​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!

PinnipedPerson@aol.com
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" ©



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

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

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.©

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

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

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
d