who gave you a better life.
Why be so grateful?
Because others have it harder than you do.
Some people actually have it easier than others.
But Remember, you are blessed.
Embrace it, and be thankful.
Looking back at it,
National City was a “learning city”,
Where I experienced what most kids don’t.
It’s where I became an adult at age fifteen.
A Responsible kid with bigger dreams ahead of her,
Despite the fact that it’s a bad place to be,
I’m a survivor, and I’m very proud of it.
This place sure made an impact in my life.
And I did it.
I’m forever thankful for the lessons,
I’m grateful for life.







NOT AGAIN TONIGHT


By Rochelle Tongson



Creepy crawlers at night, all at sight
Please not again tonight.
Big or small, on the floor
Gosh, they’re all over the wall!
They fly and rapidly multiply,
I just seriously wanna cry.
Creepy crawlers get ready,
When you lay your eggs I’m ready.
My house will be clean, and steady.
In the corner of my eye,
When you come nearby, 
Say goodbye, cause
You’re gonna die!






SWEET & TERRIBLE (IN A VOICE OF A TWO YEAR OLD)


By Rochelle Tongson



Mommy look!
Watch me!
Mommy, sing
Mommy dance!
My mommy! Mine!
Mommy bread?
1? 2.. 2 bread?
Thank you, mommy!
Mmmm…
Mine!
Mommy, cereal please?
Bowl?
Milk? More milk?
Mine!
Mommy, look!
Teddybear!
Cute!
Sofftt..
Oh Mine!
Mommy, sand..
Castle?
Bucket? Shovel?
Water!
Yay! Mine!
Mommy, books!
Wow!
Look!
Mine, mine, mine!
Mommy, sing
Mommy dance!
My mommy! Mine!




 

---

Featured Poet of the Month

Jessica Goody

Jessica Goody was born and raised on Long Island. She currently lives in South Carolina, where writes for SunSations Magazine, The Bluffton Sun, and The Bluffton Today. Her work has appeared in numerous publications and anthologies, including Reader’s Digest, The Seventh Wave, Event Horizon, Really System, Chicken Soup for the Soul, and The Maine Review. Her poem “Stockings” was awarded second place in the 2015 Reader’s Digest Poetry Competition.


​Three Summer Poems by Jessica Goody




Summer Fruit


Textures and similes abound as we select summer fruit,
sniffing the aromas of the produce aisle as eagerly as spaniels, 
squeezing the juicy red heft of tomato, solid and round,
velvety apricots, lemons like handfuls of sunshine, 
and the pocked red hearts of strawberries.


Fruit shades seem truer than paint samples
and crayon colors, and harder to reproduce:
The red and green mottled skin of an apple,
pale, mealy crescents of banana, 
their leathery skins like speckled snakes.


Downy green kiwis are stippled with seeds like blackheads.
the sweet golden moons of peaches and the sunset orbs 
of nectarines mingle in the blue bowl, waiting to be consumed.
The sweetness of their scent is heady and rich, syrupy juice 
dripping summery stickiness.  


Oranges resemble miniature suns, 
bright paper lanterns strung for a garden party.
Bruise-colored plums, bitten and bleeding, 
fruit peels like citrus-scented leather, the crunch of grapeskins,
and spongy bowls of grapefruit halves with hearts of rosy pulp.


The great boulder of watermelon awaits its execution.
Its green beetle-shell is striped like malachite. Cleaved open, 
it will reveal its damp center like a geode, studded darkly with seeds, 
to be devoured by tongues streaked violet with blueberries,
their fingers bloodstained with berry juice, freshly-picked.



Beachcombing


“Every time we walk along a beach, some ancient urge disturbs us so that we find ourselves shedding shoes and garments, or scavenging among seaweed and whitened timbers like the homesick refugees of a long war.”-Loren Eiseley, The Unexpected Universe




The water is bitter and refreshing.
Its white froth flashes and flows about 
damp ankles like swirling dancers’ skirts.


Shells bedded in glittering silt are 
washed awake by a breaking wave.
A cold handful, like unearthing Aztec ruins:


A hunk of coral, its texture like stucco,
bleached and fascinating against one’s fingertips, 
lion’s paws like russet roof-tiles, and 


beach glass like shards of broken pottery.
Cold and porcelain-smooth in the hand
lay cockles, cones, olive shells; the precise 


architecture of whirled turrets and spiraling 
tunnels, staircases and crenellations, spires 
boring into the sky.


The dermatology of seashells: 
specimens stippled with gold or streaked with sunrise, 
freckled as freshly-caught trout, their undersides 


stained with the violet of dawn and dusk,
strewn among tangled tumbleweeds of algae.
Satisfied, the beachcomber trudges, stumbling


back up the dunes, bearing a pocketful of 
marble-cool seashells weeping sand:
Shells shaped like trumpets, church bells, 


spinning tops, cat’s paws like clenched fists; 
tulip shells whose curving lips collect sand like cupped palms, 
resembling hats tilted over rakish, winking eyes.



Oceans


Everything is absorbed by the ocean’s maw.
It gulps secrets, dreams, memories abashed 
and cringing. The ocean is the ultimate metaphor,
the quiet, insatiable all-seeing eye. Its salty breath 


whispers siren secrets, arias sung by the 
seductress Loreleis, and the melodies of 
whale songs like moaning winds. It belches 
up seashells, pearly and salted with sand. 


A pink conch, stained with sunset, Gabriel’s celestial 
woodwind. Pandoras shaped like irregular crescent 
moons, and giraffe-splotched Junonia. Taxonomists 
pore over their nonsensical and poetic names. 


They taste the syllables on their tongues like spices, 
affixing labels over each specimen, christening each 
one in Latin, a reverse Baptism, every seashell having 
been shipwrecked, berry-picked from the tide.

Photo by Karen King
​


Sandy Beach
​
​By Karen King




Bright beach huts in one long row, full of holiday makers


Enjoying the sun, sea and sand.


It is early and the beach is almost empty.


I can enjoy the tranquillity of the rhythmic waves,


Gently lapping in and out of the bay,


Like a loving lullaby.


I feel the sand, smooth and caressing under my feet,


Warming my toes in the early morning sun.


I feel calm, peaceful, happy and free,


Enjoying my holiday.






Karen King  Copyright  2015


​



Summer Cliff-top Walk

​By Karen King



I saunter happily along the coast path,


Sunlight blazing on my shoulders,


Grass tickling my toes.


Fresh, salty air invigorating me.






Seagulls drift lazily ahead,


Eyes peeled for innocent tourists,


Feasting on pies and pasties.


Any titbits left, scattered on the sand?






The serene sea below, 


The colour of cornflowers,


Blue and inviting all to enter.


Basking boats and peaceful people.






On the other end of the beach,


Rock pools can be found,


Intricate creatures, hidden in crevices.


Their appearance otherworldly.






Ice creams are hurriedly eaten,


As they run rapidly into the sand.


Seagulls cry in vain for unwanted cones.


People enjoy the sun’s embrace.






I walk back down the coastal pathway,


Absorbing the natural beauty.


It is now time for me.


To enjoy the gentle sea.






Karen King   Copyright   2015

Summer

By David Thorpe
 
The rising sun sheds warmth
as it lightens up the darkened stage,
the back-cloth provided by
the fairy kingdom of Tatiana
and her ass-headed lover
for their mid-summer night of love
 
A mystical night pregnant with chanting
of druid rituals within ancient towering stones
and Viking bonfires,
witnesses to Nordic summer ceremonies
 
The early morning song birds,
a full choir of heralds
of the awakening day,
whose cooling breeze creeps clandestinely
over the sills of open windows
to gently disturb the flimsy curtains with designs
of petrified butterflies of pastel colours,
the only intruder to the intimacy of slumber
 
No painter´s palette could ever reproduce
those hundred shades and hues of green,
a patchwork draping the dozing landscape,
drenched with bright sunshine
from a cloudless summer sky

David Thorpe © 2016

My Cherished Garden
​
By Alexandra H. Rodrigues


I love you and do not plan to leave you
Every day you surprise me with something new
Every moment while I watch you grow
You my cherished garden, I love you so.


Apart from the excitement I feel
When I watch you explode into special appeal
With every day you disclose a new trait
To see and feel all your changes I can hardly wait.


Yes sometimes I need to step on you
But I assure that from it no harm you grew
You spoil me with flowers, wild and neat
Spread into the air musky scent bittersweet.


Together in the moonshine we praise our maker
For the sunshine as well each of us is taker
You exhilarate all of my wintry dormant senses
With you I thrive, bare of all defenses.


Never are we tempted to have a fight
With the two of us all is normal and right
I tend to you, help you new shoots to grow
You my cherished garden I love you so.



​

The Sun Rising

​By John Donne


Busy old fool, unruly Sun,
Why dost thou thus,
Through windows,
and through curtains,
call on us?
Must to thy motions lovers' seasons run?
Saucy pedantic wretch, go chide
Late schoolboys, and sour prentices,
Go tell court-huntsmen that the king will ride,
Call country ants to harvest offices,
Love, all alike, no season knows, nor clime,
Nor hours, days, months,
which are the rags of time.

Thy beams, so reverend and strong
Why shouldst thou think?
I could eclipse and cloud them with a wink,
But that I would not lose her sight so long:
If her eyes have not blinded thine,
Look, and tomorrow late, tell me
Whether both the'Indias of spice and mine
Be where thou leftst them, or lie here with me.
Ask for those kings whom thou saw'st yesterday,
And thou shalt hear: 'All here in one bed lay.'

She'is all states, and all princes I,
Nothing else is.
Princes do but play us; compar'd to this,
All honour's mimic, all wealth alchemy.
Thou, sun, art half as happy'as we,
In that the world's contracted thus;
Thine age asks ease, and since thy duties be
To warm the world, that's done in warming us.
Shine here to us, and thou art everywhere;
This bed thy centre is, these walls, thy sphere.                         

       Ancient Heat
                 by
   Teresa Ann Frazee
 
In a souls meditative hour of the day
Ancient heat retires in a field of light
Flocks of doves coo with the chant of summer
Like white smoke they rise and scatter into flight
 
The atmosphere, a cloistered silence hold
Miles from the continuous cycle of strife
To wander solitary with poets eyes
Where fantasy negotiates with real life
 
Serendipity realizes its moment
Bathed in undiluted light of the divine
In a way such simple things have always been
The seal’s set and reserved for nature’s design

​





 
 
 
 
Remembered Day
 by
Teresa Ann Frazee
 
 
Memories incubate in the heyday of summer
Some silently nest in fine granules of rust
The outworn past erases for futures sake
As the archives of recollection turn to dust
 
There’s a vacancy in the refuge of my mind
The impulsive plans of fate then have their way
Weaned off forgotten echoes of long ago
 My thoughts are loosened from feelings of yesterday
 
But a golden flash of light ignites the sky
When the breeze is cool and the day is at the morn
And the trees gently sway in the balance of life
Soon a new memory is about to be born

Dancing in the Rain
(A Tanka)

​By Patrick Bryant Michael



Raindrops on rooftops
brings out romantic frolic
splashing in puddles
showers of love through raindrops
provokes dancing in the rain.


(c) June 27, 2016 by PBM







African Greys
(A Haiku)

​By Patrick Bryant Michael



A bird that seems wise
it seems to show empathy
African greys talk.




(c) June 27, 2016 by PBM






Splashing in Puddles
(A Sonian)

​By Patrick Bryant Michael



Raindrops bring us rhythm
making feet restless
wanting to splash
in puddles.




(c) June 27, 2016 by PBM






Streams and Trails
(A Tideling)

​By Patrick Bryant Michael



Streams nurture scenery
bringing trails some greenery
streams and trails connect the cosmos.


Nature needs gestation
new life needs formation
streams and trails connect the cosmos.


Fishing is exploitation
love is its affirmation
streams and trails connect the cosmos.


Nature teaches us how to live
love connects us to the cosmos.


Streams thrive with smaller life
trails lead to larger wildlife.




(c) June 27, 2016 by PBM






Bridging the Gap
(A Sijo)

​By Patrick Bryant Michael




Between every moment is a gap, life thrives while we are looking
time and space are relative, wisdom comes between each gap
bridging the gap requires skill, intelligence and maturity.


Between every molecule is a world we cannot view simply
science gives us a door to see what is normally hidden
bridging the gap requires novel approaches to gain insight.


Betwixt and between is a mystical world, to heighten our love
the cosmos connects everything to enhance each and every life
bridging the gap requires wisdom and love to bring us light.




(c) June 27, 2016 by PBM

The Power of it All
By Alexandra H. Rodrigues


There must be a power of which we are not sure.
A power that has its hand in nature to keep it pure.
I am not thinking of cities now polluted with refuse
Nor do I speak of the Global warming in all the news.


I am referring to what an ultimate master once meant
When the original environment to earth he sent.
Where the sky in a never repetitious design
Originates many a rainbow with colors divine.


Wind causes in nature an atmospheric swing
When it resonates in us, it makes us sing.
Water, the element we cannot live without
Is produced by many a lingering cloud.


Moon and sun do not with each other compete
Theirs is the example how a compromise to meet.
In order, through nature, healing of our world to find
Pleasing the elements must rank first in our mind.

Happy Feelin' Feet

​By Lucinda Berry Hill


The sun is shining.
I'm not wearing socks.
My feet feel happy
'Cause I'm wearing flip flops!

Freshly painted toes.
In colors that pop.
Painted toes exposed
In my favorite flip flops.

Sweet summer fun.
The fun that never stops.
Thanking God for weather
When I wear my flip flops.

Sippin' lemonade.
Lemonade through a straw.
Sippin' lemonade
With my flip flops on.

Purple, pink, or green
Stripes, or polka dots.
My feet feel happy
When I'm wearing flip flops.


Lucinda Berry Hill Author of Coffee with Jesus and A Second Cup with Jesus.©





Strawberry Picking

By Lucinda Berry Hill


           Strawberry picking           
Is so much fun.
First there are two
Then there is one.

Strawberry tasting,
Oh such a pleasure.
Especially when
You do it together.

Pick with your grandma,
Pick with your friend.
Pick 'till they're gone,
Pick to the end.

Fill up a bucket
Fill up two.
Then see all the things
That Grandma can do;

Strawberry shortcake,
Strawberry jam,
Strawberries on ice cream,
And some in your hand.

Strawberry picking,
Great summer fun.
Made even greater
With someone you love.

 Lucinda Berry Hill author of devotional Coffee with Jesus ©



Red and White Summers

​By Lucinda Berry Hill


Strawberries, cherries,

Stripes red and white,
Summertime colors.
They just seem what's right.

A big picnic blanket,  

A watermelon center,

Vine ripe tomatoes.
The colors of splendor.

Red lilies, red poppies,

Red roses too.
White daises, white lilacs
White wedding gowns too.

Red wagons, white ice cream,
Red sprinkles on top.
White sparklers are fun,
And red balloons that go pop.

Summertime colors
For all sorts of reasons.
Summertime fun,
From a God of all seasons.

Lucinda Berry Hill author of devotional A Second Cup with Jesus © 







 Summertime

​By Lucinda Berry Hill


Strawberries
Big parades
Beaches
Lemonade
Baseball
Fishing trips
Boating
Great friendships
Relaxation
Palm trees

Hot dogs
Bumble bees
Lightening bugs
Goof off days
Time out
Peaceful shade
Yard sales
Family
Barbecues
Memories
Flower petals
Skimming stones
Reading
Ice cream cones
Lazy days
Bonfires
Iced tea
Sparklers
Summertime
Rest and fun
Enjoy God's blessings
In the Son.


    Lucinda Berry Hill Author of "Coffee with Jesus" AND "A Second Cup with Jesus" ©

Frenzy of Flowers


By Karen King



Their love was like a frenzy of flowers,

He sent his love in golden showers.

His droplets of love had made her fall,

Every day she heard his call.

He had flown in like a bird,

It was the sweetest music she had heard.

She knew he could smell her from far away

As he came closer, day by day.



Karen King  Copyright  February 2016

The tight-rope dancer

By David Thorpe
 
To greet her presence
the moon casts away its gossamer veil
to light up her chimerical stage
for her nocturnal ritual.
A smile of recognition usurps her frown.
 
In slow motion her dance begins,
her loyal accomplices,
the waltzes of Chopin and Beethoven´s Moonlight Sonata,
which fill her heart-broken soul
with emotions of joy of days of youth
 
The unhealed scar of a truncated love,
long buried in a soldiers foreign grave,
a once burning flame of passion,
smouldering still in her tortured mind
 
She is a tight–rope dancer,
balancing between sanity and insanity

My Senses

By Karen King


Your voice, a melody of music to my ears.
Your face is held in my mind, in my heart.
Your touch electric and my body craves for you, like a drug.
Your intoxicating smell of exotic spices is erotic.
Your skin hot to my touch as we fall into each other’s arms …

Karen King  Copyright  May 2016

Pretend to Pretend

By Alexandra H. Rodrigues



My entire life I knew well how to pretend.

My days and yes, even my nights, as a pseudo-me I spent.

I was a Jack of many trades.

And shaped friends’ and enemies’’ fates.



I could change my views like a chameleon.

Not sure where all those talents originated from.

I enjoyed to be an actress on the stage of life.

Took advantage of what fit my narcissistic drive.



Then you entered my personal sphere,

I knew that you would never my lover be, dear,

I hoped that Fortuna would teach me humility

Time had come to accept reality.



I felt the spark which two people set on fire

With gripping pain I hid my desire

With remorse I now must realize that despite the fun 

By pretending and acting a tight net of loneliness I had spun.

Two Poems for Children

By Thaddeus Hutyra

1.
' Cat the Poe ! '

Hello O' friends, my friends I am a cat
very clever one, thinking day and night
I call myself cat the Poe
for I am the greatest, I, the cat !

When you are away in your jobs
I follow my plan, finest in the world 
Not a book is strange to me
not a poet on Facebook too !

I do have an enchanting plan for the world
and even for the Universe I think
Simply visualized as The Bells by Mr Poe
but I go even further, believe me !

Not just silver, golden, brazen and iron bells
as Mr. Poe had it envisioned
My bells are much more than this
diamond bells and bells out of the pearls.

The bells with kaleidoscopic patterns of colors
enabling me to cross from one world to another world
all the dimensions there are !

Even if I enter the parallel world
I will not be a coward.

Not a weakling, not a milksop, not a namby-pamby
not a scaredy-cat, yellow-belly, sissy
not a polecat, craven or a dastard
and, God forbid, not a chicken or a mouse !

Furthermore I also imagine
organic bells that can help me
catching my prey more easily
My bells can be even of the light
one I can see in all its symphony.

I am simply the wizard, best in the world
proudly myself calling a cat the Poe !

The art of the military strategy
that I am just studying
I have in my smallest claw 
of any of my paws.

Yet it is definitely not enough
for I want to become an enthralling poet
I, the cat, proudly calling myself cat the Poe !

One day I shall write
the most enchanting verses there ever were
I will go even further and seek 
my own cybernetic immortality.

I am a cat the Poe who alike Albert Einstein
will conquer the Universe.

Unlike him I will travel on a starship
all the way to n-dimensions
of the known and unknown universes.

I will prove, black and white
there are more dimensions
any human ever imagined.

I will prove to the world with my mind theory
art and constitutional rights are essential
I shall write it all one day
in my wizardly poetry 
I, the greatest cat, called the Poe !

O' friends, my friends
look at all my bewitching bells
hear their glamorous music
most captivating one !

How they ring, how they sing !
As if paradise was one
with this world we are in !

How they ring, how they sing !
Just imagine all the pearls of the world
dropping to all the streams, rivers, lakes and seas !
Just imagine, hear it all, get reborn in the delight !

Here they are, my friends, O' friends !
Here they are, all the bells of mine
all the bells I am proud so much, I, a cat the Poe !

Hear O' lovers, hear O' songsters
hear the bells in the passing winds !
How they ring, how they sing
with the winds blowing across the world !

How they ring like the wedding rings
of two lovers finally married !
How they ring, like the diamond rings
bringing us all the way to immortality !

How they ring, how they tinkle
give a call and a clatter of hooves
How they rattle, croak and chortle, and buzz
how they jingle, clang and sound, and sing
as if Earth bounced all the way to paradise.

Here I am, my friends, I, a cat the Poe
here I am for you all, O' friends
and I welcome you all, I, a cat the Poe !

' Cat the Poe ! ' by Thaddeus Hutyra 
C Thaddeus Hutyra 28/03/2016
 
 
2.
' Abracadabra '

Abracadabra, abracadabra
I wish to travel across the Universe
No star, no planet, no unidentified object
can be unknown to me
for I am a Guardian of the Universe !

A kid I am yet, brave one, five years old
my mom and dad I must listen to
Yet when it comes to adventures
I am the captain, no one else !

Abracadabra, abracadabra
my starship shall be one
built of the light, of cosmic strings
transparent as much as the light is
fueled by the cosmic energy.

Stubborn a kid I am as always so far
joining every project there is at school
but once back at home
the Universe is my destination.

Abracadabra, abracadabra
come, friends, enter my starship
Let's fly across the Universe
and make friends with aliens
so little as we are, we, the kids !

Our parents are busy
with building prototypes
of future self conscious androids
They dream of immortality
their brains transformed to avatars.

Abracadabra, abracadabra
my wand is doing miracles
whatever I wish becomes real
Just getting into my starship
flying then into the stars !

O'abracadabra, abracadabra
let's enjoy all those wonders
of the starry gardens in space
exoplanets around multiple suns
the symphony of the stars !

O'abracadabra, abracadabra
join me, friends, in my starry trips
My name is John Mc Dantosch
from a Brooklyn school of NYC
And you? What's your name?
Welcome on the board, my friend !

Abracadabra, abracadabra
wow, enchanting is the Universe !
Abracadabra, abracadabra
tonight at the bedtime
I'll fly to the Veil and Cat's Eye Nebulas
Abracadabra, abracadabra
hurry up, my friends, join me tonight
Abracadabra, abracadabra
we are the Guardians of the Universe !

' Abracadabra ' by Thaddeus Hutyra 
C Thaddeus Hutyra 31/03/2016

Photo by Alexandra H. Rodrigues


Heaven on Earth

By Alexandra H. Rodrigues



The beach glistens in innocent white

The sky in dazzling colors prepares for the night.

The sand makes sugar in comparison coarse

To step on it fills the heart with remorse.



There is nobody around at our special spot

To already undress the urge I got.

Into this powder of nature I want to sink

Till you get here, my lover, the sunshine I’ll drink.



Here a taste of Adam and Eve in Paradise we get

Each time enforces the promise from when first we met.

Again today you made it in time, not a minute too soon.

A kiss and you stripped into your Adam costume.



Here nature now gives us a cherished gift

Our bodies merge, coaxed by the Ocean drift.

This is proof that with an open mind

It is possible heaven on earth to find.

Photo by Karen King


Streaming Rays of Love


By Karen King


The streaming rays fill the sky with wonder,
The streaming rays reach towards the land
Almost touching the water’s surface,
Like unseen hands reaching out,
Encompassing all.

Could these hands be the hands of God?
Reaching out to touch us all,
Reaching out to love us all?
Have faith, for there is a higher power at work,
Helping you and guiding you through your life,
Loving you, protecting you.

Look at this photo and you will feel
The strength from the unseen power,
The love reaching towards our darkness,
Giving us light and hope
Until our faith returns.

Karen King  Copyright 15 May 2016

Photo by Karen King

Faith

By Karen King


They travel together,
Creating a gentle flow.
They are forever friends
And have known each other
Over many lives,
In many guises.

They are part of one soul group
And connect with other animals 
Of the same species,
Both in this world
And on the other side.

They enjoy the water colours of life,
They enjoy the tranquillity of life,
Travelling together as life
Lets them create their own 
Rippling channel.

They travel as one,
In love and support.
One day they know
They will return home,
To the place
Of beauty and love,
For they have faith
In a higher power.

They wish they could bring beauty,
They wish they could bring love,
They wish they could bring faith
Back into our world.
They wish they could eradicate
The greed, the ugliness,
The selfishness, the hate
That permeates our world.

They will keep returning,
In one life form or other,
To try and wake up the humans
To beauty, to peace, to love.
To bring us faith once again.

They will keep returning,
To create ripples through their lives,
To create ripples through our lives,
To create ripples through the world.

They will keep returning
Until peace reigns on earth,
Until love rains on the earth
And faith returns to us all.

Karen King  Copyright  15 May 2016






Leaving It With Him

By Lucinda Berry Hill


When we kneel to you in prayer, God
And seal it with Amen
Help us leave it all with you
In your willing, mighty hands.

When we go back to our being
In our daily lives
Help us go, not carrying
The world and it's hard times.
Remind us of your miracles
Your plans and answered prayers 
Remind us of your power
In meeting all our cares.

Thank you God, for hearing
Our praises and our cries
So we can go, not carrying
The world and it's hard times.



Lucinda Berry Hill Author of Coffee with Jesus and A Second Cup with Jesus.©

Małgorzata Skałbania

The Faith Quintet


1.

enough land
said a bee
in the myth of a slavic's god anxiety
he feared the constant enlargement of the world
the sky in the end becomes too small to cover the land
 
by Małgorzata Skałbania


2.
 
from a province
from myself a bent diary of the artist who became a craftsman
observer of the activities of another artist
he orders boldly in order to move the audience in place of a stage
revolving the stage into an audience
lodges dedicating only for claqueurs
a requisite from a funfair white swan
pink
pink is not blue
may try to be red blue
green
black is a black swan
the black swan
 
by Małgorzata Skałbania
 

3.

progressive
a mass in motion
kids in a sandbox
one says that it was a cow in the countryside
secondly that its grandfather was in the wehrmacht
third
cut in twain
a live frog
its legs dancing in a pinch of salt
he saw cats impaled on sticks by the olders boys
they burned the eyes of scarcely living creatures
my father was churchill
he had a huge paper head
he walked in the company of truman and adenauer
 
by Małgorzata Skałbania
 
 
4.
 
a ball with a restaurant inside rotated slowly
east berlin
west berlin
east
then mom bought a yarn but not the one that she wanted
a german woman has chosen the color like a postcard chose another german woman
 
by Małgorzata Skałbania
 
 
5.
 
honest porete
did not touch her dreams
she was burned with her book
and the mirror of  
simple souls 
annihilated
speculum here translated
the mirror
it hung over a bowl of water
small waves and morning eckharte's star
esse est deus
deus est nihil
embroidered on a good day
(for Margareta Porete, 13th century French theological author)
 
by Małgorzata Skałbania

The Infinite Being

By Patrick Bryant Michael


 
Within us all lies a soul, a part of One,
the Infinite Being of Universal Love,
drawing us all together under one sun,
life given to cherish from on high above.
 
We are all natives of one land, dispersed,
mutating for reasons given to sciences,
forces compelling changes never rehearsed,
spreading life and love to new alliances.
 
We are all of one tribal foundation in life,
as brothers and sisters spread all about,
coming and going as life brings on strife,
sending us on different paths, one to tout.
 
Forgetting from where we all came runs sad,
love is not forgetful, yet wanton ways defy,
leading to hate and greed for dark forces in fad,
breaking the tribe apart as love forces decry.
 
The Infinite Being is part and parcel to love,
a spirit connecting everyone who ever lives,
roots deeper than any ocean, far reaching above,
found within the soul, pure love that forgives.
 
(c) March 23, 2009 by PBM
 
 
 
 
 
New Beginnings

By Patrick Bryant Michael
 

At the crossroads in life
there are new beginnings,
there is no end in sight,
only many ways to choose,
standing at the precipice
of what is meant to be,
just wondering, waiting
for a decision to come
by some mystical light,
as time passes slowly,
open spaces fill the eyes,
the mind ponders all,
which way to wander,
gazing on all about,
what choice to make,
a new beginning awaits
for brave souls to come,
to take life by the throat,
dealing with challenges,
while overcoming odds,
for the better or worse,
new beginnings to set free!
 
(c) July 22, 2008 by PBM
 
 


Moving Energies

By Patrick Bryant Michael
 
It's well known that forces act and react
when energy is expelled it's a fact
potentials move about as if to attract
moving hearts and souls to interact
inciting energies to grow ever more bold
exciting two hearts to go out where it's quite cold
pulling in souls as the cosmos' mysteries unfold
for love that's wild, full of energies to behold
as the Universe works its magic, inspiring delight
hearts and minds are attracted to what flies in the night
to what comes with each breaking day, awaking to light
energizing, moving true hearts to love the good fight!
 
(c) March 27, 2009 by PBM

Leave A Light On

by

John Frazee

 
While you're away, here's something to ponder
They say absence makes the heart grow fonder
They may be right but one has to wonder
Whether you are here or over yonder
 
As you travel under earths precious dome
It  doesn't matter how far you shall roam
Where ever you should happen to be from
I hope there is someplace you can call home
 
No matter how far, one must have a base
Hot food, fresh baked bread, a familiar face
The touch of an armrest covered in lace
Memories you never wish to erase
 
A love to keep the fire burning while your gone
A mother, a bride, a father or son
A warm lap you can lay your head upon
I hope someone's there to leave a light on

Trusting In His Love

By Lucinda Berry Hill


 Up in a truck
 Patiently,
 A boy, he sat one day.
 Waiting for his dad to come
 Then they'd be on their way.


 Where would they go?
 He didn't know.
 And what were they to do?
 Anxiously he questioned this,
 But the boy, he had no clue.


 He just sat still,
 Quietly
 Waiting for the ride.
 Knowing all was well ahead
 'Cause Dad was by his side.


 Oh, what a joy
 To have faith
 When answers we don't know
 We too can rest in confidence,
 For God is in control.


 In Jesus Christ
 I put my trust,
 For things yet to be seen.
 For I know I have His love
 And that's enough for me.

Lucinda Berry Hill Author of Coffee with Jesus and A Second Cup with Jesus.©

 https://www.facebook.com/#!/pages/Coffee-with-Jesus/355060321207311
http://lucindaspoetry.webs.com/index.htm
Ask me about fundraising ideas!

SEE THE LIGHT
by
Teresa Ann Frazee
 
 
I once was told
   Angels listen in the sky
There they wait
   For the moment we lie
 
The angels believe
   We will betray
Even our mother’s trust
   On any given day
 
They place their bets
   And keep a score
Posting the tally
   Up on heaven’s door
 
Eventually we pay
   For each sin and vice
A pound of flesh
   Is the standard price
 
So many myths
   Must be unlearned
I vowed to leave
   No stone unturned
 
Swords were drawn
   In nightmare’s bed
I battled shadows
   All in my head
 
My quest for truth
   Began many years ago
When I found Santa
   Drunk in the snow
 
He said, It’s about time
   You grew up now son
You’re at the age
   Believing in me, should be done
 
I thanked the old man
   Way in advance
Needing to hear more
   I took the chance
 
Right then and there
   I made a wise choice
To listen closely
   To my inner voice
 
Which said, better use
   Your common sense
Your about to take leave
   Of your innocence
 
Santa told me
   Of his fictional peers
Invented to prey
   On our childlike fears
 
To keep us in line
   And behave as we should
Society lies
  For the common good
 
They insist you believe
   In what you can’t see
Like heaven and hell
   And eternity
 
Once you know the truth
   There’s no turning back
He then took a wine bottle
   From his toy sack
 
 Seemed Santa had
   His own dragons to slay
From what I could tell
   The wine, kept them at bay
 
Your half the man you used to be
   I asked why this was
Why he would say these things
   And do the things he does
 
He always kept his eye on the prize
   Grabbing everything that glows
There ain’t no brass ring, kid
   That’s just the way it goes
 
He spoke to me
   Of branded sports heroes
And dashboard saints
   Tossed out car windows
 
How superstores that sell
   Lawnmowers to beef jerky
Feed us fresh fish
   Laced with mercury
 
He said he stopped
   Following the lure
Didn’t heal his body
   But his soul it did cure
 
Now I close my eyes
    And see the light
I won the battle
   But continue the fight
 
Change is good
   Isn’t that what they say?
Life’s turn of events
   That led to this day
 
Once I would have said
   Meeting Santa was fate
It was simply reality
   In it’s purest state

Keep the Faith

By Charles E.J. Moulton


It’s never too late
To live.

It’s never too late
To love.

It’s never too late
To laugh.

You know,
You’re a lot like me,
A rocker,
A mover,
A thinker,
An athlete.

It’s never too late
To save a life.

It’s never too damn late ...
To be a friend.

It’s never too late
To push back injustice.

Tell arrogance ...
To shove it!

Once in his life,
A man has his time,
Dancing with his wife,
Not being part of an institution,
Not conglomerate,
Not infrastructural,
Performing,
Writing,
Painting,
Singing,
Teaching,
Chorister and sololist,
Confused and organized,
Doing his thing,
Never taking no for an answer,
Racing down the road.

It’s never too damn late.

To save a life!

Look beyond the real onto the blazing sky.

Save a life.

Never ... ever ... stop believing.

Keep the faith!

Roar like you never roared before!

Faith

By Shyamal Kumar Majumder


The most wonderful combination I've ever seen
Though they bloomed carelessly along the roadside
The panicle of flowers looked like torso of the elephant
The full arrangement the act of an matured artisan
The little flowers so beautiful, attached,
As diamonds placed orderly over an ornament
Maintaining their hard discipline
Manifesting themselves in this amazing scenery.

The butterfly came to collect nectar for himself.
It was not certain
I would go there
It was not certain
But a man must search of beauty
I know that very well.
However, I enjoyed it and gave it a shot
for others' enjoyment
Collecting for the future.
In all respects, a man wants to collect
If successful or not
Everybody tries to be.

Faith is strongly rooted in my mind,
My faith in men
Is that they must believe in beauty.
They observe it, they collect it.
They identify it, classify it
They explore it,
They must add value to it
And ultimately they discover the truth.

(C)Shyamal Kumar Majumder
18 May, 2016.

Our World

By Shyamal Kumar Majumder


The world's staggering gait
Checked with a finesse
Is just a thespian's job.
Her blasted face
For an open secret incest
Needs to draw an attention
Our myopic eyes overlook gnats
Fluttering the gutter of temptation
Reticence and patience now cry for zero tolerance.
Shitheads swagger being the king of money heaven
But most of us are busy with acrostic
Some are playing child-like
Some are waiting at pedestal of crags
Some are explaining their grit
Some are endured with furore and levity
Everything is obscuring now with trashes and ill
shadows
Need immediate assuage of specter
Scampering of imposter must be stopped
Or just we need a amendment of assisted suicide
by doctors.
An intimate unison surrounding a greatest round table
Really a daydream?

(C)Shyamal Kumar Majumder
20 April,2016

Photo by Mara Sophie Moulton

In Nature

By Alexandra H. Rodrigues



The air flows heavy, like out of breath

The lake seems to yearn for wind’s caress

Clouds compose melodies into the sky

Violet, orange and gray shades they apply.



Varying pictures thread the scenery

Birds flutter shakily from tree to tree

Summer displays a colorful splendor

In hope the clouds a deluge will render.



No rain yet, only a low hanging mist

In coquetry nature does the change resist

One can feel the moisture is creating rain

The air fights free from draughts strain.



The pressure gets harder and harder to bear

Nature likes to mock us, I do swear

Then, as I still in the twilight do ponder

Raindrops begin to fall from high up yonder.



Slow, soft drizzle turns quickly into splash

A renewed atmosphere gets heavenly fresh

All vegetation again stands tall and straight

Forgotten is any passed suppressing wait.

Photo by Karen King



Anxiety
 
By Karen King
 
 
 
Anxiety over our loved ones disappeared from view,
 
into the cracks of the woodwork, leaving no clue.
 
Have you been captured, tortured or gunned down,
 
or are you running free, holding your ground?
 
 
 
Where is it safe for you to go?
 
That you certainly don’t know.
 
Riots on the streets, on goes the civil war,
 
bodies thrown mercilessly on the floor!
 
 
 
Terrorist groups roam,
 
people no longer safe in their homes.
 
Corruption and greed,
 
why is there such a need?
 
 
 
Why is there such a need for power,
 
whilst innocent people are made to cower?
 
We are all from the same Source,
 
so why is there so much discourse?
 
 
 
How many people need to die,
 
how many of us heartbroken, needing to cry?
 
What will be left, but fragments of land,
 
people broken, no longer able to stand?
 
 
 
“Poems for Humanity; Looking from the Side Lines”
Karen King   Copyright 2015

Another Life
 
By Karen King
 
 
 
You are special, meeting you an unexpected pleasure.
 
You love nature, are attentive and charming.
 
An excellent photographer.  A caring person.
 
Warm, friendly, chatty and sexy.
 
I would love to know you that bit better!
 
 
 
Perhaps one day we shall meet and that would be wonderful,
 
But I fear the future, for it is not to be!
 
Another part of the world, so different from mine.
 
War and bloodshed are rife!
 
 
 
A beautiful palace you are building with so much space,
 
a view of the sea.  I love the sea!
 
So different from my tiny three bedroomed semi
 
in the cramped close in Bedfordshire!
 
 
 
I feel this connection and carry you with me,
 
your warmth and caring enfolding me.
 
Like being wrapped in blankets.
 
A protection from the outside world!
 
 
 
Perhaps in our next lives, we will have more luck
 
and things will be different?
 
The fighting may have stopped,
 
We may be on the same side!
 
A beautiful house by the sea, how romantic!
 
With surrounding space and a beautiful garden.
 
A swimming pool.
 
 
 
In my garden, I could just about swing a cat – if I wanted!
 
Our house is bulging out the sides, like a warped cardboard box.
 
Noisy neighbours having late night parties,
 
getting noisier and chattier as more wine is consumed.
 
The noise travels up the stairs and through the walls,
 
reverberating through my tiny abode.
 
There is no escape when they go into the conservatory,
 
open the windows, their laugher travelling around my garden,
 
before entering my windows.
 
This torture could continue until the early hours of the morning.
 
 
 
This thoughtless behaviour, part of modern society.
 
No explanation, no apology.
 
Oh, if only I lived in his palace by the sea
 
And I had my special friend for company!
 
 
 
“Poems for Humanity; Looking from the Side Lines”
Karen King   Copyright 2015

 An invocative encounter

By David Thorpe

 
In the early 1930´s on a business trip for my father´s
textile mill, in the Yorkshire Pennines,
I found myself  as a young Englishman,
in bustling and enrapturing city of Berlin,
heading towards its twilight of the gods,
but that is another story
 
A young American singer of undiscovered renown,
the luminous star of the smoky Kit Kat Klub,
where, dressed in gaudy costumes, she aroused nightly,
her mainly male audience, with her songs of illicit love,
and who was to awaken my hibernating libido
in a most unpredictable and unforgettable way,
this is our story
 
Sauntering back to my hotel in the early afternoon,
a sudden cloud burst over the avenue “Unter Den Linden”
obliged me to dash to take shelter in the nearest entrance,
a boutique for extravagant attire for emancipated ladies,
with one of which I collided head on,
she just leaving the establishment hidden behind
a pile of fancy decorated boxes she precariously carried
 
Needless to say the boxes were scattered,
the lady in question falling into my arms
as we both stumbled indecorously to the ground,
much to the amusement of passers-by,
forgetting their haste to escape the downpour,
not so being my unfortunate accomplice,
whose tongue in no uncertain manner
made that quite clear
 
I helped her to her feet and we viewed the disaster,
she then gathered her boxes, I helping and apologising,
both holding our cargo of boxes and much to my bewilderment
she burst out laughing and I decided to accompany her.
I politely enquired if I could be of further help
and without once blinking those long eyelashes
over those mesmerising eyes she suggested:
”Yes, you can invite me to a cup of tea
 in a sweet little café here in the neighbourhood”
Delighted at the thought of making her acquaintance,
I accepted
 
The rain had now baited,
we set out to  walk towards the Brandenburg Gate,
she doing most of the talking, I the listening,
still in the middle of her life story she exclaimed:
“Here we are!”
We were standing in front of the Hotel Adlon,
the top address for nobility visiting Berlin
 
She marched into the foyer, I in tow,
greeted by doormen and page boys,
who obviously thought we were residents.
The `sweet little café´ was of opulent magnificence,
taking the luxury for granted, she had us seated at a window table,
where, whilst savouring our Darjeeling, she confined enthusiastically
all the celebrities who had wined and dined
within these sacred walls of affluence,
Josephine Baker being her idol and mentioned various times..
Before I would kindly pay the bill,
she divulged to me her name, Sally, I introduced myself as Archie.
 
Sally and I became lovers that very evening, a passionate affair,
a journey which took us  through the labyrinths of sensuality,  
stopping at every station to enjoy the view.
Sally was my teacher in a university crash course,
which opened the door to a world of the sensibility of life.
I returned to Yorkshire a man reborn, unknown even to myself.
 
Leeds, Yorkshire, May 1970

I never saw or heard from Sally again but often reminisce about our evocative encounter
and wonder  if she returned to America before the storm clouds burst over Europe.
I ask myself, if by chance we were to meet again, would we gaze at each other and smile,
once again I being enchanted as I look into those mesmerising eyes

A Plethora of Influences

By Charles E.J. Moulton
 
 
Thoughts criss-cross my mind.
A plethora of influences meander through my brainstem.
They hit the flora of my intelligence.
 
I am one
And yet a puzzle.
So many parts.
So many pieces.
 
A day.
So many parts.
So many pieces.
 
Poems.
Rehearsals for a show in Essen, Germany.
I will play a French opera singer that turns into Elvis.
Rehearsals for a production of the operetta “Die Fledermaus” in Gelsenkirchen, Germany.
Coordinating rehearsals for a children’s musical I am putting on, teaching dates, concerts schedules, seminar days and vacation dates.
Poems.
My magazine.
1,191 vistors a week.
 
I’ve been gone all day.
 
Wine.
Chocolate.
Pizza.
Tired.
Love.
I write about the same things.
God is with me.
 
A plethora of influences.
 
 

Artwork by Teresa Ann Frazee

Between Home and Somewhere
by
Teresa Ann Frazee
 
The ocean lies between home and somewhere
Evening light merges with a magenta sky
Onward I travel toward my destination
Through miles of air, I watch as the past goes by
 
Neglected on the map of transient dreams
Waves take on dimensions of infinity
Right on course, markers vanish one by one
As the span of time monitors obscurity
 
Broke a few rules and took a restless detour
Led far away from the rutted maze of fate
Free from repeating old habits of the day
With deliberate speed, sailed to where the crossroads wait
 
The fire of spring is bred in the bone
It’s all written down on an ever burning page
Entangled in unaging imagination
Within the soul where internal flames rage

Land's End

by
John Frazee

 
Traveling has always been second nature to you
Although you have traveled near as well as traveled far
And yet after traversing maps with the best of them
On seeing your reflection, face the facts, there you are
 
Seventy percent of earth is covered by water
Therefore, this is an event that occurs quite often
You’re simply trekking along minding your own business
When you arrive at this destination, called lands end
 
As you reach this point a decision has to be made
Having this trip end early would truly be a crime
You’ve gotten here on shear will and determination
The excursion has always been one step at a time
 
It certainly did seem to be innocent at first
The path was pleasant enough so you went with the flow
You found the journey to be very rewarding, but
In reality there’s simply no where else to go
 

Compulsion To Explore

by

Teresa Ann Frazee

 
Much have I cast a curious eye toward the heavens
Into the dark which struggles to escape the light
Secular crescents arch over strands of ebony
Emerging like apparitions in homeward flight
 
The human spirit has a compulsion to explore
To fill the abyss of primitive uncertainties
Climbing the jagged rocks because they chanced to be there
Only the close-minded are content with boundaries
 
Ready for the flight, jump and dive, leading to new paths
Passion, a kind of madness lies waiting in our mind
Never to abandon the search for inspiration
To ask endlessly, leaving no question behind
 

  
 

Lazola Pambo is a South African poet, novelist and essayist. The majority of his works have been published in “The Kalahari Review,” “Aerodrome,” “New Coin,” “Nomad’s Choir,” “Black Magnolias Literary Journal,” "LitNet," “Sun & Sandstone,” "New Asian Writing," and “Aji Magazine,” among others. 
You can follow him on Twitter @LPambo




A Letter to Her

 
By Lazola Pambo

 
It is you I’ve known

patiently and truthfully
during miserable times
and jubilant hours
you taught me more
than I could imagine.
 
Quite often I smile alone
watching the sunset
after a long day
how lucky and blessed
to have known you
all the days of my life.
 
It is you I’ve admired
faithfully and attentively
among your family
around your friends
you led me to heaven
while on earth
 
To marry you is a virtue
that I wish to fulfil
make me understand
but I cannot share you
in the anxious hands
of another man.

 
 
 
 
 
 

 
 
 

"Mary Celeste" - Oil Painting by David Thorpe

Mary Celeste
(Depression)

By David Thorpe

 
Souls adrift in the darkness of solitude,
destitute of human presence and warmth,
emptiness in a colourless void,
a lack of guidance, subjected to the mercy
of nightmares and bleak elements.
 
Possessed by sudden fears of shipwreck,
of drowning into an abyss of lethargy,
victims of an edacious wave,
devouring them in their entirety
 
They cling still to the hope of deliverance,
to discard this cloak of tenacious fog
in a disguised world of bereaved feelings,
into which the crept in search of refuge
 
To again witness the joy of a rising sun
of splendid light on a new horizon,
to find again themselves,
like the mysterious ghost ship, Mary Celeste,
found floundering with neither crew nor captain,
lost on seas of silent tongues;
yet rescued from an indecorous fate

How to Sleep Through a Storm
 
By Lucinda Berry Hill


Is your life in the midst of a storm today?
Do you feel things are out of control?
The Bible tells us to imitate Jesus.
Jesus, He slept through a storm.
 
He wasn't worried or afraid
He had complete control of it.
You may not be in full control
But you can trust the One who is.
 
Trust in the One who blows the wind, 
The One who created the sea.
Rely on Him who calms the waters.
Imitate Jesus and believe.
 
He will bring you through this trial.
Do not worry, do not fret.
Trust in Jesus to calm the storm.
This faith will help you rest.
 


Lucinda Berry Hill Author of Coffee with Jesus and A Second Cup with Jesus.©
 
 https://www.facebook.com/#!/pages/Coffee-with-Jesus/355060321207311

http://lucindaspoetry.webs.com/index.htm
 
Ask me about fundraising ideas!
 

Beautiful Boat

By Venetia Venus


She sailed towards him over flashing waves touched by sunlight.
Her sumptuous sail waved wonderfully in the breeze.
The smell of salt water was strong,
He could taste it as he nervously licked his lips.
The sun suggestively kissed his face and shoulders.
All he could hear was the sail in the wind
And the luxurious lapping of the waves.
On board, he could see a slim, suntanned figure
In control of her boat.
Her hair happily gleamed in the sun,
At times caught in the breeze,
Bouncing around as if in jubilation.
He gazed greedily as he watched her,
So calmly in control.
Her sexy shorts showed her long legs.
As his eyes roamed up her body,
He saw droplets of water running down her top
Towards her breasts, sparkling in the sunshine.
Was that an invitation?
It had been many months
Since this lady had sailed into his life,
Turning everything upside down.
Unrelenting thoughts of her had roamed 
Around in his mind for so long.
The boat approached him and she turned.
She was as beautiful and vibrant in person
As he had imagined.
Her eyes bored into this soul
And his heart skipped a beat.
His legs turned to jelly.
At last he had met “The One”.
The waves lapped louder and faster
As if aware of his urgency
To meet and hold her for the first time.
Seagulls shrieked in celebration,
Clouds chased each other,
Gathering in momentum 
As if sensing their electricity.
For this man and woman,
Time had stopped.
All else forgotten.
They were one.  
Forever.

“Romantic Rhymes”  
Karen King writing as Venetia Venus 
Copyright 2015

http://www.amazon.co.uk/Romantic-Rhymes-Venetia-Venus-ebook/dp/B00X71GBZ2/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1460959285&sr=8-1&keywords=romantic+rhymes

Catalina

 
By Jessica Goody

 
The kelp forest glows green,

the columns of its twisted fronds
thick as vines, tall as prehistoric sequoia.
 
The light here transforms.
The sun bleeds its pale stain
through the scrim of the sea,
 
milky as a cataract in the ocean’s eye.
Sea lions swoop and swirl in lazy loop-de-loops,
their dark shadows rising and fading against layers of blue.
 
The wiry eelgrass resembles the tresses
of a waterlogged crone, tangled green strands like excelsior.
Dolphins are sleek silver submersibles
 
amid this strange garden of tumorous corals
and bulbous urchins, blood-red skeins and tangled arteries.
Turtles float placidly beneath the mottled mosaics
 
of their ancient armor, soothed by the rhythmic breath of the tides.
Jellyfish swell and flutter, delicate as chiffon,
trailing poison lappets from their sheer cellophane bells,
 
flowing past the exploding blossoms
of anemones bursting like fireworks
in the shifting colors of a kaleidoscope.
 
 
 
 
 

The Nature of the Sea

By Emma Rose Kraus

 
I crash my waves against your shore
So slick and open to my flowing waters
You are the very picture of beauty,
Angel of persistence,
Whose touch parts the folds of the sea
And makes the oceans rise within my core.
They swell, pulled to lap higher and higher so as to meet you at the bases of your cliffs
In this storm that has arisen by your deeds
And what welcome deeds are these?
That I may feel, no, that I may be consumed by your dry lands and gentle breezes.
 
Take up your boat and sail, my moon,
Heavenly power above, that guides and overwhelms me in my state of liquid obedience.
I taste of salt, and you adore that taste.
Revelling in it, in me, with hot tongues of fire across my surface, delving into my depths, anchoring yourself to my deepest spot.
You live in that taste, and you become it, drowning and cracking, your body being crushed under the pressure of my lips.

 Crock of Gold

By Venetia Venus


His words, sweeter than honey.
Their love, richer than money.
She warmly welcomed his embrace,
Sensations streaming across time and space.
All gleamed – the sun shone, the grass green,
He’d turned her life into a dream.
She’d given up with love.
Finally, she’d found peace, like a dove.
Suddenly swept away by the tides to time,
When all was going so fine.
On a boat, sink or swim.
The torture.  What had happened to him?
There was another from afar.
He wanted to see her – but not by car.
How he could see her light shine.
Oh, to cook her a meal and savour some wine …
He dreamed of romantic music and candles,
He would be more than she could handle.
He had a few tricks up his sleeve,
Of which he knew she wouldn’t believe.
This superficially strong woman was lost,
Her heart open, but at what cost?
Words of pain screamed out to him,
Across the page, like a hurricane.
Previously she perched on her raft.
He smiled.  She looked so daft.
But, wait, he saw her starting to sink.
He must save her. No time to think!
The sea slammed in her face,
She knew she looked a disgrace.
Her hair clung coldly to her cheeks,
She felt so alone and weak.
The darkness lay in wait,
A swirling menace of hate.
The foam wanted to fill her lungs,
Real love had only just begun …
The beauty would shine again,
Once the old had washed down the drain.
She had seen two knights,
But who would be her hero tonight?
Once told, “There will be no tears in our love”,
She could see a rainbow from above.
Once she felt loved, protected and blessed,
But it had all ended up a mess.
Her world no longer had a rosy glow.
Would it again?  She didn’t know.
Once wrapped up in a parcel so pink.
“What next?”  She couldn’t think.
The sky shimmered with the rainbow.
Inside, she sensed an inner glow.
It had painted her stories across the sky.
The colours made her want to fly.
The patient man stood in wait.
When would she wake up, too late?
His light shone like a crock of gold.
When the moment was right, he would be bold.

“Romantic Rhymes”  
Karen King  writing as Venetia Venus 
Copyright 2015

http://www.amazon.co.uk/Romantic-Rhymes-Venetia-Venus-ebook/dp/B00X71GBZ2/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1460959285&sr=8-1&keywords=romantic+rhymes

Whale Song

 

By Jessica Goody

 

The surfacing pod glides past
with a soft splash, their elegant
zeppelin bodies shining
with a patent-leather gleam.
 
Photo negatives in black and white,
they click and moan in a damp dialect
like a whistling wind.
The crone is trailed by calves swimming
 
in the white froth of her wake.
She has been a widow for fifty years,
darkly dressed like Queen Victoria,
a matriarch watching over slippery progeny.
 
Her dorsal fin is a pirate flag
cutting through the navy sea.
The pods streak through the icy waves
in tight formation, a marching army
 
exhaling clouds of spray from their blowholes,
unimpressed by the massive crags of icebergs,
mountains of ice whose heads only break the surface.
They seem to be waiting for something.
 
We cannot know what they are thinking,
neither the ancient glacial cairns or the whales.
We can only gaze at the waters and towers of ice,
and hope that this sight will never fade from our memory.

Journey On And On
 
By Shyamal Kumar Majumder
 
 
'Let us be rivers, make estuary '
Such a romantic call resonates all around
Many life-rivers make estuary
Many may fail.
Succeeders fall into the sea of vastness.
 
Greater unison making  a trinity
Of vast green sea, azure sky and vast heart
Makes a vast pilgrimage.
 
Hopes fly like seagulls
Dream gets chance to fly in pure wind
Imaginations color the mind
Roaring enthrals the navigators 
The vast wonderland remains at the bottom of the sea
Those who are real divers get chance to see,
Can play amazing surfing
Can face waves like hero.
 
Time passes on silently
A real enjoyment, a real ecstasy prevails.
 
Wonderful sunrise and sunsets
The shining moon and the twinkling stars
Represent the sea a great pilgrimage.
Love and trust making their nests in it
Raise a symphony of roaring
Nice environ induces the offsprings
Spreading their hands to embrace free verses of rhymes
The sea flows with greatness to the ocean
The unison flows and flows
On and on.    
 
(C)Shyamal Kumar Majumder
28 Aug, 2015.

Diving

 

By Jessica Goody
 

 
Barnacles crust the salt-soaked wooden pilings
like callused flesh, smeared with the mossy fungi
 
of sea sponge. The ocean floor is studded with sea
urchins like bulbous votives, lit by the strobes of
 
flashing fish, neon-colored extraterrestrials darkly
striped with chevrons. Humpback whales lean back
 
against the sky, preparing for their their freefall into
the horizon where the elements meet, blue into blue.
 

 
 
Vacations in Havana
 
By Tomas Sanchez Hidalgo
 
 
At the Malecón it is dawn all day,
or that’s how I remember that time,
the beach of that summer.
Glasnost far from where I lived,
calypso in front of where I dwelled
(2,000 miles to the southeast,
beyond where earthquakes come from):
delirious stamp exchange
behind toxic structure in opaque:
money lenders definitively beyond the temple.
Factories,
like ants, like gourmets, 
detest ropa vieja*:
brothels and troubadours
five minutes from the Caribbean,
which is not the heart of the Caribbean:
Magritte said it already, This is not a pipe,
it’s the drawing of a pipe,
and I can accept that the simile allows for cracks.
Even there the cookies have letters written on them (some).
*Trans. Cuban stewed beef dish.
Retirement after chamber and shadows
Buy
a one way ticket to the blues,
they’re holding on a side
those in the eternally red seat,
and, meanwhile,
from the other bloc,
Newton’s second;
thinking makes you suffer:
“That’s truer than a Volkswagen,”
those guys maintain in turn,
and on the sides,
and those guys up front;
while, all Hieronymites,
they will drink, they drink and lie
to the infinite glass of glassgold,
on their way, some day, to the blues.
The bingo players (Fritz Lang, 1929?)
The bingo players advise Groucho:
Marx invests on the Stock Market,
and Wall Street goes bankrupt:
far beyond the Hudson
more bingo players are then seen
and mid?way or so
fascists, Vichy,
the Enola Gay,
who knows,
can be seen
(only ee cummings wanted to believe it)
and a phantasmagorical image
of Berlin at nightfall:
unreal, disturbing, 
vaguely well-defined Berlin,
far from physicality,
Berlin out of its place,
out of place, a foreigner to itself,
despite everything located somewhere,
despite any future,
despite any Berlin.
A pool takes up the center of the city
and around it one can distinguish
the Brandenburg Gate,
crowned by the quadriga and the goddess of victory,
the Reichstag,
the Keiser Wilhelm church,
known among Berliners 
as a molar with cavities,
since only one great tower survives
after the Allied bombing
(it is in the end fodder for flames:
the sentinels clear the way
and, after them, the farm appears,
wearing an escalator),
giving rise to this form,
wholly whimsical:
next to it a modern church is built,
with the tower – the lipstick – to one side,
and the cube – the powder -, to the other,
Alexanderplatz,
and near it,
the Red City Hall and the Baroque cathedral;
Postdamer Platz too,
only a lot,
without cafés or theaters or cigar stores or square,
a terrace an attic
only a desert a lot a Gothic cemetery,
the Olympic Stadium,
the Tiergarten,
the Charlottenburg palace gardens,
and, later or further away, the Jewish Museum,
and Checkpoint Charlie of course,
the most famous border point
of the already existing Wall
(that no one crosses,
since besides there’s no one in Berlin:
in Berlin only night falls).

One with Nature

By Alexandra H. Rodrigues

 
Nature fights its own battles and so do we.
When Oceans are rough and skies get dark
Send a smile to heaven, let the Universe see
That you are sure we all leave a mark.
We expect the elements to give us cheer
When doom engulfs us, sun helps to stop fear.
Let it once and for all be understood
We , heaven and earth were all created by God.
Let us into one with nature blend.
Let good vibes prevail over bad in the end,
Within the cycle of death and birth
Strive to be one. Us, heaven and earth!
 

Music for all seasons

By David Thorpe


 
Warmer breezes caress the strings of a consenting harp,
an Elizabethan sonnet of pastoral lyrics in unison to play,
the slumbering nature thereupon to be enticed
to shed its doleful blanket no longer welcome,
but rather a harassment to rays of sunlight,
eager to germinate the seeds of spring blossoms,
their fragrance a balm for an awakening heart
 
To a Chopin waltz the acacias in full leaf
gently sway sheltering two lovers in their shade,
to escape the heat of summer, from which scented gardens
derive their thirst, as the thirst of love of impatient lips,
longing to taste the nectar sweet and unfurl the flag of passion,
releasing the wings of desire to fly and there to nest
´neath the sensuality of virgin breasts
 
The “Water Music” of Händel predicts the autumn rain,
dampening the fallen leaves awaiting their dispersion;
November rides on morning mists enshrouding the day with humid kisses,
till darkness usurps its rival in a winning battle,
and love withdraws to find the cause misplaced,
once held high on the cherished standard,
now put in question before a disconcerted jury
 
Beethoven´s “Silence” reflects the image of mute darkness,
frozen speech unable to express the profoundness of sentiments
in search of comfort, hibernating within the labyrinths of the winter of love
exhausted from scars of a thwarted battlefield,
a time for contemplation of more intrinsic values,
decisions of priority to be taken should the unbolting of sluice gates,
wash away with the torrent the very  foundations of sensibility

My Prince

By Alexandra H. Rodrigues



The world keeps turning

My desire keeps churning

Why did I never reach what was inside me burning?



I did not even know what I really wanted

Rather felt most of the time like being haunted

I continued searching for what seemed missing

It never helped to be teasing or kissing.



Is there a power that ties me to another soul?

Could either one of us be unaware of this call?

Year after year I look for a disclosing sign

I exist in a vacuum no answer to be mine.



Again and again I try to emerge

But a force pulls me back when I reach the verge

What engulfs me is like a super human drive

The urge at a truly sensational result to arrive.



An expectation of heavenly bliss

A satisfaction which till now I did miss

Deep in my soul I feel that you do exist

It is you by whom I want to be kissed.

ACOUSTICS

 after listening to More Than Words

By Erika Goodrich





Fumbling through

the radio stations

I stop on soft rock. 

More Than Words 

playing on air

brings me back 

to the edge 

of my dorm bed 

so many years ago

where Mack strung

his six-string, singing:

la di da da da…More than 

Words…drifting into air

like scented smoke rings

burning patchouli, orange,

bergamot, & lavender.

Back then, life spanned out 

wide like a big body

where time stilled in the acoustics

and I was the high note 

held counterpoint.

What I wouldn’t give to be 

back on that bed, believing 

in the possible. Believing 

in a world with two moons 

looming over our heads.

Speaking in Wildflower



By Erika Goodrich






“You belong among the wildflowers…

  You belong somewhere you feel free”

  ~Tom Petty, Wildflowers





I.



Look, 

 Wildflowers, Look!



      [Blazing Stars, Dame’s Rockets,

      Tasselflowers,Trilliums

           Venus grass, Mimosas, 

     Fireweed, Irises] 



      Do you see them?



Do you see their slender stems, un-



 furling? Their pink and purple heads

   leaning- 

    towards the garden’s edge?



II.



She dreams in

  wild fields.



 She dreams out-

   side this boxed-in

            way- 

           ward world.





III. 





Do you see? The wildflower!



 I am—The Wildflower!



Outside the garden:



 I wield the wild grass of a furtive field.

Blowing Winds


By Shyamal Kumar Majumder



The wind blows from north to south
Old leaves fall down in the winter
Making a rustle tune
Over the backdrop of foggy monsoon..
An old haggard passes his days with snuggles...
A soliloquy of pesky moment of deceptive love...
A melody of life full of taunting and jostling.
Yet it puts the promise of coming new braving generation
Yet it keeps the okay signals of soothing temperate climate..
Whose bosom is full of love
His melodious song may be tragic.

Yet it fills our souls with magic.
Again the wind blows  from south to north
A revelry sound of cajole
Vibrant echoes here and there..
Green leaves sprout out of
skeleton
Cuckoos coo over the colored waves
Originates from the blooming of flowers..
A murmuring mirth flows all over the land
Sounds of love sketch the shape of music .
The cuckoo's coo is high pitched tune
Jointly makes an orchestra of the spring..
Which reverberates  in every soul
Acting as an elixir of life
Representing itself as a rapture 
Offered by the nature  to the  creature.
The pipe is tuned properly with the lyrics of lyricists.
Nothing but ;
A whim of enthralling all.

(C) Shyamal Kumar Majumder

Retirement after chamber and shadows

By Tomas Sanchez Hidalgo



Buy

a one way ticket to the blues,

they’re holding on a side

those in the eternally red seat,

and, meanwhile,

from the other bloc,

Newton’s second;

thinking makes you suffer:

“That’s truer than a Volkswagen,”

those guys maintain in turn,

and on the sides,

and those guys up front;

while, all Hieronymites,

they will drink, they drink and lie

to the infinite glass of glassgold,

on their way, some day, to the blues.

MUSIC BOX

By Erika Goodrich




In the middle of my music box, there is a dancer.  She pretends to be ballerina.  Her one leg stands on metal disc, attached to brass gearshift hidden under the box’s felt-lined bottom.  Her toes point down.  Her fingers reach towards the ceiling as her body elongates, opposed positions. 

I stare at her pink plastic lips and royal blue eyes lined with black lashes the size of her forehead.  A plastic blonde bun and bow lumped on her head. A plastic body—almost nude—with tucked waist covered in pink tulle and painted white bodice. 

She twirls right until the music stops In mid-turn she is silenced facing the back of the box Her plastic silhouette stuck waiting for someone to turn the brass gears Now—play music—Now—watch her turn, turn, turn—Tutu twirls—pink swirls around— Around my head I watch my box until…until…

Until. She. Stops. 

Words and Music

By Jessica Goody



Rain drums the windowpanes like percussion

as the storm crescendoes, the glass streaming. 

Such a day calls for jazz. Ella's tongue-twisting 

scat reminds me of the precision of language,



experiments with sound, rhythm and syllable.

I tap my pencil in time to her crooning strain,

pondering “Lionel Hampton's instrument”: ten 

letters, starts with V. My pencil stutters against 



the tabletop, keeping time as I count the spaces,

testing each letter to see whether the potential 

combination makes a word. With each completed 

clue, another cross-street appears on the grid, 



the black and white squares stark as sheet music.

The last note hangs in the air; the last blank white 

space waits to be filled, a single vowel making the 

difference between gibberish and a genuine word.

Discoveries


For the centennial of the Shackleton Imperial Trans-Antarctic Expedition, 1914



By Jessica Goody




Imagine a cold of frightening intensity,

a region defined by lack of temperature. 

Islets rise like moles on the expanse of the silver-nitrate sea,

glaciers shaped like plateaus, fortresses, mountain ranges.

Palaces of ice drift by, flashing colors in the sun:

prisms of lavender, rose, chrysoprase green.



Inside, a scene from a Jack London novel:  

A low, thin cot piled with fur, luxuriant 

against the rusticity of the barren shack.

Damp books with rotten bindings and pages stiffened with rime.

The mottled patterns of maps paper the walls,

a spiderweb of constellations to steer by.



Clotheslines span the ceilings, ancient apparel left out to dry,

frozen thermals and soaked mittens encased in ice. 

The odors of coal oil and dampened wool ceased to linger 

a century ago. Weathered wood and rotting leather,

diamond-shaped snowshoes latticed with rawhide, and specimen 

trays of stones and shells preserved in the icebox of the Arctic.



Heavy trunks with handsome brass fittings, their elegance 

now tarnished. Inside, abandoned flotsam lies perfectly preserved: 

tin cans and melted stalks of candles, the heavy, solid hulk of an 

antique typewriter, and an elegant gramophone, its gleaming horn 

fluted like a seashell. One hundred years ago, it played Strauss 

to a curious audience of penguins who had never heard music before.

Backstage

By Jessica Goody




Backstage, a no man’s land

stacked with wooden flats and instrument cases gathering dust,

ladders, card tables, stacked chairs, and puddled canvas.

A theatrical junkyard full of pieces to outfit worlds,



scattered objects like the refuse of a shipwreck,

the flotsam and jetsam of past performances,

the valuable and the mismatched, pieces of other lives: 

Golden beaches and frosted mountains 



beckon from sticker-studded suitcases, 

their achieved destinations shining like merit badges.

Luggage crammed with bright print dresses, 

a single opera glove, a musty feather boa, 



stray nylon stockings etched with runs, 

foaming petticoats, and a silver pocket watch long-unwound. 

Costumes glitter like the plumage of tropical birds,

winking sequins and frothing whitecaps of tulle.



the gowns appear brighter, seeming to glow in anticipation,

as if they know they are about to be worn.

Hats perch like birds’ nests along dusty eaves,

wig heads staring as blindly as Sibyls.



Swaddled in the bat-wings of dark curtains,

busy as ants as we sort and arrange, 

outfitting make-believe lives with authenticity.

Within the microcosm of stage and set,



an ethereal creature is born. 

Like an insect it lives for one night,

shimmering, ephemeral, only to die

when the solar system of spotlights are dimmed.

Rowing to the Melody of Life


By Ed Michalski




My heart has found a new wind to follow. It smells like roses and old days. It is the same scent that bids me to be young again. It smells like the flesh of all the Sirens from the old stories. Not the ones that bid you  to crash upon the rocks, but the one who is kind and  offers you a hand up from whatever Ocean you drowned in. It has the scent of dreams. It reminds me of Mermaids.. and how their breasts and songs made many men jump overboard because their lives were buried in the sea. This wind smells like Atlantis and memories I should forget. I am sailing this ship alone though and have forgotten how to turn the sails. I have to row to the sounds  that she writes upon rocks. My hands are old.... and when I cannot row fast enough, she gets impatient. Mermaids are like that. So are dreams and regrets and memories. Each one has its own agenda. I just have my rowing.. and a distant sound of a Mermaid. And the sound of the wind whose name I used to know.......laughing at my little oars.

by Karen King



She watched him from the shore as

He continued rowing, in his day dream, 

His mind in some far off place.

In another world.

She was not whom he thought.

She was just a woman.

No mermaid to entrance him.

She would not solve his problems.

That was his own duty

And his choice.

He owed it to himself.

He owed it to his health.

She would not let him drift off, though,

So she slowly slithered into the water

And swam silently towards him

As he rowed towards the 

Dying embers of the sun.

She grabbed the boat and hauled herself aboard.

He wondered why his boat was bucking around

And looked behind him,

Only to see a creature of seaweed 

Encroaching his private space,

His private thoughts,

His life.

Like the good man he was,

He leant over and helped her in

And brushed the seaweed from her face.

This was his mermaid,

But not as he’d expected.

Bedraggled, tattooed and large as life.

She smiled, impishly and grabbed an oar,

“Did you think I would let you sail off that easily?” 

She exclaimed, loudly in his ear.

“No, not really!” he stuttered, confused, 

Rolling his eyes around in despair!

“Why won’t she just get the hint?”, he muttered to himself.

He just wanted his own silence, his own thoughts.

She grabbed an oar and helped him through the tranquil water.

There was still some sun, just kissing the water, warming 

The remnants of the day with its quiet strength and beauty.

Surprisingly, she stopped talking and was gazing,

Entranced, at the sunset, smiling, satisfied, to herself.

He glanced across and couldn’t help but be

Drawn to her.  He had tried to resist her, 

But it seemed he was weakening…

She seemed to be filling all the empty spaces

And some shadows in his life.

Perhaps he should keep rowing towards the light?

The tranquillity of the setting sun touched their souls 

As they turned towards each other and 

Recognised each other from many lives,

In other worlds, in other times.

Satisfied, smiling, following their dream as

They, together, rowed to the melody of life,

Making what was once a dream, a reality.



Karen King and Ed Michalski   Copyright   January  2016

Musical Crescendo



By Karen King




Crashing cymbals, deafening drums,

He hid in the corner and there he strummed.

As everything exploded all around,

He watched whilst he stood his ground.




The electric guitar gave a shriek,

As electricity reached its peak.

The tension so high, you could hear the crack,

The strings broke, you could hear the thawk.




She started to sing and grabbed the mic,

Telling him to get on his bike.

He didn't like her lyrics or her singing 

Or all that it was bringing.




Her pace too fast, he couldn’t cope,

So he cycled away with his last hope.

Nights On The River

By Janine Pickett

Editor-in-Chief of the Indiana Voice Journal

http://www.indianavoicejournal.com/


Fog lines dispersing
in unnatural patterns
smoothed black the riverbanks
and I saw visions of an old couple
haunting the moonlit waters
catching dreams in silver cups.

They wore angelic grins
and eyes full of light
as they danced
with dragonflies
serenading
in a circle of song

At dawn, when the day
spoke into the darkness
they vanished
and I whispered,
"were you ever really here at all?"
and then I found

wedged among the logs
a small silver cup
emptied of dreams
and the quiet humming
of dragonfly wings

Spring


By Karen King




I enter the park, tulips abound,


Birds chirp merrily all around.


A small boy runs ahead of his Mum


On the path and welcomes the sun.

 CHERRY BLOSSOMS IN DARKNESS

By Lyn Lifhsin

 
glow like

stars of lace,
heavy snow
clotting on boughs.

I couldn’t sleep,
the sweet white
floating up
stairs pulled me
back to the
cove of an
old lover’s
arms deep in
such white
dripping branches,
white petals
on slopes of
skin, lips
studding Tuesday
with jewels
in the sweet
grass, locked
like antlers

Daffodil

by Karen King





Green foliage bursting through the hard, frozen ground.

What is emerging?

Stems grow up and up in search of warmer days,

mysterious miniature buds start forming.



Buds start to open, a tinge of yellow can be seen,

some here, some there.  Teasing.

New life appears as the ground gradually warms,

the sunshine shines longer and stronger.



Tiny yellow buds appear,

looking forward to sunny days.

Their sweet scent pierces the air,

New life begins.  In the spring.


“Delights of Nature – Spring”   Karen King  Copyright  2015

http://www.amazon.co.uk/Delights-Nature-Spring-Karen-King-ebook/dp/B00TCODVPG/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1458656340&sr=8-1&keywords=delights+of+nature+-+spring

Spring in the Air

By Patrick Bryant Michael




The sun is shining, warming the soul

frittering
glittering
sights bring thoughts to minds, hearts to console
fluttering
twittering
sounds fill the air, on hearts take a toll
playing
swaying
to music blending beats to extol
dancing
prancing
guys and gals seek romance in play role
smiling
wiling
like muses in the clouds on patrol
looking
booking
time for enjoying life, love the goal
bouncing
pouncing
like kittens playing to a drum roll
reacting
attracting
the opposite sex from a dark hole
grinning
spinning
around with devil may care control
posing
dozing
with Spring in the air to feel more whole!


(c) August 24, 2010 by PBM

Spring

By David Thorpe


Under the ground moves a silent earthquake
and splitting bulbs use firmly anchored roots
to bulldoze their inquisitive shoots up to the surface,
experiencing their first warm rays of sun;
an end to their continuous darkness.
 
On the trees, once frozen buds,
turn overnight to awakening blossoms
and green foliage slowly emerges from its winter prison;
becoming more intense with each new day.
 
In the fields, petrified with frozen fingers,
the remains of last year’s meadows,
are now shades of green, yellow and white,
from where new born lambs bleat,
as they frolic in oblivion of winter’s harsh reality.

Steeples in the Spring

By Lucinda Berry Hill


Spring brings new life.
Flowers are in bloom.
Seedlings sprout up
And trees blossom too. 

And when they all gather
Near to a steeple 
Together, it seems,
They point for God's people.

They seem to shout out
In a voice of one,
"Look up and see,
New life's begun!

Look up and see
God's on His throne
Lovingly waiting
To welcome you home."

Look up to the steeple.
Look past it's point.
Give glory to God.
Sing and rejoice.

Take in the beauty
Of the colors of Spring.
Accept God's forgiveness;
Let your new life begin.  



Lucinda Berry Hill author of devotional "A Second Cup with Jesus" © 


 https://www.facebook.com/#!/pages/Coffee-with-Jesus/355060321207311

http://lucindaspoetry.webs.com/index.htm

Spring's Greetings

By Shyamal Kumar Majumder


Spring has come in a train of joy in time
Winter is ready to leave as a part of routine
Every season represents itself with
lovely image.
Now the shift of jolly spring
Busy to share warm love messaging
So bright, so vibrant
So sweet with the tunes of cuckoos
Spring lips are lovely crimson hued
With the color of 'Palash' and 'Shimul '
Breeze so gentle
Swinging souls
Hairs have forgotten the civic sense
Minds are running after folklore craze
Voice has started an adventurous voyage
Rivers' murmur now the land coverage.

(C) Shyamal Kumar Majumder

My Garden in Thoughts

By Alexandra H. Rodrigues



Year after year my garden goes through stages

Ages

With spring recreation begins

Sins

Virgin plants push through the earth

Birth



In summer whistling winds sing

Ring

Flowers and trees thrive in their beauty

Duty

With fall the nature acquires a veil

Trail



Remote sadness mingles with peace

Release

In winter grounds spread icy glow

Snow

God gave us nature and life as a loan

Unknown.

The Golden Seed

 by

Teresa Ann Frazee
 
 
The golden seed incubates in the fragile cradle of time
Hidden in a membranous labyrinth of embryonic space
Receding out of sight the seed nests in the balance of life 
As its orbed shadow devoutly lies in waiting to take its rightful place
 
The frayed darkness bleeds into the next elusive moment
Then it’s loosened from the sphere of interwoven wilderness
Gold dappled light teases it out of the fetal resting world
Into an existence where a gilded atmosphere is boundless
 
Wound about the edge of the gossamer environment
Little in common with the other seeds, being far more intense
Peacefully content within the harmonious solitude
This golden seed stands above with overwhelming elegance

 No Other Season  

by

Teresa Ann Frazee  

 
Streams of golden light glimmer upon the throne of grace
    Released from the fertile grasp of no other season
It is there, spiraling mysteries tend to linger
    Like early morning dreams unfazed by rhyme or reason
 
Loyal to the laws of nature in force above the clouds
    As topaz leaves hold their alignment with perfection
One cycle comes to an end gathering momentum
    Until gradually passing time changes direction
 
In the haze of the sun the horizon vanishes
    Toward distant spheres of space where wisps of light have spun
And deep rooted yellowing stalks on trellises creep
    As the lines blur when spring’s innocent day is done
         

Regal Bounty

 by

Teresa Ann Frazee

 
Illuminated with a veil of elegance
   Of amber gradations of diffused light
Scattered shadows interpose upon trapped seeds
  And sift through the garden like phantoms in flight
 
Passionately yearning for life to blossom
   The April sun weaves its golden thread
Into the ripened wilderness of a rich
   Regal bounty rooted in its earthy bed
 
Stems coil around the air provoking charm
   Their attached lineage clings as they sway
Radiant with the sunlit gleam of life
    Bathe in the grand landscape of a perfect day

Loving Heart

By Alexandra H. Rodrigues

 

When we say “I love you”
We expect to hear “I do too.”
Many promise everlasting love.
This promise often gets quite tough.
 
“I give you my heart” is another futile oath
It would turn us into a Zombie and that is gross.
The phrase: “It will break my heart, if you leave”
Does give a cardiologist reason for grieve.
 
“My heart beats only for you”
That cannot be proven and is hardly true.
If you are with me in the city of Berlin
To tell me that you left your heart in SFO is a sin.
 
Yes, I hope and believe that true love exists
But how to express this is too often missed.
True love requires a character pure beyond doubt
Only God might know what real love is all about.


 
 

Gliding Boat


By Alexandra H. Rodrigues

 
Do you really want to know what was his fate?

Can to think of death you tolerate?
The young lover had had enough
The separation from her had been too rough.
 
Her ashes were scattered to free her soul
To follow her by drowning was now his goal.
Unable to action he remained in the boat alone
A shark felt sorry, swallowed him skin and bone.
 
Since then the boat glides softly empty around
To one night by the souls of the lovers be found.
There is obviously a guiding force
A hand interfered and set forever the course.



 

Cauldron

By Alexandra H. Rodrigues


He left his home to get away from the ghostly witch
The one that for years around his house did snitch.
At the airport he had gulped down a stiff drink
To calm his nerves as they were on a brink.

His flight would take him far away
That nothing bad happens he did silently pray
It was the time close to Halloween
At the approach to Norway the Aurora Borealis was seen.

Daylight and again another drink
Allowed him into a welcome sleep to sink.
Then dark broke in, oh much too soon
From the cockpit came a warning about a monsoon.

The liquor service had to be intercepted
As severe turbulence was now being expected
His legs began to weaken and chatter
To get to Africa quick was all that did matter.

He looked out of the window and over the wing
A ghostly figure on the rudder did seem to swing
It seemed all his plans had been in vain
To escape his witch he had taken the plane.

Far on the ground where only rice plants grow
Bluish flickering lights like eyes in skulls did glow.
Among them the image of smoldering candle wicks
Balancing on eerie looking bamboo sticks.

He figured by now they must be close to Senegal 
Where one should avoid a cannibal.
Luckily the fasten seatbelt sign had gone off again
So a double gin did ease his pain.

He had to find what he perceived as cauldron
Too far his mind had into the underworld gone
A hanger off the rack in the coatroom he took
To him like a perfect wand it did look.

The wand he held tensely in front of him
But no ghost did reappear on the wing
Thus there was no longer any need for him to flee to Africa
He now preferred to endure his own witch at his own spa.

Before they reached the Ivory Coast
He imbibed in another blissful toast.
Lucky for him the plane made a turn around
So he was back at the start, back on the ground

   Crimson Edge

  by

Teresa Ann Frazee

 
In the still of dusk God woke her inner child
With a wave she broke the bounds of daylight blue
Whirling flames crackled along the crimson edge
A solitary space but now they are two
 
Playing in the hollow, where scattered light rose
Her majestic hum echoed above the altered sky
Unyielding curfews tug on the rope of time
Caught a glimpse of all tomorrows in her eye
 
The clouds were shepherded by her playful touch
Reveling in youth she danced in fields of space
On tiny feet that made no visible print
Then slipped back into heaven without a trace

        Later That Day

      by

      Teresa Ann Frazee

 
      I dream I meet a gypsy by the black lamp post
      In the mist she reads my palm for a gold token
      Through scarlet lips she speaks my language fluently
      Whispering softly with English that is broken
 
      A scented breeze called my dream gypsy away
      She then clutched her lacy shawl and prepared to go
      Mysteriously, she said she had to appear
      In another dream for a man she did not know
 
      “It happens”, she said, waving her fingers ringed with gold
      “In the loneliness of sleep from time to time
      The hour will come and he’ll lose track of unconsciousness
      I’ll shake him off and you’ll be exclusively mine”
 
      And later that day in the peace of the evening
      My mind’s eye traced her bohemian silhouette
      There in the wilderness of the half-imagined
Once more I count the minutes for the sun to set

New Visitor

By Karen King




Once in a warm, welcoming abode in your safe little world.



The occasional ripple, like being at sea, floating on a sailing boat.



Sometimes music or voices heard through your watery domain…







Suddenly!



Your home bursts like a river!



You are dragged through a tight, unforgiving tunnel.



No longer warm and comforting.



Into brightness, harshness, sharp voices, coldness!  



Unwelcoming!







You feel lost!



You are lost!



Your safe world has gone.



You have entered a new world.



Cold, loud, unforgiving, 



Where lurid colours dominate



And strong smells encroach.







Let’s hope your Mother can care for you



And offer a warm, safe place in this world,



Full of love and peace, 



Like when you were safe inside her.



For you are a visitor passing through this world,



Like all the other humans,



Before you, once again, return home



To the world of spirit and Heavenly love.

“The Lucky Visitor”


By Karen King



As you look through your camera lens,

You are the visitor to other worlds.

You see your moving picture,

Sometimes smaller, sometimes larger 

Than it is in reality.

You are the privileged visitor

Into other scenes, other lives.

Do not take your part lightly,

Watch, learn and appreciate

Your secret glimpses 

Into other worlds

Take your photo and, later,

When you view this moment,

Stuck in space and time,

Remember that you were 

The audience of the scene.

And that you will, forever more, 

Be “The Lucky Visitor”



Karen King   Copyright  20 March 2016

“The Visitors”


By Karen King




Battered and bruised, 

Like an ancient limb,

With skin peeling away 

From old wounds,

This tree trunk resembles

The leg of a war hero, 

Torn and tattered.

Please remember and appreciate

These important men and women,

Soldiers and civilians,

On the front 

And in the background,

Battling for our country 

And for other countries,

For they are just visitors 

To alien places 

and alien worlds.

These war-torn countries 

Are still homes to many,

But their ways of life 

Are a mystery

And our heroes of war

will always be 

“The Visitors”.


Karen King  Copyright   20 March 2016

Next Stop Coney Island

by

John Frazee

 
Check my pockets one last time, terribly short on bread
With Friday getting darker what future lies ahead
From signals on the track the platform is bathed in red
Anything is possible so up the stairs I’m led
 
Night begins to take shape as I disembark this train
Next stop, Coney Island still echoes in my brain
A most anticipated and familiar refrain
This is where she resides, the one with the pitch black mane
 
Arriving I leave the train as quickly as I could
There’s just one reason I’d get off in this neighborhood
The time I spend with her is guaranteed to be good
With my raven haired goddess straight out of Hollywood
 
Treat her right, she’s not someone that you want to make mad
Rough around the edges, she’s not evil but she’s bad
Maybe hang out in Brooklyn or head back to my pad
Putting it simply, she’s the most fun I’ve ever had

The Arrival

by

John Frazee

 
The date is marked well in advance, the time etched in our memory
Throughout the multitude He has commanded the utmost respect
None would ever dare to disrupt what is about to take place
Always with the sun behind Him to accentuate the affect
 
The crowd gathers, the still air is ripe with anticipation
The glasses will be emptied, the platters cleared, candles extinguished
The pageantry speaks for itself, nothing rivals what lies ahead
His movements are elegant, His powerful aura distinguished
 
For the very young it is an event not soon forgotten
Ultimately we rely on Him for our very survival
It's quite unique, if you have yet to witness this, prepare yourself
There's an atmosphere and reverence that proceeds the arrival




 

SEI LA MIA BARI 


A poem in Italian by Santa Vetturi



Sei conchiglia
d’alga e salmastro        
che all’orecchio sussurra
il misterioso mormorio
delle onde.

Sei scrigno
di forme e colori         
che all’occhio ravviva
la danza delle stagioni

Sei ragù di perizia
e pazienza             
che il sapore tramanda
di tradizioni
nel cuore custodite.

Sei ruvido di
antiche pietre   
 che l’arte raccontano
della tua gente ardimentosa.

  Sei essenza di terra e di mare
che s’ancora al suo mondo
e si protende all’altrove

Sei la mia Bari
di oggi e di sempre
che i sensi m’esalta
e il canto m’ispira dell’anima.









YOU’RE MY BARI

(Translated by Santa Vetturi)



You’re the shell of seaweed and salt marshes

whispering into my ears

a mysterious murmur of the waves.



You’re the coffer of shapes and colors

reviving into my eyes

the dance of seasons.



You’re a ragout of skill and patience

handing down the flavor

of traditions enshrined in the heart.




You’re the roughness of ancient stones

narrating the Art

of your fearless people.



You’re the essence of land and sea

anchoring in the world

and reaching out to the elsewhere.



You’re the Bari of my today as always,

exalting my senses

and inspiring in me the song of my soul

Easter Joy


By Alexandra H. Rodrigues
Massapequa

 

Colorful candy and the traditional jelly bean
In many stores and homes now is seen.
The Easter feast does not call for sentimentality
It is known for fun in legend and in reality.
 
In Christian faith it blesses the resurrection
Old customs show bunnies in Easter egg action.
Some countries favor a Cuckoo or Fox to spread joy
Kids do love this suspension be it girl or boy.
 
Eggs represent the symbol of fertility and new life.
Hares and rabbits show to multiply a real strong drive.
To assist in the festivities, the Easter bunny was born
Kept busy with hiding fancy eggs in pastures of corn.
 
Winter’s roughness can soon be left behind.
Tulips and crocuses shoot thru earth to please the mind.
Even when there happens to be a damp and cool day
We know for a fact, that spring is now on its way!

Aliens

By Patrick Bryant Michael



Strangers of the Universe in other dimensions
rambling
tumbling
through worm holes, flying with unspoken wild intentions
ugly
burly
creatures with laughs like hyenas, facial extensions
giggly
wiggly
worm like extraterrestrials with odd intentions
horny
bony
features extending outward, scary like pretensions
steely
wily
bearings, shiny skins, with angelic like suspensions
gritty
witty
talking creatures, with raw and mystical conventions
misty
saucy
sea creature like life forms, with standing tall contentions
crinkling
crackling
voices, sounds pouring forth, vocal chords sense contrasting
prickly
tricky
elf like tiny life forms creep around, time recasting
surly
crafty
werewolf like creatures howling like a banshee grasping
soaring
sailing
in the cosmos like ghosts of the past everlasting
crossing
bending
though the nexus of love spiritedly, splosh splashing
twisting
turning
with turbulence in orbit round new worlds adapting
leaning
learning
from new species, relativity seems surpassing
coming
going
feeling lost in space, regulating while re-masking
coasting
cruising
like alien pirate ships traveling back through past times
giggling
singing
camp songs from ancient worlds, passing dimensions in rhymes
seeding
sowing
future beings, aligned with passages from teatimes
grooming
growing
mythical mindsets, used in playing alien mimes
springing
glowing
like fireflies flitting about, alien to old primes
drifting
grafting
old to new, dimensions grow like comic cybercrimes
seeking
searching
for black holes, where aliens are cast through with life lines
dreaming
sleeping
waking from a dark space, coming from where the heart climbs.

‘The Tears of a Slave’

By Africus-Freedom’s Journal, March 14, 1828


Adieu, to my dear native shore,

To toss on the boisterous wave;

To enjoy my kindred no more,
But to weep—the tears of a SLAVE!
By the sons of freemen I’m borne,
To the land of the free and the brave;
From my wife and children I’m torn,
To weep—the sad tears of a SLAVE!
When, I think on mother and friends,
And the joy their countenance gave;
Ah! how my sad bosom it rends,
While weeping—the tears of a SLAVE!
Ah! now, I must labour for gold,
To pamper the pride of the knave;
Ah! now, I am shackled and sold
To weep—the sad tears of a SLAVE!
Keen sorrow so presses my heart,
That often I sigh for my grave;
While feeling the lash-cruel smart!
And weeping—the tears of a SLAVE!
Ye sons, of the free and the wise,
Your tender compassions I crave;
Alas! can your bosoms despise
The pitiful tears of a SLAVE!
Can a land of Christians so pure!
Let demons of slavery rave!
Can the angel of mercy endure,
The pitiless—tears of a SLAVE!
Just Heaven, to thee I appeal;
Hast thou not the power to save?
In mercy thy power reveal,
And dry—the sad tears of a SLAVE.

Meandering

By Alexandra H. Rodrigues
 


To relive any part of my life

Would be a futile and useless strife.
I sincerely believe in destiny
In repeating what was, I do no purpose see.
 
Each part of my life was threaded with both joy and pain
To tamper with God’s plan would be for sure in vain
Some periods were complicated and rough
Others let me taste all the phases of love.
 
The expectations I had from day to day
Did securely guide me along life’s way.
What happened I could not do much about
A greater force was deciding my route.
 
If for anything I could have a voice

It would be to pick what still is to come as choice
My goal is to be remembered in smiled admiration
By those with whom I had even the slightest relation.
 
What is meant to be will be
Efforts to scheme are wasted when intended the future to see.

 

 

An Extravaganza

by Shyamal Kumar Majumder


Don't worry about time.
I want to pass time in valuable manner 
Avoiding my clock's governance .
The diaphanous hand's 'tick -tick'
Just a rhythm of my work. 
I don't bother time
I'm involved in a great work
My pleasure is my first consideration...

My best person will be my accompanying soul
Remaining in a soul to soul relationship..
My focus of all interests now surrounding that soul...
We share our happiness and sorrow
Nothing left for tomorrow
If we can collect one cup of tea
We'll share it
If one singara - no tension
It's also to be shared....
I've nothing to be guarded..
I'm the guard of the world
If any dirt or trash seen over her face..
Then and there I clean it
With my effector hand in a process of spontaneous love reflex..
I've no duty but my being
Dutiful to whole worlds...
My liberty always unfolds the wings of dream..
Me only a self guided bird..
Time passes in rhythm and blues.

(C)Shyamal Kumar Majumder
26 March, 2016.

To the Virgins, to Make Much of Time

Robert Herrick, 1591 - 1674


Gather ye rosebuds while ye may,
Old Time is still a-flying;
And this same flower that smiles today
Tomorrow will be dying.

The glorious lamp of heaven, the sun,
The higher he’s a-getting,
The sooner will his race be run,
And nearer he’s to setting.

That age is best which is the first,
When youth and blood are warmer;
But being spent, the worse, and worst
Times still succeed the former.

Then be not coy, but use your time,
And while ye may, go marry;
For having lost but once your prime,
You may forever tarry.

Great Spirit Prayer


"Oh, Great Spirit, whose voice I hear in the wind,

whose breath gives life to all the world.
Hear me; I need your strength and wisdom.
 
Let me walk in beauty, and make my eyes ever behold the red and purple sunset.
 
Make my hands respect the things you have made and my ears sharp to hear your voice make me wise so that I may understand the things you have taught my people.

Help me to remain calm and strong in the face of all that comes towards me.
Let me learn the lessons you have hidden in every leaf and rock.

Help me seek pure thoughts and act with the intention of helping others. 
Help me find compassion without empathy overwhelming me.

I seek strength, not to be greater than my brother, but to fight my greatest enemy - Myself.

Make me always ready to come to you with clean hands and straight eyes.
 
So when life fades, as the fading sunset, my spirit may come to you without shame.
 
~Chief Yellow Lark, Lakota Tribe

Photo by Karen King



Watercolour Teasels

By Karen King
 
 
The teasel picture, painted by watercolour,

In front of the blue/greylake.

These gentle, caressing colours,

A beautiful photo to take!

These natural, wild flowers,

As understated as can be,

Stand against the muted water,

The sentinels of the sea!
 
 
“Delights of Nature – Autumn”   Karen King   Copyright 2015
 
http://www.amazon.co.uk/Delights-Nature-Autumn-Poetry-Photography-ebook/dp/B00CJH8Z36/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1456865023&sr=8-1&keywords=delights+of+nature+-+autumn

‘ Symphony of New York ‘

by

Thaddeus Hutyra




There you are, charming goddess in my life, one of my love
enchanting one of such unearthly, crystalline beauty
that when you walk out with me, with all your charms
all the birds there are yet left are singing song of love.



Every time we stroll in enthralling Manhattan
alongside the Hudson river and Atlantic shores
walking in ravishing Central Park or just sitting in a cafe
there is heard song of love all over New York City.


The symphony of our love, of our two hearts
echoes from a skyscraper to a skyscraper, to all skyscrapers
and the whole New York City becomes a final symphony
one of love and only of love, of our loving hearts
O play the symphony of New York, play to our hearts
turn all New York City into the symphony of love.


O Lord, my Lord, how I am sincere thankful to you 
You brought such beauty into my life, captivating one
the woman I love with all my heart, my passionate heart
she is my lover, my meaning of life, my very life.


O Lord, my Lord, great are your gifts greater than life
What would I do without her, my sweetheart
how miserable would be the world without wonders as her ?!
O sing angels, play the symphony of love !


The symphony of our love, of our two hearts
echoes from a skyscraper to a skyscraper, to all skyscrapers
and the whole New York City becomes a final symphony
one of love and only of love, of our loving hearts
O play the symphony of New York, play to our hearts
turn all New York City into the symphony of love.


2.
‘ New York, New York City ‘


New York, New York City
you, the dazzling Melting Pot
with never ending dreams
and the reality splendid in all images
there can ever be projected
on the screen of life, the NYC life
You, America’s Tower of Babel !


New York, New York City
you, the vibrating town
of diligent men and women
at work, in love, family life
busy in shaping destiny
under the NYC hilarious skies
You, the scenic Big Apple !


To this generous, life-giving city 
I yearn, my Lord
To those soaring skyscrapers
flirting with the NYC skies
I yearn, my Lord
To this city of eternal life
where my soul settled permanently
I yearn, my Lord
To this city of humanity’s best
I yearn, yearn, my Lord !


New York, New York City
you, the hub of day and night activity
for the noble New Yorkers
descendants of immigrants
from four points of the world
fulfilling their goals
You, the Center of the Universe.


New York, New York City 
you, with your Broadway Theaters
Metropolitan Museum of Art
Empire State Building
many more wonders
all bringing expressions of pride 
upon faces of New Yorkers.


To this generous, life-giving city 
I yearn, my Lord
To those soaring skyscrapers
flirting with the NYC skies
I yearn, my Lord
To this city of eternal life
where my soul settled permanently
I yearn, my Lord
To this city of humanity’s best
I yearn, yearn, my Lord !


New York, New York City
you, my childhood in Central Park
unforgettable Bronx Zoo
the Village, Circle Line 
Museum of Modern Art
and Guggenheim one
You, the city of my true love.


New York, New York City
I am your troubadour 
adventurer with the torn soul
any time when away 
feeling then Judas kiss
but when back a happy New Yorker 
feeling the presence of thy Lord.


To this generous, life-giving city 
I yearn, my Lord
To those soaring skyscrapers
flirting with the NYC skies
I yearn, my Lord
To this city of eternal life
where my soul settled permanently
I yearn, my Lord
To this city of humanity’s best
I yearn, yearn, my Lord !




3.
' My rose, you, the magic NYC rose, how I love you ! '


My rose, you, the magic NYC rose, how I love you !
Let’s look at your shining petals glittering with colors
under the NYC modern Pharaohs skies
What petals they are, magical, of godly rhymes
one petal called Manhattan, another one Queens
then the Bronx, Brooklyn, Staten Island
magnificent petals of rising Phoenix, the NYC rose.


My rose, you, the magic NYC rose, how I love you !
My mind, my heart are dancing song of love
and I am watching you, desiring you, my rose
all your petals radiating to the NYC skies
Lower Manhattan, Lower East Side, Tribeca
Greenwich Village and her sister East Village
Chelsea, Midtown, their brother Times Square 
the parents Upper East Side and Upper West Side
with their beloved child, the Central Park
Harlem further on, sort of a handsome stranger
all the other wonders upon wonders
in their symphonic euphoria, music and the dance.


My rose, you, the magic NYC rose, how I love you !
You, the one of dazzling dreams and destiny !
Your fabulous city lights delight me
as much as daily rush of New Yorkers 
your yellow river, the Manhattan style
your hustle and bustle in Times Square 
your abstract creations, arts, libraries
your Brooklyn Heights, Borough Hall 
your Off Broadway enterprises of charm
All splashed in your own daily shining stars
and all the colors of the world there are.


My rose, you, the magic NYC rose, how I love you !
Bewitched, I am watching you, my rose
and your petals throwing a magic spell on me
There won’t be falling into oblivion
for all your petals, my rose, are my home
NYC stars and stripes, NYC soul-soaring petals
one of the Chrysler Building and its Spire
of the Rockefeller Center and its Atlas
Woolworth Building with multi-level floodlighting
ziggurat designed Paramount Building 
Radio City Music Hall in all its glory
St Patrick’s Cathedral and Lady Chapel 
Freedom Tower, the humanity’s Tower of Babel 
proudly there in place of the twin WTC.


O rose, my rose, the divine rose of NYC
how I love you, desire you, cherish you !
You’re my mind-blowing feature never to forget
my enterprising New York state of mind
my beauty walking gracefully down the catwalk
with all the frenzy media attention
You’re my New York state of heart
my hottest ever heart, heart, state of heart
Just let’s sit down for a moment 
memorize you once for all times
and listen to all your symphonies, my NYC rose.


One can even hear distinct bells of life
all the bells there are in NYC, bells of heart
joining the symphony of all symphonies
your symphony, my rose, the NYC rose
You shall remain forever in my heart, you, my rose
with all your dew-moistened petals of human souls 
belonging to adoring you brave New Yorkers 
My rose, you, the magic NYC rose, how I love you !




4.
' New York, New York '

Look at Manhattan, the Center of the Universe
fabulous beyond anything to say, breathtaking 
Look at Times Square, the World's Crossroads 
the hub of the Broadway theatre district
Look at the skyscrapers reaching heavens 
at the financial center in the Wall Street
the spectacular New York's Stock Exchange
at Manhattan's Chinatown, at the subway
at the Freedom Tower, the pearl of pearls
express your utmost wonder, delight yourself
See New Yorkers hurrying to their jobs
cheerful, optimistic, exuberant, self-confident
See a handsome man walking down the street
see a beautiful woman in red sitting on a bench
a shiny pearl among the busy human traffic
See him approaching her and gently kissing her
see them dancing their tango, the tango of love
among the yellow cabs and Manhattan limousines

Look at Central Park, the New York's lungs
and the godlike splendor of the nature there
emanating from all corners and at all seasons
in the very heart of marvelous New York City
Look at those millions of people, proud Americans
descendants from all corners of the globe
doing their best to be part of the American Dream
Oh, God bless America, God bless the whole world !!
See happy and carefree kids in Central Park
playing with the plentiful rays from the Sun
and with palette of many shadows from Earth
in the full blown triumphant Summer around
and magnificent scents generated by the trees
What a splendid playground, a symphony it is
a heavenly music to the tunes of the Sun's harp
and yes, the Sun's trumpet, Sun's violin
the Sun's saxophone, all the divine Sun's tools
and of course, the Earth's piano as well
a music larger than life, at kids' hands

Majestic New York, you, the Tower of Babel 
New York, New York, you, the Spectacle of Life
New York, New York, you, the Symphony of Love 
New York, New York, my only City, my love
New York, New York, the City we all love
New York, New York, you, the jewel of all jewels
The everlasting Spring and the Summer's sunshine
New York, New York, majestic New York

See the Bronx, Brooklyn, Manhattan
picturesque Queens and Staten Island
the jewels of America, of the world as much
See the Hudson River 
emptying into Upper New York Bay
Yankee Stadium, home of the New York Yankees
the Bronx Zoo, the world's largest metropolitan one
the John F. Kennedy International Airport
Thousand and one wonders, indeed
Once New Amsterdam, turned New York City
shining like the Sun on a brightest day
and like shimmering stars at quiet nights
like the exctasy of men and women in love
a pearl in the crown of America, indeed
kept safely in the claws of the American hawk
Look at all those busy people of New York yet again
making their dreams come true 
Oh, New Yorkers, New Yorkers
you're the vanguard of the world !
You're shooting for the stars !!

New York City, you're our Ode to Life
you're our everlasting Bell of Life
our Dreamland which came true
our Highway to Heavens, a reborn Soul
our Happy End at our final Crossroads
the brilliant diamond, amber and emerald
You're mesmerizingly All American 
a hauntingly fabulous Mirror of the World 
and the shining Jewel of the Free World
Oh, New York, the true Tower of Babel 
my love, our love, forevermore !!
Let's finally look at the Statue of Liberty 
whoever you are
She's our Light as much as New York is
reminding us every single moment of our lives
freedom is what counts 
and what is worth to strive for
The Statue of Liberty 
standing there triumphantly
at the gate to everlasting New York City

Majestic New York, you, the Tower of Babel 
New York, New York, you, the Spectacle of Life
New York, New York, you, the Symphony of Love 
New York, New York, my only City, my love
New York, New York, the City we all love
New York, New York, you, the jewel of all jewels
New York, New York, the Fall's and Winter's brilliance
New York, New York, majestic New York

Colour
 
By Karen King
 
 
 
We are all the same, black, white or brown.
 
Do not judge, do not frown
 
over someone that is different from you,
 
because you don’t know what to do!
 
 
 
We are all the same under our covers.
 
Love each other, for we are all brothers.
 
United, despite how we look.
 
Take time to stop and open the book.
 
 
 
Find out what’s inside,
 
the secrets they have chosen to hide.
 
Discover their souls, who they really are,
 
Accept our differences and you will go far.
 
 
 
Taken from “Poems for Humanity; Looking from the Side Lines”
Karen King    Copyright   2015
 
http://www.amazon.co.uk/Poems-Humanity-Looking-Sidelines-Karen-King-ebook/dp/B00SQG9JR0/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1457980161&sr=8-1&keywords=poems+for+humanity
 

Violet Dispersion

by

John Frazee
 

All colors hold a place in our everyday folklore
     There have always been stories of the shrinking violet
A term that often refers to the timid among us
     While scientist often report on the ultraviolet
 
You might be green with envy, red faced with embarrassment
     Or be considered yellow bellied when danger is due
                        In reference to our health we say someone’s in the pink
     When surprised by events, we claim they came out of the blue
 
Most of these have very colorful histories, and yet
     Despite some reservations this remains my assertion
In all my years of dedicated investigation
     Nothing has ever come close to violet dispersion
 

 
 
 
Escaping Violet

by

John Frazee


 
Light, the white, cool, calm, intense sign of power and strength
As a wave, colors work hand in hand, a common goal
Along comes the prism, enemy of unity
Once separated  all will strive for the leading roll
 
Sadly  trapped in this space, a virtual prisoner
All this time with no opening, no windows, no door
Finally a glimmer of hope, a break in the chain
This is the opportunity you've been waiting for
 
Never having a say, never speaking your mind
Without freedom of  expression, you're better off dead
Such is the dilemma that violet has faced
An eternity stuck between the blue and the red


 



 
 
Prismatic Altercations

by

John Frazee


 
At one hundred and eighty six thousand miles per second
Tracking down white light is itself quite a difficult task
While you arrive at the chore of extracting what's in there
It's harder to grab hold of then the shadow that it cast
 
White light strikes the prism and scatters like dust in the wind
Main sections are red, blue and yellow but never ends there
The thinner one slices, the more subtle the changes
The resulting spectrum becomes more then one can bear
 
A complete rainbow contained within a shard of glass
Colors that are so unique they have yet to be named
They will not linger here for long, their time is fleeting
Colors that are so vibrant they have yet to be tamed

Spring is around the Corner
 
By Alexandra H. Rodrigues
Massapequa
 
 
Powdered snow left cloud after cloud.
One wondered what it is all about.
A grayish haze engulfed the air
Days like that are very rare.
 
The forecast predicted a monster storm
Warnings posted were quite the norm.
Snowstorm of the Century
Prepared and on guard one was cautioned to be.
 
By noon the streets were barely sprayed
Came evening a solid cover on curbs then stayed.
The storm itself was not yet close.
Black ice formed and the surface froze.
 
The Mayor ordered to vacate the roads now
To make them passable for the plow.
When sunset came, although unseen
The intensity increased had been.
 
Not too much snow had yet accumulated.
The radio blasted, their news all storm related,
Long Island got hit some more, some less.
Where the bulk in inches fell it became a mess.
 
All had well been planned ahead
Not much more about it is to be said.
The storm was followed by an arctic freeze
The wind that howled was more than a breeze.
 
Snow once more is predicted to come
Yet my insides feel daily more warmth from the sun.
I believe to just have heard the twitter of a bird
As if of spring it now wants to spread the word.
 
The harsher the winter played with us
The sweeter the thoughts of spring and green grass.
It is the presence of nature in contrast
That makes the change of seasons such a blast.
 
Spring is around the corner
Anticipation makes the enjoyment stronger.
Happy Spring!

On Desperation

 
By David I Mayerhoff
 
 
We dislike it immensely-

When we are imposed upon
Repeatedly incessantly & desperately
Like someone sucking the energy out of us
 
It is a dysphoric feeling
A feeling of being drained
A feeling of vulnerability
For a lack of boundaries
 
We rage at this
Even in recognition
Of the other's desperation
Then we despair
 
We say we cannot identify
We say we would never be such
We would never drain the other
Our intentions are good and just
 
Until the moment comes
When the shoe is on the other foot
When we are in desperation
Through no fault of our own
 
We cry out
We realize how cyclical
Life can be
We are enraged at our own helplessness
 
We look this way and that
We seek deep within and far without
For any possible solution
Before ultimately seeking out those whom we can drain in our despair
 
After all said and done
The realization comes to us
That what we gained through it all
Is to be less judgmental of others
 
 
 
Copyright 2014, David I Mayerhoff
 
 

                                        Do You Take Red?
                             
                    by
                              
                    Teresa Ann Frazee
 

                               For better, for worse
                               You’re always with me
                               Even when I’m angry
                               You’re all I see
 
                               You were the crackle
                               In man’s first flame
                               A flare for the dramatic
                               You don’t do plain
 
                               The color-blinded miss out
                               Perceiving you as brown
                               But surely, even they know
                               How to paint the town
 
                               You’re the stripe on a candy cane
                               The curls of a holiday bow
                               Last years Christmas socks
                               Rudolf’s nose with its glow
 
                               Stars walk down your carpet
                               Dripping with rubies and gems
                               While cradling twelve roses
                               All with very long stems
 
                               You’re an artist’s bold splash
                               Purple when mixed with blue
                               The primary color of a chameleon
                               When he changes his skin’s hue
 
                               A color strong enough to grace
                               The silken robes of a king
                               So sweet the tongue’s taste
                               Of cherries called Bing
 
                                                                             You’re the sign that stops my car
                               And the crossing guards sash
                               I know when gas is low
                               By the warning light on the dash
 
                               Those ruby slippers on the witch
                               To my favorite crayon in the box
                               And those off-color punch lines
                               Told by that comedian Mr. Foxx
 
                               From this day forward
                               To have and to hold
                               You’re the royal in my flush
                               With you I’ll never fold
 
                               Well, I’ll say my vows
                               ‘Till death do us part
                               After all, my love, you’re
                               The color of my heart
        
 
                               The End



 
 
Aligning With Light

                                                                            
By


Teresa Ann Frazee



 
The possibility of miracles, rooted in the wilderness
Spontaneously, visions whirled in an odyssey of homeward flight
Like a mirage in heat, they let go, free from their bond with reality
Through a healing haze a spectrum of color began aligning with light
 
Echoing chants brought one to the sheltering cradle of consciousness
With each hushed breath, felt in the heart trust and liberation streaming through
While in rhythmic motion, balanced chakras blend into infinity
From their spinning union in concentrated focus, inspiration drew
 
A transformation at the crown made up of pulsating white aura
Intensified as energy circled round in kaleidoscopic air
Radiated with synchronicity, disassembled time found its own space
In a perpetual flow, peace replaced chaos and channeled it elsewhere
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
Coolness of  Metal
           by
Teresa Ann Frazee
 
 
Aztec gold splinters organically on the cusp of a vein
Crimson leaves prismatically tease the fertility of light
Branded with the scorched reds of a flame they glisten in the air
While the passing time that sifts through the chain link fence is in flight
 
Interspacing diamond shadows in ghostly twisted darkness
Crosses over and creeps upon the green entangled leaves at the gate
If you listen very closely you can hear some letting go
As they fall victim to nature’s mysterious plans of fate
 
Slipping through branches trying to retain some of their dignity
Whispering prayers so very faint they barely make the slightest sound
They brush up against the fence to feel the coolness of metal
Before the earth cradles their weight and they are absorbed in the ground
 

Colors

By Lucinda Berry Hill


If you’re hungry wear your color.
I don’t know what that means.
But yellow gives you energy
And tranquility comes with green.
If you wear silver on your finger
You’ll remember to forgive.
And gold will always show you
To be generous and give.
If you wear orange on your sleeve
You’ll remember to laugh much.
Wearing pink will remind you

   To show kindness in your touch.

White is a reminder
To treat yourself with grace.
If you’re hungry wear your color.
It may fill that empty space.

Lucinda Berry Hill Author of Coffee with Jesus and A Second Cup with Jesus.©


 https://www.facebook.com/#!/pages/Coffee-with-Jesus/355060321207311

http://lucindaspoetry.webs.com/index.htm
 

Monkey – Monkey

By Alexandra H. Rodrigues

 
Born in a cage
Puck had no wish a challenge to wage.
Given the daily necessities
He had no desires, he did not search release.
 
The wild monkeys came from the outside
They tried to convince Puck to join their fight
Stressing that freedom is everybody’s right.
 
“I know it is hard for you to survive,” said Puck the monkey
“Why should I give up my easy life, maybe work like a donkey?”
“Do you have no far reaching goal?
No yearning in your inhibited soul?”
Puck was asked by the t free roaming monkey bunch.
“Don’t you have about liberty a hunch?”
 
Puck shook his head. “All I hear of is killing and war
 Animals are tormented more and more.”
With gusto a banana he peeled.
Happily on a swing he kneeled.
“We can roam around or go to sleep,
At all time4s the advantage of free choice we reap.”
 
While the exchange of words went on
A caregiver entered the cage with a ton.
He refreshed the water and cleaned the floor.
                He smiled at the ape, with a bang shut the door.
“You animals for sure have a good life
For comfort like this I always do strive.”
 
Aha, Puck thought.
If a human would like to change with me
No need for a different environment I see.
 
The group of free monkeys went away
Gone was their desire near the captive to stay.
Being monkeys they had problems to understand
What with  the saying “To each his own”-  is often meant.
 
 
 
 

It's All Strudel
 

By David I Mayerhoff
 
 

The day arises as a trauma to the sleeping
As if a bomb exploded in the labyrinth of one's body cavity
Leading one to wonder
Is the natural state to be awake or to be asleep?
 
How does one nary tell the difference between one and the other?
When I sleep I am soaring through the heavens
Or I am in hell
Either way I am being challenged without boundary or end
 
When I am awake I am also challenged
Seemingly without end
Sometimes being in Heaven
And sometimes being in Hell
 
When I sleep
The wounds seem real
And when I am awake
The wounds seem real
 
As I prepare for the work day
I hurry to and fro
As if every moment has meaning
As if every movement has meaning
 
And yet at the end of the day
Who can really discern
One day from another?
And hence I declare: It's all strudel
 
The rush to and fro in traffic
The daily grind of the commute
The pushing and shoving would lead one to think
This is leading people to a glorious, peaceful island of bliss
 
And yet we know
Humanity is truly being led
To another day at the office
And that it's all strudel
 
What are we to make
Of our trying to mold ourselves
To the inane rigidity of the bureaucracy
Be it employ, religious, herd, government or social.
 
Does the human condition truly advance
Through these maneuvers?
Fighting with the boss over meaningless productivity
Or fighting with the status quo over meaningless conformity
Is strudel truly a precept
Or is it merely a piece of cake?
 
 
They award a commendation for excellent production
They award you a grant for excellent creation
They demerit you for absences
They demerit you for embarrassing those in charge
 
The to and fro of the clock
Have more meaning to some
Than the to and fro of the assignment
One leads nowhere, the other leads home
 
What to eat for dinner
When to check the email
What to watch on the TV
Worry not my friends- it's all Strudel.
 
Time to go to bed
And retire for the evening
And let the process repeat itself
Why not, after all, it's all Strudel- and “let them eat cake”

Responsibility

 
By David I Mayerhoff

 
 
Responsibility is a burden replete with meaning

It can crush us
It can obligate us in ways
We would never voluntarily accept
 
It can bind us
To those we wish not to be bound to
So what is this unnatural pull?
What hold does this force of nature have over us?
 
It is the power
To grant us purpose
And in bequeathing such
To make us bound to something larger than ourselves
 
In so doing
We are filled
With self worth and grandeur.
What material thing could ever rival this?

The Oyster Bay Pearls

By Alexandra H. Rodrigues


 
A big white shark had come to the Oyster Bay

There most Oysters have pearls, they say
Till now a mermaid and Poseidon the Ocean God
Had been in charge of the Oyster lot.
 
The pearls had been stored on a fisherman’s barge
Resulting profits were big and the properties large
“Your reign is over,” declared the intruding shark
“This turf is now mine, the pearls are for missus Shark.”
 
The mermaid cried which made the Ocean rise
Poseidon thoroughly the shark despised
With algae, coral dropped fish line and sweat
They knotted a quilt that would serve as a net.
 
Then on a moonless, stormy night
They lured the shark into their sight
The quilted net they threw over him
Poseidon cheered, “See, it is us who win.”
 
“Not yours but ours is the turf and the pearls
To disturb our peace you had quite some nerve
We have decided we will let you swim free
Promise that we will never again you see.”
 
“You are monstrous, mean and quite in form
Yet you cannot take our Oyster Bay by storm
You are lucky that we are peaceful creatures
Ours resemble the pearls modest features.”
 
 

Amber

By Patrick Bryant Michael



Amber waves of grain, fields of wheat waving in air

flying
swaying
back and forth, dreamily, only devils may care
laughing
running

tumbling down a hill, Jack and Jill, gracious and fair
drinking
swimming
in a cold Spring stream, goosebumps pop up, people stare
caution
lighting
shining amber, off and on, it causes less glare
music
a band
playing downstairs, my son impresses on his snare
ambiance
downtown
cool day air still, Amber in bathing suit, au pere
soft lights
happy sounds
dark places show amber highlights, candlelight flare
dancing
romancing
in the rain, amber angels take on a fine glow
toasting
cooking
bread and butter have an amber highlight with flow
walking
waiting
for a stoplight, amber helps fund cities with dough
fireplaces
burning
bright in Winter, logs shine amber, give us a show
shining
lighting
up a crowd, amber hair hanging down, girl aglow
moonshine
a sunset
glowing amber on the horizon, a plateau
drinking
brandy
shining amber, on Christmas Eve, saying Ho Ho!
beeswax
encasing
ancient vermin, amber pathways given new light
glass making
well blown
with an amber tone, give many people delight
tornadoes
skies changing
an amber glow in the sky gives it a highlight
roses
jewelry
amber colored, giving more worth to the twilight
comets
soaring
like shooting stars, amber multicolors the night
lipstick
nail polish
in amber shades, bring out blushes when past midnight
sun dresses
bringing
out the color of a tan, shades of amber bite
living
loving
the amber highlights shining bright in the daylight.




(c) March 12, 2016 by PBM

Colors of Fall

By Patrick Bryant Michael



Fall is time for leaves to turn every earthy hue

like peoples of the world held tight with nature's glue
roots like fathers build trust soaking up morning dew
the juices of life flow through tree's veins, ours turn blue
motherly branches cling to leaves like kids askew
till winds of change blow them round for kids and yard crew
colors of Fall we love, people's skin some eschew
close of Summer, like closed minds I would bid adieu
love of nature teaches us about what is true
if only we could learn to love each other too!




(c) September 30, 2010 by PBM

Desert Delights

By Patrick Bryant Michael



Tarantulas tantalize, scared - they sting
waiting
mating
cacti, wild flowers, scorpions will bite
weapon
venom
sandstorms, flash floods ravish over wild lands
taking
baking
rattlesnakes slithering along the harsh rocks
roughing
toughing
lizards run about, there's a desert song
teasing
pleasing
Desert Lily, Cardon Cacti stretching
buzzing
humming
honey bees abound, giant centipedes
leggy
ready
Desert Fairy Duster, the Dragon Fly
lovely
comely
sand castles, heat rising high in the sky
sweetness
weakness
Saguaro Blossoms, Indian Paintbrush
braving
craving
barren flats, bright red Ocotilla Blooms
thirsting
bursting
Prickly Pear Cacti to make sweet jelly
watching
stalking
Sphinx Caterpillar, Desert Spot Five thrive
crawling
sprawling
beetles, Desert Leaf Cutter Ants are shy
slither
quiver
Coral Snakes bring bright color to the ground
biting
fighting
venom paralyzes, watch from afar
deadly
heady
Black Widows hide, then jump out to attack
dryness
shyness
Organ Pipe Cactus sit and stay quiet
admire
aspire
Gordon Bladderpod, wearing yellow blooms
glowing
flowing
Banded Sand Snakes patrol through the sagebrush
musing
oozing
Giant Crab Spider's bite can be painful
perceive
receive
Hedgehog Cactus bring purples into view
invite
excite
Desert Lavender whites embrace the earth
writhing
striving
Gopher Snakes slither in pursuit of food
inspect
respect
Big-horned scarabs dot the sandy landscape
skinning
spinning
Fishhook Cactus will capture the mind's eye
gloating
floating
Mojave Sage bloom with purple flowers
thwarting
courting
the Common Kingsnake feasts on insects
rushing
crushing
Red Harvester Ants attack – aggressive
dripping
sipping
Chain Fruit Cholla provide food and water
rainbows
hallows
Globemallow blooms grow both orange and gold
wriggly
wiggly
Glossy Snakes only feed on small mammals
spirit
merit
Checkered Beetles with red-black backs quite bold
hugging
bugging
beware Teddy Bear Cholla, not cuddly
twilight
delight
Tufted Evening Primrose die - morning light
sniffing
spitting
Jerusalem Crickets smell foul and fight
sniper
viper
Cobras enchant with high pitched vibrations
showing
flowing
Claretcup Cactus clumps with reddish cups
seeing
freeing
Spreading Wallflowers are quite colorful
brutish
prudish
Buckhorn Cactus bloom with a copper tone
sifting
shifting
Panguitch Buckwheat is the desert's delight.




(c) June 8, 2014 by PBM

Colors of Time

By Patrick Bryant Michael



Shades of the past chide the time of day

casting circles of shadows my way
clouding the future of come what may
in grains of sand I count my heyday
crystalline forces on my heart weigh
rainbows of life my mind will betray
coloring thoughts with love's sweet bouquet
the color of time fills skies with gray!


Playing all day was once all I knew
in the sunshine I found every hue
in thunderstorms my soul would renew
jumping in mud puddles seemed my due
climbing trees like giants to pursue
drawing in the dirt, dreams to review
toys filled my life as my body grew
the color of time turned skies to blue!


Going to school then became routine
learning the three R's, all that seemed keen
making new friends who came on the scene
working, praying to keep my house clean
watching others turn ugly and mean
seeing differences twist minds obscene
treading lightly, my feelings unseen
the color of time turns envy green!


Older brothers, sister, all could croon
piano rolls, guitars strum to swoon
good times at grandparents lost too soon
all gone now, save my siblings all strewn
through the heavens I still hear a tune
playing at a distance like a loon
my sons shine in the light of the moon
the color of time glows warm maroon!


Music filled my life, Mother took hold
sang, played like an angel to behold
worked day and night, but was never cold
firm and forgiving, sometimes would scold
wedded thrice, leaving the rest untold
in my heart she remains to enfold
gone to better times where dreams unfold
the color of time found in pure gold!


Teen years brought tension, being shallow
spin the bottle, roast a marshmallow
hay rides and dances with the shadow
bon fires for football games to hallow
watching girls, minds turned soft as Jello
wet dreams make guys want to bellow
girls giggling for some hot, sweet fellow
the color of time primed with yellow!


Joining the Air Force I was ill-fed
grew stronger, though school I had fled
wanting something to fill up my head
off to a war that brought only dread
for four years this was my daily bread
seeing horrors befall those who bled
mostly on homeland, lightly I tread
the color of time turned sunsets red!


A twist of fate would settle me down
to choose a path on which I might drown
back to school, dropping out with a frown
got married, took off her wedding gown
had three sons to raise, goof around
illness came like a merry-go-round
struggling for long years, acting the clown
the color of time was charred and brown!


My sons brought me joy, putting on shows
playing sports, music with highs and lows
playing games, watching out for their woes
tickling, holding them close to my nose
taking them places, teaching repose
watching over, seeing how each grows
weighing, measuring from head to toes
the color of time bloomed like a rose!


My life and wife brought me to the brink
making me wish I had turned to drink
for my sons and wife I sought a shrink
turned my life around, I couldn't blink
after long years the marriage would sink
I sought divorce as we had no link
in the end happy, able to wink
the color of time flew in the pink!


In time I found spirit in the light
going forward without any spite
merging souls with others in delight
finding myself writing with new fight
a passion that's ready to ignite
letting go for real love to incite
freeing my soul from being uptight
the color of time turned bright and white!


On winds of change still comes a new day
on waters of life dreams float my way
from fire in my soul comes time to play
morning sun wishes me come what may
raindrops fill my soul with love to weigh
in my sons lie hopes for which I pray
in the setting sun my love will stay
though color of time turns my hair gray!


(c) August 19, 2010 by PBM

Self Help

By Alexandra H. Rodrigues

 
How can we some relief of kind attain?
Cure mental or even physical pain?
Neither one of those
Anybody as companion chose.
 
When mental hurt restricts your heart,
All your being to whither will start.
Something must be able this ache to heal;
The wound, which with each breath we feel.
 
Forgive, forget, and do not fight a lost cause
Often a fresh start out of a new beginning arose.
You can shape your action and your reality
What you cannot change – just let it be!
 
Physical pains try to handle in a similar way.
Never:  “I can’t any longer take it” say.
You are the only one who is feeling the ache
So here is the action I suggest you take.
 
Envision the pain to be of a solid form.
Decide that out of your body it needs to be torn.
Pull it out using your imagination
Use hypnotically forces for this dilation.
Watch the -make believe – form flicker around
To at least weaken in despair it will be bound.
Don’t let it re-enter you again!
Decide to refuse feeling the pain!
 
 

Photo by Karen King



Asters
 
By Karen King



 
Like dancing daisies in the wind,


a reminder of summer against the Autumn leaves.


Are you naturally special, or,


do fairies balance on the tips of your petals,


jumping for joy from flower to flower?


Are these flowers protected by unseen powers


as well as cared for by gardeners in the


so-called "real" world?
 
 
 
“Delights of Nature – Autumn”   Karen King   Copyright 2015
 
http://www.amazon.co.uk/Delights-Nature-Autumn-Poetry-Photography-ebook/dp/B00CJH8Z36/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1456863370&sr=8-1&keywords=delights+of+nature+-+autumn

Beech Wood
 
By Karen King
 
 
 
This copper slope of slanting light,
 
to be in them is a delight.
 
Such a warm day of innocence and fun,
 
smiles, laughter and warming sun.
 
Down the slopes, covered in leaves,
 
what could be lurking, who would believe?
 
Mind out, though, for you could find
 
something special, a different kind
 
of creature, that’s hard to see,
 
a welcome surprise to you and me!
 
Are fairies in the woods, is this true,
 
showing themselves to the chosen few?
 
Perhaps if we are good we may see,
 
something special, just for you and me!
 
 
 
“Delights of Nature – Autumn”   Karen King  Copyright 2015
 
http://www.amazon.co.uk/Delights-Nature-Autumn-Poetry-Photography-ebook/dp/B00CJH8Z36/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1456863749&sr=8-1&keywords=delights+of+nature+-+autumn
 

A Fairy Song

By William Shakespeare

Over hill, over dale,
Thorough bush, thorough brier,
Over park, over pale,
Thorough flood, thorough fire!
I do wander everywhere,
Swifter than the moon's sphere;
And I serve the Fairy Queen,
To dew her orbs upon the green;
The cowslips tall her pensioners be;
In their gold coats spots you see;
Those be rubies, fairy favours;
In those freckles live their savours;
I must go seek some dewdrops here,
And hang a pearl in every cowslip's ear.

Poetry River
 
By Alexandra H. Rodrigues

 
Along the River of Poetry, where souls soar
Float the thoughts by Goethe, Heine,
Schiller, Frost, you, me and many more.
They all cling, swing and chime together
To listen they want the world to implore:
 
Love each other, do avoid any hurt!
Help each other, with no motive in mind.
Support each other, use a calming word.
Unite in peace,  befriend and fulfill.
Ensure that solid friendship is incurred.
 
Add your poem to the pulsating stream
Take part and strengthen the cycle of life.
Let encouraging words shine, glide and gleam.
Try to improve what seems wrong on earth.
Let poetry become more but just a dream.

Horses of the God
 
By Shirley Jones-Luke

 
 
Clouds tumble and twist in a grayish-white sky
before there was an Iceland, there was only
the land of ice, where Vikings roamed the
tundra and sailed the seas, battling the
elements and each other for honor
and glory and a place in Valhalla,
the hall of heroes, Odin's chosen
ones, who pledged their allegiance
to the king of the gods by fighting
with pure hearts in the wintry landscape,
when the thunder roared, the warriors
saw steeds beat down the air with
their heavy hooves causing the sky
to shake and sending sparks down
to the ground, no one could ignore
the might of these steeds who
served Odin and his kin as they
flew through the tumult and alighted
like butterflies in the snow fields to
stake their claim as deities of
the North.
 
 
 
 
 
 
History of Quincy Street

By Shirley Jones-Luke


 
I remember being in mama's arms
            staring at a living room that had seen
better days, broken furniture piled up
            in a mound against the wall, glass
strewn about the floor, rats scurrying
           under the ruin seeking refuge from
the young family that was moving in
           I was too young to remember if where
we had been in the South End was as
           awful as what I saw but it had to be if
we were moving into this apartment
           that sat on the ground floor of a
yellow and white triple decker in
           the center of Quincy Street.
 
Over the years the apartment, under the cleaning
            efforts of mama, would appear less like
the aftermath of a bomb attack from Iraq and more like a
            home filled with warm hugs and loud laughter as
two young children played games in the
           long hallway, monster on Halloween
and annoyed the stray cats in the backyard
          It was a house that withstood the storm
of 1978 where the snow drifts were taller
         than my brother and me and the street
was a river of white, its where our little legs
         trudged through the winter wasteland avoiding
plow trucks and sledding in vacant lots.
 
In spring, the rose bush would bloom and
          in summer and the sidewalk would cook our
feet, the fall brought cool winds blowing
          leaves down the street and pushing us
towards school, winter would come again
          and we'd huddle around the kitchen stove
when the oil heat ran low, the mice would
          hibernate in the walls and the roaches would
disappear until the warm air returned.
 
Mama always told us to do well in school,
          to do better than society expected,
another poor black family destined
          to continue the cycle of welfare and struggle
to go further than she did and not let government
          cheese, shady landlords and icky insects be our
destinies.
 
We had every desire to do better
          we had to make mama proud,
no blind eyes to her efforts
          single motherhood was her cross to bear
but her words were heard
           we would not become statistics
of the streets and learn from the streets
           that gave us so many lessons like
a second mother showing us how to survive
           bullies, gangs, thieves and thugs.
 
We had scars from our encounters but
          they only made us damaged warriors
still willing to fight, still willing to live
         for block parties, games in the school
yard, walks to the store, Saturday
          cartoons and afternoons with creature
double features.
 
It was all we had, it was all we knew
          but Quincy Street taught us one
last lesson before we left - there
          were many more streets to
explore.
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
Malfunction

By Shirley Jones-Luke


 
Teleporter needs repairs
stinks in the labyrinth
 
Eye the dungeon
in the kitchen lab
 
Blind to the vanished
smell the orifice
 
Adjustments to the cable
such flashy controls
 
Something is weird in the bathroom
don't hog the strange
 
Sounds from the restroom
make me smile
 
Like receiving junk food
after falling into a mess
 
Radio plays the music
that's already in my head
 
It moves my feet
and sways my hands
 
Fetch me the googles
before I activate the machine
 
There's a fire
in the boat of plans
 
So much for good technology
It needs a new formula

The only way out


By Alexandra H. Rodrigues


 
Did I fall into an abyss?

No foothold
No noise
No scream
No hiss!
Then a wolf and a dog
They tap along in now thickening fog!
The wolf howls while the dog gives a bark.
They pass me by without leaving a mark.
Next a skeleton swishes along
Sputtering a bone shaking ghostly song!
I am frightened
I can only think of one release
I need to quickly find a church
I need to pray for peace.

March2016
 

What’s Up

By Alexandra H. Rodrigues

 
I am torn between admiring and cursing you
My spirits skim between high and being blue.
I cannot even tell , are you aware
Or are you afraid your soul with me to share.
 
You send romantic, amazing poems my way
But not a word about love in conversation you say.
For one short minute I feel your power
Followed by the chill of an ice cold shower.
 
Whatever is happening I made it all up
One word of real love would be like winning the Davis cup.
Many times I feel ridiculous
I am not a stalker, no not this!
 
Yet what has happened to my pride
Even in all my illusions it does not feel right
Imagination, illusion, love, hate a frightening mix
It’s a wonder I do not grab a quick fix.
 
Because I don’t know how you really feel
I need to be cautious at what for now is the deal.
Hopefully my body gives me permission
To stop and quit all this for a sound decision.
 
Although I understand that the illusion are self made
For a short time of a difference in my life I would trade
Everything  but  my  self worth I would gamble away
But I have no power over what will happen next day.
 Not being in charge of destiny and time
 I will make believe that you are mine..
 
 
 
 

Wisdom in Difference


By Alexandra H. Rodrigues
 

 Are words in the 
“Love and wine will give us bliss.” Are words in the Fledermaus
The famous Operetta,  by the composer, Johann Strauss.
 Contrary to this, when love is expected but not found,
It forces many, through hard liquor, to the ground.
 
Love can lead us in many a direction
To last it must be coupled with affection.
To maintain love when there is no response
Is like hoping to bathe in light of a rainy day only once.
 
Love that is signified by too much of dependency,
asks to be seen as an animalistic tendency.
Love is the subject of poems, letters and books
It can speak of millions of angles, has millions of looks.
 
Every single one of us, I do believe
Has a lost love for which we do grieve.
Nothing will deter us though to pursue the search
For the love that will miraculously fulfill the urge.
 
Love me tender, never let me go!
Different kinds of loves let different emotions grow!
Feb.2016

My Wizard of Oz

By Karen King
 
 
 
You are my lion, my tinman, my scarecrow,
 
You already have courage, a heart, a brain.
 
You are my Wizard of Oz,
 
Yet you are not hiding behind the curtain,
 
Pretending you are bigger and better,
 
Projecting a large image
 
Of yourself onto a screen.
 
 
 
Winged monkeys, Winkie guards,
 
The Wicked Witch of the East,
 
Have all hampered our progress,
 
Yet the Witch, destroyed by water,
 
Like all evils, can be overcome.
 
 
 
Look to Dorothy’s
 
Lion, tinman and scarecrow.
 
All the courage, heart and brains
 
Are already inside you.
 
 
 
 
 
We do not need to travel to the Emerald city
 
To have our wishes granted,
 
For you are my wizard.
 
I could tap my red shoes three times
 
And say, “There’s no place like home”,
 
Yet I am already home with you.
 
 
 
We have our own path to follow, 
 
A journey to take together
 
Where good witches and wishes
 
Love and guide us on our yellow brick road.
 
 
 
Karen King  Copyright  December 2015
 
 
 
 

Noah

By Karen King
 
 
 
Noah’s Ark, Lemuria, Atlantis,
 
Will we ever learn?
 
How many chances
 
For the peace that we yearn?
 
 
 
Does the earth
 
Have to flood,
 
Leaving lapping and lost
 
Floating trees in the mud?
 
 
 
Humans and animals
 
With no homes.
 
Souls soon to leave them,
 
Souls, searching, as they roam.
 
 
 
Under the water
 
We will sink,
 
Just because we
 
Didn’t stop to think!
 
 
 
Cold water will
 
Lap upon our faces.
 
Our earth and homes lost.
 
There will be no traces!
 
 
 
Treat with respect all life
 
And do not live for greed.
 
Do not be obsessed with money,
 
There really is no need!
 
 
 
Do you want the smell
 
And the taste of death,
 
The guilt upon your soul,
 
Even after your last breath?
 
 
 
Death of our lives
 
Death of animals, plants
 
Death of the light.
 
Death!  Give love a chance!
 
 
 
Noah’s Ark, Lemuria, Atlantis,
 
Will we ever learn?
 
This may be our last chance
 
For the peace that we yearn!
 
 
 
Karen King  Copyright   December 2015

Route 66
 
By Karen King
 
 
 
Sling on your leathers
 
Ride with me on Route 66
 
Live in the moment!
 
 
 
Karen King  Copyright   December 2015

Morph Worlds

By Patrick Bryant Michael

 
The worlds we create lie in our heads

swirling
twirling
reality may tear them to shreds
dying
sighing
needing dreams at twilight in our beds
seething
breathing
fire, like dragons with leftover dregs
flowing
sowing
wild oats, coasting along on snow sleds
morphing
dwarfing
the real world, like dimensional threads
masking
basking
in our glory, thinking we're purebreds
feeling
reeling
in our dreams, like a sea flows and ebbs
surfing
smurfing
feeling blue, like balance sheets, the reds
roiling
foiling
the villains with light sabers, cobwebs
baking
making
no sense, save to the mind with long legs
musing
losing
sight of the senses, like frying eggs
smelling
dwelling
on lost worlds, some with nightmarish dreads
aching
waking
to dream worlds coursing on mental sheds
dreaming
scheming
being creative, opening frontiers
aping
shaping
new worlds, dreaming you're in Old Algiers
sleeping
steeping
in hopes of overcoming all fears
hoping
scoping
new dimensions, going through the gears
seeing
fleeing
from the real world, letting go with tears
crying
flying
high, soaring with eagles, the mind steers
swaying
playing
the subconscious, belying one's years
smoothing
soothing
the soul with fond memories of peers
morphing
dwarfing
the mind in worlds born of pioneers
landing
standing
on the backs of giants, cavaliers
grooving
moving
in the shadows of darkness, new spheres
fretting
sweating
the shadow of the doubt, wiggling ears
running
shunning
the facts, a mental image appears
being
freeing
the soul for a time, it disappears
summing,
humming
a love song, the harmony feels right
holding
molding
a frieze, exhibition kept in sight
chilling
thrilling
the heart, a dream world, color, no blight
flailing
scaling
mountains, dreams filled a will to fight
ailing
sailing
the wide open seas, pirates, twilight
morphing
dwarfing
the soul, a black hole attracts, invite
drifting
shifting
thoughts, like a mystic becomes forthright
galling
falling
off a cliff, grabbing hold the dark knight
spinning
grinning
spiraling through dream worlds, holding tight
warming
forming
new dreams, being creative, incite
luring
touring
recesses of the mind, dreams ignite
yearning
burning
into the mind, lessons like a rite
rushing
brushing
in feelings through dreams, icy and white
smiling
guiling
a morph world, beguiling with bright light.
 
(c) January 6, 2013 by PBM

Bonded Passion

by

Teresa Ann Frazee

 
Now as my twitching eye-lids are prompted open once
  more by the flooding white-fiery rush of daybreak
Compounded images lay reeled in an incubated,
  isolated sleep, rousing to be materialized
Reconceived through the interpreting lens of the camera
  into a transparent celluloid existence
As editing Muses crop precise dimensions from spilling
  over empty space, aesthetics never compromised
 
The instant, projected, perpetually captured in
  a time defying technological ambush
Strewn course grains of darkness collaborate with
  the intoxicating theatrics of focused violet light
With godlike insight, subjects are introduced upon
  an optic stage, acting in my illusory view
Their sculptured silhouettes in bonded passion
  with cinematography, alive now, sashay out of sight
 
Ungoverned contorted madness, throbbing with melo-
  drama's compulsory touch, brings the house to tears
Frames of unsickled fields and solitary coasts with
  truant echoes fill the extensity on the screen
Simulations, as if on a trapeze, sway and swing
 suspended in the spotlight of spontaneity
Through wide shots and angles, possession is the only
  distraction, until the audience applauds my final scene.

Escape Velocity

by

John Frazee
 


I shall keep my words simple in order to avoid hyperbole
Do you work towards greatness, or is your end game popularity
Striving for volume to appease your patrons, quantity over quality?
Once you achieve a level of success do you rely on redundancy?
 
My main concern is have I managed to pique your curiosity?
In art as in life you'll discover you should have a strong philosophy
Choose your paint with care, it must possess a high degree of viscosity
Keep a steady hand, never show the signs of vulnerability
 
This work needs so much more than balance it must possess it's own symmetry
Does the painting stand alone or do others feel a connectivity?
One's mind as well as one's paint should reach a high degree of liquidity
There can be no turning back once you have achieved escape velocity

Basic Instincts


By Patrick Bryant Michael
 

In the deep sanctuaries of the mind

lie dark thoughts that we want no one to find
that haunt our souls when we get in a bind
making us feel like a more distant kind
our basic instincts may then be defined
by how we react when we are maligned
yet our passion is driven when entwined
love needs hate, with their energies combined
creativity needs instincts aligned
loosing our subconscious from where confined
with acute awareness of what's opined
basis instincts can be controlled, refined
letting dreams unfold, from recesses mined
freeing the soul from staying in the blind
with reckless abandon we can be twined
filled with a passion for what we have pined.
 
(c) June 26, 2011 by PBM

Cosplay


By Patrick Bryant Michael

 


The Japanese art of cross role play

boys acting parts where they may sashay
girls acting hard nosed, wearing cache
fantasy roles where dragons take prey
breathing fire while boys as girls must pray
girls ride wild animals, some to slay
acting parts, to learn, fears to allay
games of chance played on foes', minds to sway
acting parts in crossed lines like ballet.
 
(c) August 28, 2010 by PBM

P A L M S

By Alexandra H. Rodrigues
 

A nightmare or just a dream
B oth is possible
C oconuts the size of pumpkins
D readful sceneries!
 
E xtremely foul feces’ in  the toilets
F looding the bathroom floor.
G ross remnants of urine at the door.
H orrible smells permeating the air.
 
I am on a slow moving train.
J ust meander it is along an oil filled ditch.
K ids using dirty driftwood as boats.
L ost in the middle of nowhere.
 
M isty skies hiding the crummy roads.
N o trees or grass is anywhere be seen.
O ld and depleted is the entire scenery.
P rowling along the train makes its’ way.
 
Q uite unsteadily on its wheels it moves
R attling and moaning its’ use it proves.
S ends every sound into the heavy air
T he tunes of gloom I mean to hear
U p and down my chest does heave
V ery labored my breath my lungs does leave.
W hen suddenly alms of green grass appeared.
X es as fence along the sides it had speared.
 
Y es, were you really able to guess
Z apped by a coconut I had fainted and
 Under a palm tree hit on my head.
 
 

Play with me

By

Alexandra H. Rodrigues

 
Mind over matter
Is that really better?
I know without the faintest doubt
That what I wish for is for naught.
 
Still I make myself dream of thee
Imagine the lust if you were with me.
My want is that you be my playmate
The one to whom in fantasy I do relate.
 
 Let us be aware that none of it is true
Let each of us form a phantom in our own view.
In play delightful sensations we could achieve.
Never would they wounds or mistrust leave.
 
In a game in which no one will win or lose
Let us our own fulfillment chose.
Above words I tried to carefully mince
Will they have enough power to convince?

Edgar Allan Poe

Annabel Lee

(1849)


It was many and many a year ago,
   In a kingdom by the sea,
That a maiden there lived whom you may know
   By the name of ANNABEL LEE;--
And this maiden she lived with no other thought
   Than to love and be loved by me.
She was a child and I was a child,
   In this kingdom by the sea,
But we loved with a love that was more than love--
   I and my Annabel Lee--
With a love that the winged seraphs of heaven
   Coveted her and me.

And this was the reason that, long ago,
   In this kingdom by the sea,
A wind blew out of a cloud by night
   Chilling my Annabel Lee;
So that her high-born kinsman came
   And bore her away from me,
To shut her up in a sepulchre
   In this kingdom by the sea.

The angels, not half so happy in Heaven,
   Went envying her and me:--
Yes! that was the reason (as all men know,
   In this kingdom by the sea)
That the wind came out of a cloud, chilling
   And killing my Annabel Lee.

But our love it was stronger by far than the love
   Of those who were older than we--
   Of many far wiser than we-
And neither the angels in Heaven above,
   Nor the demons down under the sea,
Can ever dissever my soul from the soul
   Of the beautiful Annabel Lee:--

For the moon never beams without bringing me dreams
   Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And the stars never rise but I see the bright eyes
   Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side
Of my darling, my darling, my life and my bride,
   In her sepulchre there by the sea--
   In her tomb by the side of the sea.

Ancient Egyptian Poetry

Sister without Peer


My one, the sister without peer,

The handsomest of all!
She looks like the rising morning star
At the start of a happy year.
Shining bright, fair of skin,
Lovely the look of her eyes,
Sweet the speech of her lips,
She has not a word too much.
Upright neck, shining breast,
Hair true lapis lazuli;
Arms surpassing gold,
Fingers like lotus buds.
Heavy thighs, narrow waist,
Her legs parade her beauty;
With graceful step she treads the ground,
Captures my heart by her movements.
She causes all men's necks
To turn about to see her;
Joy has he whom she embraces,
He is like the first of men!
When she steps outside she seems
Like that the Sun!

The Reign of Terror
 
By Karen King
 
 
 
Another axe, another head falls.
 
Don’t open your mouth,
 
Or the loss of your head will befall.
 
 
 
Some subjects have committed treason,
 
Their ghastly gristle hacked.
 
But, often they are beheaded for no reason!
 
 
 
Katherine of Aragon couldn’t give him a Son,
 
She was disposed of, unwanted goods…
 
Ann Boleyn’s heart he had won.
 
 
 
Now he speaks the Word of God.
 
Catholics gone, only Protestants remain.
 
No one finds it odd!
 
 
 
He makes changes made to the Bible,
 
For him and Anne Boleyn.
 
For his love’s survival!
 
 
 
At last the divorce is through,
 
Katherine of Aragon has gone.
 
It was so corrupt; how many knew?
 
 
 
His wives; divorced, beheaded, died,
 
With only one male heir.
 
Divorced, beheaded, survived.
 
 
 
Only three children from all six wives,
 
The King, a man of hard heart.
 
So much loss, so many lives.
 
 
 
“Perilous” prisoners starve to death,
 
Repenting for their “sins”,
 
Until their last breath.
 
 
 
Some prisoners hang, others lose their heads,
 
Left dangling or heads rolling on the ground.
 
Innocent or guilty, left for dead!
 
 
 
 
This Kingdom of Terror,
 
Corruption, disruption, disturbance,
 
How much unnecessary pain in error?
 
 
How much blood loss,
 
How much death and pain?
 
When heads are mercilessly tossed?
 
 
How many hangings,
 
How many legs limply swinging in the air,
 
When people are left dangling?
 
 
 
How many bodies lying on the ground?
 
Scarred and starved and
 
Kicked to the side in a useless mound?
 
 
 
Karen King   Copyright   December 2015

The Great Vision

by          
          
Teresa Ann Frazee

 
Yes, I know, I heard it too, silence, do not dare speak
With a backward glance, could see our native band of people
Staking down their tepees against the unsettling high wind
Saw the sky stitched with lightening, while the tender hearts grew fearful
 
As an omniscient force was rebuilding our image
Of the near future, firmly sealing a common fate
We humbly offered prayers for the intruder to gently pass
For the spirit world, we would not underestimate
 
Again, we heard in the darkness, the encroaching sound
Of perhaps that threatening two-legged beast, the pale man
Painted neighing horses raised their glistening manes toward the heavens
As the Great Vision suddenly came upon us, the Cheyenne
 
He stood tall, his hair long and white, with outstretched arms, said,
"The ways of our grandfathers are rooted in our history,
Remember them and live by the power of the circle"
And then he was gone, vanishing in a cloud of mystery

Journey with Major Tom
 
By Karen King
 
 
 
Billy Idol, Iggy Pop, Bruce Springsteen, Mick Jagger
 
And David Bowie are all my heroes.
 
What idols they are and always will be.
 
Four remain in this world, singing strongly.
 
They still rock for me!
 
These bad boys have hearts of gold.
 
Their auras shine.  Their irresistible charms draw me in.
 
 
 
Yet one of my heroes has gone.
 
Brixton born, David Bowie, died today, at age sixty-nine,
 
After an eighteenth battle with cancer.
 
His unique style and his singing drew in the crowds.
 
How sad we will never hear him sing live again,
 
Yet his music will be played forevermore.
 
 
 
His eyes should have been blue,
 
Yet one changed as a result of a fight with a friend.
 
One of his pupils was damaged and became brown or green,
 
Depending on the light, giving him an otherworldly appearance.
 
 
 
 
 
He managed to stay with us for his birthday
 
On 8 January, but his soul has strayed from this earth.
 
Like, “Ashes to Ashes”, dust to dust
 
He has left us here without him.
 
His spirit will be missed.
 
Yet think again, you may not be able to see him,
 
But you will still be able to hear him in the spirit world,
 
Should you visit there at night when you are asleep
 
Or when you are meditating.
 
 
 
He is on a journey with “Major Tom” in his flight across
 
Space, passing sparkling stars in their space ship.
 
He will pop by to see us from time to time,
 
While his records rock to the top of the charts.
 
People will always remember this special soul
 
And the talents that he has shared with the world
 
As his inner strength and soul shine on us forever.
 
 
 
Karen King  Copyright  February 2016

Broken
 
By Karen King
 
 
 
This young boy, lying in the sand,
 
Has come from a distant land.
 
Tossed overboard, lost in the sea,
 
Into the waves they were trying to flee.
 
 
 
The man’s other Son lost and also his wife,
 
They had hoped to start a different life.
 
Now he is broken; at what cost?
 
To escape the war.  All is lost!
 
 
 
With his family, he now returns.
 
Now in coffins; when will man learn?
 
Back towards Syria to bury his life,
 
His soul in tatters amidst the strife.
 
 
 
When will man learn and stop this fight?
 
I don’t care who’s wrong or right!
 
Isn’t it time to come together as one?
 
To love each other under the same sun?
 
 
Karen King  Copyright   September 2015

Urban Red
 
by


Teresa Ann Frazee

 
In a terrain inhabited by a new breed of denizens
Where shadowy figures of youthful drama filled the city street
From within the inner circle you can hear a prophetic call
         In the uncompromising textured darkness where compulsions meet
 
Without noticing midnight’s subtle slip into oblivion
Silhouetted renegades stare with unblinking infinite eyes
And delve into the back-lit decadence of their generation
Explore the labyrinth behind walls where new histories will rise
 
Like an eternal flame, invincibility mastered our thoughts
Urban red neon lights hypnotically flicker through loosened hair
Together, with a certain comradery that belonged to us
In a backward glace, we watched the fabric of time begin to tear
 
 

         The Sirens of Blue

                  by

                  Teresa Ann Frazee

 
                  We the sirens of blue, mouth our trapped cries as they fall from our ancient tongues
                  Demanding release, our heartbreaking notes morph into mesmerizing sounds
                  In the uncertain space between breaths, we merge with our glossy shadows
                  That slither, weaving beneath the crystal waves where illusion knows no bounds
 
                  Creatures, as if dipped in Grecian gold, awaken from our drowsy solitude
                  Deep under a watery blue blanket, we linger on the ocean floor
                  Then rising strong above the foaming surf we exchange our echoing songs
  You can see us now, through a luminous mist, there on a distant shore
 
                  Pretending welcome, on jagged rocks strewn with tangled seaweed and old bones
                  Waiting for those who have sealed their ears to our calling and did not obey
  For the few who have made a clever escape from our bewitching voices
          And for all the vulnerable mortals who pass, a handsome price they must pay
 

Primordial Fetish

by

John Frazee

 
Scouring the hills for the sacred hair of a dog
Sifting through the sand for that unique sun bleached bone
Spiritual help from those who came before me
Collecting constantly until my work is done
 
Examining the remains one piece at a time
I sense it came from a female but hold no proof
In this light you’ll find it is difficult to tell
Yet in my grasp I am sure is a cave bear’s tooth
 
If I thought it would help to give them what they need
I would gladly sacrifice my very own flesh
It’s what people have come to expect of me
When asked to create a primordial fetish   

 
            The Dawn of Civilization 

                        by

                       John Frazee

 
                        Sunrise, sunset, we are all familiar with the phrase
                        Often they're crystal clear, other times seen through a haze
                        Sunrises begin them, while sunsets complete our days
 
  They do more then simply separate twenty four hours
                        Awaken birds and send signals to our flowers
                        Primitive man believed each one held special powers
 
                       The riddle reads, sun up, sun down, which of these first came?
                       After all confusing you is the riddlers game
                       The pertinent question is who first gave them their name?
 
                       While looking up at a fading constellation
                       The horizon cracked as if in celebration
                       All knew it was the dawn of civilization
 

The Curtain
 
By Lucinda Berry Hill
 
 
Long ago there was a place
that we could never see.
Only pure and holy ones
Could be found there on their knees.
But then God sent His only son
A lamb in purest form.
He gave His life for all of us
And the curtain, it was torn.
There's nothing standing in our way
NO fear, no sin, no shame,
No condemnation blocking us
From calling on His name.
We need no lamb, no sacrifice
To speak right to our Lord.
The final sacrifice was made
And the curtain, it was torn.
Today we go straight to our God,
No reservations, no doubt.
Nothing stands in our way,
Our sin can't keep us out.
We are loved,
We are welcomed
With acceptance from the Lord.
And nothing stands between us now
Since the curtain, it was torn.
 
Lucinda Berry Hill Author of Coffee with Jesus and A Second Cup with Jesus.©

Matthew 27:50-51  And when Jesus had cried out again in a loud voice, he gave up his spirit.  At that moment the curtain of the temple was torn in two from top to bottom.  The earth shook and the rocks split.
 
 
https://www.facebook.com/#!/pages/Coffee-with-Jesus/355060321207311

http://lucindaspoetry.webs.com/index.htm

Contemplating Vincent 


by

John Frazee

 
I find myself without direction, completely uninspired
From the stark blank canvas I can feel a presence emanating
A stagnant century old breeze wafts across my studio
Where could that sweet smell of absinthe be permeating
 
I'm commanded from afar by the tortured soul of a god
 From what source of power is this energy generating
A surge of inspiration unlike any I've ever felt
While my minds eye staggers, my hand is not hesitating
 
I am flattered by his spirit, an honor to be sure
I bask in his glow yet find his presence discomforting
I should have accepted him with open arms, however
This attack on my color scheme, I was not anticipating
 
No one alive has the nerve to trespass where I toil in paint
How these images propagate is truly fascinating
The colors, the strokes, the intensity, there can be no doubt
I am sure now it is Vincent I have been contemplating

Ancient Aztec Poetry:


Stand Up, Beat Your Drum


By Nezahualcoyotl



Stand up, beat your drum:

give of yourself, know friendship. -Aya!-

Let your hearts be taken

with many colours -Yehuaya!-

only here perhaps are lent to us

our tobacco pipes, our flowers,

Ohuaya Ohuaya.


Stand up, my friend,

elated take your flowers to the drum:

your bitterness flees.

Adorn yourself with them:

the flowers raise their heads,

cocoa flowers of precious gold -Aya!-

are being scattered,

Ohuaya Ohuaya.

Beautifully sing here

the turquoise bird, the quetzal, the trogon:

the macaw’s song presides, and

all the jingling rattles and drums answer,

Ohuaya Ohuaya.


I drink cocoa:

with it I am glad -Aya!-

my heart takes pleasure, my heart is happy,

Ohuaya Ohuaya.

Painting: "Mond Tanz" by Sue Halstenberg

My Pirate
 
By Karen King
 
 
 
He asked me if I wanted
 
To sail to a distant land.
 
To feel the waves beneath me,
 
Then touch the sand.
 
 
 
He got really close
 
And breathed on me.
 
I could feel the depths
 
Of his depravity.
 
 
 
His wicked ways
 
Were on his breath.
 
He was so drunk,
 
He seemed close to death.
 
 
 
His long hair
 
Trailed in the wind
 
And I could see the many ways
 
In which he had sinned.
 
 
 
He loved to plunge his hands
 
In his treasure chest.
 
The precious jewels covering him,
 
That he liked best!
 
 
 
I looked at the parrot
 
And his peg leg,
 
The rum he was swilling
 
From his keg.
 
 
 
I decided to join him,
 
For he had some appeal.
 
I looked at the coins
 
That I could steal.
 
 
 
I grabbed the rum
 
And took a swig.
 
I held his hands
 
And did a jig!
 
 
 
So many suitors,
 
So much rum,
 
So many gold coins
 
So much fun!
 
 
 
 
Karen King   Copyright   15 February 2016

Spiritual Overtone

by

John Frazee

 
An ominous fog, sudden stillness, a few whispers in the dark
     A distant cry or a stench in the air chills you to the bone
While you feel yourself surrounded and there is nobody there
     You now grasp the sensation of a spiritual overtone
 
Fear not, most are of good intent and they bear you no ill will
     Your future's uncertain and your destination  is unknown
You'll find this may not be the best of times to be traveling
     Just keep to the path and always, avoid the forbidden zone
 
There's something here, there's something there, there's something everywhere
     Sensing another's presence yet you're certain you were alone
You can close your eyes and ignore it but that never worked before
     More childhood memories and nightmares you believe you had outgrown
 
At least you have someone near and dear to you, to hold onto
     This hand that you cling desperately to, turns as cold as stone
Gradually relinquish your grip then  slowly slip away
     Not easy when you realize you're finally on your own

Ah Pirate's Gurl

(A Tanka)

By Patrick Bryant Michael



Thar once twas ah gurl
fer ah pirate 'er 'art longed
'e swirlt in 'er head
time n' space throwt ta da wind
whilst dat pirate drunk ez grog!




(c) August 17, 2010 by PBM

Mad at Men

By Alexandra H. Rodrigues
 

He had left and he had returned.
It seemed her patience had his interest earned.
She thought no man would want to resist
To be daintily stimulated and kissed.
 
She was pretty, some called her a beauty.
To please a man she considered her duty.
She knew what it took to turn the other sex on.
Without question she too did have fun.
 
She resented fighting for women’s rights.
Instead she put importance on capricious nights.
She knew how to sing and dance like an elf
Made it her goal that a man lose in her himself.
 
She did like the somewhat taller men
Felt good when she was able to look up at them.
She would be faithful if the right one she found
If he treated her fairly on her he could count.
 
Modern marriage was not for her
She still hoped “I do” forever to swear.
This lover, the one for whom she had waited
Seemed to possess all that with love she related.
The door opened, she was jubilant to see him again.
She could feel how excitement thru her body ran.
He surely was worth it that she had waited.
In his absence not even once she had dated.
 
He greeted her with a rather polite, cool kiss
Some fire and passion she had expected was amiss.
It then did not really take very long
For it to become clear that she had been wrong.
 
He was going to get married, he wanted her to know.
Another lady had let this decision in him grow.
After a very short stay again he left
She stayed behind of all joy bereft.
 
From then on she began to fight
 She turned into a defender of women’s right.
Men did not seem to know what is good for them, oh shame!
Thus if they are unhappy they have themselves to blame.

s'blood

by

John Frazee

 
Eternity never entered the discussion
     There was no thought of future, present or past
No need for any god, if this was all there was
     Forever was the guess on how long life would last
 
No one was forced into choosing a deity
     In the not too distant past, their faith had been blind
Binding choices were made of their own free will
     A pact of reverence in their own blood they signed
 
On further reflection, choices were made in haste
     No one wished to be the very last one to choose
Decisions should never be taken so lightly
     Especially when there is a great deal to lose
 
Once the prospect of a supreme being was broached
     The promise of riches entered the picture
Some shrewd  men knew a pot of gold when they saw one
     Follow me, obey, donate, became scripture
 
Manipulating the masses is our forte
     We alter the truth or manufacture a lie
Using afterlife, we can instill fear in them
     And thus financially we will bleed them all  dry
 
They are not so much lies as a slant on the truth
     And yet in legal terms it would be called libel
While under the cover of sacred they exist
     Empty promises made with a hand on the bible
 
Their power has been ordained, according to them
     Who among us dare question their authority
It must then be true for he speaks to us though them
     To defy our lords spokesman is sheer audacity
 
Grown men dressed in vestments or attired in robes
     Trampling the downtrodden and poor, while preaching love
Unfeeling rulers meet out justice from afar
     How were they anointed, and who placed them above
 
 
With complete lack of moral fiber on their part
     The highest rank goes to the loudest orator
Inventing facts, then convincing the flock they're true
     Shouting laws then claiming they're from our creator
 
Surveying the situation one observes them
     Set about eliminating conflicting views
While they establish their own righteous rules and laws
     In what could best be labeled religious abuse
 
They are sacred to the parishioners only
     Except laws do not apply to the chosen few
If they are not followed, you might just rot in hell
     Now please empty all your pockets upon my queue
    
Reside on an altar so they have to look up
     Use their infantile  fear of demons and the snake
Then turn the table on them and do as they will
     Convince them they are doing it for their own sake
 
The followers have completely now lost their way
     They show more respect for those who are blasphemers
At least the blasphemers have been true to their word
     Thus s'blood shall be on the hands of his worshipers

Vampires and Pirates

By Patrick Bryant Michael




Avast me hearties un list'n ta mi rail

ah mighty, grand ship upon me account set sail
un a dark night beginneth mi sad tale
with Jolly Roger flyin', wurm hearts turn frail
vampires un ghosts about, screams ta regale
blood drippin' fum flag, blackness must prevail
fum Davy Jones locker come ah mournful wail
da night bringeth horrors ta scareth ah whale
bats flyin' about, banshies wit' black veil
da bite of the vampire, blood spilleth in pail
cold un blood curdling, ice formeth ta pale
uh night to 'member, bett'r uff in ah jail
death un macabre, ul true hearts wouds't sure fail
sleep mi hearties, it be ah monkey's tail!


(c) December 30, 2009 by PBM

Nothing to Nothing
 
By Jack Scott

 
Briefly home
from another unwon war,
barely survived,
needing to catch up on some light
I gather heat as well,
easy enough to gain,
impossible to store and keep.
War makes its soldiers cold,
their coldness last.
It’s been a long campaign
in the war between too good to be true
and too ugly, evil, to believe,
for the tipping of the balance
of the boulder, world,
on Sisyphus’s pointy mountaintop.
We warriors
and our worriers
know these rules of war
and waiting:
No one wins.
No victory lasts.
There are as many ways to die, as live.
                                  
                                              
 
 
588 ®Copyright 2010 Jack Scott. All rights reserved.
From Poemystic.com
 
 
 
 

Galactic Pirates

By Patrick Bryant Michael




Avast me hearties, zit n' listen ta mi tale

un ah night like thus, ye could hear ah mighty gale
out ah deep space arose a pirate flag to hail
un ah ship filled wit ghouls n' goblins tha didst wail
draggin' da dead bodies by der moldy entrail
da rain poured down, as da wildest banshees didst rail
lookin' fer blood, da gore wouldst be makin' ye pale
dem pirates flew by, drinkin' n' smellin' ub ale
scarin' folks ooh be worshippin' da Holy Grail
darkness spread o'er da world, Davy Jones didst avail
da fishies wass scared, and da strongest hearts didst fail
galactic pirates wouldst bear down, lust to regale
grabbin' da wenches fer ah gud time ta entail
cuttin', carvin' der initials in skin quite frail
choppin' off da heads ub ul ooh laid down to flail
addin' ta der booty, til' was time ta set sail
flyin' da galaxies, fer govies ta impale
breakin' da law ub mankind, laughin' wit da whale
nah ah care in da world, der freedom ta inhale
grinnin' n' drinkin', den spittin' w'en dey exhale.




(c) September 7, 2011 by PBM

Pirate
 
By Karen King
 
 
 
She boarded the ship,
 
Her feet heavy on the ground.
 
She was going to a country,
 
Her future Husband would be found.
 
 
 
It was all arranged,
 
She had dreaded this day.
 
She pulled up her hijab,
 
Wishing it would go away.
 
 
 
Still, it was the custom
 
And the law of the land.
 
She must meet this man
 
And give him her hand.
 
 
 
She entered her cabin,
 
Relieved to put up her feet.
 
Her bags had been so heavy,
 
She sagged in defeat.
 
 
 
She went to get some coffee
 
And stared out to sea.
 
All of the time she had
 
Her Brother for company.
 
 
 
She could not
 
Go anywhere alone.
 
A Brother was always with her,
 
Ensuring she never roamed.
 
 
 
She could not drive
 
And she could not leave
 
Her home alone.
 
There was no reprieve!
 
 
 
Swarms of people
 
Shouted and laughed.
 
It was all becoming
 
Rather daft.
 
 
 
Why did they push?
 
Why did they shove?
 
Had they not heard
 
Of peace and love?
 
They soon set sail
 
Over the foam.
 
Her heart ached,
 
She longed for home.
 
 
 
The passage was rough
 
She started to feel ill.
 
The wind whipped
 
And her bones did chill.
 
 
 
She stared over the side,
 
Her Brother lent her his coat.
 
In the distance,
 
She could see a boat.
 
 
 
The boat looked
 
Lost at sea
 
And the men looked
 
Like tiny fleas.
 
 
 
Towards them they came
 
Over surging white waves.
 
She wondered if the sea
 
Would ever behave.
 
 
 
She looked pale
 
As she clung to the side.
 
Her interest was piqued,
 
And she couldn’t hide.
 
 
 
The men came aboard
 
Their almighty ship.
 
Their wild long hair,
 
Started to drip.
 
 
 
They clambered onto the deck
 
And took out their guns.
 
It looked like they were having
 
Great fun!
 
 
 
One approached the lady
 
And grabbed her by the arms.
 
He had a way about him,
 
A certain charm!
 
 
 
The lady’s Brother
 
At first could not be seen.
 
He was crouching in the corner
 
Looking quite green.
 
 
 
The tall, muscular man
 
Thought she was dressed like a crow.
 
What did she look like under the black?
 
He wanted to know.
 
 
 
He carefully removed her hijab
 
And looked into her eyes.
 
He saw a teasing twinkle,
 
What a surprise!
 
 
 
He couldn’t let this
 
Raven haired beauty
 
Come to any harm.
 
It was his duty!
 
 
 
He picked her up and took her
 
To his boat on the sea.
 
While his friends stole,
 
He decided to flee!
 
 
 
For he had decided
 
To ask her Father for ransom.
 
She would fetch a fair price,
 
For she was charming and handsome.
 
 
 
Her cheek bone structure,
 
A cut above the rest.
 
Of all the women he had seen,
 
She was the best!
 
 
 
Her put her in the pirate ship
 
So smart and grand was she.
 
They crested his waves
 
On their journey at sea.
 
 
 
He sat her down
 
And made her a drink.
 
She sat below deck
 
And started to think.
 
 
 
She didn’t feel scared,
 
With this man of long hair
 
She could get used to his wildness,
 
If only she could dare…
 
 
 
He gave her a blanket
 
And briefly touched her arm.
 
She felt an electric spark,
 
Such was his charm…
 
 
 
Warm and dry,
 
She relaxed at sea.
 
She started to feel happy
 
And, oh, so free!
 
 
 
Free of her Brother,
 
Free of the man to marry.
 
He walked towards her,
 
A bottle of rum he did carry.
 
 
 
Every day she helped and laughed,
 
He watched the curve of her lips.
 
Every day he gazed, longingly,
 
At the sway of her hips.
 
 
 
No eye patch or parrot
 
For our pirate of lust,
 
And no peg leg
 
To scuffle in the dust.
 
 
 
In his cabin
 
Were coins of gold.
 
They sparkled, sumptuously.
 
Our pirate felt bold.
 
 
 
She watched this man,
 
Hair as black as night.
 
Like his money, he sparkled.
 
Such a delight!
 
 
 
He offered her some rum,
 
Then she made them some tea.
 
They didn’t stop talking
 
And laughing, delightedly!
 
 
 
She felt so hot,
 
And started to flush.
 
He leant toward her,
 
It all happened in a rush.
 
 
 
She touched his muscles
 
Under her hand
 
As they sailed
 
To another land.
 
 
 
She looked into his eyes
 
And fell into the rabbit hole.
 
She was lost now,
 
She had given him her soul.
 
 
 
Her touched her, greedily,
 
And breathed in her musk
 
As he discovered her
 
From dawn to dusk.
 
 
 
Ever since then,
 
On that special day,
 
He has cherished this lady
 
And wanted to stay.
 
 
 
He loved the smoothness
 
Of her skin.
 
Her heart throbbed loudly
 
At the sight of him.
 
 
 
They heard the lap
 
Of the ocean
 
As they shared secrets
 
Of their joint destination.
 
 
 
He was not usually one to worry
 
About what would happen next,
 
Yet he gave her a diamond ring
 
From his treasure chest.
 
 
 
He got down on one knee
 
And showed her the ring.
 
She wanted him
 
and all loved could bring.
 
 
 
She felt free as a bird,
 
Travelling to exotic lands.
 
Two became one
 
As her took her hand.
 
 
 
Karen King  Copyright   15 February 2016
 
 
 

Pirates of the Human Being
 
By CarolAnn EdScorn

(To be sung to Hans Zimmer's Theme of "Pirates of the Caribbean")
 
 
Hum. Da da dum dum, da da dum dum, da da dum dum da dum!
Ahem. Clear throat. Chooka chook chook bitty bom bom!
Okay. Be brave. Look out past the bow.
Avast, mateys! Admiral! There be WHALES here!
Pause. Breathe in deeply. Yes, we’re all going to die.
Tug on the tricorner hat, pinching the brow.
Odd crew, strange souls, voyage of fear;
Pause. Breathe. Gaze upward, watch the albatross fly.
 
Everything itches. Everything smells.  So scared,
The crook of the eye is twitching, the right hand
Clenches for a sword, drawn by hilt from scabbard bared.
Hum.
Da da  dum dum, da da dum dum, da da dum dum da da dum.
Yo ho, yo ho…yo…where is the land? My land? Our land?
Look out, look far, gaze at the sky, waiting for the stars
Guiding the galleon, the scurvy crew farting in slumber,
Waves roiling, slapping the hull without rhythm.
Fifteen men in a dead man’s chest, meaningless,
Foolishness, no enemy ships, no enemy to terrorize.
Yo ho, yo ho. Ho hum. Salty sultry winds caress
As stars glitter and the full moon arises,
Another annoying tone tickles the thoughts.
Gazing to port and then starboard,
Wiping sweat glistened palms against the doublet,
The sound is…familiar…reaching out, the
Ocean fades away.
The galleon disappears.
Turning to see the source
Bright green numbers appear.
City noises.
Pushing the alarm off, wondering:
But why is the rum gone?
END

I am a Gull
 
By Karen King
 
 
 
I am a gull.
 
I fly on the edge of the sea
 
Where the froth fizzes
 
And the waves cast their waters
 
Over the sands.
 
 
 
I am a gull.
 
I fly over the coastline,
 
Shocked at the atrocities of man.
 
This world should be beautiful
 
And harmonious.
 
We should be as one,
 
United in love and acceptance.
 
 
 
I am a gull.
 
I watch from an ancient ruin,
 
As if protecting its history.
 
The myriad of colours and sounds
 
Rise up from below.
 
I send light to these people,
 
hoping to protect them
 
And wake them up to a better world.
 
 
 
I am a gull.
 
The palm trees wave in wonder,
 
Fantastic fruits are tantalisingly tempting,
 
But I must not get distracted.
 
My wings have travelled far
 
I have been visiting
 
This sea of war and strife for many months
 
Sending love and light to these people,
 
But I need help in creating a better world.
 
 
 
I am a gull.
 
My friends below suffer,
 
But are resilient.
 
Others friends along the coast
 
Seem safe and I hope this remains so.
 
I feel a spiritual connection,
 
But wonder if it’s my imagination,
 
Which leads me on fantastic flightpaths
 
Of mystery and pleasure.
 
 
 
 
 
I am a gull.
 
I am allowed to dream.
 
To be fabulously free.
 
I go wherever I want.
 
I do whatever I want,
 
Harming no one.
 
Perhaps humans should do this too?
 
 
 
Karen King   Copyright   February 2016

The Toad in the Stone
By Jack Scott
 
The toad in the stone waited,
waited all alone . . . still
till the rush of years abated.
Those who poured the rock around him
passed on and under their own stones,
became no more than bones,
then . . . nothing
while the toad lay waiting,
suspended,
unblinking,
frozen in the rock,
unthinking.
Then,
to the sound of empires rumbling,
the rock from ‘round the toad came crumbling
            in the unsoft dawn of war.
Exposed,
the waiting toad blinked,
withered,
and was no more.
 
                                                                         
 97 ®Copyright 1955 Jack Scott. All rights reserved.
From Poemystic.com

From "As You Like It"

All the world's a stage,
And all the men and women merely players;
They have their exits and their entrances,
And one man in his time plays many parts,
His acts being seven ages. At first, the infant,
Mewling and puking in the nurse's arms.
Then the whining schoolboy, with his satchel
And shining morning face, creeping like snail
Unwillingly to school. And then the lover,
Sighing like furnace, with a woeful ballad
Made to his mistress' eyebrow. Then a soldier,
Full of strange oaths and bearded like the pard,
Jealous in honor, sudden and quick in quarrel,
Seeking the bubble reputation
Even in the cannon's mouth. And then the justice,
In fair round belly with good capon lined,
With eyes severe and beard of formal cut,
Full of wise saws and modern instances;
And so he plays his part. The sixth age shifts
Into the lean and slippered pantaloon,
With spectacles on nose and pouch on side;
His youthful hose, well saved, a world too wide
For his shrunk shank, and his big manly voice,
Turning again toward childish treble, pipes
And whistles in his sound. Last scene of all,
That ends this strange eventful history,
Is second childishness and mere oblivion,
Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything.

William Shakespeare

Valentine’s Day

By Alexandra H. Rodrigues


When two people are in love
To think about anything else is tough.
Chocolate hearts, roses and more than one kiss
Ensure that Valentine’s Day is nothing but bliss.
 
Every time Valentine’s Day comes around
Promises to each other are given abound.
Everlasting love to one another we declare.
Our love forever we do swear.
 
Life goes on with its sorrow and joy
On this day, special love again we deploy.
There can be times when it is hard not to stray
To mend our commitment we use this day.
 
Love is an emotion that cannot be forced
Kindness is needed to have it endorsed.
Valentine is the name of a Roman Saint.
He eagerly a picture of love did paint.
 
Those who nourish love into their golden time
Deserve that for them this day will shine.
No matter what your emotions may say
I wish you a Happy Valentine’s Day!
 

Restless Descendant
       by
       Teresa Ann Frazee

 
        I bit into knowledge and I found a taste for it
        Do I want too much from this eternal place?
        At a cost, I licked the nagging wound of wisdom
  Knowing well, my innocence has fallen from grace
 
        A curiosity, judged by unblinking eyes
        Like a rare specimen impaled on a pin
        Permanently scarred and cast into the wilderness
        Labeled the branded gender, corrupted by sin
 
        You would have thought He could predict the intentions
        Of a restless descendant of borrowed time
        Who could never stand the strain of ignorance
        Who mocked the fragile order of His design
 
Scorn shall be my everlasting epitaph
        As the black sickle of blaspheme destroys my name
        In yet another twisted fable scribed by men
        Where of course, the woman is always to blame

God is within your Heart
 
By Karen King
 
 
 
God is within the air.
 
God is within the earth.
 
God is within the fire.
 
God is within the sea.
 
God is within your heart.
 
God is within your soul.
 
 
 
God is within the air,
 
When it caresses you
 
As you stroll.
 
Without a care.
 
 
 
God is within the earth,
 
Where we go
 
Upon our death.
 
Ready for rebirth.
 
 
 
God is within the fire,
 
When the old dies.
 
We start again.
 
The flames rise higher.
 
 
 
 
 
God is within the sea,
 
Cleansing and refreshing
 
Your daily cares away,
 
So you can just be.
 
 
 
God is within your heart,
 
Spreading love and peace
 
Over the world
 
As you play your part.
 
 
 
God is within your soul,
 
From one life to the next.
 
To guide and love.
 
To make you whole.
 
 
 
Karen King   Copyright   9 February 2016

                            Holy Matrimony
                            by
                            Teresa Ann Frazee

 
                            Hear your bachelor days are gone
                            Finally found a perfect mate
                            I’m guessing an eternity
                            Is a long enough time to wait
 
                             Well now we can’t really
                             Call her your better half
                             The angels would have a chuckle
   And the saints a belly laugh
 
                             She’s going to insist on
                             Sprucing up the old place
                             With beaded pillows everywhere
                             Cluttering the open space
 
                             She’ll make a walk-in closet
                             Out of the meeting hall
                             Not a soul will be present
   When you begin roll call
 
                             Showy His and her towels
                             In the shared master bath
                             If you actually use one
                             You’ll surely know her wrath
 
                             Mindless of the aesthetic integrity
                             Your property value will decrease
                             She’ll rent the attic to liars
                             With a hand shake for a lease
 
                             Saturdays, you’ll polish the pearly gates
                             The rusty hinge has a creak
                             Better get the ladder out
                             ‘Cause cloud nine has sprung a leak
 
    No more watching TV
                Scratching at your underwear
    And chugging straight out of
    The bottle of chilled draught beer
 
                             She’ll nag you about the beard
                             And insist you style your hair
                             Quoting, cleanliness is next to Godliness
    She’ll pick out what you wear
 
                             You think your demanding
   Sorry, your match is met
                             You’ll gain a mother-in-law
                             And inherit a yapping pet
 
                              I suppose it’s all set then
                              St. Peter shall make her a key
                              Then she’ll slip in easily
    Among the powers that be
 
                              If things don’t work out
                              Never break your own rule
                              Can’t put the blame on Cupid
                              It’s you who’ll look the fool
 
                              Can’t I persuade you
                              To think this matter through
    I realize it’s rarely
                              Something that God’s do



 

Liberating Light
  
 by

Teresa Ann Frazee


 
Without distinction the wide eyed, dutifully mumble quotes from a  bound tome of verses
They trade living for existence, seeking guidance for the path that lies before their feet
And wait for the opportunity to know the inner workings of the heavens
Where the present, disguised as contentment and the past merge where light and darkness meet
 
Smoke from the smoldering edges of  blind faith lead them on through obscurity
In perfect circles they stagger, for only those who know little master confusion
After many an unfulfilled promise, dies the lost spirit of  innocence
Like an unmanipulated puppet buried under the rubble of delusion
 
But destiny holds strong as a liberating light draws them back to their senses
All around them luminosity extends far past where the naked eye can see
In boots of the free they march in unison across the landmines of propaganda
Proclaiming the truth, without mistaking it for how they've been conditioned truth to be
 
Gone is the muzzled dialogue of self-compromise spoon fed by the majority
And  hand-me-down vows spewed from the sweaty tongues of church and state
Still the hierarchy  of social order continue to recruit new enthusiasts
Filling their heads with lies allowing ignorance and hypocrisy to collaborate
 
 

Love, the Only Real God

(A Villanelle)

By Patrick Bryant Michael


We live, learn, and unlearn searching for truth
being led by elders, who to believe
wanting love, seeking it like a real sleuth.


We are preached to by false prophets uncouth
led like sheep to sin against the soul, Eve
we live, learn, and unlearn searching for truth.


We struggle with our souls, fearing untruth
twisting, churning with the tides, pasts we cleave
wanting love, seeking it like a real sleuth.


We grow, we learn, held back like a sore tooth
wanting change and freedom as we conceive
we live, learn, and unlearn searching for truth.


We reach plateaus, finding false paths, forsooth
we stretch our limits, falling back naive
wanting love, seeking it like a real sleuth.


Love will lead the way, letting go, we soothe
the heart needs freedom, the soul will receive
we live, learn, and unlearn searching for truth
wanting love, seeking it like a real sleuth.


(c) April 5, 2015 by PBM



The Infinite Being

By Patrick Bryant Michael


Within us all lies a soul, a part of One,
the Infinite Being of Universal Love,
drawing us all together under one sun,
life given to cherish from on high above.


We are all natives of one land, dispersed,
mutating for reasons given to sciences,
forces compelling changes never rehearsed,
spreading life and love to new alliances.


We are all of one tribal foundation in life,
as brothers and sisters spread all about,
coming and going as life brings on strife,
sending us on different paths, one to tout.


Forgetting from where we all came runs sad,
love is not forgetful, yet wanton ways defy,
leading to hate and greed for dark forces in fad,
breaking the tribe apart as love forces decry.


The Infinite Being is part and parcel to love,
a spirit connecting everyone who ever lives,
roots deeper than any ocean, far reaching above,
found within the soul, pure love that forgives.


(c) March 23, 2009 by PBM





The Constant Stranger

By Patrick Bryant Michael


I walk alone in a journey called life
in the back of my mind there plays a fife
deep within a drum beats for what is to come
a future presence to which I must succumb
choices to make dare the trumpeter to toot
wonderment for who I should trust and salute
a strange melody haunts my soul from within
for peace and harmony, a world without sin
long the way I meet folks I want to know
then out comes some guy who puts on a show
over time many masks and hats I have worn
for in life complete strangers may show me scorn
aging in ways that I never once expected
I look to the past to see what I've collected
I look to the future for love to come my way
while violins play for what brought me dismay
a wiser voice now rattles around in my head
no need to be taken out behind some fool shed
and though I know well who and what I am today
I know not what comes nor on me how it will weigh
I have been to war and seen what all can cause harm
yet there remains sweet strangeness in all of life's charm
the strangest of all lies in places we all fear
in a mirror the constant stranger will appear!

(c) November 12, 2008 by PBM





The Daily Prophet

By Patrick Bryant Michael



Somewhere the sun is rising, shining
somewhere there is a silver lining
somewhere someone is crying, pining
somewhere a stubborn brat is whining
sometimes you feel like dancing in the rain
sometimes life is a struggle, full of pain
sometimes we need to go off and campaign
sometimes we need to sing love's sweet refrain
somehow we get through each and every day
somehow life goes on with a price to pay
somehow love will find someone, lead the way
somehow we profit from all of life's fray
someone is listening, knows of what you pray
someone cares, hopes to steal your heart away
someone knows your fears, on you wants to prey
someone will be mean, your heart to betray
some will live, die, never learn life's meaning
some will learn from doing their house cleaning
some will find love, others spend time screening
some will become prophets, contravening!

(c) July 27, 2009 by PBM





The Dark and The Light

By Patrick Bryant Michael


There is only dark and light, no matter what is told,
knowing when, how and where to seek will in time unfold,
becoming more self aware, conscious of all about,
following a path in darkness, starlit and devout
constants become variables, like jello when cold
nothing we grasp has meaning till essence we enfold
in darkness lie freedoms almost ready to break out
folks run about only wanting the more to have clout
a bird in a cage sees more than those who choose to scold
slaves to love seek enlightenment for their souls to mold
where go freaks of nature, all most folks see is self doubt
in the dark and light of life, love's what keeps us all stout.




(c) December 17, 2010 by PBM




The Dawning

By Patrick Bryant Michael



Just before the break of day, awaking

the dawn of our future for the taking.



Each day's a new beginning, a dawning
when stuck in a rut we begin fawning
we fiddle in the past, time for yawning
with new ideas, a time for spawning.


Just before the break of day, awaking
the dawn of our future for the taking.


Yesterday's struggles may still be pending
what seemed hard, we find we're now transcending
the dawn comes, the past we are contending
to let go, to love, good souls depending.


Just before the break of day, awaking
the dawn of our future for the taking.


Smiling, changes come, seem like a blessing
overworked everything seems more pressing
without sleep, there's no time for confessing
with a new dawn, we stop all our stressing.


Just before the break of day, awaking
the dawn of our future for the taking.


New paths, choices we need to be making
learning from past mistakes, then forsaking
having faith in oneself, never faking
holding onto love, there for the taking.


Just before the break of day, awaking
the dawn of our future for the taking.


A new time, an old face, a saving grace
words of wisdom will help us to save face
there's little choice with arsenic and lace
take your time and seek to find your own place.


Just before the break of day, awaking
the dawn of our future for the taking.


There are times to leap, times for a first look
to raging waters or a babbling brook
the dawn of enlightenment is our hook
to the next wave, but somewhere there's a crook.


Just before the break of day, awaking
the dawn of our future for the taking.




(c) February 13, 2012 by PBM



 


My Valentine to God

By Lucinda Berry Hill



God I love you .
You are beautiful to me.
I could not love on Valentine's day
If I did not have you.

You are my first love.
You've shown me what it is to feel love 
And to give love
By the love that you lavish on me.
Your compassion, your mercy, your gifts
  Are unending.
My life with you
  Is everlasting.

Your love blesses my life; 
My words, my actions, my desires.
I love you Father.
I love you Jesus.
I love you Holy Spirit.

And the way that I show love to others 
Is my Valentine gift to you.


Lucinda Berry Hill author of devotional "Coffee with Jesus." ©
 https://www.facebook.com/#!/pages/Coffee-with-Jesus/355060321207311

http://lucindaspoetry.webs.com/index.htm
 
Ask me about fundraising ideas!

Cogito ergo sum

I think
therefore I AM

- Descartes -



“The people living in land of deep darkness have seen a great light.”

― Lailah Gifty Akita, Pearls of Wisdom: Great mind


“He had been searching for it his entire life. He had devoted himself to poetry to find it. Now, in the middle of his life, he found it. It was in the face of the love of his life, his daughter. She who had never blushed before, now blushed. And in that blushing, he knew, was the existence of God. That was the day her father learned what God was. God was pure beauty, God was his daughter’s face when she blushed.”

― Roman Payne



“Relationships prove that God exists.”

― Nityananda Das, Divine Union


"Love thy neighbor as thyself."

- Jesus

Photo by Karen King

The Thawing World
 
By Karen King
 
 
 
There is much magic and love around,
 
Permeating through the pages into my physical life.
 
Friendships found, people uniting,
 
Across the globe, over the land and seas.
 
Time and space no longer count
 
As boundaries disappear.
 
I have never noticed anything like this before,
 
Or felt so happy.
 
I feel like I am teaching and guiding,
 
Have found my path in life
 
And am being loved and supported.
 
Synchronicities occur as the right people and events
 
Appear at the right times,
 
Allowing me to follow
 
My path of love and light.
 
As my faith in the Universe continues to strengthen.
 
I think of us all blending as one Universe,
 
Melting and moulding as one.
 
I look at the ice on the rose hip melting
 
As the air temperature raises,
 
And I think of our cold, icy hearts,
 
Warming and thawing until they become liquid,
 
Blending into other hearts and boundaries
 
Until they become one.
 
One love.  One heart.
 
 
 
Karen King  Copyright  January 2016

Life is a Feast
 
By Karen King
 
 
 
Life is a feast

Of beauty, love and splendour.


Enjoy life.


Explore your senses.


Enthral in the colourful carnival of life.
 
 
 
Enjoy the taste of life.


Starters sampled.


Temptations tasted.


Festive feasts.


To be devoured.
 
 
 
Enjoy the smell of life.


Fresh flowers.


Fresh fruits.


The smell of Spring.


To be relished.
 
 
 
Enjoy the touch of life.


Hidden treasures


Upon your body and soul.


The touch of a loved one.


To be caressed.
 
Enjoy the sight of life.


See subtle and strident colours,


Encircling you and within you.


Follow your chosen path,


To be harmonious.
 
 
 
Enjoy the sound of life.


Your musical melodies within


As you sing to other souls,


Attracting those of a similar vibration.


To be joyous.
 
 
 
Life is a feast


Of beauty, love and splendour.


Enjoy life.


Enjoy your senses.


Enthral in the colourful carnival of life.
 
 
 
Karen King   Copyright   30 January 2016
 

Sonnet CXLI

By William Shakespeare


In faith I do not love thee with mine eyes,
For they in thee a thousand errors note;
But 'tis my heart that loves what they despise,
Who, in despite of view, is pleased to dote.
Nor are mine ears with thy tongue's tune delighted;
Nor tender feeling, to base touches prone,
Nor taste, nor smell, desire to be invited
To any sensual feast with thee alone:
But my five wits nor my five senses can
Dissuade one foolish heart from serving thee,
Who leaves unswayed the likeness of a man,
Thy proud heart's slave and vassal wretch to be:
   Only my plague thus far I count my gain,
   That she that makes me sin awards me pain

Magic Moments


By Patrick Bryant Michael
 


There are moments we hold in heart and mind, entwined
the magic of our shadows, where the sun once shined.
 
The birthing of children, when they first stand, first word
motion, emotion, separating from the herd
making new friends, acting totally absurd
the magic of the moment, minds and souls are stirred.
 
There are moments we hold in heart and mind, entwined
the magic of our shadows, where the sun once shined.
 
A time when play encompassed both space and time
hide and seek, shadowy friends which made your heart climb
fireflies, moonbeams, spin the bottle, evenings sublime
twilight, starlight, a first kiss, a nursery rhyme.
 
There are moments we hold in heart and mind, entwined
the magic of our shadows, where the sun once shined.
 
Corner candy stores, drug store soda shops, hop scotch
grandfather clocks, sounds of hourly chimes, a Sasquatch
mystical moments, day dreaming, carving a notch
running in the rain, keeping time with a stop watch.
 
There are moments we hold in heart and mind, entwined
the magic of our shadows, where the sun once shined.
 
Carnival rides, state fairs, mountain climbing, new highs
daydreaming, sunshine, finding a shadowy guise
ghosts, goblins, fishing, pretending to be wise guys
crawdad holes, first catches, black pearls, mom's apple pies.
 
There are moments we hold in heart and mind, entwined
the magic of our shadows, where the sun once shined.
 
Jack Frost nipping at your toes, snow ball fights, ice flows
pristine scenes, bobsled rides, downhill runs, sweet repose
wishing for frosty the snowman, love to suppose
the magic of Winter, a love song to compose.
 
There are moments we hold in heart and mind, entwined
the magic of our shadows, where the sun once shined.
 
Roller coasters, speed, toughing out a double dare
driving fast, motorcycles, wind blowing the hair
deep sea diving, merry-go-rounds, parties with flare
the magic of crowds, feeling unity seems rare.
 
There are moments we hold in heart and mind, entwined
the magic of our shadows, where the sun once shined.
 
The first kiss, romance, going out on the first date
growing friendships, finding how differences relate
falling down, picking oneself up, hearts to inflate
the magic of love, finding a great running mate.
 
There are moments we hold in heart and mind, entwined
the magic of our shadows, where the sun once shined.
 
Graduating, matriculating, tripping up
being creative, trusting, facing death closeup
showing spirit, giving love, a measuring cup
making magic, acting up, playing like a pup.
 
There are moments we hold in heart and mind, entwined
the magic of our shadows, where the sun once shined.
 
Travels, adventures, going to fantasy lands
myths, magic carpets, drifting clouds, wringing of hands
dream worlds, daydreams, love notes written in the sands
the magic of emotions, drum beats, soulful bands.
 
There are moments we hold in heart and mind, entwined
the magic of our shadows, where the sun once shined.
 
Heart throbs, hot spots, bright lights, going out on the town
sex in the city, listening to sounds of downtown
neon lights, showboating, acting dumb like a clown
the magic of heights, seeing someone of renown.
 
There are moments we hold in heart and mind, entwined
the magic of our shadows, where the sun once shined.
 
Setting off fireworks, fireflies, playing at twilight
seeing vampires, zombies, playing red light, green light
winning, losing, making love, moments of delight
the magic of life, outer space, stars, out of sight.
 
There are moments we hold in heart and mind, entwined
the magic of our shadows, where the sun once shined.
 
Reaching the top of a mountain, then looking down
the heady feelings we get, the heart wears a crown
finding love when we least expect, though just a noun
the magic of that moment, in which we would drown.
 
There are moments we hold in heart and mind, entwined
the magic of our shadows, where the sun once shined.
 
Beach girls in bikinis, musclemen on the prowl
high tides, low brows, dancing, letting out a wild howl
tanning in the sunlight, going home a night owl
the magic of sunshine, sailing on an old scowl.
 
There are moments we hold in heart and mind, entwined
the magic of our shadows, where the sun once shined.
 
Taking a gamble, reckless, doubling down on life
living for love, hunkering down, playing a fife
giving, taking, finding magic of the soul rife
moments to remember, the shadows within strife.
 
There are moments we hold in heart and mind, entwined
the magic of our shadows, where the sun once shined.
 
Finding the beauty of nature in living wild
finding love for self, the soul of the inner child
entranced with mysticism evermore beguiled
the magic moments to be evermore compiled.
 
There are moments we hold in heart and mind, entwined
the magic of our shadows, where the sun once shined.
 

Ice Cream for Breakfast
 
By Lucinda Berry Hill


Ice Cream for breakfast?
Hip hip hooray!
What a beautiful way
To start off the day.
Ice cream for breakfast?
Whipped cream and a cherry?
What could be better
To make a heart merry?
Ice cream for breakfast?
I'm oh, so excited.
My thrill and my joy
I can't seem to hide it.
Ice cream for breakfast?
With sprinkles on top,
Laughter and giggles 
And a love that won't stop?
Ice cream for breakfast?
Oh, just imagine it;
All of that sugar 
Not a soul getting sick.
Ice cream for breakfast?
Which would be better
A plate of nutrition
Or a bowl full of pleasure?
Ice cream for breakfast?
With syrup and nuts.
The only thing better
Is having God's love.
 
Lucinda Berry Hill Author of Coffee with 
Jesus and A Second Cup with Jesus.©
 
 
 https://www.facebook.com/#!/pages/Coffee-with-Jesus/355060321207311

http://lucindaspoetry.webs.com/index.htm

SONNET 116

By William Shakespeare




Let me not to the marriage of true minds
Admit impediments. Love is not love
Which alters when it alteration finds,
Or bends with the remover to remove:
O no; it is an ever-fixed mark,
That looks on tempests, and is never shaken;
It is the star to every wandering bark,
Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken.
Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks
Within his bending sickle's compass come;
Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,
But bears it out even to the edge of doom.
   If this be error and upon me proved,
   I never writ, nor no man ever loved.

The Music Scene


By Patrick Bryant Michael

 



The lights go down low as a wild band comes onto stage

lights flashing as girls eyes gaze, watching the latest rage
the first sounds bring intensity to hearts, listening engaged
the dance floor is packed as energies and waves become enraged
the tap is flowing, the music bends, blares into every ear
girls begin to keep beat, shaking their booty, guys hoot and cheer
the floor bouncing, walls resounding and absorbing every sound
if walls could talk an even wilder, risque scene would be found.

Remnants of our carnival
 
By David Thorpe
 

 
When leaves on the trees

find their slumber,

I search for your smile

in the awakening stars,

disguised as star dust


Your tears fall into my heart 

washing away the ashes

of smouldering sheets

remnants of our carnival,

where cries of lovers

are imprisoned

Chords of Love


By Patrick Bryant Michael

 


Guitar players reaching for each chord
soft sounds
hoe downs
fiddlers on rooftops feeding the hoard
majors
minors
harmony seeking love to be scored
plinking
plunking
hearing beats resound, eardrums seem gored
heart strings
soft pings
thoughts of gossamer wings to old sward
big bands
jazz stands
streaming the blues when feeling ignored
bass clef
tone deaf
feeling music in different accord
E sharp
deft harp
angels and devils seek love's reward
B flat
high hat
pitches reaching for love as implored
mixing
matching
chords of love, hearts and souls are explored
streaming
scheming
dreams brought to life through what is adored
hearing
feeling
wanting romance for hearts to record
new sounds
hard grounds
finding a sound path to reach toward
new chords
old swords
love should never need to be restored.
 
(c) February 22, 2011 by PBM

Why? Because She Dreams!
 
By Ed Michalski
 
 
He touches her behind her eyes
as she lays sleeping,
brushing her body with his wings.
Like Icarus trying to touch the Sun.
He comes in different shapes,
each with different stories
and each speaking different languages
she remembers from old lives.
She keeps his visits in her logs
that she turns into poetry.
She remembers him when she wakens,
his scent is in her room,
she can feel his touch on her skin.
He leaves notes for her
that he slides under the door
of her life...
She feels the warmth on the
other side of her bed
where he laid down and explored her...
and saw her as a poet, a mother, a daughter
a frantic lover, a beautiful woman.
Something is lacking though
and she hopes it his him...
On each visit he leaves bits and pieces
of his armor on her floor.
He has written poems to her on each piece.
She picks them up like treasures
as she quivers with memories
of the dreams.
She wonders what his real skin would feel like.
She wonders what he would taste like.
He wanders back to his castle.
He takes off what is left of his armor.
It has the scent of her on it.
He takes his wings off and hangs them
near his empty bed.
close enough where he can reach them
when he dreams again.
She slips a note under the door of his life,
“What are you doing to me?”
He falls asleep, and touches her again.
He touches every part of her and asks,
“What are you doing to me?”
He leaves another piece of his armor
on her floor.
 
 

WHY PRAY?

By Lucinda Berry Hill
 

God Wants Us to Pray 
Prayer is a message 
To almighty God.
Our needs and desires
Sent from the heart.
 
There once was a time
That we were not worthy
To speak to the Lord
Our heavenly King.
 
Through the death of His Son
God made a way.
He forgave us our sins,
He must want us to pray.
 
Sometimes we don't know
Just how to speak
Or what we should ask for
In times of defeat.

So God gave His spirit
Who knows what to say.
God gave what we need
He must want us to pray.
 
Prayer is a sign
Of love and of trust;
A deep conversation
With God from above.
.
God's always near;
His ear to our lips.
He's always accessible 
Right in our midst.
 
Prayer is a message
Our hearts need to say.
God made it possible
He must want us to pray. 
 
 
Lucinda Berry Hill Author of "Coffee with Jesus"  AND  "A Second Cup with Jesus" ©

THAT'S WHY
 
 
 https://www.facebook.com/#!/pages/Coffee-with-Jesus/355060321207311

http://lucindaspoetry.webs.com/index.htm
 
 

PERSEIDS

By Ed Michalski

 
There is a belief from Ashton, a small village in the
Pink Mountains on the Island of Ferras.
It is said that the shooting stars of the Perseids meteor shower in
July and August come from the eyes of their old Gods.
Under the gazes of these gods any promises one makes to himself,
His loved ones or his God are binding in the eyes of God
And cannot be broken or misfortune will follow.
Edon Bragg was one. The minstrel son of a fisherman
From the mainland town of Langston,
His was the voice that soothed the bloody hands of the net men,
The worried brows of the fish wives, and the chill of the late season winds.
He had seen but 17 Festivals of the Sea in his life
Yet he thought himself much older.
He possessed all the songs and stories of many lifetimes.
In his heart he was a man.
Lamia was the sponge girl at Hassock’s pub.
She was six Festivals older and well worn.
She possessed neither music nor honor.
Yet Edon’s heart fell upon her
Like the sea wolves fall upon young seals.
She was his first bedding
And flamed a fire in his young loins
Though it was through his father’s coin she came.
He sought to raise her past her status
Through songs of truest love.
She lay down to sleep at night
Thinking only of his father’s coin.
On the night of  his 18th Festival
He waited for Lamia In the alley
Outside Hassock’s until
She had sponged all the dishes and tables
And unknownst to him her other lovers.
She ventured from the pub to the alley
Looking side to side to be sure
The men whose coin she lifted were not there.
Edon stepped from the shadows
And embraced her like she was his last breath
She hung back limply until she
Remembered his father’s wealth
And folded herself into him
Like water holds the fish of the sea.
Taking her by the arm he led her to the beach
Where the fisher families gathered
To see the stars fall from the sky.
And there beneath the diamond sky
He pledged his love to her,
And promised in the eyes of the old Gods
That they would marry.
She accepted his offer
With gold in her eyes
And no meaning other than coin.
Edon began to play and sing in towns
Far and near to gain wealth of his own
And his songs of Lamia drew him the favor
Of wealthy Lords and sponsors.
He returned to Langston with heavy pockets
And offers of  more.
Joyous with his dream of Lamia.
He rode into town on a splendid horse
And the stance and bearing of a man.
He reined his horse at the door of Hssock’s
He elegantly dismounted with dreams of tomorrows
With his beloved.
He rushed into Hassock’s with pride and lust
And not seeing her
He strode the stairway to her room
Three at a time to bring him closer
To his true love.
Lamina lay sleeping, breathless in her bed,
Sweat covering her thighs and hair
As he broached the door.
Minstrels have many words for despair
But none would fit the scene he saw.
His cousin Andor lay beside her
Her breast in his hand sleeping.
Coin crying loudly in Edon’s ears
As he saw it resting on her night table.
Edon drew his jeweled knife
Given to him by
The lord of Framington
For his songs of Lamia
And killed them in their sleep.
He sang a song to the falling stars
That no one will ever know
It’s echo just an offering
To the gazing of the Gods.
He turned to the window
To watch the stars fall from the sky
So much like the tears
That streaked across his face.
With an unsteady hand
And a broken heart
And a promise he could not keep
He drew the blade slowly
Across his minstrel’s voice.
Do not take Perseids lightly
Like pearls upon a string
Like a pretty thing that passes
With no meaning.
Beware of all your wishes and the promises
You make
Do not make promises
Under Perseids  tears
At least for Edon’s sake.
 

Don't Ask Why!

 
By Patrick Bryant Michael




Cotton ball like clouds drifting by

against an azure blue Fall sky
the cool in the air makes me sigh
steam from my coffee rises high
I sip and drink in humble pie
the beauty of nature is nigh
if only up there I could fly
with wings of love I sure would try
luxuriating, feeling spry
floating on the clouds, I might spy
a girl, the apple of my eye
rising up to meet me, I'd die
here I sit, though I cannot cry
heaven awaits my naked eye
words flowing, both salty and wry
all I need is love, don't ask why!

SOMETHING SO GOOD

By Ed Michalski

 
She found me wandering in my past.
Like a dog with
A broken chain
She saw me in my tattered clothes
Saw me in my broken heart
In her heart she saw me
In my finest leather.
She took me to her cabin
And washed the blisters on my feet
With water she said
Came from Atlantis.
She soothed my soul
In a potion only she knew how to make.
She found the spot
Where I hid all my disguises
And burned them under a full moon
On the first day the swamp peepers sang in Spring
She washed my boyhood scars
With the sweat of her own body
And dried them with towels
From Tibet or woven from her own dreams
Knowing they could only be used once.
She turned the porch light off
That she always left on for strangers
So the devil wouldn’t find me.
She used to hum silent, ancient songs
In the night
When the thrashing about nightmares
Came to me.

She had a stove in her cabin
She built with stones she gathered
From Camelot’s castle.
She made tea every morning
Out of lilac blossoms and mint.
That took all your pain away.
She played a guitar softly
Never touching the strings
But the most important part was
That she made me laugh.
At myself and how small
Everything really was.
On the third day I took a walk
Away from the cabin
In new clothes she made me
Out of leather and spider webs.
I paid attention to the path
So I wouldn’t lose my way.
I was in love then.
When I returned,
Carefully following my footsteps,
The cabin was gone.
Never walk away from something so good.

The Why's Of You

By Venice Rich



Just can't get out of my mind
You're invading the silent
And dark crevasses
Of my soul waking up flames...
That laid dormant,
Whenever I think of the why's
Of your existence in my feeble heart

Why did you have to come
And forced open the floodgates
Of passions I tamed hidden for years
Why did you come and let me fly
With you in heaven
And then leave me roasting
In the hell of uncertaintess
Oh why?

It was a charade
A harmless testing of mental strength...
It was fun sometimes to see you
squirm in defeat during
Our verval skirmishing of thoughts
Then later no longer the happy
Mental journeys to our minds
But let you explore and invade
The core of my being...
I let you love me
Not knowing
I give you my heart too...

My God!
How every pore in my skin
Absorbed you
How every fiber become alive
Like molten lava
At your gentle touch
Oh how I love your whispering sigh
At the questing of my lips
As I touched you back
My God! This is a volcanic
Heaven on earth
And I admit I love you so...

And then... and then
You became a fever
An addiction
That robs me off my self will
Oh, I hated this feeling of weakness
I hated this feeling of being
not in control
Enough! I said!
But why?

Why do I have to think of you often
It rendered me helpless and I am
Becoming a shadow of my former
Vivacious self
I love you but found out
You did not love me enough
To match the fervor and passion
I tamed knowing how wild
And uncontrollable
It is if released

And I let you still love me
In your terms not mine
And I hated it
And loved it
And hate it and love it...
Why? That's why!

By RmvR 260116
Copyright reserved 2016

The Transvestite
 
By Karen King
 
 
 
You tried the pink, lacy dress on as you looked in the mirror,


admiring its pink folds and shining beauty.


You put on your matching gemstone necklace and high heeled shoes feeling,


for once, like you belonged; An attractive lady, sociably acceptable to us.
 
Except, this was just your imagination. You were really a man,


but you didn’t feel like a man and you didn’t act like a man.


You didn’t even know what it was to be a man.


You behaviour and speech just didn’t fit in and you belonged nowhere,


except at home in your room where you could transport yourself, electronically,


to other worlds where you were at peace.


No sidelong glances, no longer the outsider.


In the world of the imagination other souls, like you,


met and easily chatted and had fun.


No judgements were made and no questions asked.
 
 
 
“Poems for Humanity; Looking from the Side Lines”
Karen King  Copyright 2015

BY THE RIVER

By Ed Michalski

 
As he sat by the bank of the river
A group of children
Observed him from a distance.
“He looks lonely ,” one said.
“Nah, he’s just thinking’” added another.
“I think he’s crying,” said the youngest
A small girl with eyes that were older.
“ My Dad says he never says hello to anybody”
“ I think it’s because he’s said goodbye to too many
People he loved,” adds the girl.
“ That’s why he’s crying.
I think that’s where the river comes from.”
The man by the river
Knew they were watching him.
He learned as a child to be aware of everyone.
He envied their youth
He never had.
He always came to this river in his dreams.
They represented the child he never
Was allowed to be.
He always came to the river
To make his tears
Seem smaller.
More so lately.
To watch his memories go by.
He thought his life
Should have been better.
He would sit there and wait
For that one memory to float by
That would explain how he ended up here.
Sometimes he watches women he loved
Picking up driftwood on the banks
That looks like memories he left behind.
Sometime he sees friends
From his past
Drowning in the current.
Sometimes the girl sings to him from far off
And makes him cry harder
Or makes him dance with joy.
Usually she makes him think
Of a life that could have been.
Before he left her mother
Looking for driftwood.
She is his daughter
And she sees who he really is.
Thank you.
He sits in his house
With his beer and an emptiness
That’s almost too big
For this world.
Sometimes it takes up
So much space
That he fights for
The next breath.
The young girl watches him
And always wonders
If he’s all right.
It’s so hard to know
Because sometimes the sounds he makes
Sounds like screaming
And other times they sound
Like a man laughing at
The absurdity of life.
Sometimes when she is as alone
As he seems to be
She sings him to sleep from far away
So he can sit by his river.
And she can sit a ways downstream
And look at her own memories.
They each have their own midnights.
There was a time when she would
Have pushed him into the river
With his broken friends.
And the driftwood women would have cheered.
That was before she learned
That today was painful
And tomorrow wasn’t all that friendly.
And that we are who we are.
Sometimes people just spend
Too much time in a wasteland.
And sometimes they come to the river
To be free.
He sits in his house
She sits up on stage
Both wondering why
There are more questions than answers.
They watch the river
For the memory to go by
Where they trusted everyone.
Some day the man will realize that
The more time he spends
By the river
The wetter his wings get
Until he can never fly again.
The girl already hears that
In the songs she sings.
 

The Prostitute
 
By Karen King
 
 
 
Hunched up and hopeful front of the shops,


the cold travelling up your short, suede skirt


and down your lengthy, smooth, black boots,


finding gaps of bare flesh between your clothes.
 
 
 
Trade was quiet that night!
 
 
 
Light flakes of snow silently fell, settling in your hair,


your temperature was dropping drastically.


Your legs turned white, then started going blue.


The streets became quieter. Few passers-by.
 
 
 
Trade was quiet that night!
 
 
 
You felt weak, tired and shaky.


 
 
When would a flash car slow down and stop?


You looked at your watch, now past midnight.


No client, no fix!
 
 
 
Trade was quiet that night!
 
 
 
You wondered how long you could last,


you could no longer feel your legs.


Would you be able to survive the night?


You were giving up hope.
 
 
 
Trade was quiet that night!
 
 
 
“Poems for Humanity; Looking from the Side Lines”
Karen King   Copyright   2015

Two Beautiful Flowers

By Venice Rich


Two beautiful flowers in my
family's garden!
I've seen them like tiny little seeds
So lovely, so sweet, so fragile
They grew amidst verdant hills
And mountains
They weathered stormy times with
Courage tinged with laughter
And joy for they are young
and vibrant and healthy
It was not easy for them being
Sandwiched between other plants
Lushed with flowers and fruits
But I knew, they received the amount
Of love and attention and care
They needed to grow strong
And delightful
Yes, it was not easy for there are
Plants that needs more attention
And nurturing than they are...

And so I missed them grow
I miss those precious time and
That was eighteen years ago!
I thought, that was only yesterday
Yes, yesterday...
Oh how times passed
And so, I never knew
what made them "tick"
Never knew what made them laugh
Or what made them cry

I was not able to count the stars
In their horizon
Or listen to the murmurs of their hearts
I never had the chance to caress
Their wounds irvtouched their scars
With soothing words
I never knew the colors of their petals
Or count the numbers of their
Sprouting leaves and glory
For I was not home to water the plants
And that was eighteen years ago!

And so I watched all of you
Growing from afar
I listened to the breeze
When it passed by
Or eavesdropped from the
Thicket and still wanting and yearning
I wish for the nearness that was
Denied of me by circumstances
But it don't matter now
It's wonderful to know that
You are independent as the birds
Free as the wind and is still
Growing strong and beautiful
Everyday of your young life!
You are the best exotic flower in our family's garden!

Happy Birthday Gracielle and Rochelle
I love both of you. My lovely twin heart!

By RmvR 160116
Copyright reserved 2016

The Rock Star
 
By Karen King
 
 
 
Crowds scream, the light shines in your eyes, darkness beyond.
 
The electric guitar screeches in your ears.
 
Your stench of sweat permeates the air as it runs down your back,
 
Soaking your t-shirt, making you shiver with cold and fear.
 
The metallic taste of fear in your mouth.
 
This was the last night of your tour, but it scared you rigid all the same.
 
The adrenalin pumping, the nervous excitement never waned.
 
It helped your performance, but left you feeling ragged after the show.
 
But you couldn’t live without this, the love of your life, rock music.
 
You would only exist, a useless empty shell, waiting to be tossed aside.
 
 
 
“Poems for Humanity; Looking from the Side Lines”
Karen King  Copyright  2015
 

A poem from Charles E.J. Moulton’s 1000-page Fantasy Trilogy
 
“The Tales of the Haunted Kingdom”
 
Available for reading under this link:
 
http://www.bookrix.de/-charlesmoulton/
 
 
 
BEDROOM ROSES

 
Jig or Gigue Estampie Real for Quill Plucked Lute
by Bantrard Silvermoon in the key of C-Major

 
In the chambers of a nuptial abode
There stood some bedroom roses,
Red as cherries
Or boysenberries
Or red as two virginal maid’s noses.
 
In these chambers a girl she lived
A maid of two-and twenty,
She lived a dream,
So it would seem,
With a man of assets a-plenty.
 
In these chambers a girl she lived,
Courted by not only her true love,
Whilst her man was away,
O horrid hooray,
She found each bright day a new love.
 
In these chambers the roses of magic,
That had blossomed for years, so tragic,
They faded away,
Until the bright day
When someone restored their magic.
 
In these chambers a wizard of grace,
Came to look at the aura of the space,
He said: “My maiden”
On the sheets you have laid him
The Fleur-de-Mal roses of disgrace.
 
In these chambers the maiden denied here,
“I have never been unfaithful inside, dear,
The room is clear
Of wickedness sheer,
On my bible, I sleep here with no fear.
 
In these chambers the wizard he knew that
The maiden was lying like a lewd cat,
Sent by her man
The wizard he ran,
And the husband he put on his high hat.
 
To these chambers he came home to find her,
In sheets with another high blinder,
The woman she cried,
Screamed and she sighed,
Ran out and the man said: Come, find her!”
 
To these chambers she never returned,
Until the day when her new castle burned,
Three years then hence,
She built a new fence,
Came back to her man, wise and learned.
 
In these chambers she swore him her new love,
And he swore her his homely and true love,
When together they merged
Floral magic it surged
“Bedroom roses bloom only when but two love.”
 

In the infinity of our souls

By David Thorpe


 
Your sorcery inebriated my senses

the evening  star,

discreet witness of our pilgrimage


to our sacred temples,

tattooed our nakedness with her caresses

 
From the foothills of Mount Etna

we soared to summits of molten lava

to bury ourselves in our steaming crater,

the aftermath of our apocalypse

 
My kisses embraced your breath to revive my libido,

a seismic wave contrived by my conspiring testosterones

set aflame without lenience your sacrificed body,

to appease your whispered desires,

 echoing through ancient legends

 
Engulfed in the heat of a volcanic eruption,

your very essence welded into mine, 


this moment of sublime subjugation,

this gift of creation,

is blessed  in the infinity of our souls

Stardust

By Venice Rich


Alone,
the soft breeze
Caressed my warm face
There's no stars to be seen
In the night sky
It is so dark and a beautiful
Balmy evening
And I feel your presence here with me
I knew exactly where you are
And I feel the stardust
Glowing in the air

I can smell the perfumed
Breeze that silently caressed my hair
I can hear the soft music
Playing a sonata of love
Oh,
There's romance in the air

My eyes is twinkling stardust
My body's warm
And swaying lightly with
The passionate sound
Of the music I played
In my stereo
On my choosen night
The music is so soft like
I want it always to be
I am so ready for love
And there you are
Silently, you joined me in my
Reverence to nature's gift
In my window tonight
I knew that touch on my neck
I knew that hot breath fanning my earlobe
I knew so well that desire
Tantalizing my inner flame
Oh, I knew so well
The adventures of your
Questing fingers moaning praises
At the gentle slopes
Of my warm body
I knew so well that gentle touch
Kneading my my whole me

So well... so arousing
My desire, your desire
And I let you wait
To claim our rewards
While the music played
A passionate sonata of love
And I knew that the crescendo
Of the music that we'll
Both compose together
While climbing
The mount of love is
As ancient
As our desire!

By RmvR 170116 Copyright 2016

 
ELEGANT
 
By Charles E.J. Moulton

 
 
Displayed on a canvas of open sea
The twain are glowing passionately at me.
Red and white surrounded by bliss,
On a stormy and voluptuous kiss.
 
They bring on a rise of testosterone
They bring on the illusion of not being alone,
I think to myself that this woman is gender
Feeling joyful and feeling tender.
 
I see on the canvas that her name is there,
Ines is what she has to share
She became what she is, but where will she be
In the everlasting life of the eternal sea?
 
Magnificent splendour, voluptuous glee,
Vociferous anguish smiling at me,
Unending desire waiting to quench
A dimple, a kiss and a park bench.

From "Venus and Adonis"

By William Shakespeare



EVEN as the sun with purple-colour'd face
Had ta'en his last leave of the weeping morn,
Rose-cheek'd Adonis tried him to the chase;
Hunting he lov'd, but love he laugh'd to scorn;
Sick-thoughted Venus makes amain unto him,
And like a bold-fac'd suitor 'gins to woo him.

'Thrice fairer than myself,' thus she began,
'The field's chief flower, sweet above compare,
Stain to all nymphs, more lovely than a man,
More white and red than doves or roses are;
Nature that made thee, with herself at strife,
Saith that the world hath ending with thy life.

'Vouchsafe, thou wonder, to alight thy steed,
And rein his proud head to the saddle-bow;
If thou wilt deign this favour, for thy meed
A thousand honey secrets shalt thou know:
Here come and sit, where never serpent hisses;
And being set, I'll smother thee with kisses:

'And yet not cloy thy lips with loath'd satiety,
But rather famish them amid their plenty,
Making them red and pale with fresh variety;
Ten kisses short as one, one long as twenty:
A summer's day will seem an hour but short,
Being wasted in such time-beguiling sport.'

With this she seizeth on his sweating palm,
The precedent of pith and livelihood,
And, trembling in her passion, calls it balm,
Earth's sovereign salve to do a goddess good:
Being so enrag'd, desire doth lend her force
Courageously to pluck him from his horse.

Over one arm the lusty courser's rein
Under her other was the tender boy,
Who blush'd and pouted in a dull disdain,
With leaden appetite, unapt to toy;
She red and hot as coals of glowing fire
He red for shame, but frosty in desire.

The studded bridle on a ragged bough
Nimbly she fastens;—O! how quick is love:--
The steed is stalled up, and even now
To tie the rider she begins to prove:
Backward she push'd him, as she would be thrust,
And govern'd him in strength, though not in lust.

So soon was she along, as he was down,
Each leaning on their elbows and their hips:
Now doth she stroke his cheek, now doth he frown,
And 'gins to chide, but soon she stops his lips;
And kissing speaks, with lustful language broken,
'If thou wilt chide, thy lips shall never open.'

He burns with bashful shame; she with her tears
Doth quench the maiden burning of his cheeks;
Then with her windy sighs and golden hairs
To fan and blow them dry again she seeks:
He saith she is immodest, blames her miss;
What follows more she murders with a kiss.

Even as an empty eagle, sharp by fast,
Tires with her beak on feathers, flesh and bone,
Shaking her wings, devouring all in haste,
Till either gorge be stuff'd or prey be gone;
Even so she kiss'd his brow, his cheek, his chin,
And where she ends she doth anew begin.

Forc'd to content, but never to obey,
Panting he lies, and breatheth in her face;
She feedeth on the steam, as on a prey,
And calls it heavenly moisture, air of grace;
Wishing her cheeks were gardens full of flowers
So they were dewd with such distilling showers.

Look! how a bird lies tangled in a net,
So fasten'd in her arms Adonis lies;
Pure shame and aw'd resistance made him fret,
Which bred more beauty in his angry eyes:
Rain added to a river that is rank
Perforce will force it overflow the bank.

     Still she entreats, and prettily entreats,
For to a pretty ear she tunes her tale;
Still is he sullen, still he lours and frets,
'Twixt crimson shame and anger ashy-pale;             
       Being red she loves him best; and being white,
Her best is better'd with a more delight.

It's A Topsy-turvy World

By Patrick Bryant Michael

 

The world has gone crazy from too much, too soon

moonlight
moonshine
too much booze, dancing around like a goon
freedom
boredom
reaching for the stars, jumping over the moon
pancakes
milkshakes
wanting more, having enough, wanting to spoon
high times
long lines
friends come and go, having no time to commune
movies
high tech
playing games, bad planning, others to impugn
smashing
clashing
with others, angry with the world, out of tune
meet ups
quickies
sexed up, fucking up, hearing nightingales croon
waking
sleeping
going to work or school, acting like a buffoon
eating
groping
for leftovers, riding a hot air balloon
lost hopes
sweet dreams
confusion reigns, like on a hot afternoon
lost jobs
hot shots
looking for a helping hand, too picayune
earthquakes
hiccups
large and small, a tsunami or a typhoon
lost shores
glaciers
melting, Mother nature finds it opportune.
 
(c) April 7, 2011 by PBM

My Vampire
 
By Karen King
 
 


 
Tell me about your dreams of lust
 
As your past turns to particles of dust.
 
Do not sit there, your armour covered in rust.
 
It is time to explore now.  It is a must.
 
 
 
Come and visit me in your dark cloak.
 
What feelings in me you invoke,
 
Remember the feelings of love in which I spoke?
 
Come and give me loving strokes…
 
 
 
We each have a broken wing,
 
But come over here and do your thing,
 
Who knows what this will bring?
 
I will be your Queen and you can be King.
 
 
 
Would you take my blood as well as my heart?
 
Come one now, let’s make a start.
 
For, at night, we do not need to part,
 
I am a crazy out-of-control cart.
 
 
 
 
 
Be careful when you take your bite,
 
For it is our first night.
 
Please pander me with delights,
 
Love me throughout the night.
 
 
 
I am here waiting for you,
 
If only you knew.
 
I am a bubbling brew.
 
Please take me now, do!
 
 
 
Karen King  Copyright  December 2015
 
 
 

HAMLET
 
By Charles E.J. Moulton

 
Hamlet broods on golden greens
His sighing eloquence upon silver screens,
Befriending ghosts and avenging guards,
Finding answers in the changing of guards.
 
Horatio is a friend and yet he’s a fish,
Laertes is too mellow for Ophelia’s wish,
Claudius is waiting for forgotten woe,
Fortinbras is the demon that won’t let go.
 
What is this play but a questioneer’s boat
A seeker unanswered on a decisive note
Hamlet is what we sometimes are,
Infinite in faculties, a reluctant star.

Senses of Love

Patrick Bryant Michael
 


Basking in the sunshine
breezes blowing through my hair
cool air on my skin
a scent of flowers in the air
a hint of pine
tall Douglas Firs in my view
thinking of some girl
some lonely guy
white clouds passing by
a night on the town
a stroll in the park
wolves howling in the wild
birds calling to their mates
ripples in the water
waterfalls dashing
waves lashing the shore
sailboats in the sunset
lying on the beach
faeries dancing
elves playing tricks
running through green meadows
warm Summer breezes
the smell of newly mown hay
a picnic with fine fare
roasting marshmallows
soul food
a glass of wine
champagne for a toast
lazing about
musings of an affair
snow coming down
ice skating
snow boarding
things that go boom in the night
ghost like sparkles in the starlight
ice angels
snowball fights
a song in my heart
music for the soul
love notes
role playing
devil may care
holding hands in the dark
feeling a spark
a peck on the cheek
making love as we dare
looking for thrills
fishing on the shoals
finding a pal
laughing together
enjoying a beer
candy kisses
a taffy pull
getting down and dirty
wallowing on the ground
splashing in mud puddles
dancing in the rain
dressing up
dressing down
playing the clown
kittens meowing
dogs chasing their tails
a lion in its lair
climbing a mountain
diving in the ocean
driving off for a vacation
fantasy fare
going to a movie
catch a falling star
kissing in the moonlight
love potions
old fashioned notions
passions that flare
horse back excursions
roller coasters
motorcycle rides
flashing lights
cops passing you by
love of the open rode
a train's clickity-clack
calling me back
a lonesome whistle
doggies on the prowl
going home
logs crackling in the fireplace
cuddling by candlelight
sitting in the twilight
firelight dancing in your eyes
a hug good night.
 
(c) September 12, 2011 by PBM

Enclosed


By Alexandra H. Rodrigues


 

Your Life can only be lived by you alone.

Friends, family, lovers come or by now are gone.
You alone decide to mourn or to have fun.
Decide to prefer the moon, the stars or the sun.
 
Even if it feels one is told what to do
The only voice you need to listen to, is you.
Many of us struggle day in, day out to please.
We expect that this action may bring us peace.
 
To be famous, adored and admired sounds so good
Yet it does not really bear for a hungry soul the fruit.
Buried deep within our pretentious shell
Is hidden the secret that only our ego knows well.
 
Even when we find somebody whom we hold dear
The one we can confide in without shame or fear,
There will always remain the reluctance to disclose
Those thoughts which to keep secret we chose.
 
So we keep busy with many a useless task.
As we hope to avoid even our self for the truth to ask.
Jan.2016

He is not an Ordinary Man
 
 By Ed Michalski

 
He is not an ordinary man.
If you look at his body you will see
the footsteps that life left on his back.
If you look down the road he has travelled
you can see the places on this Earth
he has left his own.
If you look into his eyes
you won’t know whether he is winking
or holding back tears.
If you lay your head on his chest
after making love,
you won’t know whether he is excited
or afraid.
If you hold him deep inside you,
you won’t know if he is a part of you
or you are part of him.
He is not an ordinary man.
In this world he has been a Son and a Brother,
an Uncle , a Husband, a Father and an answer
to others who had none of their own.
In his other worlds,
He has been a Minstrel. a Wizard, a Shaman,
a Slave, and a King, a homeless addict,
and many men over many years.
He has been a poet....
and if he lets you near enough to touch
the hand that writes his laments and dreams
you will either be afraid or fall in love.
 
 
 
Ed Michalski   Copyright  December 2015

Our Glass Castle

By Karen King
 
 
 
We are staying at the ice hotel, where the songs echo
 
Around glass walls of ice.  Where we are blessed,
 
As candles glimmer in love and hope,
 
Flickering on the shiny, sculpted walls.
 
 
 
Outside, all is dark in the Arctic Circle.
 
Inside, our breath encircles our sleeping bag.
 
Outside the air is well below freezing.
 
Inside, the air is getting warmer as our fires burn.
 
I see light enveloping us.  I feel encompassing love,
 
Touching my heart with love, reaching to the depths of my soul.
 
 
 
I feel like a shy princess inside our fragile, glass castle.
 
Exposed, vulnerable, lost. 
 
I’m frightened of losing myself down unknown corridors,
 
Yet I cannot turn back.  I cannot turn away.
 
It is time to press the button of our glass elevator
 
And take our unknown journey.
 
 
 
I see the crescent moon on the other side of the glass.
 
I smell the warmth of the cinnamon candles.
 
I drink my mulled wine, it’s heat burning me.
 
I feel myself slipping towards you, like an uncontrollable journey on ice.
 
All is eerily quiet, except for our breathing as
 
Your turn my face towards you and reach out, longingly.
 
 
 
Karen King   Copyright  December 2015

Nature
 
By Ed Michalski
 
 

 
I can taste you from far away,


Like I taste the wind


with my tongue.


I have looked out in the rain


and saw your name on a raindrop


and ran outside to catch it,


before it hit the ground.


I sat before a fire and all the flames


crackled your name and when it was


done screaming, I reached into its ashes


and put you name in my pocket.


The trees in the forest whispered


among themselves thinking I couldn’t


hear them talk about us.


So I plucked the leaves that had


our names on them and stole them.


When it snowed I imagined that it was a


blanket that was you and


I pulled you on top of me.


And we laughed at the trees.


We made incredible love


and when we were exhausted,


we were allowed to name the Moon and


the Sun and all the Stars.


Anything we wanted to.


Nature knows everything.
 
 
 
Ed Michalski   Copyright   December 2015

Be Nice

By Alexandra H. Rodrigues

 
I do not want to live in solitude
Yet I get offended when people are rude.
So I try to figure how best to build a bridge
Without to become known as “The Bitch”
 
To manage to be friends with everyone,
would be considered for all of us fun.
However personality does play a role
It is impossible with all to be heart and soul.
 
Jealousy is another hurdle to take
More so when “who is liked best” is at stake.
The human psyche gives no rest
Each of us wants to be the best.
 
Sit in judgment about yourself first
before into futile accusation you burst.
Keep your voice low, don’t shout out loud.
Show your face with a smile and do not pout.
 
Try to sail peacefully, on an even keel.
Ignore any trouble on the fortune wheel.
Try to give more than you do receive.
Do in mankind and true friends believe.



  

Dedication to Art

By Patrick Bryant Michael

 
 
Life is worth living beyond mere survival
creating
building
culture grows through art, music, rhythm and rhyme
demonic
ironic
thoughts may mold mature creations to rival
sanity
panicky
imaginations can become the sublime
intrinsic
sadistic
thoughts twist, molding art worthy of archival
daintily
weightily
maturing into great accomplishments in time
simplistic
holistic
ideas create beauty from the tribal
holiness
coziness
lessens passion, comfort zones are more like slime
laziness
craziness
leads to pieces of art that may be vital
mystical
mythical
legends become art, music follows, hearts climb
primitive
sensitive
feelings bloom into artistic thoughts, primal
poetic
kinetic
energies transform heart and soul, a deep sign
frenetic
magnetic
temptations lead to portraits in reprisal
deepening
strengthening
the mind, heart and soul will create what is prime!
 
(c) February 25, 2015 by PBM

Love Life more

By Alexandra H. Rodrigues

 
She missed him again and again!
Now bloody fragments ran through her pen.
Unreturned love was the cause for this blood.
It came from the vein she had just cut.
 
She had meant to leave life. It was not for her.
The one to which as black abyss she did refer.
The life that once happy and good used to be
But in which she now only rejection did see.
 
However if she followed this initial attempt
Death would destroy about what she had dreamt.
Never had she considered herself to be weak.
Rarely from others advice she would seek
 
If she decided now to give in
She would never again feel the thrill of sin.
Her lover would surely soon her forget.
Erase thought of the time that they had met.
 
The Almighty frowns when thru force we pick our grave.
When we shorten the life that to us he gave.
She would most certainly forfeit any heavenly mercy
To burn in hell for eternity her fate would be.
 
She began to wonder what would be her gain
She did not really want to cause her friend any pain.
The world would doubt that she was of sound mind
Some mental problem they would try to find.
 
Why had she not thought about all this before
The blood kept trickling as she got weak and sore.
If only once “I love you” he would have said
She would not have been exposed to all the dread.
 
She put the pen down and put on a tourniquet
Faint from blood loss she hardly made it to bed.
Next morning with the sun shining bright
She shook her head as she remembered last night
 
For a long time the scar from the open sore
Lasted as reminder that from death her mind she tore.
.She would forever continue to miss his touch.
But was suicide for her?   No, she loved life too much.

Duerer's Temptation
Oil Painting by David A. Thorpe



Duerer
 
By David Thorpe
 
 
Albrecht Dürer
Born 21.05.1471 in Nuremberg, Died 06.04.1528  in Nuremberg
Perhaps one of least known of the renaissance painters but his paintings and
self-portraits are now to be seen throughout the world.
 
 

A young and handsome German artist,
 
a man of perfection who knew too well
 
the secrets of painting with oil and water colours;
 
his works of art are proof of this
 
 
 
With his future clients did he frequent,
 
Intellectuals, humanists and wealthy merchants
 
a painter with feelings and weaknesses,
 
qualities of a man  of humanitarian essence
 
 
 
Although melancholic by nature
 
his intention always  to achieve pure beauty,
 
demonstrated with his Nemisis or The Naked Lady,
 
and the delicacy of his portrait of The Young Damsel



 
 
To Venice he went to study anatomy and perspective,
 
to be adored there by woman as a “super star”,
 
despite the  gossip in Venetian society,
 
´twas not only admiration did they to him bestow


David Thorpe Copyright©

 
 

Dark Magic


By Patrick Bryant Michael


 
Life is filled with both dark and light dimensions

fluffy
cloudy
minds weaken in wild realms of deep, dark magic
moving
wary
souls see beyond commonly held conventions
treading
dabbling
in the dark arts of ancients, throes of tragic
sleeping
waking
with nightmarish dreams, cold, dark soul reflections
poking
mixing
looking to new dimensions, the nostalgic
working
playing
with hearts and minds in unison, suspensions
reeling
pacing
oneself, reaching beyond time and space, manic
pulling
reaching
outer limits, finding magic in ports of one's pretensions
running
stopping
filling minds with wild thoughts, being ecstatic
musing
building
on the past, stretching limits, new adventures
coming
going
finding worm holes, a magic so dark, frantic
growing
sowing
wild oats, growing while having apprehensions
yielding
holding
back in the dark, seeing shadows, a panic
yearning
waiting
closing gaps between the past and inventions
laughing
crying
abra cadabra, witchcraft, the pedantic
seeing
knowing
feel a sense of the dark side, pure intentions
seeking
solving
cosmic equations, culling a dark antic
lifting
breaking
the hold of old rules, finding new exemptions
dancing

singing
enchantments building, love becoming tantric
drawing
molding
dark forces into magical deep tensions
timing
teasing
minds, hearts and souls to be deeply romantic
sensing
feeling
the inner soul, dark magic drives ascensions.
 
(c) December 25, 2014 by PBM

Pigeon pie
 
By Rob Kingston
 
 
Shock waves in the wind
The Robin is to be crowned Great Britain’s king
 
Not an Owl, not an Eagle or a Black bird
Not a Wren, a Jay, Cuckoo, warbler or Tit
Not a Starling, a Swift, Lark, Magpie or Martin
None of these will be featured to sing.
 
Not a Sparrow hawk, a Kestrel, Kite or Kingfisher
Cormorant, Coot, Curlew or Crane
A Goose, the Duck or even a Swan
None are the favourite, chosen for fame
 
For it is the Little Robin red breast they say is the best
That is to be elevated upon Great Britain’s crest
Its vibrancy in song and coat
Are two reasons as to why upon the crest it will float
 
I question the reasons, I question them all
For I see a more favoured breast to the crest be called
Mount up the pigeon upon this crest
For I see it is he who has answered this nation the best
 
From carrying messages both wide and far,
Seeing the terror and its many scars
For being there to answer to the nation in difficult times
Providing staples that get rinsed down with wine
 
A feature upon many land mark town halls
To flocking to the bird lady’s call at St Paul's
Children hand feeding in Trafalgar square
Feverishly flapping as the clangers come to bell bare
 
Featuring in films throughout time
Showing our London as a place uniquely sublime
Up and down the land
The mighty pigeon can be found
 
So to those residing in a lofty place
Please reconsider to which bird deserves this grace
If it’s on glory be
Then surely it should be the pigeon that deserves being seen
 
 
© Robert Kingston     29.12.15

 
The Catacombs of your Mind
 
By Karen King
 
 
Introduction
 
The poem below, for this “Renaissance” issue, is based on “Macbeth” by William Shakespeare as he was a Renaissance play wright .  My poem is about darkness, light and the power of love.  My write is about a woman trying to encourage her love to find the light and love again, whilst trying to get him to overcome the darkness and death of his wife.  In “Macbeth”, Lady Macbeth encourages her husband into darkness through the manipulation and darker side of love for the power of the throne.  So, the darker side of love is experienced in both writes, but I feel my write has a more positive outcome as it is trying to draw the man out of darkness rather than towards darkness.
 
 
 
You take me through the catacombs of your mind,
 
There are many tunnels to choose I find.
 
Some are of loss; some are of pain.
 
Some when you despaired, your life never the same
 
 
 
I never know which passageway you will take,
 
How much more before you break?
 
The passageways are narrow, I can hardly fit,
 
Once I’ve squeezed through, there is a fiery pit.
 
 
 
 
Sometimes, I have to crouch and crawl
 
And I wish I wasn’t so tall.
 
In the damp darkness, I long for a potion.
 
Like Alice in Wonderland.  What a notion!
 
 
 
Tales of heartbreak, tales of death,
 
Tales of your love and her last breath.
 
Tales of love, tales of despair,
 
Tales now she’s no longer physically there.
 
 
 
Continue your tales to heal your heart,
 
For you and she will never part.
 
She will always exist, your loving wife,
 
But perhaps it’s time for a different life?
 
 
 
Your words are your weapons to release the pain,
 
Rather than drinking again and again.
 
She would not want you in this state,
 
She would want your happiness before it’s too late.
 
 
 
I know beyond, there is a light,
 
Beyond the dark, it is bright.
 
The ceiling raises, the tunnels made wide,
 
Just find the strength that is inside.
 
 
 
You no longer need to be broken,
 
I hope you hear the words I have spoken.
 
You are the Stephen King of poetry,
 
I’m afraid everything’s as it’s meant to be.
 
 
 
Your words are a gift for all,
 
So it’s not the time for you to fall.
 
So, turn from the shadows and look to the light,
 
Your life no longer needs to be in blight.
 
 
 
Karen King  Copyright  December 2015

Constellation Spices


By Patrick Bryant Michael
 
 
The Milky Way floats throughout deep space
glowing
flowing
infinity goes beyond what's known
darkness
starless
worm holes are like arsenic and lace
starlight
starbright
stars one day die, become like a drone
waking
aching
constellations seem to stay in place
lightness
whiteness
ions, light particles, old times once shone
saintlike
homelike
cosmic forces, dreams to interface
gliding
guiding
the North Star leads us through the unknown
burning
churning
dangers lurk, all pathways interlace
peacetime
quicktime
moonlight, tides ebb and flo, sigh, alone
bolder
colder
watch new dimensions, black holes erase
beating
heating
Mercury, red hot, life to bemoan
fiery
feisty
Venus, acidic air, fires do race
faceless
shameless
Earth, home frame for mankind, a drop zone
prideless
priceless
Mars, Thor's Hammer, there is no disgrace
running
cunning
Jupiter, fleet feet, nothing to clone
turning
yearning
Saturn's rings soar high above, in grace
coldness
boldness
Uranus, icy gas, a step stone
deadly
steady
to Neptune, then outer worlds displace
streaking
seeking
worlds beyond, don't take out a big loan
only
lonely
Pluto, as a planet, has lost face
seeing
freeing
constellations abound, some are shown
arcane
urbane
some hide near infinity, efface
sweetness
weakness
Andromeda, the princess, oats sown
romance
advance
Aquarius, water, luck, embrace
driving
thriving
Aries, the ram, with bearing homegrown
brightly
sprightly
the Big Dipper shines as our eyes chase
searching
lurching
Boötes, the herdsman, a kite is flown
crabbing
jabbing
Cancer, the crab, a beehive cluster
snowflake
partake
Canis Major, Winter triangle
hunting
running
Canis Venatici, dogs muster
misty
frisky
Capricornus, water goats wrangle
fighting
lighting
Casseopeia, the queen, a luster
sternly
firmly
Cepheus, the King's place, a bangle
waving
craving
Cetus, sea monsters, in a bluster
reeling
feeling
Columba, the dove, love, the angle
sowing
glowing
Crux, the Southern Cross, an adjuster
swimming
brimming
Cygnus, the swan, a Summer amble
peaceful
equal
Draco, the dragon, sense the hunter
swirling
racing
Eridanus, a river, ramble
gleaming
dreaming
Gemini, the twins, Summer, fluster
muscle
hustle
Hercules, of great strength, no tangle
seething
feeding
Leo, the lion, a jaw crusher
balance
absense
Libra, scales of justice entangle
howling
scowling
Lupus, the wolf seeks with strong hunger
playing
swaying
Lyra, lyre, ring nebulae, strangle
searching
lurking
Orion, hunter, windy thruster
flying
vying
Pegasus, winged horse, a quadrangle
siezing
pleasing
Perseus, rescues damsels, luster
wiggling
rippling
Pisces, the fishes, vernal scramble
shooting
aiming
Sagittarius, archer, buster
singing
stinging
Scorpius, scorpion bites, scandal
redlight
greenlight
Taurus, the wild bull, makes loud thunder
hugging
shrugging
Ursa Major, the great bear, ample
pushing
pulling
Ursa Minor, the small bear, blunder
loving
trusting
Virgo, the maiden, lips to sample
dream worlds
dark space
quarks and colors thrive, as hearts flutter
hoping
wishing
lost worlds beyond time, spices dangle!
 
(c) July 23, 2014 by PBM
 

"Walt Whitman" (1855)


I do not know what is untried and afterward;
But I know it will in its turn prove sufficient, and cannot fail.
Each who passes is consider'd--each who stops is consider'd--
not a single one can it fail
Nor anything in the myriads of spheres--nor one of the myriads
of myriads that inhabit them...
. . . . . . . . . . . .
I open my scuttle at night and see the far-sprinked systems,
And all I see, multiplied as high as I can cipher, edge but the rim
of the farther systems.
Wider and wider they spread, expanding, always expanding,
Outward and outward, and forever outward.
My sun has his sun, and round him obediently wheels,
He joins with his partners, a group of superior circuit,
And greater sets follow, making specks of the greatest inside them.
There is no stoppage, and never can be stoppage;
If I, you, and the worlds, and all beneath or upon their surfaces,
were at this moment reduced back to a pallid float, it would not
avail in the long run;
We should surely bring up again where we now stand,
And as surely go as much farther--and then farther and farther.
A few quadrillions of eras, a few octillions of cubic leagues, do not
hazard the span, or make it impatient;
They are but parts--anything is but a part.
See ever so far, there is limitless space outside of that;
Count ever so much, there is limitless time around that.
. . . . . . . . . . . .
This day before dawn I ascended a hill, and look'd at the crowded
heaven,
And I said to my Spirit, When we become the enfolders of those
orbs, and the pleasure and knowledge of everything in them,
shall we be fill'd and satisfied then?
And my Spirit said, No, we but level that lift, to pass and continue
beyond.
. . . . . . . . . . . .
And I say to any man or woman, Let your soul stand cool and
composed before a million universes.

Alfred, Lord Tennyson

"Timbuctoo" (1829)


The Moon's white cities, and the opal width
Of her small glowing lakes, her silver heights
Unvisited with dew of vagrant cloud,
And the unsounded, undescended depth
Of her black hollows. The clear galaxy
Shorn of its hoary lustre, wonderful,
Distinct and vivid with sharp points of light,
Blaze within blaze, an unimagin'd depth
And harmony of planet-girded suns
And moon-encircled planets, wheel in wheel,
Arch'd the wan sapphire. Nay--the hum of men,
Or other things talking in unknown tongues
And notes of busy life in distant worlds
Beat like a far wave on my anxious ear.

Percy Bysshe Shelley

 "Queen Mab" (1813)


Earth's distant orb appeared
The smallest light that twinkles in the heaven;
Whilst round the chariot's way
Innumerable systems rolled,
And countless spheres diffused
An ever-varying glory.
. . . . . . . . . . . .
Below lay stretched the universe!
There, far as the remotest line
That bounds imagination's flight,
Countless and unending orbs
In mazy motion intermingled,
Yet still fulfilled immutably
Eternal Nature's law.
Above, below, around,
The circling systems formed
A wilderness of harmony;
Each with undeviating aim,
In eloquent silence, through the depths of space
Pursued its wondrous way.
. . . . . . . . . . . .
Throughout these infinite orbs of mingling light,
Of which yon earth is one, is wide diffused
A Spirit of activity and life,
That knows no term, cessation, or decay.

Confusion

B Alexandra H. Rodrigues


 
A majestic power does my mind direct.
I can feel when you think of me.
There is no question as to this fact
But to the “how come” I no answer see.
 
Are our souls meant to soar together?
Thoughtfully I fill the pen with red ink.
To write this down I use an ancient feather
While about us and eternity I think.
 
Is it demons thru which I do your picture see?
Fallen angels who my body possess?
Who only with exorcism will come to flee?
Who hate when I try the Almighty to bless.
 
Are Aliens experimenting with my heart?
 By digging relentlessly around my soul.
Searching for humans most cherished part?
Yet leave my outside complete and whole.
 
Are ex terrestrials having fun with my mind?
Planting seeds of lust, love and desire.
Which makes me to reality totally blind?
As the implants set my wants on fire.
 
Are you, the target of all those attacks
able at a clear concept to arrive?
As I look at the past months in retrospect
I recall a rather confusing, exciting life.
 
I cannot decide if I want it to be truth or play.
Let’s assume the world will come to an end,
When souls unite and in clusters stay
Would you reach out and give me your hand?
 
Will we as ex humans be chiseled into one mold?
Will we then be sent to a new planet with a new sun?
Where to undergo a new test we will be told?
I don’t want to guess anymore. I want to have fun!

Photo by Karen King



Aliens
 
By Karen King
 
 

 
Are we ignorant enough to think there is just us?
 
No other species like us?  No other inhabited planets?
 
Yes, that is what the scientists would have us believe.
 
Yes, that is what the Government would have us believe.
 
What of crop circles and UFOs?
 
Many have been found …
 
Yes, some have been hoaxes by pranksters,
 
But many seemed real and could only have appeared
 
through supernatural forces.
 
 
 
Perhaps we are learning from them and
 
We would not be here without them?
 
Maybe they have much to give and
 
Are not experimenting on us as some want us to believe?
 
I feel there are aliens and they can teach us much.
 
In another planet, another time frame.
 
Who is to say that we are real and they are the aliens?
 
Perhaps it is the other way around?
 
 
 
Karen King  Copyright November 2015

Stars

By Karen King


You are so lovely and luminous.
A guiding light, a breath-taking sight.
Your powerful presence is inspiring.
My soul fills with wonder as I gaze at you,
Wondering what secrets you hold.
You are wise, like our ancestors.
I revere you!

We are irresistibly drawn to these beautiful bright lights in the sky
as they twinkle, teasingly, at us.
Stars are amazing and are born in cloud formations, known as nebula.
They live for billions of years and are balls of hot gas.
They are made up of dust and gases such as Hydrogen,
Helium, Oxygen, Nitrogen, Neon and Carbon.
They become more stable and get bigger as they get
Older, eventually exploding.
These sparkling, spiritual, stars live
Their lives to the full, enticing and enchanting.
When they eventually explode, new gases are formed.
They spin faster and faster until they form balls,
Which become stars once again.
So, a process of re-incarnation takes place.
They have another chance to shine and grow,
Rather like us having a myriad of chances
Until we get it right.

Stars can glow up to fifteen billion years.
They are hot, bright, nuclear reactors
That produce much energy.
They are made from plasma and are held together by gravity.¬¬¬¬¬¬¬¬
Nuclear fusion reactions begin at 15,000, 000 degrees Celsius.

The largest stars have the shortest lives
As they burn hotter than the smaller stars.
Isn’t that like some of us on Earth?
Think of the singers, Elvis Presley, Marilyn Monroe, Michael Jackson.
They were all big stars, yet lived short lives.
They burnt themselves out.¬¬¬¬¬¬¬¬
The sun is a medium star, is the closest star to earth
And it is seen shaped as a ball
The smallest stars have diameters of sixteen kilometres
and are forty billion, billion kilometres away.
Most stars are seen as mere pinpricks of light
As they are so far away.
They are millions of light years away, in other galaxies.
Small pinpricks of light still burn.
This of housewives, the Mothers?
These unassuming people are not big stars,
Yet They still contribute to society.
Many pass us by, unnoticed.
We do not always think of their contribution
To society and future generations,
Yet their contribution to the world
Is valuable and wonderful.

The most familiar pattern to be seen in the sky
Is the seven stars that make up The Plough
Or The Bigger Dipper.
This pattern is part of Ursa Major or The Great Bear.
The seven stars form the rump and tail.
The rest of the bear is composed of fainter stars.
This is the third largest constellation
Out of eighty-eight constellations
To be seen in the sky.

As I gaze at you, I wonder
Where we go when we die.
Do we hover around in outer space?
Dancing with these stars of old?
Do we have many lives, like these stars?
Do we live for many years, forever expanding?
Learning our lessons, until we temporarily die?
Do we then reform, to start all over again?

So many questions encircle my mind,
Forming bright sparks, like the stars in the night.
I feel peace and love.
I feel a strong longing to be like these stars of old.
I hope that I will expand and grow,
Becoming brighter until I die, reform
And start again until all my life’s lessons
Have been learnt.
I hope I can then rise
Up to God to dance with these
Sparkling stars in the night.

Karen King Copyright 3 January 2016

Tramp in a Tent
 
By Karen King
 
 
 
The tramp now has a tent,
 
He feels as if it’s been Heaven-sent.
 
 
 
The boy saw him with his Mum after school,
 
He didn’t like to see the tramp so cool.
 
Bare branches dripped from the rain,
 
And the tramp looked rather lame.
 
The tramp sat nursing his feet on the ground
 
Next to him were clothes piled in a mound.
 
The boy told his Mum to go to Asda for food,
 
To ignore the tramp would have been so rude!
 
So they fetched him sandwiches and a cup of tea,
 
The tramp rubbed his hands delightedly.
 
 
 
They found out the tramp lost his home
 
Did not get help and was all alone.
 
The council and job centre took too long
 
To tick the right boxes, so it all went wrong.
 
He was left wondering the streets,
 
With no address, the future looked bleak!
 
 
 
 
The boy the school about his friend
 
And how he would like his body to mend.

The boy and his Mum pitched a tent,
 
In the park with no mortgage or rent.
 
Friends brought blankets and food to the tramp,
 
They even gave him a special lamp!
 
 
 
The D.J. from the local radio station,
 
Decided to wake up the nation.
 
He put an announcement on his show,
 
Telling them where they needed to go.
 
“Help this poor man in his new home,
 
Let him know he is not alone”.
 
A friend decided to invite him for a Christmas dinner.
 
A bed for the night, the tramp was on to a winner!
 
The tramp’s body started to heal.
 
As he ate his pigs in blankets in his meal,
 
He felt like them, so cosy he did feel.
 
He felt very grateful on this special day
 
And hoped the love was here to stay.
 
He realised that his heart was no longer sad
 
A miracle this was.  He was alive and glad!
 
He felt blessed to be warm and dry,
 
If you wonder what’s happening, look at the sky.
 
 
 
Last night was a full moon surrounded in love
 
A circle surrounding it with love from above.
 
Think of the people who brought food to our friend,
 
I feel positive that all our hearts will soon mend.
 
People of all religions and races opened their hearts
 
To help this spiritual soul in the park.
 
 
 
 
The tramp now has a tent,
 
He feels as if it’s been Heaven-sent.
 
 
Karen King  Copyright 25 December 2015

Persian majesty

By Rob Kingston

 
Spiritual rotations

Floating in the wind

Orbital citations
Bequeathed to minions.
 
His words are majestic
Wisdom for all to see
Cost is insignificant
His intentions were, they are all free.
 
Banished from his hometown
Poor vision in a Sultans might.
Driven out of Persia
By delinquent raiding fights.
 
Today across this Earth
His wisdom en masse resonates
Just simple words of meaning
Love and Peace, endorse before it’s too late.
 
From within the reed bed
Resonates the flute
Sweet sounds of birth
Transforming this earth
 
© Robert Kingston 3.5.15
All rights reserved

The square mountain


By Rob Kingston

 

I smile each time I visualise your dark green laminating paint
rust spots breaking your once shimmering coat
 
You were like a mountain to me,
still I challenged and sometimes conquered your peak.
 
Sat on top, I would cheer and tease the other climbers
who had fought their way up your other three faces and lost.
 
I was king atop the electricity box that stood in our road.

The Three Wise Men

By Karen King


Three wise counsellors,
Learned magi from the East,
Followed the bright star.

Karen King Copyright December 2015

 
Distance
 
By Patrick Bryant Michael

The longest distance between two points is not infinite
within
entwined
in the mind, viewpoints venture into the cosmic birthright
running
yearning
for love in ways that stretch well beyond what must seem finite
grieving
sensing
differences that churn in the mind, the distance to twilight
biting
feelings
of loneliness grab hold, the lengths we stretch minds to feel right
tipping
pushing
the scales of justice to balance life, pirates come at night
laughing
crying
over spilt milk, the distance seems getting out of hand, spite
working
playing
at being someone else, losing awareness, loss of light
touching
losing
sense of yourself, in a dreamworld, a distance running wild
dreaming
musing
lost in inner dimensions, letting yourself be beguiled
twisting
learning
of different places, with distances to be reconciled
soaring
riding
the waves of the cosmos, to dark places to be reviled
chasing
hearing
sounds of silence, distance measured through the mind of a child
chilling
lazing
about, the mind in the clouds, thoughts on making love stockpiled
reading
seeing
betwixt and between, distance that will never be compiled
mixing
molding
creative ideas, the heart and soul becoming riled
breaking
fixing
going back and forth, losing track of mileage, synergy
growing
sowing
wild oats, time and space lost in love, measure raw energy
draining
filling
up gaps with old ideas, measuring the reverie
weaving
making
sense of what does not make sense, the distance to lethargy
cruising
snoozing
in the daytime, distance to awareness and chemistry
lying
telling
tall tales, fish stories, how big is the lofty pedigree
rising
sailing
a kite in the sunlight, distance to the night, entropy
reeling
getting
sickly with the flu, distance to wellness is remedy.

(c) December 21, 2015 by PBM

Christ For All, Then and Now

By Lucinda Berry Hill


God made sure 
The wise men knew;
                       He made sure the kings were told                        
That Jesus Christ the Son of God,
Was born for all to hold.

He made sure
 The shepherds heard
The news of His great birth.
He wanted all to know Him;
All the people of  the earth.

It didn't matter 
Where they lived;
                   In mansions or a hut.                    
It didn't matter what they knew;
Intelligent or not.

Their status,
 Unimportant,
 Their race and gender too.
God made sure all were told of
The glorious, good news.

The gospel's meant
 For all to hear.
It's meant for all to share.
That none be lost when He returns
But all 
Meet Him in the air.


Lucinda Berry Hill Author of Coffee with Jesus and A Second Cup with Jesus.©

Photo of the Christmas Rose by Karen King




New Year
 
By Karen King
 
 

 
New Year.  New beginnings.  New life.  New hope.
 
Don’t look to the past.
 
Enjoy the present.
 
Look to the future.
 
Be positive.
 
Enjoy yourself.
 
Treat the New Year like a new beginning.
 
Every day is a new beginning.
 
No moments can be repeated.
 
Start the New Year afresh.
 
Treat each day like it is your last.
 
 
 
“Poems for Humanity; Looking from the Side Lines”
Karen King  Copyright 2014

Christmas Rose for the New Year
 
By Karen King
 
 
 
I know you are there in the depths of winter,
 
buried under the light covering of snow.
 
A hidden treasure, like a diamond in a treasure chest.
 
This hellebore, known commonly as the
 
Christmas or Winter rose,
 
is pure white, like the smattering of snow.
 
Unblemished and untouched.
 
Welcoming me to the New Year.
 
 
 
“Delights of Nature – Winter”
Karen King  Copyright 2014
 
 

From the Heart

By Charles E.J. Moulton

We need a world that thinks from the heart,
Trusts feelings,
Where everything is regarded from a spiritual point of view,
Where age is irrelevant,
Individuality respected,
Relationships faithful,
Children happy,
Diversity a necessity,
Not a problem.

We need a world that thinks from the heart,
Where lovemaking is respectful,
Sex is no more a sin than love itself,
Is enjoyed faithfully because we are programmed to like it,
Creating babies,
Creating bonds,
Created by God to procreate enjoyfully and faithfully,
Celebrating life.

We need a world that thinks from the heart,
That realizes we are eternal souls.
Respects life.
Respects life.
Where all religions point to the same creator.
Where the only sin is disrespect.

We need a world that thinks from the heart.
That trusts love.
And loves family.
Respects children.

Look Ahead

By Lucinda Berry Hill


Another year has passed.
Another chapter done.
A window’s closed, a door is shut
But a new year has begun.
With each passing moment
There’s a new one ahead;
Another road, another window,
Another door instead.
Today is the present,
A gift from above.
Coming down from the Father
With compassion and love.
So trust in the Lord
In every new day.
He’ll lead you.  He’ll guide you.
He’ll make your paths straight.
Take hold of this moment.
Don’t look to the past.
God has a plan for your future
With a love that will last.

Lucinda Berry Hill Author of Coffee with
Jesus and A Second Cup with Jesus.©
 https://www.facebook.com/#!/pages/Coffee-with-Jesus/355060321207311

http://lucindaspoetry.webs.com/index.htm

Alice

By Karen King


She's the shape changer,
Tasty treats and flowing tea.
A party for two.

The Mad Hatter

His feet in two worlds,
A magician of the mind.
She's under his spell.

Karen King Copyright © December 10 2015

Fabulous
 
By Charles E.J. Moulton
 
 
Two men stood next to a bus stop.
“Fabulous, this tenor.”
The older one lit his pipe
and looked to the younger one for reassurance.
The younger one smiled and shrugged,
his eyes drifting off toward the opera house behind them.
“I prefer the soprano.”
The older man lift one eyebrow.
“Oh?”
The younger man smiled.
“She is my girlfriend.”

After Life

By Alexandra H. Rodrigues
 
How can it possibly be?
That your far away presence, sets in me,
 a burning desire to be close to you, free.
 
The moment the slightest sign of you shows,
This brand new urge inside me grows
And like a tender stroke around me blows.
 
No, I cannot and want not to call it love.
To think it has to do with sex would also be bluff.
To give this sensation a name is truly tough.
 
It is a powerful need for an unbreakable bond
That utmost joy when one of the other is fond.
That ranks purer than any commonly known want.
 
It causes me a passion of heavenly bliss
A climax of elation worth to be sealed with a kiss.
There floats a promise in the air of nothing amiss.
Could this be a glimpse of what the future might hold?
About the meeting of souls that to us is told?
To question this miracle might be considered too bold.
 
Have we been purposely chosen to let others see?
How amazing and thrilling the life after will be?
Now you and me will have to first on this to agree!
 
So far you have not even told me yet
That you too the identical premonition had.
May we in unison to the trust in “happily ever after” get!

Waiting by the River
 
By Karen King
 


You’ve been waiting for me by the river,
While my other lovers wither,
Where the grasses quiver.
While you destroy your liver.

I see your bat in my dreams,
In confused circles, crashing into beams.
“Reality” is no longer what it seems.
What life now is, is not what it has been!

I hear the screeching of your owl,
As I think of it, it’s on the prowl…
Get out of the darkness - the taste is foul!
Get out from under your cowl!

Rats scurry and run for cover
As you look at your prospective lover.
In a previous life, were you another?
Have I seen you before, perhaps as a Brother?

You wake me up at an ungodly hour,
As I feel your strength and power.
It’s as if you’re from, “The Dark Tower”
And I am your blood red flower.

I feel your fingers through the atmosphere,
As you take me to another stratosphere,
Upside down, inside out when you’re near.
It’s the darkness in you I fear!

On my body, I feel the trails of your tongue.
Our erotic encounter has only just begun.
Loves have been lost and loves won.
Have you been calling for me at the top of your lungs?

On night-time travels, we ride on stallion horses,
Black as our souls as we surrender to the dark forces.
We have a choice of so many courses,
But I’m not sure what the source is.

You take me to the morgue to show me the faces,
With the power of your mind, you change their places.
Confusing the mortician as they see bodies decorated in daisies.
Morticians stride back and forth, taking many paces.

You take me to the Chapel of Rest
And show me what you like to do best.
I watch you, wondering whatever next
And decide to put you to the test.

How much do you need drink and drugs?
How about a clear head with me? No need for this fug!
No more coffee laced with run, hidden in your mug.
From under your feet, I’ve pulled the rug!

You fell into the depths of hell,
Where the devil waits to ring his bell.
How far you’ll far, I can’t tell.
You see me staring into your abyss and yell.

I see your graveyard, where the zombies lie in wait.
Some souls have passed, surrendering to fate.
Werewolves prowl, full of hate.
The Grim Reaper is awaiting your death date!

Karen King Copyright 8 December 2015

What of the children

By Rob Kingston


They knew nothing of the politics of flight, merely watched the birds that soared in the sky.
They knew nothing of the world around them and how it would ignite, when sitting watching sparks rise up like fire flies in the halve by night. 
They knew nothing of what spooked their parent’s sight, no understanding of the fear that glowed bright in their eyes.
They knew nothing of why their calm mother from polite and encouraging became anxious holding them tight.
They knew nothing of why father stood watching from the window each night, simply thinking he was watching dreams drift by in the moon light. 
They know nothing of why they are walking for days, pushed shoved and spat upon by a world given to not caring. 
They know nothing of the politicians that sit on their hands, whilst they grow blown bellies and sleep in no go zones. 
Perhaps they will know in time, should the death bell not ring for them this day!


(c) Robert Kingston 20.9.15

No hope in our hell!

By Rob Kingston

 
Facial lines paint pictures on the road side of their hell. 
From the first day they bleed as the key is turned for the final time.
Not dressed for the journey, each step harder than the one before. 
Each sunset sees the reaper, his call, the devils smarting roar. 
Every new day like no other they will have experienced,
Each new dawn the mist of many spirits aloft,
 those remaining, feeling that no one cares. 

Aspirations gone, Dignity lost, food,
water and shelter harder to get,
the queue lengthens
the questions get louder
 the queue lengthens the questions
get LOUDER and LOUDER and LOUDER and LOUDER.

Fences are being erected,
borders closed,
armies lined ready to stall the growing flow,
the title of human, lost !
Hidden in a politicians pack.


The questions get louder.
 
(c) Robert Kingston 19.9.15

Be You


By Alexandra H. Rodrigues

 


We talk and we talk and what do we say

“How are you” or “Have a good day.”
Nothing but truly hollow words
is what in that case to me occurs.
 
For politics or small talk that holds true
same as for relationships or what is new.
Most of the information we are usually fed
changes its core every minute I bet.
 
Communication has become a game.
So much value is lost, it is a shame.
In old times a few honest words were enough
to conquer a lifestyle that was quite rough.
 
“Love” already when spoken might be obsolete.
Was only uttered to absorb a need.
A whole stream of empty, useless words
is often so dumb it nearly hurts.
 
Only in poetry hidden messages should be allowed
but society wants with words to hypnotize the crowd.
Our demeanor can more often relay the truth
We would be better if gestures we choose.
 
Touch, hug, expose yourself and your thought,
feel free to let yourself in actions be caught.
No empty words, just be true,
I need to know who is really you!
 
 

Thoughts

By Patrick Bryant Michael


The mind is strange in expression of how we feel
worry
challenges
take our minds by surprise, we think with too much zeal
reeling
convulsing
over conversations keep us off guard, big deal
fuming
engaging
in wild debates, unsettling, making the mind reel
leaning
confusing
what is said, saying the wrong things, being off keel
bouncing
refusing
to see the light, living life, striving to appeal
rubbing
resisting
love in devilish ways, growing hate to conceal
thinking
rethinking
not seeing your own errors, the wrong done to seal
waking
revealing
insights come to mind from dreams during rem sleep time
learning
delighting
in new dimensions, growing with love in your prime
seeing
believing
what you see and hear, as in a nursery rhyme
rushing
begrudging
what happens as you fall down, your hands in the grime
laughing
fulfilling
part of your goals, in a delightful paradigm
surfing
securing
your future with goals that seem to make sense, hearts climb
missing
relying
on old information, updating to sublime
grafting
collating
new ideas, cleaning up any sticky slime
bashing
unlocking
ideas that make sense, hoping for line of sight
giving
restocking
the mind with old ideas, yearning to be right
risking
recalling
mistakes of others, bringing them up as their plight
mixing
mistaking
evil for good, the devil is in the delight
loving
forsaking
good for bad, churning stomachs have a brutal bite
trying
discerning
what is believable, coming up short daylight
grasping
releasing
facts to show nature's way is never so polite
grieving
receiving
a rap on the head for dark thoughts, brings a twilight.

(c) December 19, 2015 by PBM

Bountiful Balloons

By Karen King

Some drift over in the morning,
One, two, three,
Their bright colours
Beaming at me.

Some drift over in the afternoon,
Four, five, six,
Red, orange, yellow, green, blue, red,
A most colourful mix!

Some more drift over in the evening,
Seven, eight, nine,
Their different shapes and colours,
Leave me feeling so fine.

Some drift together,
And then some more join the fun,
Let’s all be like these balloons
And come together as one!

Karen King Copyright 23 December 2015

The Little Tree

By Alexandra H. Rodrigues


The little blue spruce spread its twigs.
To be noticed it tried many tricks.
With hatchets workers chopped down all
Of the evergreens that had grown tall.
They took away all the towering trees.
Ignored the little one that hardly
Reached above their knees.
 
To decorate houses and halls for X-mas
The trees were meant.
All over different cities they were sent.
Proudly, with their needles raised,
The wind their “good-bye” to the blue spruce traced.
 
The grounds yawned where the trees had been.
Only the unwanted little spruce was seen.
Snow soon after began to fall
The little tree dreamt of being strong and tall.
He knew that the trees that had left him
Would shine and twinkle when the day got dim.
 
On the day before X-mas a father and son
For a walk in the snow covered woods had gone.
“Father, oh father, come and see.
Here is a beautiful little X-mas tree!”
The child exclaimed and stroked the tree.
“This is just the right size for me!”
 
With a shovel, the two cut carefully loose
The frosty earth around the spruce.
They took it to their modest home.
To be honored and cherished it had come.
 
The holidays over, soon one could see
In front of the houses many a dried out tree.
The spruce however was given a special spot
On its owner’s well cared for garden lot.
Each year while the boy and the spruce did grow,
A star was attached and glowed thru the snow.

Solitude and Transformation

By Charles E.J. Moulton


Railway stations at night are like forgotten highways, ghostlands,
abandoned nightly spirits soaring the wasteland.
And yet again, my frame finds itself waiting for the train, my stomach as abandoned as that highway.
The lights flicker.
The clock ticks.
My limbs ache.
Food awaits me.
Memories linger.
Rehearsals again crisscross my brainstem.
A Nordic Jazz Evening with Tales and Myths awaits me upon the morrow.
I am cold.
My heart is warm.
The railway station is empty.
My soul is populated.
Love is my strength.
My family is my source of inspiration.
And so I find myself happy,
working a lot,
singing a lot,
writing a lot,
talking a lot,
teaching a lot,
rehearsing a lot,
travelling a lot,
jabbering a lot.
But at home there's a duck waiting to be prepared for the oven.
A daughter is waiting to be hugged.
A wife is waiting to be embraced.
Stories are waiting to be told,
Poems are waiting to be read.
Songs are waiting to be sung.
Hearts are waiting to be inspired.
They tell me so with their gazes.
They smile at me and call me sweetheart.
Christmas time is here.
And my heart warms up to the sounds of a laughing family
and the lights of the Christmas tree that only mirror that light that shines in my soul
that shone in my heart in the middle of that lonely railway station.

The View From the Inn
By Lucinda Berry Hill


The sheep they kept the Baby warm,
The Kings they brought rich gifts,
The inn keeper lent his stable out,
And so goes on the list.

An angel had a job to do;
To deliver a good message,
Other angels praised the Lord,
The star it led the shepherds.

And I, I had no job to do.
I had no gifts to bring.
But I  received a gift that night,
The birth of Christ my King.

A light was shining round the Babe.
A brighter light there's none.
I watched it all, from the inn
And knew He was God's Son. 

Hallelujah, Christ is born.
Hallelujah, Let us sing.
Hallelujah, Immanuel.
He is with us, Christ the King!


Lucinda Berry Hill Author of Coffee with Jesus and A Second Cup with Jesus.©

 https://www.facebook.com/#!/pages/Coffee-with-Jesus/355060321207311

http://lucindaspoetry.webs.com/index.htm
 
Ask me about fundraising ideas!

Spirit

By Charles E.J. Moulton


I will admit it.
The waiting, the disorganization,
it all turned my professional evening
at the opera rehearsal
into
a
nightmare.
But
I
counted
my
blessings.
And here I sit,
loved, rich, full, successful, watching
Star Trek of all things.
Of all things.
It concerns all things.
Happy.
Proud.
There
is
a
spirit
here.
It is called joy.
I AM blessed.
Wow.
Blessed.
What d'ya know?
Everything.
Nothing.
Something.
Anything.
God is here.
That is for sure.

Soulmates
By Alexandra H. Rodrigues
 
I close my eyes and there they are
Faces of people once friends near and far.
No longer on earth they nowadays walk
Yet in a voiceless whisper to me they talk.
 
Never do they come one by one to my side.
But as faces around my head they heed my invite.
Souls they are now with faces on loan
For a short while excused from the father’s throne.
 
They must have heard my searching cries
When my brain did stumble between truth and lies.
What is in store when life does run out.
Human answers leave room for doubt.
 
The faces fuse deep wisdom into my soul
I feel the answer and it makes me whole.
Their vision alone gives me inner peace
Which grants a soul-felt, true release.

Trust

By Charles E.J. Moulton


We work on frustrating situations
by turning them into insight.
We make love to the sky by loving the ocean.
We embrace life by letting go of worry.

A Christmas Carol
By George Wither


So now is come our joyful’st feast,
Let every man be jolly.
Each room with ivy leaves is drest,
And every post with holly.
    Though some churls at our mirth repine,
    Round your foreheads garlands twine,
    Drown sorrow in a cup of wine,
And let us all be merry.

Now all our neighbors’ chimneys smoke,
And Christmas blocks are burning;
Their ovens they with bak’d-meats choke,
And all their spits are turning.
    Without the door let sorrow lie,
    And if for cold it hap to die,
    We’ll bury ’t in a Christmas pie,
And evermore be merry.

Now every lad is wondrous trim,
And no man minds his labor;
Our lasses have provided them
A bag-pipe and a tabor.
    Young men and maids and girls and boys
    Give life to one another’s joys,
    And you anon shall by their noise
Perceive that they are merry.

Rank misers now do sparing shun,
Their hall of music soundeth,
And dogs thence with whole shoulders run,
So all things there aboundeth.
    The country folk themselves advance,
    For crowdy-mutton’s come out of France.
    And Jack shall pipe and Jill shall dance,
And all the town be merry.

Ned Swash hath fetch’d his bands from pawn,
And all his best apparel;
Brisk Nell hath bought a ruff of lawn
With droppings of the barrel;
    And those that hardly all the year
    Had bread to eat or rags to wear,
    Will have both clothes and dainty fare,
And all the day be merry.

Now poor men to the justices
With capons make their arrants,
And if they hap to fail of these
They plague them with their warrants.
    But now they feed them with good cheer,
    And what they want they take in beer,
    For Christmas comes but once a year,
And then they shall be merry.

Good farmers in the country nurse
The poor, that else were undone.
Some landlords spend their money worse,
On lust and pride at London.
    There the roisters they do play,
    Drab and dice their land away,
    Which may be ours another day;
And therefore let’s be merry.

The client now his suit forbears,
The prisoner’s heart is eased,
The debtor drinks away his cares,
And for the time is pleased.
    Though others’ purses be more fat,
    Why should we pine or grieve at that?
    Hang sorrow, care will kill a cat,
And therefore let’s be merry.

Hark how the wags abroad do call
Each other forth to rambling;
Anon you’ll see them in the hall
For nuts and apples scrambling.
    Hark how the roofs with laughters sound!
    Anon they’ll think the house goes round,
    For they the cellar’s depth have found,
And there they will be merry.

The wenches with their wassail bowls
About the streets are singing,
The boys are come to catch the owls,
The wild mare in is bringing.
    Our kitchen boy hath broke his box,
    And to the dealing of the ox
    Our honest neighbors come by flocks,
And here they will be merry.

Now kings and queens poor sheepcotes have,
And mate with everybody;
The honest now may play the knave,
And wise men play at noddy.
            Some youths will now a-mumming go,
    Some others play at rowlandhoe,
    And twenty other gameboys moe,
Because they will be merry.

Then wherefore in these merry days
Should we, I pray, be duller?
No, let us sing some roundelays
To make our mirth the fuller.
    And, whilst thus inspir’d we sing,
    Let all the streets with echoes ring,
    Woods and hills and everything,
Bear witness we are merry.

Cards with Personality
 
By Alexandra H. Rodrigues
 
An envelope that held a pressed pansy
Surely managed to capture my fancy.
A friend from a long ago time
Still remembered this hobby of mine.
 
Often it is only at the end of the year
That from my lifetime friends I hear.
Our paths in life have gone a different way
But once each year in contact we stay.
 
In some cases came the year when it was too late
As they disappeared through the Pearly Gate.
New people will slowly take their place
But never will I forget their face.
 
Last season I did get 41 cards
From those who let me touch their hearts.
Knowing some for 50 years, it is hard to measure
How their remembering did give me pleasure.
 
I reminisce about the lives those friends of mine lead
While we all belong to a predestined breed.
All those people are still close to me
In my mind the incidents that brought us together.
 
Although handwriting may fall further out of style
Please my friends; let’s keep it up for a while.
I promise to continue to put my personal touch
Into the notes to you my friends who I like so much.

Reloading my Batteries

By Charles E.J. Moulton


Frustrating opera rehearsals.
They inspire a midnight snack.
And so I sit here with spicy meat, bread and beer,
watching Star Trek: Voyager,
the episode where the crew meets Amelia Earhart.
It all comes together.
Theatre. Opera. Reincarnation. Depth.
My daughter comes down drinking water.
I counted 55 positive things in my current life.
My God, in spite of frustrating rehearsals, I damn lucky.
Publisher, author, baritone, actor, teacher, speaker, painter,
husband, father, friend of poets, lover of art.
Reloading my Batteries with a Big B.
Cool.

Saint Nicholas
 
By Karen King
 
 
 
You feel old and tired.  How many years have you been doing this job?
 
It is not always easy. 
 
His beard, hair and moustache are white.  His clothes no longer green, now red.
 
His elves are good with the wrapping, his reindeer are great at the delivery.
 
And he does his best with the choosing.
 
“But”, he thought to himself, “Things aren’t what they used to be”.
 
 
 
He has been through his letters from the children.
 
They used to be delivered by air mail,
 
through the fireplace, up the chimney, through the clouds,
 
many miles until they arrived at the North Pole.
 
Nowadays, of course, things are different,
 
many letters arrive by the Royal Mail to his post box outside his door. 
 
Some even by e-mail!
 
He has to keep up with the times!
 
 
 
He and his elves went through his list to make sure that all the girls and boys
 
had their presents in the hessian sacks, ready to be delivered.
 
Satisfied, he looked out into the snowy darkness.
 
It was a shame.  A shame to leave his wonderfully warm, log cabin,
 
with it’s roasting fire and yet more chestnuts ready to eat …
 
His back was already aching and his breath short at times,
 
but he must carry on this age-old tradition,
 
for the young children still knew the truth.
 
They knew he was real.  They knew he was magical and special.
 
 
 
“Sir Christmas”, “Old Winter” or “Old Father Christmas”,
 
used to feast with families by knocking on the doors of the houses on
 
The Winter Solstice or Yule. 
 
There were no gifts for the children delivered via the chimney.
 
It had changed so much over the years,
 
“Saint Nicholas” could hardly comprehend.
 
 
 
Many years ago, he wanted to give money to the poor and felt so shy,
 
one day he delivered money in a purse down the chimney,
 
by climbing the roof of a house.
 
This landed in a little girl’s stocking which was drying by the fire.
 
Since then, it was decided by the people of the land that
 
Father Christmas delivered presents down the chimney
 
and this was how this had come about. 
 
He enjoyed it, but it was hard work!
 
 
 
His reindeer were waiting, patiently, outside.
 
He piled all the presents on the sleigh and
 
climbed, gingerly, into his seat, already plumped
 
up with cushions by his elves.
 
Father Christmas held on tightly,
 
For he could tell his favourite red-nosed reindeer, Rudolph,
 
was desperate to dance across the skies.
 
It was nearly midnight, he didn’t have long.
 
He ordered his reindeer to move faster.
 
He felt so cold, his beard had icicles dangling from it.
 
This was a first!
 
He wondered how many more years he could continue with his career. 
 
Perhaps he should train someone else?
 
 
 
His reindeer stopped abruptly and he clambered off his sleigh,
 
ready to find the entrance to his first house,
 
for it was not always easy these days,
 
so few houses had chimneys, sometimes he had to enter by the back door,
 
hoping no one would see him!
 
He knew it was going to be a long night, but it would be worthwhile.
 
All the children would be so delighted with
 
their presents on Christmas Day.
 
He loved his job and would continue with it
 
as long as he could for he does enjoy a
 
Merry Christmas and wishes you a
 
Happy New Year!
 
 
 
Karen King  Copyright November 2015

Human Trust

By Charles E.J. Moulton


Through the looking glass of wine, glass and film,
I look back at a former life through the eyes of Martin Scorcese,
I ask questions,
I lose poems,
I remember,
I am frustrated,
Only to rehearse for a concert and feel good again.
Liszt Liebestraum plays.
I remember Liszt.
He kissed me on the cheek back when I was a woman in my former life.
Now, I am a father, a proud husband.
I love.
That is the main thing.
C'est ci bon.
More than anything.
Put cream in your coffee.
Love.
In every life.

Christmas Tree
 
By Karen King
 
 
 
The tree is green and empty, waiting to be adorned

with splashes of colour.
 
The strong scent of Norwegian spruce permeates the air;

The earthy smells of Christmas.

Baubles and tinsel are gradually hung on hopeful branches.

The tree starts to shine. Expectantly!

Christmas lights twinkle around the tree.

Rays of golden light shimmer, sparkling in the air.

An iridescent star stands proudly on top;

A finishing touch of beauty for Christmas.
 
 
 
Karen King  Copyright November 2015
 
 

Christmas Day
 
By Karen King
 
 
 
Christmas Day is here, a special day, to be enjoyed by all.

The house is decorated with mistletoe and holly.


Red berries shine, in celebration!


Far away, church bells ring, inviting all in remembrance.


The Christmas lunch is put in the oven.


The table is laid. Ready.


The inviting aroma of roast dinner wafts, temptingly, around the family.


They enjoy mulled wine, savouring it's spiciness.


They nibble on nuts and chocolate.


Soon, lunch is served and tucked into merrily.


Turkey, followed by steamy Christmas pudding.


The smell of gunpowder as crackers are pulled,


stupid jokes are told, silly hats worn.


Party poppers are pulled, explosions all over the table.


The grand finale of the luncheon celebrations!
 
 
 
Karen King  Copyright November 2015

Freedom

By Lucinda Berry Hill


Are you hampered by your faults,
Restricted by your debt?
Let Jesus take it all from you.
Let Him leave you no regret.

Are you controlled by your past,
Held down by your sin?
Let Jesus pick it up for you
And give you peace within.
Does guilt have you burdened?
Are you shackled by your shame?
Give it all to Jesus now
And He will break the chains.

For Jesus is the way of life.
Jesus is the key.
Jesus is the truth in flesh.
The truth will set you free.


Lucinda Berry Hill Author of Coffee with Jesus and A Second Cup with Jesus.©

 https://www.facebook.com/#!/pages/Coffee-with-Jesus/355060321207311

http://lucindaspoetry.webs.com/index.htm

Photo: Karen King


Candle in the Wind
 
By Karen King
 
 
 
We are so fragile, like a candle in the wind.
 
One minute we are here on Earth, the next minute gone.
 
There is no rhyme or reason to this.
 
Deadly diseases, long term illness, nasty accidents, fatal accidents.
 
Make the most of your time here.
 
Do not waste your time here on earth, make your mark.
 
Care for your family and friends, do what you enjoy
 
And contribute to society.
 
Find fulfilment and contentment and take your chances with life,
 
For we will never know when our candle will be snuffed out.
 
“Poems for Humanity; Looking from the Side Lines”
Karen King  Copyright 2014



Colour
 
By Karen King
 
 
 
We are all the same, black, white or brown.
 
Do not judge, do not frown
 
over someone that is different from you,
 
because you don’t know what to do!
 
 
 
We are all the same under our covers.
 
Love each other, for we are all brothers.
 
United, despite how we look.
 
Take time to stop and open the book.
 
 
 
Find out what’s inside,
 
the secrets they have chosen to hide.
 
Discover their souls, who they really are,
 
Accept our differences and you will go far.
 
 
 
“Poems for Humanity; Looking from the Side Lines”
Karen King  Copyright 2014

 


Syrian debate 
By Robert Kingston

 
My ear to the chamber, as a quiet death knell rings out
Questions on sanity, as our past actions come about 
Challenging times, a bequeath of Blair
Our parliamentary representatives. Their heads in a snare.

 
They line up on benches, each one with a view
Thoughts on scenes of anarchy, a creation that's not new
they ponder the outcome, of a new war in the Middle East
to battle a group of fundamentalists, who are more akin to beasts
 
Meanwhile in America, they are reaping what's been sown
Seeds of hatred have festered, are finding their way home
A sleeper cell in the state of California, has risen with a cowardly fight
Their quest accomplished , so many lives they did blight
 
We hear of our leaders tough words, as if they themselves are going to fight
In reality they'll watch from afar, as the whole world ignites
The rhetoric is broad, the media spread it far
This fight is not about integration, it's all about money, oil, property and a big flash car!
 
They say, we have to stop this movement, yet their ideas are from the past
This cycle of intervention , provides no confidence that lasts
Too many soldiers in body bags, too many civilians left in despair
These damn warmongering politicians, too greedy to care.
 
© Robert Kingston 4.12.15

HER BODY…

By Ajise Vincent



her body is              a brothel 

frequented by hombres          searching 

for heterogeneous  orgies,              orgasms,



                  that comes in small packs 

of warmth,               hugs 

& pushups on             sweating flesh.



but that body,            her body,

                                           is not real.

 it only appears on      the mirror



of my heart                 anytime i see

that belle that  knew               the father 

of her father             & the begat of that activity.           




CONFESSIONS OF AN ADULTERER

Ajise Vincent



forgive me father for I have erred,

through the grace of your trust,

desiring the zest of pleasure

to douse my hedonic appetite.



today, the frame of a ripen belle

tore my stiff faith,

spurring my hormonal desires

to the altitude of lust. orgasm.



massaging the smooth of her hair.

their little strands sparkling,

propelled my trouser snake

to wax in a powerful rage.



instantly she soared in solitude,

battling me in conscience, ashamed.

alas! eterne brim stones of hades calling.



i’m a sinner in deeds indeed.

filthy. smutty. yeah! a casanova.

i am dead to what is right.

forgive, hell I don’t want to tread.

i ask you give me tutelage,

so i can have hegemony

over the devil sugary tempts.




PAPA’S ADVICE V

By Ajise Vincent



son, the countenance of love spans 

beyond the revolving pistons of hips.

it spans beyond the rust of mechanizations

in the testicles of eunuchs. curtail that

rod firing on all cylinders. lest you become 

an artifact in Medusa’s temple of stones





BIOGRAPHY

Ajise Vincent is a Nigerian Poet. His poem “Song of a Progeny” was a shortlisted poem at the Korea-Nigeria Poetry feast, 2015. His works have been published in London-grip magazine, Eureka, Kalahari Review, Sakonfa literary Magazine, Synchronized chaos, AfricanWriter, Indian periodical, Jalada Africa, Black boy review, Tuck Magazine, Harbinger Asylum and various literary outlets. He writes from Lagos, Nigeria.

 I shall look for you

 By Rob Kingston



I shall look for you on the other side, 
in the rose garden is where I'll reside.
For I'll have done all I can do
in bringing peace to this difficult world.
I shall look for you in the garden of Eden, where the fruits are so juicy and taste of sweet heaven,
where the women are fine, with their soft sweet smiles, their delicate skin bathed in essence of subtle perfume. 
I shall look for you in their palaces of dreams where in their pretty dresses they'll dance like queens and sit whispering sweet nothing's for all eternity.

I shall look for you in your beliefs prism and see you from afar, when your devilish deeds are done, where the air will be filled with odours of rotting flesh, singeing skin and hair, the place littered with decapitated limbs and heads, removed by the devils sons, who show no understanding of what this world demands to exist in harmony.
Your envy pointed at those that rise not knowing that greed within their home land is why they are fighting, not! Nations of peace seeking beings who understand freedom.
I shall see your scarred body and witness the white light that you desire hiding as if they feel the pain you have left behind, not wishing to associate with it.
And I shall see you when the devil is done with you, but! a charred image, in a lonely arid place wondering what instead you could have done.
Pray lord you see reason before these evil deeds have won.
(c) Robert Kingston 
30.11.15

 

 Flute    

By Rob Kingston

 
Purged, the lips that rest upon the tanned wood, Breath transversing the depths of reed beds that travel drenching nasal hair with scents of mother earth.
Fingers poised ready relaxed release reverberations revealing melancholic sounds that reach the heavens as white doves in flock’s flap feverishly rising from trees above a babbling brook to dance in skies of clear blue opulence, nothingness being gathered below and released from tips with each fold of a hundred outstretched wings, air rotating and spinning like ballerinas pirouetting into infinity with each flap.
Slowly and precisely finger tips lift and drop squeezing shared oxygen to notes on a chosen scale. Drifting, my mind is drifting, floating, moving with sea lions dolphins and whales, treading the ocean depths as disturbed water oscillates and swirls with each horizontal wave goodbye.
Time ticks motionlessly, I sigh!
Relaxed, I close my eyes as soft soulful sounds tease drums with hollowed out tunes resonating in my mind as Turtles in shoals of millions breast stroke on therms creating bubbles that rise and pop, new born and little ones flipping and tumbling in a giants wake to the musicians chosen melodic pitch.
I am at one with the creator and the created, Moving, I am moving with the music into pastures green as humming birds tease flower blooms whilst butterflies join bees hopping and dipping tongues drinking from life’s Holy Grail.
An eagle souring scouting  above giant reds in a mountains shadows floats effortlessly turning and twisting, its head moving side to side as tail and wing feathers adjust the direction of its black and white image, occasional bursts of its squawk echoes bouncing upon white topped grey faced Crag’s, circling, circling, circling its motion resonating in tune to the flute.
 
© R. Kingston 28.7.2015 (All rights reserved ) 

The Bank Manger
 
By Karen King
 
 
 
Coins, coins, coins,
 
Clink, clink, clank.
 
Shuffle, shuffle, shuffle.
 
In your picture-perfect bank.
 
 
 
Pin striped suit,
 
Black briefcase,
 
The perfect attire.
 
Money to loot …
 
 
 
Coins, coins, coins,
 
Clink, clink, clank.
 
Shuffle, shuffle, shuffle.
 
In your picture-perfect bank.
 
 
 
Leather chairs,
 
Mahogany desks,
 
A perfect disguise
 
For your perfect lair.
 
 
 
Coins, coins, coins,
 
Clink, clink, clank.
 
Shuffle, shuffle, shuffle.
 
In your picture-perfect bank.
 
 
 
Innocent victims come,
 
Opening deposit accounts,
 
Their hard-earned money
 
Which you steal for fun!
 
 
 
Coins, coins, coins,
 
Clink, clink, clank.
 
Shuffle, shuffle, shuffle.
 
In your picture-perfect bank.
 
 
 
Some withdraw cash
 
Ready for a night out,
 
While you are making,
 
The perfect stash!
 
 
 
Coins, coins, coins,
 
Clink, clink, clank.
 
Shuffle, shuffle, shuffle.
 
In your picture-perfect bank.
 
 
 
You use your charm,
 
Look them directly in the eye,
 
They are fooled by your appearance,
 
Think you won’t do them harm.
 
 
 
Coins, coins, coins,
 
Clink, clink, clank.
 
Shuffle, shuffle, shuffle.
 
In your picture-perfect bank.
 
 
 
A strong hand shake,
 
You look directly in their eyes,
 
If they knew your dealings,
 
They would certainly quake!
 
 
 
Coins, coins, coins,
 
Clink, clink, clank.
 
Shuffle, shuffle, shuffle.
 
In your picture-perfect bank.
 
 
 
Karen King  Copyright November 2015





Sweeney Todd

By Karen King
 
 
 
A gracious greeting when you open the door.
 
Unkempt hair you cannot ignore.
 
Plonk them down on the chair of doom.
 
Don’t worry, it will be over soon.
 
 
 
Scissors glinting, mischievously happy,
 
Cut clients’ hair and make it snappy.
 
For you have an ultimate aim,
 
No clients will ever be seen again.
 
 
 
Hair pristine - they are pleased indeed.
 
Get your blades out and do the deed.
 
Malevolent monsters sparkling in glee,
 
These victims never have time to flee.
 
 
 
Place a clean towel around the shoulders,
 
Now you’re feeling a bit bolder.
 
Plaster cream upon the face,
 
Soon this man will be a disgrace…
 
 
 
Start the shave and make it right,
 
For this will be his last night.
 
The customer’s pleased, eyes are gleaming,
 
Soon they will stare and he won’t be beaming.
 
 
 
Whilst he is sitting so calm,
 
Make the malevolent cut and do your harm.
 
The blood will seep through his pores
 
And drop, delicately, to the floor.
 
 
 
Gather your strength and drag your prize.
 
Another meat pie, that’s no surprise.
 
Down the chute to the fire,
 
Bodies piled higher and higher.
 
 
 
The stench burns the atmosphere.
 
Smoke day and night, air never clear.
 
When the bodies are finally ready,
 
Remove them quickly, but make it steady.
 
 
 
Get your implements to hack off the parts.
 
Pastry at the ready.  Mrs Lovett, make a start!
 
Hurriedly working, in goes the meat.
 
Has she seen a ghost?  She’s white as a sheet.
 
 
 
In the oven go the pies,
 
In your head, the dead scream their cries.
 
All night she works ready for morning,
 
New families will soon start mourning.
 
 
 
Upstairs, she goes to her pie shop,
 
Thinking of customers he gave the chop.
 
Such a good business of husband and wife,
 
It’s a shame people have to lose their lives …
 
 
 
Karen King  Copyright November 2015
 

666 – The Devil’s Services
 
By Karen King
 
 
 
Call the number for his evil work,
 
Which he will enjoy while he smirks!
 
Murder, kidnapping, mugging and thieving,
 
For which there will be much grieving.
 
 
 
Arriving in double quick time,
 
With a fag and a glass of wine,
 
For he cannot help the odd vice,
 
This old chap really aint so nice.
 
 
 
He has been sitting, waiting for your call,
 
You really are an old fool.
 
Nicotine fingers flick ash on the floor,
 
Floating through the air and out the door.
 
 
 
Red wine splatted on his book,
 
This old geezer is quite a crook.
 
Snot smeared upon his nails,
 
This old git should be in jail.
 
 
 
Upside down, turn your phone,
 
For his special services – you’re not alone,
 
For many modern people live in a fog,
 
The mind’s confused and it’s all clogged.
 
 
 
All they see is darkness and never the light,
 
There is never day, only night.
 
Trapped by the heaviness of earth,
 
By menace, misery and mirth.
 
 
 
Come, lift yourself up and you will see,
 
There is light to behold and harmony.
 
We all have a right to feel love and joy,
 
Come join me.  Land ahoy!
 
 
 
Next time, in an emergency, ring 999,
 
And, hopefully, everything will be fine.
 
Do not call the devil and act so bad,
 
Follow light and love and you will be glad.
 
 
 
Karen King  Copyright November 2015

Family Nevertheless

By Alexandra H. Rodrigues
 
They had agreed with each other to meet.
Quickly a place they found for their need.
Chosen was a luscious, green hedge,
with pink garlands of roses along the edge.
A brown bench, painted and made out of wood
Surely would their mediations nicely  suit.
It was sturdy and inviting for two.
Certainly for one of the nymphs it would do.
 
A path sprinkled with shells lead to the river
Into which waterfalls their drops let quiver.
It marked an aura of constant activity
No question for which nymph this spot would be.
 
The nymph called Love all dressed in white lace
had decided that under the rose bush was her place.
“Here her enrichment could happily grow.
In nurturing blossoms she was a pro.
Nymph Trust wore blue and a veil with jewel tips.
She sat on the brown bench, a smile on her lips.
 
The third nymph, named Lust, did fidget around.
To patience she never ever felt bound.
Her slinky body in a tight dress , red and gold
exposed a sumptuous, naked body in every fold.
 
The three looked doubtfully at each other.
They rarely felt the need with each other to bother.
By themselves neither of them felt truly save
One for one of the other would mostly crave.
We humans are welcome their powers to use.
Sadly quite often one or two we would abuse.
Today in a fluke of open- mindedness,
They had invited their relative, named Kindness.
He often was called to settle their disputes.
Kindness always stayed calm, never was rude.
 
They saw him , knew that fun it was going to be!
Today Trust, Love, Lust and Kindness will be family.
If only in our human, often confusing environment,
with all four of them together our time could be spent!

A Viennese Heart 
                  
By Baron von Teuber
             
A MEMORY by Alexandra H. Rodrigues


This is a poem that was dedicated to me during WWII.
   I translated the German version, into English.
 
        Although the person who wrote it for me has long passed on
and I never saw him again after leaving Vienna,
 he will live in my heart and thoughts forever.
 
 
As an easily molded, growing child
When politics and powers in the world went wild,
During the storm of blatant dilemma,
You fled  from Berlin to become a guest of Vienna.
 
Often harshness of war and political views
 Let your soul be touched by gruesome news.
Many a hidden tear you let flow.
It is that what made my love for you grow.
 
Then my Vienna heart, a true Vienna heart
whispered to you of a fresh, new start.
It hurt with you and shared your pain.
Felt agony for your cause again and again.
 
When Vienna you left, as Berlin got free
It begged to let me in thought follow thee
So I can always be wherever you go.
And when you need me, just let me know.
 
      (  I have long since realized the depth of his lift
      Unselfish and caring it was a powerful  gift. RIP)

When?
 
By Karen King

 
 
When will we sing from the same sheet?

When will our eyes meet in the street?

When will we sing the same song?

Then things will not be so wrong!
 
When will we see beautiful scenes?

Not just sometimes or in a dream.

When will everything we touch turn to gold?

When will wonderful events start to unfold?
 
Then we will me melodious,

Our voices will be victorious.

Then we will smell beautiful scents,

Our whole lives will be heaven sent!
 
 
 
“Love Life”  Karen King  Copyright 2015
 
 

River Thoughts

By Karen King
 
 
 
Your course, forever changing, like the course of life,
 
flowing straight on, unhindered, fast and flowing,
 
enjoying the moment and easy times.
 
Then it meanders and dwindles,
 
stones protrude above the surface,
 
the river almost comes to a stop, becoming stagnant.
 
Sometimes rocks stick up above the surface,
 
sending one off course.
 
The river, it’s inhabitants and surroundings,
 
embrace the everlasting twists and turns of life,
 
living it to it’s full.
 
We should embrace the flow of the river
 
in the ever-changing scenery of our own lives,
 
to accept the inevitable changes
 
that take us on our personal journeys.
 
 
 
“Poems for Humanity; Looking from the Side Lines”
Karen King  Copyright 2014
 
 

Poetry in Motion
 
By Karen King
 
 
 
Thoughts pass through my mind, in one side and out the other,

like clouds passing through.

Catch them, toy with them, like a cat with a bird.

Toss them, turn them over and view them from different angles.

Is there a better idea, a better view, how should the thoughts be conveyed?

In blank verse, or in a rhyme?

Short and sharp or long and wordy?

Alliterations and metaphors, should they be used?

Sometimes I start with only clues,

dipping my toes into the ocean as the poem builds.

Like the rhythm of the sea, it can toss and turn,

sending you this way and that or gently roll and bring you peace.

Either way, the poem should make you stop,

make you think as you lose moments of time

as you enter another world.

A world of peace. A world of joy. A world of pain.

For the poem is like the real world, our thoughts and feelings are echoed.

as we relate and understand them.

What is poetry but etchings of the mind?
 
 
 
“Poems for Humanity: Looking from the Side Lines”
Karen King  Copyright 2014

DON’T MIND ME
 
By Roy Dorman
 
 
Are you out of my mind?
Am I out of your mind?
If so,
are we both out of our minds?
And again,
if so,
do you mind
our collective absentmindedness;
that is,
our minds being absent from us?
 
Are we doomed to be thoughtless,
rather than thoughtful?
 
Okay, already, I’ll stop.
I was just playing with you.
I do wear the jester’s cap
with a certain flair,
Do I not?
No?  My silliness offends you?
Sigh……
I’d like to go back to my room now, please.
 
 
 
 
WELL, GOTTA GO NOW
 
By Roy Dorman
 
 
Hooked up for months
to a grouping of machines
euphemistically referred to as life support,
he wonders:
Supporting this life?
 
On one of the machines,
a garishly bright colored line
suddenly flattens,
and some other part
of that same machine
emits an insistent scream
that somebody better do something STAT!
 
A flurry of out of context vignettes
from the life he is leaving behind
pass quickly through his mind
and tell him with the same assuredness
as the machine’s screaming
that he is about to find out the answer
to the age-old question:
 
---THE END---
or:
TO BE CONTINUED…….
 
 
 
 
THREE CITIES IN EIGHT DAYS
 
By Roy Dorman
 
 
In Florence,
near the populated bridge,
Ponte Vecchio,
statues of saints
in a cathedral called the Duomo
have incredibly long toes.
Medieval foot fetish?
 
In Venice,
walking the alleyways toward
St. Mark’s Square,
we notice the cobblestones are damp
and those walking from the square
are wearing tall rubber boots.
Acqua alta:  Arriving or departing?
 
In Rome,
not three blocks from our hotel,
stands a two hundred foot section
of ancient aqueduct
seemingly oblivious
to the concept of urban renewal.
I cheer it on!

Master of My Thoughts

By Lucinda Berry Hill
 
Sometimes I have to knock on
The door of my own thoughts
And be quick to remind them that
I live life by my heart.
 
My heart, it is their master.
There, Jesus does reside.
There is no room for worry
For peace it grows inside.
 
Sometimes my thoughts upset me
So I search my heart and then
I see the reason for my life
And find my joy again.
 
There's not a place for anger,
Not for fear or shame or pride.
I live my life by my heart
Where only love abides.

Lucinda Berry Hill Author of Coffee with Jesus and A Second Cup with Jesus.©
 
 

Love Poetry
 
 
 
GANG OF ONE
 
By Vivian Belford

 
Today we fulfilled a solemn charge
Made partners to the sacred club
Sealed and signed in trinity
Now we toast to gang of one
Today we jumped to unending bliss
Framed our vows in gold so pure
Locked our lips on holy ground
Now we toast, to gang of one
 
Today we posed in black and white
Danced with glee our own new song
Forever revered as man and wife
Now we toast, to gang of one
 
Today we bared it all, no shame
Drank our cup of love so right
Fused as one till when we wane
Now we toast, to gang of one
 
 
 
HALLELUYAH
 
By Vivian Belford

 
They say love is not always fireworks, sometimes it comes slowly….Slowly will we dance to the beats of our hearts and then fast, faster as our souls, spirits and bodies fuse into one… drawing from our lips the words..... halleluyah.
 
They say love is not proud …. Proudly will we make princes and princesses that will walk this earth tall as gods for they will know their existence was not an accident of a broken rubber but the end result of love well trusted and tried.
 
They say old age is a disease but between me and you…….Like fine wine, we get better with age for as old and frail as we have become, we will still spin strongly to the rhymes of love that can never wither and move to the sounds of memories that we would have so lovingly created over the years, memories that drew from our lips the words .....halleluyah
 
They say nothing lasts forever….. Forever, you and your hood will always stand in ovation at the sight of me in all my glory for I will make you quake with the wet heat of my mouth. See I’ve taken an oath to surely make you drink to your heart’s content from that cup of satisfaction which most men only dream of and blissfully draw from your lips the words.... halleluyah
 
Parents will quiver, learning my truth…. Truthfully will I make them understand that when yin meets yang, they go the whole nine yards, nothing hidden, nothing withheld
Elders will frown at my boldness……. Boldly will I banter words with them until they approve for a child can only sleep when she has eaten that which keeps her up.
Saints will cast their doubts on my faith…… Faithfully will i pursue my quest of worship: spirit soul and body for I will make every part of you surrender in awe of every curve which
God has so pleasingly bestowed
 
Friends will grow green with envy…Jealously will I guard and quench every surge of emotion with any part of me and as a stalwart pal; I will help you reach your goals so help me God.
Soul mates we are, Lovers entwined, a life time of friendship vowed
It doesn’t matter if there is life beyond the clouds or love below the earth
We will live a life worth seven lifetimes here on God’s green planet.
We will have our foreplay of beautiful emotions and a fair play of life’s intrusion.
Happiness and sadness, strength and weakness …
Ah! We will overplay our hands with humor, drama, and a huge dose of success
And before our body bites the dust and the curtain drawn on us, forever united, true Love draws from our lips
one last time…
one last kiss…
one last touch….
One last …
 
 
 
Flowers

By Alexandra H. Rodrigues

                    
I never doubted that flowers can feel
They may even hurt when their petals we peel
“He loves me. He loves me not”
We used to confirm our love on the spot.
 
Flowers can often say more than words
They can soften tragedy and hurts.
Yet the cascades of flowers at a funeral I resent
Why kill flowers because a loved one went?
 
Fresh flowers in an elegant vase are pretty
But my pleasure to arrange them mixes with pity
In their own habitat I rather see them thrive
Kisses by butterflies or bees will add  Joy to their life.
 
Cut flowers in the vase after a few days will wilt
The pleasure they brought us will turn to guilt
Rooted in mother earth they are meant to give us joy
Flowers do have a soul,  let us some feeling deploy.
 
 
 
I Cannot Write Without You
 
By Karen King
 
 
 
I cannot write without you,
 
If only you knew.
 
Please come back,
 
Let’s follow the same track.
 
 
 
You have disappeared from view
 
And left me in a stew.
 
Can’t we just talk?
 
Please don’t walk.
 
 
 
I cannot write without you,
 
If only you knew.
 
Please come back,
 
Let’s follow the same track.
 
 
 
 
Intrigued about my country as a child,
 
Would you visit me?  Or, am I too wild?
 
Please tell me about your life,
 
As I am in two, cut by a knife.
 
 
 
I cannot write without you,
 
If only you knew.
 
Please come back,
 
Let’s follow the same track.
 
 
 
I don’t know if we can be together,
 
As we are like different weathers.
 
My moods change rapidly from hot to cold,
 
You’re my breeze to grasp and hold.
 
 
 
I cannot write without you,
 
If only you knew.
 
Please come back,
 
Let’s follow the same track.
 
 
 
Don’t leave me in this mess.
 
With you, my life is blessed.
 
You say so little and give me your thumb,
 
Open your heart, tell me, am I “The One”?
 
 
 
I cannot write without you,
 
If only you knew.
 
Please come back,
 
Let’s follow the same track.
 
 
 
“Love Life”  Karen King  Copyright November 2015
 
 
 
 
 
Possible

By Alexandra H. Rodrigues

 
For months by now I have been under your spell
And all has been going really quite well
I imagine this is the feeling of being on a drug
Hit or miss often to be a question of luck.
 
Disturbing is that this colorful charade
Has reality swallowed up as of late
I know no longer what is true and what is play
It has turned  into a fire that I want to stay.
 
It is like having a fatal and rare disease
Eats away on the nerves and gives no peace
I put myself into this predicament
It is hard to believe how far it went.
 
It must be that I am obsessed with you
The fiery sensations I feel are totally new
I want nothing more than that you enter me
Expecting our climax out of this world to be.
 
For a short while I will be yours then I set you free
If that after our fling your wish should be.
I cannot blame you for the ongoing tease
As you first seem to ignore me then put me at ease.
 
I am grateful that you even participate
It gives me a charge that is amazingly great
I know what I can have and what is obsolete
Drama like a melody with a very special beat.
 
For today I will continue to dream
The stars are perfectly aligned it does seem
In my mind I experience your erotic touch
It causes a magical sensation – I love you so much.
 
 
 
 
The Moroccan Man

By Karen King
 
 
The Moroccan man glides across the desert,
His sandals sinking into the sand, spilling onto his scorching toes.
He follows the line of curving candles towards the camp fire.
 
The Moroccan man sits down and the sand embraces him.
Like a long lost friend.
He smiles to himself as his gaze wanders wondrously
 
Towards the magnificent mountains.
They glow grandly, pink and orange, illuminating his imagination.
Ponderous, puffy clouds circle the sky, teasingly,
Occasionally peeping from behind the mountain.
 
 
The Moroccan man dreams of finding someone special to share
This surreal scene.
He sits, suspended in time, sipping his tea.
He notices a line of camels and men in the distance,
The sky silhouetting them.
This mysterious, magical vision is exquisite and exotic.
As he watches, they fade into the distance,
Their appearance now like tiny particles of sand.
Destination unknown.
 
The Moroccan man wonders where his life is going,
What is the next path that he will take?
He has his plans, but life is an amazing adventure.
Sometimes when we are not looking,
There is an unexpected event and our lives are changed forever
As one link in the chain leads to another …
As he thinks, the sky darkens, stars shimmer …
The magical moonlight shines sublimely.
 
The Moroccan man is a nomad
In his imagination.
But he is here just for the night.
The amber light from within his tent tantalisingly flickers,
Casting light onto the nearby sands.
Coldness creeps around him.
Like ghostly fingers in the night.
 
The Moroccan man enjoys the perfect peace,
His soul serene.
He feels at one with the desert.
There are no boundaries.
Is he the desert or is the desert him?
He is happy in his desert of dreams.
 
The Moroccan man can sense another presence,
A soft, sensuous feeling surrounds him.
Fantastically feminine and all encompassing.
He can see a white dress billowing around him,
But her back is turned and no face is revealed.
He turns to his tent, wondering who this creature is
And when will she show herself in his life?
 
“Love Life”   Karen King   Copyright November 2015
 
 
 
 
The Virile Venetian
                       
By Karen King
 
 
 
Through the streets, there is dancing,
 
People celebrating and prancing,
 
Seductive stares.  Sometimes glancing,
 
When twilight comes – nightly chancing.
 
 
 
This floating city of love and pleasure,
 
Is bountiful in nightly treasures,
 
Like gemstones, beautiful and unique,
 
What is the prize in which he seeks?
 
 
 
Gorgeous gondolas floating.
 
This romantic form of boating.
 
Amorous couples kissing,
 
What is he missing?
 
 
 
Celebratory cappuccinos and seafood,
 
Flamboyant food getting couples in the mood …
 
A gondola full of fruit floats by,
 
Tantalising tastes under the blue sky.
 
 
 
The slowly sinking city is disappearing,
 
But the sumptuous sunset is appearing.
 
On crumbling houses, raucous reflections
 
Jiggle around and enthusiastically beckon. …
 
 
 
Frenzied faces, sparkle in the night,
 
Decadent desires and delicious delights,
 
Bodies seething in the crowd,
 
Voices raised, becoming increasingly loud.
 
 
 
The patient, yet virile Venetian,
 
Hides, hotly, behind his mask,
 
Waiting, wantonly for his prey,
 
Throughout the night and day.
 
 
 
“Love Life”   Karen King   Copyright November 2015
 
 
 
 

Tyrant
by Kristian Tsvetanov
 
I swap identities
with a God.
I rise high up
from the mob.
 
I see the ants.
And I crush.
I stir the clouds.
But then I hush.
 
They come to get me.
All them ants.
They build a tower,
climb my pants.
 
My flesh is torn,
my soul as well.
Into a sea of human corn
I find my golden hell.
 
I shall return.
Then fall again.
All men I’ll burn,
then die by men.
 
 
 

  The Tower, the Pyre, the Law
by Kristian Tsvetanov
 
Brick upon brick lays.
Chasing the sky.
Choking the sun rays.
Darkens my eye.

The Tower Mortal Arrogance

Machines climb high,
Help the bricks lay.
Ambition glues them tight,
Such concrete grossly gray.

The death of godly paradise

We hold our hands,
Smite the tower low.
Before it vilely ends
Our Father’s sacred law.

A Pyre of fiery innocence

But then the pyre of fire
Engulfs all.
Both the tower,
And the Father’s Law.

Photo by Karen King



Cobweb in Autumn
 
 By Karen King
 
 
The spider’s web, what a clever design of nature.
 
So beautiful and delicate, yet so cruel and deadly.
 
The spider spins it’s web, it gets bigger and bigger,
 
stretching out further and further in all directions.
 
Trapped, tempting treasures await the predator’s return.
 
 
 
The world wide web, what a clever design of man.
 
So intricate and amazing, it can be a Godsend.
 
Previously strangers, new friends chat.
 
Different areas, different countries,
 
Distance makes no difference.
 
 
 
Yet, to the few this new type of web,
 
Is a tool for evil and destruction.
 
These people spin their webs,
 
stretching out further and further in all directions.
 
Inflicting pain and conflict on the innocent.
 
 
 
Some people are happy and thrive,
 
Their life and circle of friends expands,
 
whilst others wither and cannot survive.
 
This new, man-made web of life
 
Is really no different from the spider’s web!
 
 
 
“Poems for Humanity; Looking from the Side Lines”
 
Karen King  Copyright 2014

High Reach
By Alexandra H. Rodrigues
 
Higher and higher the tree did grow
His branches proudly swaying to and fro
Even for the birds the top got too tall
But one day I fear he will be doomed to fall.
 
He lasted through several violent storms
Defying any relativity norm
His roots must have conquered a lot of ground
Using any supporting ground they found.
 
Lushes green twigs towered the neighboring roof
Of healthy growth they surely were proof
Then one day a bulldozer came
To level and demolish the house’s frame
 
It was decided that the tree should go too
Which of course my attention drew
I was curious how they planned to do it
I saw no way to cut it bit by bit.
 
They came with nets and strings and a heavy line
To me it seemed against nature a crime
With a groaning crack the tree finally gave in
My soul could not help but see it as sin.
 
On the ground for days the cut tree lay
Its juices dying and firewood from it was made.
The house also came down then with a crash
Leaving the property with remnants of tree and trash.
 
Next morning I was surprised to see
That the birds who for years had lived in the tree
Had come and now made in my bushes their nest
Did they sense that I really only wanted their best?
 
That day a heavy fog was covering the earth
And as if the tree had wanted to leave a curse
From its destructed stem to my surprise
I thought I saw a ghostly figure rise
 
The tree once so proud to be high
Will get his wish. His soul will reach the sky.

Diane, Free as the Forest
By Jerry McGinley
 
Let’s take off today,
cut back through the jack pines,
circle south around the cedar swamp,
and head for the forest
of virgin pines and tall oaks.
I’ll build a lean-to of spruce boughs
while you gather berries, wild grapes,
mint tea.  At dusk we will curl
up on beds of soft moss and sleep
until the last star has dissolved.
In the morning, I’ll follow a rainbow
trout upstream while you travel
overland under a sinuous shadow
of the red-tailed hawk.  If our paths
ever again meet, then we’ll know
the true enchantment of Karma.
 
Orange Moon
By Jerry McGinley
 
Orange moon teeters
above the horizon
like a ripe peach,
its bronze craters
home to writhing witches.
 
Soon the rising moon
will pale its ginger hue
like a bent old man
scaling celestial steps,
searching for immortality.
 
Just Before Dawn
By Jerry McGinley
 
He says it’s not lonely living out here by himself.
The isolated gravel road twelve miles from town,
two miles to his closest neighbor.  He likes his privacy.
Has shelves of books—Neruda and Yeats, Hemingway and Camus.
They’re good friends and talk to him.
The mail carrier drives by every afternoon
and stops if he has a flier from the Hardware Hank store
or a postcard from his second cousin in Coon Rapids.
It’s just that hour before dawn, long after the whippoorwills,
black-crowned night herons, and mockingbirds have taken to nest,
when even the screech owl has found a roost.
It’s that hour just before dawn when he thinks
about Rita, the only girl he dated in college, who married
a salesman in Escanaba and raised three daughters.
Or he remembers his friend Delaney
who died in a tractor rollover planting corn
on a side hill damn near thirty years ago.
But once the first streaks of light come over Eastman Ridge
and the catbirds and cardinals start calling, his day begins.
Coffee and eggs, news on the local a.m. radio station.
Today he’ll take easel, oil paints, canvas, and brushes
and hike over the bluffs to sketch scenes of the neighbor’s pasture:
grazing Guernseys , Willow Creek, the woods in early autumn color.
Plein air art he calls it—open air painting.
If he takes a jug of water and slabs of sausage and bread,
he can find a good stump to sit on and work till sundown.
Yes, he does enjoy his solitude living way out here.
It’s just that hour before dawn.

The Autumn Leaves,  The Autumn of Life
 
By Karen King
 
 
 
A textured tapestry of colours,
 
My multitude of patients.
 
I care for them, love them
 
And delve into the roots
 
Of their very beings.
 
 
 
These individual intensities of wonder,
 
Each carrying their light
 
Of uniqueness and love.
 
 
 
I wonder where they go
 
When they are no longer with us?
 
Like Autumn leaves,
 
They briefly touch my life,
 
Charming and colouring it,
 
then they are lost,
 
Blown away in the breeze ...
 
 
 
 
 
Never fear, for
 
They are not gone forever.
 
Like the leaves, I do believe,
 
They will return one day
 
as new buds in their spring.
 

AUTUMN  REVELATION?
 
By Ravi. S. Ranganathan
 
Few autumn leaves fall,
smile with sad serenity...
Blue green waters deep,
barren brown shores;
Solitary coconut tree---
Flame flickering unsteadily,
restless heart hunting for harmony:
Boat caught between
mesh of waves...
Myriad of spectral images,
restive stillness...
And amid this infinite incoherence,
Eternal Soul ever glows...
 

For the Watchful Eye
 
By Lucinda Berry Hill
 
Autumn leaves changing colors
Painting mountains 'gainst the sky,
Then slowly tumble one by one
Dancing for the watchful eye.
 
Squash and pumpkins sit on porches,
Apples ripe for picking,
So much to do, so much to see,
Cameras busy clicking.
 
Footballs flying through the air,
The air that's crisp and cool.
Taking hayrides through the fields,
Another thing to do.
 
Fall has captured many hearts
For the beauty that it holds
Painting pictures 'cross the sky
In amber, reds, and golds.
 
Thank you father for the leaves
That float and dance and spin
Thank you for the seasons Lord
A gift made with your hand.

Photo: Karen King

Blood Red Leaves
 
By Karen King
 
 

Red, the colour of courage, passion and love,

the colour of war and bloodshed!

Autumn leaves, brashly burning bright,
 
Now is the time to love, not fight!

AUTUMN IS ALWAYS MY SPRING
 
By Ravi. S. Ranganathan


We met first time, glorious resplendent time
when  other leaves were turning yellowish brown
summer softly surrendered its baton
to aura fall ensembles of autumn.
Fleeting transition it was when I blossomed
Love murmuring in my heart, seeing clouds in cotton...
Long  long  time it was, moments long begotten
even when all else is forgotten...
She picked up from under her sprightly feet
a bunch of pink and blue bougainvillea petals
not losing their frisky foliage even a bit
in that mild and mesmeric weather
as I ensconced in my love seat
she sent amorous missives in orbit
I read the pages of her eyes...
We decided to pull and hang together
when  in youth’s abject submission
Lay  featured Life’s fairy tale fusion.
In me she sought her wondrous wing;
So autumn is always my eternal Spring...

But I DID
By Alexandra H. Rodrigues

When the bombs fell
And I heard the dying yell
I thought I could not go on
But I did!

When the ice broke
And nearly gave me a stroke
I thought I could not go on
But I did!

When I was told I would die
And an experimental drug I had to try
I thought I could not go on
But I did!

When on the couch I lay
And you did not come to play
I thought I could not go on
But I did!

When the plane did drop
And fire engulfed one prop
I thought I could not go on
But I did!

When I was promised love everlasting
And then I found you in her arms
I thought I could not go on
But I did!

Now older and lots of the shimmer and glimmer
Of life gone
I often think I cannot go on
But it is obvious from the past
That I will and I will last!

Photo by Karen King

The Graveyard
 
By Karen King
 
 
As you enter, the creaking, rusty gate screams out in pain.
 
You feel a presence as you enter that is not quite tangible.
 
A coolness lingers on the back of your neck,
 
sending shivers down your spine as your hair stands on end.
 
Gaunt trees surround the graveyard, looking dead and in limbo.
 
Like the dead within their embrace.
 
The clouds scurry in the sky, as if escaping the malevolent melancholy atmosphere.
 
Ivy hangs over grave stones, weeds trail over the inscriptions of
 
the unkempt and unloved graves.
 
You touch a cold, smooth stone grave,
 
in empathy for the poor dead soul below.
 
You imagine insects crawling into the coffin consuming the flesh
 
of the desiccated corpse.
 
The body has become a bag of bones with very little to offer it’s hosts.
 
The soul visits the body from time to time trying to understand why
 
it’s shell was cast in such a place.
 
Why do humans think that the body is so important?
 
It is the soul inside, now released from pain and anguish, where the
 
True person resides.
 
Still, the soul is now free of this earthly restraints.
 
Soon, some of these humans will be joining him and will learn The Truth.
 

The Ghost
 
By Karen King
 
 
You talk, but no one hears.   You move objects around.
 
But no one notices.
 
You hover in doorways and block their paths,
 
But they walk straight through you.
 
Why don’t they realise you are there?
 
Why are they ignoring you?
 
You are in your house, but someone else is sitting in your chair,
 
Eating your food.  The table is not laid for you.
 
Someone else is in your bed, your belongings have gone.
 
None of this you understand
 
They look straight through you, walk straight through you
 
As if you didn’t exist!

Widow’s Verse
 
By Tawny Kipphorn
 
 
He comes to me in waves
As I wade through deepening waters,
Mighty staff of the Aegean
Crashing down in the cerulean sea.
As I stand on the precipice
Through the ages,
Like Poseidon without his trident
I am eternally bereft of my love.
My tears mingle with the salty sea air
And I can no longer tell which is responsible,
For the persistent stinging of my eyes.
I quell the urge to scream out as I’m forced to gaze
Upon the floating contraption that contains my greatest desire.
Though I may be bound unto my widows walk, I look
Beyond that vessel in which my heart is locked away.
I lose myself in the vista, transfixed by the silent
Promise of a reunion worthy only of the angels most high.
 
 
 
 
Devil’s Drink
 
By Tawny Kipphorn
 
 
In the devils nectar you drown
 
Yourself, Further into rage you bring me down;
To the bottomless pit of despair and guilt
Like dying flowers our bond does wilt.
The poison runs deep within your veins
The only cure for your aches and pains;
You realize not how selfish you’ve been
For you this battle I cannot win;
For misery you seem to strive
It’s a wonder you’re still alive;
You say you have no regrets in life
Those words, the sharpest knife;
I know that I am not to blame
That everything just stays the same;
With you, is this my fate?
To live with drunken words of sorrow and hate;
This will be the death of you
And there is nothing more that I can do;
But watch you continue to forever sink
Beneath the horrid devils drink.
 
 
 
 
The Legend of Countess Creep
 
By Tawny Kipphorn
 
 
 
Tell you I must the legend of Countess Creep
Whose spirit invades my mind as I sleep
It all began with a curious spell
Which gave birth to the legend I’m here to tell.
 
From atop the bloody mountain high
Which stands beneath the blackened sky
All have heard the suffering song
Of the Countess screaming ever long.
 
Deep within cold chambers of stone
Dwells the horrid scarlet crone
Of whence took place her ghastly swathe
For in their blood she loved to bathe.
 
Pools of crimson leak the horrid truth
From the castle’s hellish fountain of youth
Her sanguinary reign at last at its end
But not before her spell was penned.
 
That whoever disturbs these very walls
Shall drown in her victims bloody falls
And when I stepped into her castle of hate
Her spell had sealed my unfortunate fate.
 
Forever I’m trapped within this castle of death
Until I take my final breath
For now I just continue to weep
As I await the return of Countess Creep.
 

‘ Tides of Destiny ‘
By Thaddeus Hutyra
Tides of life, tides of love are like the tides of the Universe
all lovers might say, having it certainly right
But why not to look closer home, on our Earth
and agree tides of love are like the tides of life
and consequently both like the tides of nature
the tides of all seasons we are witnessing, year after year ?!
The beauty in all of it are the tidal interconnections
the correlations between life and love, and the seasons
between the tides of time, tides of fate and destiny
our evanescence, the transience of life and happiness
and even the tides of disappearance to the vanishing point
drilling painful experiences in our minds, our hearts.
With the spring, the symbol of a new life
we celebrate the joys of children born to us
What would be our life without them
those only know who got through the deserts of their lives
The spring symbolizes much more, definitely more
all the rosy new beginnings, with love on the top.
Then comes summer, the season of maturity
one letting us all enjoy plucking the fruits 
from all our achievements, be it our diplomas or our love
We are having new perspectives concerning tides of life
new ones what concerns tides of love and anything else
standing firmly on the ground, never getting unbalanced.
Autumn and winter are the golden seasons, all dreams achieved
Peacefulness of life and in the world are appreciated
desires of no wars, never ever wars but love prevail
Tides of life, tides of love bring us to the final moments
of the Lord’s wheel being passed from the old one to the new one
the multidimensionality of all things belonging to God.
 
Tides of life, tides of love, tides of nature, tides of seasons
are having their turn of the circle, time after time
Life is blossoming, giving a rise to love and its libidos
Embraced in our arms, embraced in our hearts
we thank the Lord for letting us experience it all
all the tides of love, tides of life, tides of the Universe.
 
 
1.
‘ Sweet Misdemeanor ‘
 
Life is a multidimensional orchestra
at every stage of our lives
sounding accordingly to the instruments
used to display the music
What is a harp of life certainly is not 
what is a piano of life
and what is a synthesiser of life
is not what is a trumpet of life
All of them, however, enrich our lives.
 
Humans and entire states should realize
freedoms are the fundamental tools
to wellbeing of individuals and even nations 
the healthy functioning of every state.
 
Acceptance of diversities
makes us young, dancing in the fields of stars
To be young in spirits is the eternal fire 
that never can be extinguished
One only needs to stay this way
young at heart, young in spirits, forever young.
 
Look at the gate on the horizon
at that gate of an ancient watchtower
behind which there is seen
the splashing sunset of our life-giving Sun.
It is the gate of life, gate of light
one connecting us with the Lord
Gate of dimensions, gate of relativism of life
gate to infinity once our souls are leaving us
to the Lords’ universes upon universes.
 
Look closer now at the mirror of the Sun
there behind the watchtower
a man and a woman in their arms
in all the glory of their nature
fiercely loving one another
sipping all elixirs there are in them.
 
Perhaps what they are doing 
is their misdemeanor, a sweet transgression
a delinquency and a sin
but just look how fine they are adding
to the beauty of the watchtower in the Sun.
 
Love is a multidimensional symphony
as much as is life
sounding accordingly to the instruments of love
that are being played by lovers
What is a violin of love
certainly is not what is a cello of love
and what is a saxophone of love
is not what is a clarinet of love
All of them, however, are a symphony 
one of love, of our hearts.
 
Enrich thus yourself, enrich thus your life
make sure your fate, your destiny is non violent
for every person on this Earth
has equal rights to you, no matter what
Freedoms of others should be
not only their legacy but as much your own one.
 
‘ Sweet Misdemeanor ‘ by Thaddeus Hutyra 
© Thaddeus Hutyra 14/08/2015
 
2.
‘ Forevermore ! ‘
 
Tides of love, tides of our hearts are like the tides of oceans
flowing on, one after another one, interconnected
Tides of love, tides of our passions are like all the winds
blowing from one end of the world into another one
Tides of love are inexhaustible, building on one another
and the spirits of love fly high into the skies of love
the endless symphony, love’s la dolce vita.
 
Every your kiss is weaving a new string, one of love
with all the silky threads our affections produce
Every your warm word is weaving fabrics
towards endless love and understanding
Every outburst of your heart brings happiness
one that is impossible to describe, one of the starry rays
one embracing you and me in a joy of joys.
 
Kiss me, my dear, once again
let the tides of our love 
reverberate throughout the ocean of our love
Dance with me, my sweetheart
let the winds echo the song of love
one that is generated by the bells within our hearts
Love me, my dear, love me infinitely
let’s the wings of love, our own wings
fly where no harm ever evolves and love is the empress.
 
Here you are, my love, in my bed
the one that is now yours
We are sipping all the juices from our bodies
and as much from what is in our minds and our souls
the juices that are the elixirs of perpetual love
and as much of life that can never see the end.
 
No additional bridge is needed for you and me
no a chapel nor a priest, nor well-wishers
for we have it all in our loving hearts
ceaselessly till the infinity
Our love is the bridge and the chapel
our love is the home to the priest of love
marrying us in all the splendors
Our love is everything what we need
we in fact, we, the dancers of love 
and our dance floor with all the symphonic notes.
 
O the spiderwebs of love, woven of finest threads
golden spiderwebs, silver spiderwebs, diamond ones
thanks for assisting us in our love making
O the rays, rays of the Sun, rays of the stars
beaming endlessly till our own infinity
the one of love, of life, of the cosmic nature
shine, shine, please, let our love be a star as much
among all the stars there are in the Universe.
 
O the bells finally, all the bells of love, of our hearts
ringing, tinkling, singing, performing in our hearts
play the music of our love, spread it with the echoes of love !
O the bells, silver bells, golden bells, brazen bells, iron bells
see us loving in the bed !
O the bells, silver bells, golden bells, brazen bells, iron bells
see us getting married in the chapel !
O the bells, silver bells, golden bells, brazen bells, iron bells
see us having children, enjoying maturity of our lives, getting old !
O the bells, silver bells, golden bells, brazen bells, iron bells
see us entering the infinity
all the tides of love, tides of destiny, tides of the Universe !
O the bells, silver bells, golden bells, brazen bells, iron bells
you, forevermore !
 
‘ Forevermore ! ‘ by Thaddeus Hutyra 
© Thaddeus Hutyra 16/10/2015
 
3.
‘ Tidal Interconnections ‘
 
Tides of love, tides of the Universe
are like two starships of a cosmic correlation
one of love across one’s love affairs
and another one across the oceans of the Universe.
 
Both are complementing one another
bringing love to eternity although seemingly gone with the wind
The tides of the oceans of the Universe
continue to flow and flow in symphonic ways
remembering the love that gave them rise.
 
What is most bewildering is
that both, the tides of love and tides of the Universe
remain immortal, in all the shine of the stars
both the poles like the northern and southern poles of Earth.
 
Love are the tides of the ocean, flowing on and flowing on
caressing love in all manners lovers do it
till their orgasms make of it all a sudden display
of the tides upon tides, upon tides, the ocean’s of love tides.
 
The Universe are the tides of the oceans of the Universe
Lordly, on the scale of the parallel universes
the tides upon tides that only the Lord can see
sailing it all what is there in the Universe.
 
Love thus and the Universe are the final crossroads
for all things of the godlike and human dimensions
both intertwined in the immortal tides of their oceans
both destined forever like the never ending tides of their oceans
tides upon tides, upon tides, till the infinity.
 
Here you are, my dear, here, in my arms
love flowing from you to me, from me to you
the tides of love that embrace us both
as we both embrace one another.
 
Here you are, my dear, in my heart
as I am wholeheartedly in your own
Making love, softly, in the gentle breezes of the wind
hearing the tides of the nearby ocean.
 
- ' I love you so much, I love you ... ' - we are whispering
gently pulling our naked bodies to each other
The words we are whispering sounding like an orchestra
flying then to the shoreline, taken away by the ocean's tides.
 
‘ Tidal Interconnections ‘ by Thaddeus Hutyra 
© Thaddeus Hutyra 27/09/2015

The Creative

Globetrotter

The Sacred Hymns
 
Ancient Inca Poetry
 
 
1.
Oh Creator, root of all,
Wiracocha, end of all,
Lord in shining garments
who infuses life and sets all things in order,
saying, "Let there be man! Let there be woman!"
Molder, maker,
to all things you have given life:
watch over them,
keep them living prosperously, fortunately
in safety and peace.
Where are you?
Outside? Inside?
Above this world in the clouds?
Below this world in the shades?
Hear me!
Answer me!
Take my words to your heart!
For ages without end
let me live,
grasp me in your arms,
hold me in your hands,
receive this offering
wherever you are, my Lord,
my Wiracocha.


1.

A teqse Wiraqocha
qaylla Wiraqocha
tukapu aknupu Wiracochan
kamaq, churaq
"Qhari kachun, warmi kachun,"
nispa.
Ilut'aq, ruraq
kamasqayki,
churasqayki
qasilla qespilla kawsamusaq
Maypin kanki?
Hawapichu?
Ukhupichu?
Phuyupichu?
Llanthupichu?
Uyariway!
Hay niway!
Iniway!
Imay pachakama,
hayk'ay pachakama
kawsachiway
marq'ariway
hat'alliway
kay qusqaytari chaskiway
maypis kaspapis
Wirayuchaya.




2: Prayer that the people may multiply

Creator
Lord of the Lake,
Wiracocha provider,
industrious Wiracocha
in shining clothes:
Let man live well,
let woman live well,
let the peoples multiply,
live blessed and prosperous lives.
Preserve what you have infused with life
for ages without end,
hold it in your hand.
 


2: Oración para que multipliquen las gentes

Wiracochan
Apuqochan
T'itu Wiraqochan
wallpay wana Wiraqochan
tukapu aknupu Wiraqochan
runa yachakichun,
sarmi yachakuchun
mirachun llaqta pacha
qasilla qespilla kachun
kamasqaykita waqaychay
hat'alliy
imay pachakama,
hayk'ay pachakama.


3: To all the spirits of places
Creator, end of all things
root of all
Lord of the Lake
active diligent Wiracocha,
Lord of Mountains
Lord of Prayers
Lord of Rituals
Lord without measure,
Creator, end of all,
who rewards and grants:
Let the communities and peoples prosper
and also those who journey outside or within.

Old Australian Poetry

Interestingly enough, my father, the late great Herbert Eyre Moulton (1927 - 2005), wrote a performed play in 1963 about his time has an American in Ireland.
He called it "The Wild Colonial Boy".
This, however, is the Australian poem, and a part of this week's international issue.

THE CREATIVE GLOBETROTTER

 
Wild Colonial Boy  
'Tis of a wild colonial boy, Jack Doolan was his name,
Of poor but honest parents he was born in Castlemaine.
He was his father's only hope, his mother's only joy,
And dearly did his parents love the wild Colonial boy.
 
Chorus: Come, all my hearties, we'll roam the mountains high,
Together we will plunder, together we will die.
We'll wander over valleys, and gallop over plains,
 And we'll scorn to live in slavery, bound down with iron chains.
 
He was scarcely sixteen years of age when he left his father's home,
And through Australia's sunny clime a bushranger did roam.
He robbed those wealthy squatters, their stock he did destroy,
And a terror to Australia was the wild Colonial boy.
 
In sixty-one this daring youth commenced his wild career,
With a heart that knew no danger, no foeman did he fear.
He stuck up the Beechworth mail coach, and robbed Judge MacEvoy,
Who trembled and gave up his gold to the wild Colonial boy.
 
He bade the judge 'Good morning', and told him to beware,
That he'd never rob a hearty chap that acted on the square,
And never to rob a mother of her son and only joy,
Or else you may turn outlaw, like the wild Colonial boy.
 
One day as he was riding the mountain-side along,
A-listening to the little birds, their pleasant laughing song,
Three mounted troopers rode along - Kelly, Davis, and FitzRoy -
They thought that they would capture him, the wild Colonial boy.
 
'Surrender now, Jack Doolan, you see there's three to one.
Surrender now, Jack Doolan, you daring highwayman.'
He drew a pistol from his belt, and shook the little toy.
'I'll fight, but not surrender,' said the wild Colonial boy.
 
He fired at Trooper Kelly and brought him to the ground,
And in return from Davis received a mortal wound.
All shattered through the jaws he lay still firing at FitzRoy,
And that's the way they captured him - the wild Colonial boy.

GLUTTONS
 


By Ajise Vincent
 








The gods of our land are gluttons.

They eat dreams, drink hopes,

then excrete diatribes for propriety to feast on.

They milk the cradle of our present cum future

with erroneous propagandas.

wirra! stockpiling for their progenies unborn.

These gods have Potbellies

akin to that of pregnant women

It swerves--pendulum like,

mocking the contours of our sufferings

Their glees are produts of sorrow.

Their grins-- traces of our agonies,

yet they are still revered by ignoramuses

who are tossed amens

like famished church rats seeking divinity













NOSTALGIA
 


By Ajise Vincent
 








Anytime, thoughts of you

creep into the labyrinth of my memory,

I remember vernaculars of woes

degrading the euphoria of decency.

Cowries meant for acquisition of knowledge

chasing cosmetics, vestures, wannabes.

Brainpower now aesthetics.

I remember selfies in Dubai:

your pouting-lips fraternizing

with faces of potbellied grandees

I remember that mutual spasms,

smiles, jokes, pervading from the larynx

of a teenager & Mr. John Doe in a brothel

are products of fornication nevertheless.







CONFESSIONS IV
 


Ajise Vincent
 








Shield your conscience,

shield it well, before thoughts of letch

begins to flirt

with the nucleus of your exuberance.




Today, we visited Eros' aphrodisiac temple

where Eve's luscious apples

are sold for dollars of ciphers




There, tits, curves & loins of various

geometries evangelized

to the hedonistic desires of men




Lo! When our sights came across an evangelist,

We held our crucifix,

We knelt to pray,

We uttered Let this cup pass us over.

But the cup never passed.

Alas! We are no longer celibates.







 

Clothing
 
By Allison Grayhurst
 





An angel beads my hair

and shades me from the roaring rain.

A flowerpot is turned over like a night

lived alone on a mountain or like

the degutted smile of feigned generosity.

I see a rich pasture left uninhabited.

In my sleep I move like a hare

over those hills and dandelions.

When I wake it is the voyage

that sometimes drowns me.






 


For This Colour
 


By Allison Grayhurst






A shadow passes

like steam from a mug.

The everyday blindness

of being alive, I wear like a bow

in my hair.

Into my hand a snowflake falls,

repeating patterns of intricate beauty.

Too many times I heard the words

without being changed - for a minute moved into rapture

and then turning back from where I came.

Too many hours I ran the same track,

torn from my sleep like an infant torn from

its mother's breast.
 





Thunder beats against my eardrums,

the rope falls from the gravel edge.

This shape is the food that lamps my tower,

as the sigh of the sea lies contained

in my daughter's eyes.


 



 





What We Know
 


By Allison Grayhurst
 








Hold the heart in a field of salt

and heal the bitter taste, for all has been like

the crossing of the guards

and the moon is shining brightly on my back.

I believe in your song but

the flood has risen and no help came,

and the chapel denied us as we pulled

the weeds from our prison and grew ourselves

a garden of togetherness.

Being here, I still don't know the name of

any star but I am content enough

loving you, and feeling the daily explosive joy

of raising our child.

There are no fists to clench or rooftops to

yell our resolve from. It is not a giving up

but a path of no resistance. Work

and grief may leave us alone. Work

and possibly we'll slumber out of this quicksand. Work

and the maggots may not pierce our skin.

For soon we, and all of we, will be dead, and today

is so very important.
 



 






 



 



 





   

Rope-A-Dope

By Scott Thomas Outlar
 
 
This ache
deep in my muscles and bones
is just the black kiss of karma
having a laugh
while balancing the scales
after dosing my path
with good fortune
for the past few months.
 
These cold chills
from the hot flash flu
are just the product
of that trickster Loki
trying his damnedest
to get me to sing the blues,
but that’s just something
I don’t intend to do
because my songs of sorrow
are really just
cries of peace
from down in the marrow,
the synapses, the blood, and the core
where the fire continues to roar
eternally and evermore.
 
So break my system down into chaos
where I can howl and dance
with the symptoms of severe madness
as the temperature rises,
for there is simply no other place
such as the lowly abyss
that will serve to bring forth the seed
which, once nurtured and cultivated,
allows for the emergence
of the type of righteous order I’m starting to crave.




 
A Shift, A Sneeze, A Spin around the Cycle

By Scott Thomas Outlar
 
 
The season is shifting
hard
to a fine point
sharp comes a crispness
crackling in the cool air
chilled
with southern comfort
as the high winds
sweep away the Summer swelter
and cast Autumn
upon the scene
ready to sneeze
nature’s orgasmic frenzy
into the wild
into the blues
into the yonder
song
upon far horizon
horoscopes thriving
as cycles spin
through crystal-hued constellations
shimmering as broken diamonds
in the Fall
while the leaves
spark their brightest color
a fading ember flashing
just before they die
and bleed back to the soil
 

---

All the world's a stage,
And all the men and women merely players;
They have their exits and their entrances,
And one man in his time plays many parts,
His acts being seven ages. At first, the infant,
Mewling and puking in the nurse's arms.
Then the whining schoolboy, with his satchel
And shining morning face, creeping like snail
Unwillingly to school. And then the lover,
Sighing like furnace, with a woeful ballad
Made to his mistress' eyebrow. Then a soldier,
Full of strange oaths and bearded like the pard,
Jealous in honor, sudden and quick in quarrel,
Seeking the bubble reputation
Even in the cannon's mouth. And then the justice,
In fair round belly with good capon lined,
With eyes severe and beard of formal cut,
Full of wise saws and modern instances;
And so he plays his part. The sixth age shifts
Into the lean and slippered pantaloon,
With spectacles on nose and pouch on side;
His youthful hose, well saved, a world too wide
For his shrunk shank, and his big manly voice,
Turning again toward childish treble, pipes
And whistles in his sound. Last scene of all,
That ends this strange eventful history,
Is second childishness and mere oblivion,
Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything.
William Shakespeare

Daniel de Culla (1955) is a writer, poet, and photographer. He is also a member of the Spanish Writers Association, Director of the Gallo Tricolor Review, and Robespierre Review. He’s moving between North Hollywood, Madrid and Burgos, Spain.

Daniel de Cullá (1955 Poeta, escritor, pintor y fotógrafo, miembro fundador de la revista literaria  Gallo Tricolor. Es miembro de la  Asociación Colegial de Escritores de España. En la actualidad participa en espectáculos que funden poesía, música y teatro.

A PARTICULAR KARMA

By Daniel de Culla

 

I. KARMA

 

There’s nothing more to know

Than what I am

When I found the other side of what I want to be:

Karma is a prison of Mind for me

Through its windows, we are seeing mountains,

Reservations, rain and clouds over

The Valley of Perfect Wisdom

A highway overgrown with seed

And hands that yearn for eyes

A camp where we have been stopped

Hearing sounds, ears to Earth,

Inside the ground

Flashing our light through the wood

Over the stream, expecting to see the end,

On the same line of our dreams

Where we are like a wheel

Cracking air on air, spinal membranes

Already feeling our bodies down in bags

Ready to start for a new place,

Suddenly realizing our freedom

Coupled with the conscious plane.

 

II. MORE KARMA

 

One’s environment surrounding us

Some exclamation of the tongue:

-Is Karma our Happiness?

Picking through a puzzle of sandblasted wood

And feeling lonelier than ever before

Karma as a trial.

A stream into a miracle without doors,

Opened from clouds, be content,

Moving us within,

Teaching us about our human-hood.

 

 

III. BELIEVE IT OR NOT

 

“I nominate an angel.

Always an angel.”

– Luisa Pasamanik’s

“The Exiled Angel”

(A Poem for Freaky Fairytales)

 

Receiving letters is like receiving books.

As Hans Christian Anderson’ “The little mermaid”

Or Giambattista Basile’s  “Sleeping Beauty”

Without a hand or eyes

That cannot see the blood of the seaboard towns

In one’s life about the tale

When one re-encounters one’s self alone

With a gentle wind in a boat of sunshine,

Sailing

Into our welcoming heart

Opened by itself and died abruptly.

 

It’s steel as the Sea Witch’ knife

To kill the prince and lets his blood drip

On the mermaid’ feet

The “Daughter of the air” committing suicide

As a passing accident

Which is at the same time

The crux of a destiny

Delineating the future concrete tense.

 

IV. SLEEPING BEAUTY

 

The illusion of “Sleeping Beauty” coming from her

Whose bones are of mist and ether

At the cataract of two wind falling

Where she is not and is not seen

In an instant remembering creation

Monstrous thunder and clouds

Where souls once again meet unhuman

And name each other

In the esoteric, mirror that lies invisibly

When the sea whiter coiled as wire

Because it comes from the beginning

As the lightening flash

Reconciled with the sky at dawn

Disappearing instantly

Into bliss.

 

Or as when Irving said he was just a poet

Going to sea, reading

Jeffrey Delman’s “Dead time Stories”

Also known as Freaky Fairytales in the Film

Learning love through a decaying body

That happens

As kids die like beetles that route.

 

V. CONCRETE TENSE

                             

          Receiving letters like receiving books

As Hans Christian Anderson’ “The little mermaid”

Or Giambattista Basile’s  “Sleeping Beauty”

Without a hand or eyes

That cannot see the blood of the seaboard towns

In one’s life about the tale

When one re-encounters one’s self alone

With a gentle wind in a boat of sunshine to sail

Into our welcoming heart

Opened by itself and died abruptly.

It is steel as the Sea Witch’ knife

To kill the prince and lets his blood drip

On the mermaid’ feet

The “Daughter of the air” committing suicide

As a passing accident

Which is at the same time

The crux of a destiny

Delineating the future concrete tense.

 

VI. CULLA IS ME

 

Culla, my Aragonese mother’s name,

Arises from a village in Castellon de la Plana, Spain

A country tapestry, an idea of a score,

Like some weird contrapuntal music

Of Love and War

Where several of Templars, men and women,

From the old monastic military Order

Became attached to defend

The saint places of the New Testament

Scripture against Islam

Baring bones bouncing off each other.

 

The Temple had 10 different roads

A mythical page per road

Existing in alternating relationship

To each other Crossed:

Culla is in a Templars’ anagram

Found in the mosque of Omar

Turned wrongly into church at that time

Taking part of the emplacement

From the Salomon’s great temple in Jerusalem.

This anagram is cut in a sheet ivory.

 

VII. IN A LAMP

 

In a lamp and in a bronze candlestick

And in a carved stone in the Romanic time.

Culla was Templars’ matrix house

Where they developed intellectual powers:

The collective bargaining, the business deal

The double-dealing

And the sexual intercourse

And anything they could go also:

Poems, ideas, dreams

With so many colors and textures

But ruining their lives

With misapplication and the anxiety to money

As it happens ever.

 

VIII. DEVIL AT THE RIVER LOBOS’ GORGE

“Devil, a Good Angel”

- Gerineldo Fuencisla

 

From May’s fresh evening, walking the river Lobos, in Soria, 

(I’m fording it on foot any old how, by bad means)

I meet with a gentleman high from height, normal body

Dressed with motley as a devil

My eyes in front with his eyes and the rascal being familiar with

Because me as him, glutted with meat, became friar.

 

He had khaki, discoloration of the green parts from his feet

By short of light in the cove where he lives behind hermitage

Where Templars come in the waste

Ge giving off aerated bubbles

Excited, heated, only hee-hawing

As obstinate or abdicating from someone or something

 The Templar sentence:

 Me as You and You as me, devil joined ourselves”

Making me things of love

At that very moment making me a fuss of sly pricks

As insects with four membrane wings as four arms

Saying to me: Love Me so I can feel your breath on my nape

Arranged in that parts from the ass’ both worlds

Where the forked lines tend to set

 The train of love on the right road”.

 

 

IX. EXTINCTION OF THE PLANET

 

We laugh at first

Excerpt from a Journey of blood and tears

When Songs of Love and Maps of Freedom

Have undertaken to be revealed

And only are correspondences, notes

Quotes as wave lengths.

Sun rods into mountains

Hearing thrssh thrssh from the tress

Rotting nebulae.

Moon rides rivers

Just being able to pick and go

Objective characteristics

To the observance of geophysics.

Are we seeing our extinction?

Voices-- human crying

Voices-animal, voices-plant

But the Planet cannot sleep a wink

Bushing over the stream.

Voice-Life of Earth lives

And we laugh at first

Again. The same.

 

X. FRONT¨ DOORS

 

 

Baby O dynamite

 

mistress of the Star fish

 

swimming in my ears

 

where often a Wo/Man remains alone

 

long to listen

 

Doors singing my business daily

 

dead as a door nail

 

into all this Channel

 

O.O. % Ecstasy. No¡

 

showing me a door opening by itself

 

at the End of lives forgotten

 

when Sun is a dog cart

 

botted with gay dogs

 

of the dooms day

 

sit and dreaming

 

of the floor of our

 

nothingness sentencing:

 

"Baker’s dozen talk

 

19 to the dozen.”

 

Elegy of the Sea Drake

By Edward Sullivan





It is in its cave. To sleep.

A creature so feared

that none sane look for him willingly.

Alone due to this.




Why does he not go out abroad

-looking for another. Anyone now.

Solitude is a prison there

the tide crashing nearby,

grey sea rolling in and out.




Mindless creatures churn the murk

grey sea,

no company them,

some do come here though




Hurt. Again and then

repeat it

on these somber shores

a husk lies among the rocks.

The last to torment him and laugh.




Friends do not mock, he says

I do not need you.

The waves speak to me.

They are all I need.




He will die alone.

Another might take his place, or not.

It matters not to him.

Tis the men who need monsters.




days pass again to night

four or four hundred. meh.

another comes in armor today

perhaps he will let him win




This one has brought an audience of clowns like him.

They all stand there unknowing their fate.

The sea crashes again and again.

again.







The sun does not shine today, all is bleak.

He is too old to keep repeating this.

Waves crash against the rocks.

Over and over.




The rocks are strong.

Water is not as much, but yet

the tide keeps crashing

grey waves thunder.

Shalyma is a superbly gifted lady, stationed in New York City.
Not only does she have a great voice, her skills as a poet are extraordinary.
I had the joy of working with her in 1990s.
We became good friends back then.
Now reconnecting feels good, memories of good laughs, honest conversations and mutual interests return.
What do they say?
A true and honest friendship never dies, it always blossoms.
She is a true friend, a talented lady and we are proud that she is part of our webzine.
Check her out.
She's gonna make it big some day.
This is what Shalyma herself says about her work and life:

http://www.shalyma.com/

When I was twelve years old, a choir teacher at my school suggested to my parents that I should be given vocal lessons. Luckily they agreed and encouraged me to pursue singing. My father especially believed that I was bestowed a gift that warranted formal training. That was a long time ago - I have since become a classically trained soprano with an extensive background in music theatre. I received my education at the Hartt School of Music, where I ultimately graduated with a bachelor’s degree in music theatre.  After my studies I traveled around the world, performing in Italy, Switzerland, Austria, France, South America, Japan, but also in every major city in the US and Canada.  

Through my continued involvement with Broadway musicals I was fortunate enough to work with esteemed directors such as Sam Mendes, Rob Marshall and Roman Polanski, which raised the bar for me both as an actress, and a performer. My engagements in music theatre, jazz, sacred music, pop and opera, however, have shaped me into a versatile singer, and my influences are apparent in my way of singing. This project features a mainly "classical" vocal approach, but I attempted to maneuver around the rules of the standard operatic voice by using cross-over techniques, effectively blending and blurring the lines of the traditional classical, folk and pop styles. I hope to have accomplished this, and that you will like these songs. It has been a long and winding road, and everything I possess was put towards this life long dream of recording my first album. 

I would like to thank you from the bottom of my heart for the love and support.

Gratefully and humbly, 
Shalyma

THE END OF AN ERA 

by Shalyma and Truffles

We are standing on a threshold
And we are counting the sum of all our days 
And as the dusk falls
And the night forewarns
A change is riding
On the winds of a storm 
It's the end of an era
It's the dawn of the age
It's the end of an era
The turning of the page  

We are turning a new corner
We are realizing the error of our ways 
And as the dawn comes
And the night is forlorn
A sequel is rising 
A new day is born 

It's the end of an era
It's the dawn of the age
It's the end of an era
The turning of the page 

Arise let courage reign
And freedom soar
See the light of wisdom as never before 

It's the end of an eraIt's the dawn of the age
It's the end of an era
The turning of the page 

It's the end of an era
The dawn of the age
It's the end of an era
The turning of the page


THE ALLURE OF YOU

by Shalyma and Truffles

The allure of you-
like the moon drawing day into night-
a force pulls me in,
brings me close-
holds me tight. 

The allure of you-
a maddening love with no sense,
takes me over until I can see reason in madness. 

An unexplainable thrill overcomes me
and sends a cold chilldown my spine 

The allure of you-
stole my heart with a happenstance glance,
I'm caught-
caught in the clasp of romance.

I'm lost in-
the allure of you.   

---------------------------------------- 

The allure of you-
like a wave pushing into the shore,
your tide leaves me empty,
alone,
wanting you more. 

The allure of you-
stays with me as I drift through my day,
my head's in the clouds and my mind's a million miles away.   
An unexplainable thrillovercomes me
and sends a cold chilldown my spine 

The allure of you-
makes me dream of one wish coming true-
if you-
you felt the way that I do.  
I'm lost in- the allure of you.  


YOU SOOTHE ME

by Shalyma and Truffles 

You soothe me with heartfelt words that calm my soul,
and free my troubled mind.    
You soothe me.  

You take me in.
You give me peace and let me cry.   

When I'm seeking solace,
refuge from my sorrow,
your arms are open wide,
waiting for me to fall inside.  

And when I'm inconsolable,
your love gives me a shelter.  

You're the only one I need to comfort me.   
You're my sanctuary, safe and strong.  

You are my rock of strength to help me carry on.  

You soothe me with heartfelt words that calm my soul and free my troubled mind.  

You soothe me.  
You take me in.  
You give me peace and let me cry.   
You're my sanctuary safe and strong.  
You are my rock of strength to help me carry on.   

You soothe me with heartfelt words that calm my soul and free my troubled mind.  

A Wedding Song for Sophie and Tui

November 28th 2014

 

by Charles E.J. Moulton

 

 

He and she today unite
In matrimonial delight
And we see eternal time
Pass annually in rhyme.



Her face a moonshine ember,
Like the soft winds of September,
Evokes eternal bliss
Answered by a true love's kiss.



And the darling buds of May
In pleasant groves they say
That July and August see
June's eternity.

And January's embrace
Reveals February's face
A March with honest love
And April's hand in glove.

And October will always remember
That spectacular November
That transcended time and space
Blessing with angelic grace.

Its beauty fair just knows
Love will flourish like a rose
Nuptial happiness and bliss
Bears a lover's gentle kiss

And now we cheer, my dear,
That abundance sweet is here,
Like a bird that soars the sky,
And touches the yearning sky.

So we wish them all what's well
And from what the angels tell
The light that shines internal
Bears a love that sprouts eternal.

THE prayers I make will then be sweet indeed
If Thou the spirit give by which I pray:
My unassisted heart is barren clay,
That of its native self can nothing feed:
Of good and pious works thou art the seed,
That quickens only where thou say'st it may:
Unless Thou show to us thine own true way
No man can find it: Father! Thou must lead.
Do Thou, then, breathe those thoughts into my mind
By which such virtue may in me be bred
That in thy holy footsteps I may tread;
The fetters of my tongue do Thou unbind,
That I may have the power to sing of thee,
And sound thy praises everlastingly.
William Wordsworth