Poetry

Photo above of the park in Schwetzingen, Germany
Taken by David Thorpe

A SANCTUARY

WHICH BLOSSOMS

IN GOODNESS

By David Thorpe

Away from the maddening crowds,
a spring countryside of frolicking lambs,
their innocence, echoed in their bleats,
contents the pastoral peace

And there along a garden´s scented paths,
friendly battles are contended,
sunshine and foliage win and lose,
in ever contrasting light and shade

In this quiescent garden refuge,
exists a cathedral tranquillity,
disturbed only by the gurgling fountains,
their drops of pearl reflect the dancing sunlight

The warm caressing air,
pregnant with floral fragrances,
attracts the dextrous bumble-bee,
as part of nature’s wonder

An uninvited spectator of its beauty,
is more an intruder here,
but whose heart with joy be rewarded,
in a sanctuary which blossoms in goodness

Waste no time in your seeking
the felicity of your refuge,
to encounter for a while that inner calm,
strength to face once more a world in turmoil

David Thorpe ® © 2016

Day Dream
by Alexandra H. Rodrigues

I can hear my own outcry
“I love you”
“I love you”
“I love you”
Can you hear it too?

I can sense my body’s anticipation
I quiver
I quiver
I quiver
Can you imagine how I shiver?

I can illusion how you touch me
I feel you
I feel you
I feel you
Can I make your secret wants come true?

I can sense flames of growing fire
I smolder in heat
I smolder in heat
I smolder in heat
Can you detect desire in my heart’s beat?

I can no longer avoid this dream about you
Me and you
Me and you
Me and you
All of me begs to become real and true!

Mein Traum

Mein Echo schallt
“Ich liebe Dich”
“Ich liebe Dich”
“Ich liebe Dich”
Hoerst auch Du, mich?

Ich unterliege erotischer Fantasie
Ich fliege
Ich fliege
Ich fliege
Zittere am ganzen Koerper.

Ich stelle mir vor Du beruehrst mich
Machst mich Dir hoerig
Machst mich Dir hoerig
Machst mich Dir hoerig
Moechte Deine geheimen Wuensche erfuellen!

Ich spuere lodernde Flammen.
Ich und Du
Ich und Du
Ich und Du
Mein Herz zieht sich zusammen
Mein Traum werde Wahrheit im Nu.

Landscapes

A Poetry Collection

By Alan Catlin

City Landscape with Graves

Even the dead are segregated beneath
white marble markers describing
a passage that always ends in stone.
Vital dates in the old world lot
are covered by moss, overgrown
uncut grass, sprouted weeds aged
to grey by a summer of no rain
and endless clouds layers of soot.
The red sun sets beyond the last
monument rows looking down on
the city, on the heat sores
spreading through the darkening
streets of Manhattan, the new dead
walk carrying brief cases filled
with wet sand and with ash,
the flickering street lights
coming slowly alive in their eyes.

Lorca in New York

Sings of the thunder in Central Park
widening the eyes of derelicts skimming
the tops of trees, fattening the clouds,
expanding blacktopped paths that harbor
ghosts, spirit children whose teeth are
electrical charges that reach up
and discover sky, whose eyes are slow
smoking fires, grains of heat emitting
grey wreathes, ephemeral webs black
widow spiders hang dreams in. Holding
the sacramental vessel by the neck,
his Sangre de Christo vino primo,
the drunken poet counts a universe
of fallen stars strewn among the broken
glass beside a man-made lake; each
rain drop begins a new circle of despair,
a new world of empty rooms he is afraid
to wake up in.

The Wallace Stevens Brighton Beach Torch Song

Burned out lost in the funhouse eyes
oversee the sagging, waterlogged pier,
lace puddles of dried fire hose foam,
blackened busted wall support seams,
punched out glass window panes deformed
by the heat, warped hanging overhead metal
fixtures, filaments without bulb casings point
down into the still smoking ruins, the settling
rolling ocean fog; hot embers like eyes
in the night.

Summer Rain with Shopping Bag Lady

The old lady sits eating lime jello
in the down pouring rain, great gaping
holes in her stockings, soiled house
dress the size of a side show tent
bursting at the seams, man sized
raincoat unbuttoned all the way down,
too short sleeves rolled into cuffs,
deck hand sneakers without laces,
tongues ripped out reveal ulcerating
sores, arms the size of fat hams end
in hands that hold a white plastic
plate and spoon, feeding the toothless
maw of the giant, rain beating all those
who must wait for the local bus, beating
the taut tops of the upturned umbrellas,
those hungry eyes lost in the act of
eating, streaming dark clouds of death
black mascara.

Morning Fog and Sun

Sunlight filtered
through fog,

morning haze
dissipates,

heat rising
from stacked hay;

new colors,
shadows.

Photo by Karen King

Autumn Cows

By Karen King

These cows in the field, eating their hay,

It is an amazing Autumn day.

As you munch steadily in your ring,

I wonder what this season will bring.

Short days, fog and rain,

The next day, some more of the same?

With leaves, golden and green,

It feels like some kind of dream.

With hot days long gone and winter ahead,

Thoughts of summer days leave my head.

I look across and watch the cows,

Take their advice and enjoy the now!

“Delights of Nature – Autumn” Copyright 2015

Photo by Karen King

Rusty Bracken

By Karen King

Leaves, the colour of rust, reaching out,

Like a sunbather, thirsty for more rays.

Enjoy this late Autumn sun,

For who knows when you will get another chance

Before you wither and descend to the ground?

Back to nature and your rebirth next Spring.

“Delights of Nature – Autumn” Karen King Copyright 2015

Photo of Berwick Lodge in Almondsbury

Dust Bowl

By Jessica Goody

Clouds gather and thicken, dark as smoke,
a looming blizzard of rising dust. Dunes are
heaped at every fencepost. The world has
been scoured blank, pumiced by swirling dust.

Farmers gag into once-white handkerchiefs,
slowly suffocating on gray air. Dust mounds
obscure tractor and plow; harnesses lie empty.
Produce has shriveled on the vine; this thriving

farm has been transformed into no-man’s-land.
Tousle-haired children trudge through the gray
sea, their bare feet leave tracks as they trudge
into the yard to seek supper, scavenging for food.

In this barren landscape of empty acres, hunger
grows where the crops do not rise. Silt cascades
from curtains and patchwork quilts, filling shoes
and sifting between pages of books, piling in the

corners and encrusting windowsills, seeping like
sand into each cranny and crevice. Dust peppers
their vittles inside the wooden shacks where the
wives sweep, endlessly beating the braided rugs.

The world is dun-colored, bleached by gray dust.
Arms ache with the effort of clearing the scourge.
Her faded housedress clings to her soaked armpits
and soot-smeared skin. Her frustrated attempts at

cleanliness cannot dislodge the grit blackening nails
and stiffening hair, crunching unpleasantly between
teeth. Her face is sunburned and haggard with strain.
In the washtub, her dust-dulled skin is sloughed raw.

The house creaks under the barrage of wind, wood
bleached by the force of the gale. Tumbleweeds roll
past, in a hurry, keen to to escape the stinging fog.
 The family huddles together, waiting out the storm.

After Dark

By Jessica Goody

The world is black. There is no sky, no marsh, no hills,
no clouds visible: darkness total and blinding. The road
is a blank stream. One could fall into the forest, drown

among the bracken and salt pools. One has to squint and
stare to discern the branches crocheted in mantillas of
black lace, the shaggy cypresses, the feathery pines.

The woods have been abandoned. The nocturnal populations
of bandit raccoons, the scurrying foxes and elegant, nervous
deer are nowhere in evidence. Bats swoop among the treetops.

They are indistinguishable against the lightless scrim of clouds
in the black backdrop of night. Out of the corner of your eye you
expect to see creatures menacing and crepuscular, the denizens

of Black Forest fairy tales: Fierce wolves, amber-eyed, their gaze
like the invisible moon. Hawks glare coldly with obsidian eyes, but
no rodents rush along the road to be momentarily illuminated

by my lone headlights. Alligators lie at the pond-bottom, plotting.
The silence is unsettling. Utter darkness, lacking the landscape’s
shadowy, arresting chiaroscuro. I have to search to see the stars.

Among the Fen

By Jessica Goody

A bench beneath a sprawling cypress tree
whose gnarled roots resemble thick fingers
spreading into tributary veins;

the hands of a wise and patient crone.
Birds materialize on the lake
like specks of light in the corner of your eye;

sudden flashes of black or white
against the green scrim of trees,
hidden like a picture-puzzle.

Their presence is not obvious. You do not expect them,
being so used to seeing the expanse of lake deserted.
Their appearance takes you by surprise;

you are aware of their existence only in retrospect.
you catch a glimpse in passing, as fleeting
as dust motes scattered in the sunlight.

Prayers and Apple Pie

By Lucinda Berry Hill

Mom's apple pie is finished.
Her cleaning up is too.
She sits it by the window
Letting it get cool.

The bible on her table
Holds the recipe of life:
A pinch of this, a dash of that,
And stir till all is right.

Mom peeled and cut the apples.
She rolled out dough for crust.
She sprinkled on some cinnamon
And did it all for us.

Cause that's what Mother's do you see,
They cook and bake and clean.
But the most important job she has
Is praying through the week.

She prays for daily safety,
For guidance as we walk.
She prays for blessed wisdom;
To think before we talk.

She prays that we'd show kindness
To people in our day.
And for our hearts to blossom,
Taking time to pray.

We thank God for the blessing
Of our vegetables and meat.
We clean off all our dishes.
Then apple pie we eat.

The apple pie mom made us,
From the tree branch to the oven,
Is just another way she shares
All of God's good lovin'.

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

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

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

Photo taken by Karen King of her son, fishing

Life is a Feast

By Karen King

Life is a feast
Of beauty, love and splendour.
Enjoy life.
Explore your senses.
Enthral in the colourful carnival of life.

Enjoy the taste of life.
Starters sampled.
Temptations tasted.
Festive feasts.
To be devoured.

Enjoy the smell of life.
Fresh flowers.
Fresh fruits.
The smell of Spring.
To be relished.

Enjoy the touch of life.
Hidden treasures
Upon your body and soul.
The touch of a loved one.
To be caressed.

Enjoy the sight of life.
See subtle and strident colours,
Encircling you and within you.
Follow your chosen path,
To be harmonious.

Enjoy the sound of life.
Your musical melodies within
As you sing to other souls,
Attracting those of a similar vibration.
To be joyous.

Life is a feast
Of beauty, love and splendour.
Enjoy life.
Enjoy your senses.
Enthral in the colourful carnival of life.

Karen King Copyright 30 January 2016

Photo below taken by Karen King of her son at the BBQ

Food Alphabet

By Alexandra H. Rodrigues

Of course we all know that what we eat
Not always serves the body’s need.
So here now is a sampling alphabet
Of foods that healthy standards set.

Apples, Arugula and Artichokes are good to get
Barley, Blueberries and Broccoli, but little Bread
Cinnamon, Cranberries, Cacao are not so bad
Dates for fiber, Duck and Daikon for salad.

Escarole, possibly eggs if farm fresh the case
Figs, Fish and Fennel have here their place
Ginger, Garlic, Granola and juicy Grapefruit
Honey, Herring, and tender, broiled Halibut.

For lack of food with “I,” Ice-cream, but just a scoop
Jalapeño peppers might lend their flavor to soup
Kale, Kiwi, Kabob and Kohlrabi come to mind
Lentils, Lingonberries, Liver and Lima beans I find.

Milk, it does not have to be from the cow
Nuts of all different kinds and beer by Lowenbrau
Oats, Olives, Oregano and many known spices
Plums, Pepper, Pomegranate, of Pork few slices.
Quail, Quark and Quince are healthy delicacies
Radishes, Rhubarb, Ricotta but no Roquefort please
Spinach, Salmon, Squash, Sauerkraut and Saffron
Turmeric, Tangerines, Tarragon and Tea have won.

Ugli fruit, Urchins but their value I do not know
Vanilla, Vinegar, Veal and most Veggies we self-grow
Walnuts, a glass of Wine and Water, and Water again
X nothing healthy enters at this time my brain.

Yogurt, Yams and Yellow peppers surely here do belong
Zucchini for the letter Z now concludes this, my song.

Give Food for Thought

Bilingual Poem in Spanish and English

By Daniel de Culla

DAR MATERIA EN QUE PENSAR

“Al clérigo y a la trucha por San Juan
la madre abadesa les busca”
-Dicho popular
Mi abuelo es chacinero
Hace embutidos de carne de puerco adobada.
Bien, bien
Dale, dale, dale al Tajo de la carne.
-Niño, aparéjame el Burro
Que me voy a vender morcillas.
Bien, bien
Dale, dale, dale al Tajo der la carne.
-Que me voy a vender morcillas.
El abuelo marchó declamando
Por las calles, las cuadras y corrales
Ensalzando las tripas, la carne y la sangre
En cerdosos metros.
Bien, bien
Dale, dale, dale al Tajo de la carne.
Para vender la sublime materia
Que tanto merece el aprecio
De las mujeres y los hombres.
Bien, bien
Dale, dale, dale al Tajo de la carne.
Al rodear una esquina
Le salieron cuatro gitanos
Le quitaron el Borrico
Y le dejaron, tan sólo
Las morcillas de Burgos.
Bien, bien
Dale, dale, dale al Tajo de la carne.
-¿Dónde iré yo, ahora
Que me compren las morcillas?
Iré a ese convento de Las Huelgas
De monjas cistercienses
A ver si me las compran.
Bien, bien
Dale, dale, dale al tajo de la carne.
A un golpe en la aldaba
Sale la madre abadesa
Mi abuelo en estado de rebosar erudición
Patentizando las bellas calidades
Las honras y las glorias del Cerdo.
-¿A cómo da usted las morcillas?
-A dos Euros y medio el medio kilo
Cincuenta céntimos más barato
Que en el Mercado.
Bien, bien
Dale, dale, dale al Tajo de la carne.
-Más, en honor suyo
Aquí traigo para la madre abadesa
Una morcilla reciente
Y más caliente
Con la que quedará enteramente satisfecha.
Bien, bien
Dale, dale, dale al Tajo de la carne.
Salieron las novicias todas
Le dieron una paliza
Con licencia y vete
Abandonando mi abuelo el lugar
Sin su carga, bien molido
Con el rabo entre las piernas.
Bien, bien
Dale, dale, dale al Tajo de la carne.

GIVE FOOD FOR THOUGHT

"To the clergyman and the trouts of San Juan:
The mother abbess is looking for them."

-Popular tag

My grandfather is a maker of black puddings,
He makes sausages of marinated pork.

Well, well,
Look at it, look at it,
Look at the Cut of the meat.

“Hey, boy, bring me the Ass
I’m selling black puddings.”

Well, well
Look at it, look at it,
Look at the Cut of the meat.

My grandfather marched about proclaiming
Through streets, stables and pens
Praising the guts, flesh and blood
In pig meters.

Well, well
Look at it, look at it,
Look at the Cut of the meat.
For selling the sublime matter
That is very deserving
Of Wo/Men’s esteem.

Well, well
Look at it, look at it,
Look at the Cut of the meat.

Going around a corner
Four gypsies came up to him
Taking his Ass
Leaving him alone
With the Burgos’ black puddings.

Well, well
Look at it, look at it,
Look at the Cut of the meat.

“Where do I go now?
To sell black puddings?
I’ll go to the Convent of Las Huelgas
With Cistercian nuns
To see if they want to buy them.”

Well, well
Look at it, look at it,
Look at the Cut of the meat.

With a knock on the door
The mother abbess came out
My grandfather in a state of being, bursting with erudition,
Revealing the pig’s beautiful qualities
Its honors and glories.

“How much are the black puddings?”

“Two and a half Euro the half kilo
Fifty cents more cheap
Than in the Market.”

Well, well
Look at it, look at it,
Look at the Cut of the meat.

“But, in your honor
I bring here to the mother abbess
A recent black pudding
And more hot
With it you will be entirely satisfied.”

Well, well
Look at it, look at it,
Look at the Cut of the meat.

The novices came out all and sundry
Beating him up
Bidding him go away¡
Leaving my grandfather on the yard
Without his load, well done up
With the tail between the legs.

Well, well
Look at it, look at it,
Look at the Cut of the meat.

The Scary Path Poems

By Patrick Bryant Michael

I.

Curves in the Road

Life is a series of twists and turns, leaning around curves
racing
pacing
yourself, enjoying the ride, especially on wilder swerves
spinning
yearning
for high speeds, ones that will put a real strain on frazzled nerves
chasing
speeding
down the highway of life, taking chances with tight reserves
driving
shifting
gears in transit, making love on an overpass as pervs
relaxing
sitting
back, letting the landscape pass you by, winds of change observes
riding
loving
the wind in your hair, time gets away, cosmic preserves
falling
picking
yourself up, lessons learned from nature, love and peace deserves
struggling
overcoming
the stresses of life, taking hurdles like curves in the stretch
twisting
going
round the bend, laughing, puking from the stresses like a retch
sliding
careening
round sharp curves, feeling like you are soaring in the homestretch
freeways
byways
heads in the clouds, sailing along like gods riding a ketch
asphalt
concrete
roads can break apart, on the curves creating a tight etch
undulating
following
the contours of mountainous highways, drawing out the kvetch
slewing
straightening
curves on the road, making a less complicated outstretch
wavy
serpentine
roadways bring minds into dizzy spells, eyes seeing a glitch
journeys
riverbanks
give a view of nature, rapids flowing o'er rocky shoals
banking
angling
down a steep, declining roadway, riding out rock and rolls
byroads
sightseeing
on vacations, watching out for roadwork and big potholes
winding
narrow
roadways test driving skills, going out on causeway patrols
rambling
veering
off and on the roadway, teasing the passengers, old souls
taking
arteries
racing the clock, weaving through traffic like you know keyholes
uphill
downhill
taking the curves with grace and speed, passing, the road extols
pressing
pedal
with sound mettle, taking hard curves, watching the hilltop knolls.

(c) June 27, 2016 by PBM

II.

Fast and Slow

Time is relative to masses in rotation
revolving
orbiting
other bodies transforming their force relation
spinning
navigating
the spaces between atoms, attract fixation
increasing
heartbeats
making you sweat, getting a sense of salvation
abating
resting
before a workout, avoiding your damnation
racing
accelerating
to heighten the heartbeat, the soul seeks sensation
walking
smelling
the flowers on the paths of life, in elation
rushing
getting
in too much of a hurry, with no cessation
reducing
idling
to wait out your impatience, seeking peace of mind
driving
expediting
matters of importance, in not getting behind
slackening
softening
your stance with friends and family, being aligned
crashing
charging
forward to gain momentum, being unconfined
sagging
tiring
of the world and all the struggles, feeling maligned
moderating
retarding
the growth of new dimensions, heart and soul refined
zipping
weaving
through traffic like a crazy man, being streamlined
delaying
souring
on old propositions, wanting new, you are primed
whizzing
fleeing
the ordinary, taking risks, wild oats to sow
quiet
meditating
gaining a sense of peace, feeling a warmer glow
swiftly
stronger
emotions issue forth, finding a new plateau
tepid
looser
choices than you are capable of, still you crow
sooner
expeditious
decisions that bring successes as with escrow
lesser
sparser
earnings for your efforts, a time for you to grow
timelier
promptly
doing what you should, embracing your afterglow
shorter
tighter
when put in a tough spot, not having enough dough
harder
urgently
dealing with tough issues, gaining better insight
guitars
rhythm
first slow, then faster and faster, in the spotlight
drawing
being
creative, slowly painting pictures, your birthright
dashing
dancing
in the rain, hearts beating faster in the twilight
draining
closing
doors that were once open, bridges burned to incite
opening
spreading
your wings of love, for the heart and soul to excite
pacing
standing
your ground when family is in trouble, a rite
hotfooting
impetus
creating a faster pace, finding new foresight
dawdling
sluggishly
doing what you should, resting when you feel the pain
resisting
embracing
the soul to gain nature's value to your domain
bolting
sharply
taking the curves in life's road, strengthening your brain
pokey
dragging
butt after enduring too much, then to abstain
rashly
speeding
into crowds, laughing, acting like you are insane
wearily
crawling
on the floor as if gravity wants to detain
whirling
spinning
like a top, losing sense of balance, staying sane
lazing
slowing
to a snails pace, the mind sensing legerdemain.

(c) July 16, 2016 by PBM

III.

Twisted Paths

In San Francisco there are crooked little streets
confusing
bemusing
little houses where the poor live with the elites
receding
misleading
others with close knit patterns that offer repeats
competing
intriguing
innocent, twisted people living in retreats
composing
imposing
twisted rules on crooked people, between the sheets
incurring
recurring
paths with wicked curves, screwing up normal heartbeats
derailing
unveiling
crooked paths uphill, downhill, heart and soul competes
perusing
seducing
the mind into believing nursery rhymes, tweet tweets
amazing
embracing
the cosmos to feel a mystic force, twisting twice
invading
creating
a fantasy world, where the twisted roads entice
inhaling
exhaling
while running a twisted course, breathing - a device
entering
exiting
back and forth on a crooked path, a vicious vice
pursuing
debuting
new dimensions on a twisted path, throwing rice
varying
ferrying
on a twisted canal, trying to be precise
surveying
portraying
life in twisted ways, making the normal suffice
repeating
retreating
to places in the past, with a roll of the dice
comparing
exploring
crevasses in dark places, the face twists up fast
increasing
decreasing
the pulse to be aware of time and space recast
discharging
enlarging
the scope of exploration, twisting to find contrast
converging
emerging
loss of reality, insanity may last
conforming
reforming
never sure of crooked paths, trying to outlast
regaining
containing
the forces of evil, straightening, feeling aghast
exclaiming
inflaming
those around you, twisted love making a real blast
asserting
reverting
to a sense of normal, twisted love unsurpassed.

A Cosmic Garland

Poetry Collection by Durgesh Verma

1.

A Cosmic Garland

“You can see
a pretty palm.
which tries to preserve
drops of rainfall.
Each tiny drop
touches this hand
and gets spattered
in million segments.
Segments of thoughts
are similar to rain.
It enters entirely into mind
with precipitate.
Some collide with inner conflicts
and dissipate.
Some aim for peace
and emancipate.
Let's exchange the views
with fluorescence.
Search spiritual existence
in the theme of essence.
With courage
and without
a sense of
discriminate.
The young budding flowers of the muse
could open their aromatic petals
for a cosmic garland.”

2.

Cosmic Affection

“The sun melts down
for an another sunrise.
The stars twinkle for us
to give a pleasant surprise.
The moon becomes cool
with sanguine surmise.
The entire cosmos gaze us
with infinite eyes.
For what? –
For spreading
a ray of genuine hope. For sick and silly situations
which need to cope.
If you feel solitariness
in the crowd of the busy bee hive.
Raise your eye,
talk to the horizons of the sky.
You'll find
a universal beam of affection.
Despite having to familiarize with
your inhuman attitudes and imperfections.”

3.

The Lost Feather

“Those golden memories
exists till now.
Which we remember
and happily say wow!
When the
beautiful canary
of childhood existed
in the alluring islands of the past.
Her chirp
mesmerized us.
At present,
which we lost.
Its agile eyes
used to search
those pink flowers
of nectar.
Which were blooming
in the calm lake
and acted as
an eternal effector.
The cruel jaws
of maturity
have snatched
those wings.
Now,
we easily
do believe
in showy things.
Have you ever remembered
those childhood days -
Where's the childish craze?
Where's the catchy image?
Where are those sweet chirps? Where's the flowery lake?
Where's the eagerness of the birthday?
Where's the taste of those cakes?”

(Prologue: In the autumn of 1803, the young mathematician, Carls Friedrich Gauss, was on his way by
post coach through Prussia to the city of Königsberg. Gauss had wished to show Kant
his thesis  “Disquisitiones Arithmeticae”, in the hope, that at least Kant would
understand this widely disregarded work. Kant, unknown to Gauss, was
losing his battle against sanity,  and would arrive too late
to acquire the philosopher´s interpretation.
His mind had already surrendered to the formidable foe.)

GAUSS AND THE LAMPS OF HELL

By David Thorpe

The journey had begun at the crack of dawn,
the evening sky was already dyed by a setting sun,
coach man, horses and the only passenger needed rest
at their abode for the night in the next village

On their arrival the welkin had taken the colour of jet,
thunder clouds had usurped the twilight,
lightning struck, illuminating for a brief moment
the downpour of rain, turning the highway into mud

On entering the inn the warmth was a welcomed greeting,
other than the silent looks from clay pipe smokers,
even the cat stared with deceitful eyes at the intruder,
before disappearing into the inhospitable darkness

The young man´s slumber was as restless as the rumbling heavens,
he awoke to the solemn peel of the solitary church bell,
and the sound of murmuring people with hurried footsteps,
on their way to the house of worship

His curiosity told him to dress with haste
to run down the stairs and along the cobbled street,
following the fright possessed  villages filling the pews,
to hear the  reverend´s proclamation of dread

“Beware, the necromancer again is on the prowl,
out there in the swampy marshes,
the lamps of hell fluoresce and illuminate
the entrance to the necropolis of Hades,
to guide him to the souls of his victims.”

The cries of fear resounded in the belfry,
astounded by their common ignorance,
Gauss interrupted the preacher´s predict
and explained the phenomenon of the glowing lights,
they being  chemical reactions* and not to be feared

As dawn spread out her wings over the eastern horizon,
full of despondency Gauss continued his journey,
aware he had failed to convince the superstitious villages,
clutching still their crucifixes and scapulars,
proof that the devil  over science had gained the upper hand

*The earliest attempt to scientifically explain the causes of ignis fatuus
(will o´ the wisp) was by the Italian physicist Alessandro Volta in 1776
when he discovered methane.

David Thorpe ®© 2016

Your Subterranean Soul

By Karen King

Your subterranean soul searches, endlessly, in the night,

Why continue this way? It is not right!

You scurry, like a rat, through the corridors,

Every door, you must ignore.

Everywhere you turn, doors despise

And torture you before your eyes.

A squeaky, wooden, door is marked, “more pain”,

You decide not to visit there again.

A towering, metal, door is marked, “more fear”,

Another direction, you must steer.

A dark, dingy, door marked, “numb”,

Sometimes welcome, but that is dumb!

Doors marked, “anger” and, “madness”

Lean next to each other, supported by, “badness”.

Turn away, there is a shaft of sunlight,

That shines, subtlety in the night.

Follow it through the rubble and dark,

Follow the calling of the lark.

The better way is waiting to be taken,

Just turn around and awaken.

On you go, through the dust and pain,

Tripping and stumbling, again and again.

As you traipse, your clothes stick,

Your tongue sticks to your teeth and feels thick.

Your wet hair dangles in your eyes,

You desperately hope for a surprise…

Up ahead, you see a door made of gold,

Glittering, graciously. It is very old.

Open the door and see what’s inside,

No longer is the time to hide.

Like Santa’s grottos, all your treats wait here,

Do not turn away and disappear.

“Paranormal, Mythical and the Dark Side – Book Four” Karen King Copyright 2015

Zombies

By Karen King

Half dead, nailed into the coffin – so dark inside,

Left and forgotten - in hell you hide.

Maggots materialise, slowly devouring you skin,

This is a death in which you’ll never win,

For you are still half alive,

Poisoned by a puffer fish, deprived of its last dive.

Your soul is elsewhere, but your body lies,

Awaiting, decaying, in one long sigh …

Yet not properly alive, yet not quite dead,

This is a subconscious nightmare, which many dread.

The damp, the dark, the cawing of crows,

Awaiting to pluck out your eyes and nose.

Buried alive, for seven days,

A temporary home in which to stay.

Soon, your eyes will see the light of day,

Your body someone’s slave, but your soul gone away.

“Paranormal, Mythical and the Dark Side – Book Four” Karen King Copyright 2015

Summer Night City

By Sonia Broadbent

"Lazy mornings"
Lazy Sunday mornings
Curled snuggled in your bed,
Wrapped up in your arms dear,
With your chest under head.
Your heart beats a tempo,
It’s calling out my name,
A soft steady rhythm,
Like warm summer rain.
Each beat tells a story,
It plays out a song,
Straight from your heart dear,
A melody I long.
The sun streams on in,
In soft golden glow,
It caresses your face,
Your smile is on show.
Lazy Sunday mornings,
With you lying next to me,
It feels like I’m home dear,
Where I want to be.

By Sonia Broadbent © 2017 – All rights reserved

Summer Night City

By Karen King

They heard the sirens screeching and the parties pulsing.

The sounds slowly reached through the open window

Of the couple enjoying the summer night.

In their own way.

In their own time.

The smell of barbeques and fiery heat

Wafted through the room as the couple

Turned up their own heat.

They reminded themselves of their touch.

They reminded themselves of their taste.

They gazed at each other as their separate images faded,

Becoming one as the light faded in the room.

The sun slowly set,

The fiery sunset streaking the sky,

Golden, glistening streaks of joy.

The sounds dwindled outside their window

As day turned to night

Whilst their breaths of excitement increased

As all sense of time was forgotten.

The past and future no longer existed

As they gave themselves to the present.

As they gave themselves to the future.

Karen King Copyright 9 July 2017

Their Love was Hard

By Karen King

Their love was hard,

Like rugged rocks

Jutting out of a mountain

And scree that stopped them

In their tracks

Before they even began

Their ascent.

Their love was hard

As one challenge after another

Presented itself

To be understood.

There were always easier routes;

Long winding paths,

Or maybe even paths of avoidance.

She tried to take alternative routes,

Or old, beaten paths,

Providing comfort.

But he wouldn’t let her.

Their love was hard

As their lives lived tumbled, twisting

In unseen hands.

Yet, moments of joy,

Fun and laughter,

Filtered through the cracks,

Giving them hope

As they travelled together

On their new-found path.

Their love was hard,

But they had gone too far

To turn back.

She was scared to move on,

She was scared to lose him.

She was scared of the future.

She was scared of the past.

Their love was hard, but

In that moment,

She lost herself to him.

She felt she loved him,

But she didn’t know about

The next day.

She didn’t know about

The day after.

Their loved was hard

And they loved hard

As they climbed the mountain together

To new heights in

The long summer’s night

Of the city.

Karen King Copyright 9 July 2017

Whims of nature

By David Thorpe

High above the bordering trees,
from our balcony we gaze in wonder
at the welkin attired in a setting sun,
the beauty of which we never tire

The shoreline promenade far below,
where hustle and bustle unbridled
and tourist fracas mark the hour,
remains a chain of silent lights

The sounds we hear are whims of nature,
a patter of rain on thirsty leaves,
whispered caresses of itinerant breezes,
at times the calls of home-bound gulls

Alas, the river of life ever onward flows,
a return to reality too soon to bring,
yet summer will again bestow
a balsam for the scars of winter

David Thorpe ©® 2017

When Jenny Died

By Dr. Benjamin White

When Jenny died
I took a ride at midnight
To cruise Central Avenue
Like I use to do
Thirty years ago
When I came to know
Albuquerque
Through her kitchen
And her wisdom
And in her representation
Of the hometown
She connected me to –
A small, slow and sleepy
City with a history
Told in family stories
And shared with neighbors
When everyone knew each other
And had no desire
To deviate or initiate change,
As right and wrong
Fit and were comfortable
In the green-chile-
And-tortilla culture
Of self-sufficiency and separation
From the rest of the country –

And Jenny knew
What there was to know
Rooted so deeply in the culture
And community
She had seen grow
Too big
Too wicked
Too full
Of foreign strangers
From California,
New York
Mexico
Or, like me, Kentucky –
But she wouldn’t leave
And would always represent
The reasons I always returned
As I tried to find the same feelings
Lost now in subterranean layers
Of a fading past
Disappearing too fast.

Though I felt it that night
On Central;
Old Route 66 –
That old, out-west
Spanish romance
Coming back to remind me
Of those first affections,
And yet, sadly, to find me
Realizing
My connections were gone.

And that I should be, too.

God's Firefly

By Lucinda Berry Hill

What was God thinking
When He made the Firefly?
Was He thinking how beautiful
Summer nights would be?
What was He thinking
When He made their tails light up?
Was He thinking of the children
And the joy on their faces?
What was God thinking
When He made so many?
Was He thinking that together
Their tails could light a dark path?
What was He thinking?
Perhaps, that we should be like them,
Let our lights shine, and together
We could lead people home.

I want to be God's Firefly.

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

Still Searching

By Alexandra H. Rodrigues

She may have known me in another life
At no other solution, I can arrive
She called me Magdalena in my dream
A name that quite strange to me does seem.

I had not heard this name for a long time
In this life for sure it was not mine
She hugged me and kissed me
Appeared happy with our meeting to be.

Do we go thru cycles to clean our soul?
Are we obliged to perfect spirit and all?
Have in the past we missed to earn eternity
Why must all that till the end a secret be?

In the dream, it rained and wet me thoroughly
The surrounding could have anywhere been
Neither hostile nor friendly, just normal it was
Nothing would show me this dream’s source.

The name Magdalena now sticks to my mind
Any kind of explanation I would love to find
I don’t recall it has been mentioned to me before
Now I search for a sign that opens this door!

Aug.07, 2017

Devotion

By Alexandra H. Rodrigues

This is an autumn day of special charm
The air is mild and pleasantly warm.
The water in the canal ripples steadily along
Waves like liquid silver whispering a song.

Outside I sat on my bench, not at all cold
While thoughts of a lifetime of me did take hold.
Here I had spent the majority of my past life
As daughter, mother, lover and wife.

It is calming when one comes to realize
That in nature all does in a circle arrive
When for the first time I had seen the Bay
“This is amazing” to my husband I did say.

The same expression comes today to my mind
Peace and tranquility in those words I find.
Despite the times when major floods hit
I do not see reason to move away from it.

Days like this one just now
Make me to the waterfront my devotion vow.

Letter to Dad

By Alexandra H. Rodrigues

This goes back a long way
I was not even ten years old that day.
My Mom was writing to Dad and so was I.
He had to leave us, I did not know why.
Mom said if I pray God will keep Dad safe.
Safe from what? Mom added, Dad is brave.
So I write:
Dear, Dear Dad. That you had to leave makes me mad.
I cannot sleep, all night I toss and turn in bed.
I miss your kisses! Is your absence fault of your boss?
Tell whoever that I will not put up with this loss.
Dad you are smart so think of a trick
Which will allow you to come back really quick.

I put this letter aside. It did not seem quite right.
Finally wrote: “Dear Dad, I love you. Miss you day and night.”
I saw Mom sadly wipe away a tear,
Write fast: “How are you, we need from you to hear.”
Life often confuses us when we are a child,
Many happenings accompany us through adult life.

Summer camp

By Alan Catlin

off season, light
evening rain
turns to fog

over pond by
dawn; emergent
forms call out

each to each
as loons are
wont to do

These Barren Fields in Late Summer
after Vincent

By Alan Catlin

Hay stacked besides
still water. Heat shivers

above dried fields.
Crows plunder all those

barren, exposed roots.
The sky stretched thin

as taut wire, vibrating
where wings assault

the air.

The Long Hot Summer

By Alan Catlin

Still nights raw with heat
and the scent of spilled gasoline.
The ground so dry it aches for
rain that never comes.
Even the weeds dying, all the tall
grasses brown and seer like straw.
Nothing moves but beer drunk
youths, their thin torsos slick
with pitch and sweat, Zippo lighters
ready to crisp another wood
framed barn, to torch another field
just to watch the flames, the smoke
smother yet another hunter’s moon.
Their feral eyes are as red as coals
that have absorbed all available light.

The Times They Are a Changing':
Summer Late 60's, Death & Transfiguration Blues

By Alan Catlin

Brush cuts and slacks transformed
into long hair & bell bottoms, jeans
patched over worn through holes,
ripped fabrics becoming functional
art forms, wearable works in progress,
underage drinking pints of cheapest
Vodka available to young men, drinking
it straight or with warm Coke mixtures
replaced by roll your own dabs,
communal water pipes, filtration systems
containing bottom shelf white wine,
sharing a smoke of many dreams, deep
sixing beers, wild laughter in the dark,
near hysteria, wired on acid rock, protest
songs, folks singers socially aware &
Vietnam no longer some way out there,
unimaginable place in the back of stamp
albums under French possessions but a
subject for subterranean homesick blues,
songs of sorrow and lamentation for picket
lines & protests, summers of love drowning
in blood, an alcoholic purple haze, secret
agent's orange, mushroom like clouds, what
did it matter? What was that sound? Draft
riots and FBI files, Big Brother & His
Holding Company, register with your draft
board, pick a number & die, Uncle Sam
a skeleton with Death Watch Beetle eyes,
a paranoids worst fears realized, up against
a wall mother faker, 'it's all over now, baby
blue', 'it's alright now Ma, I'm only bleeding','
'blowing' in the wind,' blues.

Utica 1970

By Alan Catlin

Behind rococo orange brick apartment house on hot August, summer day. So humid it feels like monsoon weather. Like a hung over sky in weird colored gray fading to something else during partial solar eclipse no one told us about. Too poor to afford a quarter for a newspaper. No job, no future in draft-eligible after- graduation months reading Ulysses and wondering what happens next.

Near the canal, sheep look up-
even the beasts grazing
in the fields puzzled!

HE SAID IT IN THE HOSPITAL

By Lyn Lifshin

isn’t much like
you’d imagine
they’re joking
paraplegics putting
on rock n roll
loud to bug some dudes
who just like Aida.
We were glad to be
coming out of the jungle,
not in body bags.
First day out with my
new leg and I think I’m
hot stuff, don’t know its
got this spring-loaded
thing and I twist on
a bar stool and my
leg spits and flings
itself out, yanks a
brief case of this
man’s arm and throws it
across the floor. He
gives me a funny look.
Then once one foot
turned around so
I looked to be
walking backward and
forward and a kid
pointed it out
and said look at that
man as his mama was
hushing. You’d be
surprised what I can
do with it. But,
Honey, there are
some things it’s more
comfortable to
take it off for

Twisted Paths

By Patrick Bryant Michael

In San Francisco there are crooked little streets
confusing
bemusing
little houses where the poor live with the elites
receding
misleading
others with close knit patterns that offer repeats
competing
intriguing
innocent, twisted people living in retreats
composing
imposing
twisted rules on crooked people, between the sheets
incurring
recurring
paths with wicked curves, screwing up normal heartbeats
derailing
unveiling
crooked paths uphill, downhill, heart and soul competes
perusing
seducing
the mind into believing nursery rhymes, tweet tweets
amazing
embracing
the cosmos to feel a mystic force, twisting twice
invading
creating
a fantasy world, where the twisted roads entice
inhaling
exhaling
while running a twisted course, breathing - a device
entering
exiting
back and forth on a crooked path, a vicious vice
pursuing
debuting
new dimensions on a twisted path, throwing rice
varying
ferrying
on a twisted canal, trying to be precise
surveying
portraying
life in twisted ways, making the normal suffice
repeating
retreating
to places in the past, with a roll of the dice
comparing
exploring
crevasses in dark places, the face twists up fast
increasing
decreasing
the pulse to be aware of time and space recast
discharging
enlarging
the scope of exploration, twisting to find contrast
converging
emerging
loss of reality, insanity may last
conforming
reforming
never sure of crooked paths, trying to outlast
regaining
containing
the forces of evil, straightening, feeling aghast
exclaiming
inflaming
those around you, twisted love making a real blast
asserting
reverting
to a sense of normal, twisted love unsurpassed.

"The Brighter the Journey,

the Darker the Shade"

Poetry Collection

By Alan Catlin

On the Road

He liked
his eggs
over
easy
liked
his women
that way
too
Took
as many
as he
could
for a
night
and then
moved on
Liked to
get away
as fast
as he
could
Didn't like
to be tied
down to
one place
too long
That was
the way
he was
and there
was no
changing
him
Women
waited for
him to
come back
but he
never
did

The Loved One

He was
showing off
his swing
to a
complete
stranger
by the
bar
Talked
as if
golf
was what
made the
world go
round
His wife
was saying
to me:
"There's nothing
wrong with him
He's always
like that
He'd play
golf in a
thunderstorm"
She was
probably
wishing that
he would too

Smile

She was
one of those
crazy inane
people who
wears Smile
buttons, says
"Hi, my name is
Eleanor, I'm
a Libra, what's
your sign?"
Has a house
full of
Norman Rockwell
plates she paid
a small fortune for
buying on time
from the Franklin
Mint, says, "I
always vote a
straight Party
Ticket no matter
who's running."
Talking to her
was like talking
to a black and
white TV set
that can never
be shut off
She never actually
seems to leave
wherever she is,
she evaporates slowly,
dissolving in time

In Cold Blood

They looked
like desperados
on the run
the way they
laid their helmets
on the bar and
unzipped their
leather jackets
They'd been riding
hard for hours
had the look
of mean men in
motion even
standing still
They wanted
something warm
to burn the chill
off Wanted heat
for some cold
blood they'd lain
down in a long
bright line beside
the highway

the big easy

he was on
the fast track
to arrive in
hell in a hand
basket riding
a custom
craft with
plush seats
loaded with
options and
a plastic death
head red eyes
on the dash
battery powered
blinking like crazy
with a crucifix
wrapped around
the rear view along
with rosary bead
love tokens ready
for a big easy
mardi gras
witch’s Sabbath
he wanted to play
a principle part in

Many Roads I Have Travelled

Poetry Collection

By Karen King

Leaves

They cling to the branches,

As we tenuously cling onto life,

Desperate to stay the same,

Frightened to move on,

Even though nothing feels the name,

Even though nothing stays the same.

The season has gone,

The moments have past,

Their juice is no longer full of chlorophyll,

Yet they have colours of infinite joy.

They travel, tentatively, to the ground,

Aware of hidden dangers.

What lies beneath the ground?

What lies beneath the other leaves

We feel like the leaves

As we are forced to feel

The force of life,

As they feel the force of nature

We have to move with the present

And go with the wind

As it urges us to

Surrender to life.

Let life take you forward,

Follow the winds of your dreams,

Flow with the river,

Down streams to another world,

Down streams to a new world.

Don’t cling on for dear life,

For fear of change,

Or you will lose your vitality,

Gradually dying and losing colour.

You will become brittle and brown,

Hardened with misery

And unrelenting boredom.

Why not let yourself

Be taken by the wind and the rivers

As they breeze and flow with your life?

The sun will shine on you

And you will be blessed

If you follow the seasons

And surrender to the forces of nature.

When you eventually fall to the earth,

Your body will decompose,

Like the leaves in Autumn,

Ready to be reborn in the Spring.

Let the trees show you the way

As they stand, bare, in the winter,

Waiting for new life to revitalise them

As new buds of leaves

Wait, unfurled, to show their splendour

In the Spring.

Take time out

And build your energy,

Let your body and mind heal

Ready to reborn and revitalised

In the Spring.

Love Lies

Love lies scattered on the shore,

Like crushed seashells.

Sometimes sparkles catch your eyes,

At other times you wince

As your feet are cut,

On these shards of glass.

Yet, the beautiful seashells gleam

When the water washes them,

Cleansing them, invigorating them.

Their colours shine in appreciation.

They belong in two worlds,

The underwater and the earthly.

They are the travellers
And accept their two worlds
And they go with the flow of life.
Perhaps man should do this too?

We need to open our eyes

And be fluid with life’s changes.

The sand is a tiny, but important

Part of the seashore.

Soft, enveloping and warm.

It moulds to us as we journey
Both at the seashore

And when turned into glass by man.

Both the seashells and the sand
Make the seashore beautiful.
The seashells echo love
And the sand invites love.

Take the love of the seashore

Into your hearts and hold it forever.

Old Keys

Old keys, old locks,

Old doors, old drawers.

There have been many keys in my life

That have been broken.

Two broken engagements;

The first man had a squeaky voice

And was the frog

That never became the prince,

But I was young.

The other was an ex-marine,

Whose Father was in prison
For bank robbery.
He stole my heart
With his charm,

But he was abusive,

So I left him.

There have been many doors in my life,

That have been shut.
An off-road cycling career

That never got off the road.

A photography career

That tore in half.

A rock musicians’ career

Where the strings snapped.
A motorbike and a gym instructor…

I have been all these things

In my mind.

How about becoming a writer?

Oh yes, I forgot, I am a writer,

Spreading love through humanity…

Many roads I have travelled,

Day trips and holiday destinations.

Trips to London, the National Trust,

Camping weekends, trips to Europe.

England, Ireland, Scotland, Wales –

The good old U.K.

The Channel Islands –

Between England and France,

But with such Continental flavour.

I have only lived in two houses all my life,

One in Bushey Heath, Hertfordshire

And now in Houghton Regis, Bedfordshire.

Thirty years in one house and sixteen in another.

I don’t move around much,

It would appear from the outside…

Now, I sit in jail,

Depressed and down,

Too scared to leave,

Yet not fully living.

Do I leave England for Anglesey

And start again

Or should I just give up

And exist, barely alive?

I need to be strong,

I need to be brave

And throw away the old keys,

For they are rusty,

Like the old locks that wait

And the old, broken doors.

They will only lead to rooms

Full of old desks and drawers,
Where the paper is stained yellow
And the pens no longer work.

I have no use for them now!

It is time to find the new, shiny key

That will unlock the new door
To the new home for Vincent and me,

Which will lead to new desks and drawers,

Full of clean pads of paper and fresh pens awaiting…

Old keys, old locks

Old doors, old drawers.

“Pictures and Poetry Book One” Karen King Copyright 2017

Beyond the Clouds

A Poetry Collection

By Alexandra H. Rodrigues

Will She Win

There was a contest in Uppermount
For the fairest maiden in towns around
Irena had all the needed attributes of kind
Also, a good sharpness of the mind.

It was the softness of her skin
That assured the biggest price she win
Touching her skin made one select her blind
Any judge her most attractive would find.

At the contest also showed another girl
Dainty and gracious with a cute reddish curl
Irena was quite aware of the competition.
In order to assure that she would win the mission

She played up to that judge with the ugly beard
Till what her lover who was with her had feared.
Touching her skin, one would select her blind
Any judge her most attractive would find.

The judge thought Irena’s play was for real
With clumsy hands, he began her breasts to feel
Irena knew that she had gone much too far
Sent a pleading look to her lover in their car.

Her beau did blow the horn extremely loud
The judge let Irena go to see what this was about.
Irena and her lover quickly drove away
Leaving the judge with the other girl to play.

Your Choice

Why should one not live in a world of make believe
Where easily one can refuse to worry or grieve.
Imagine to be showered with the gift of love
Where you can change anything when things get tough.

Why must we see matters the way they really are?
Why should one not be able to call near, what is far?
Why not, at times when it hurts to be alone
Invite make-believe persons into your home?

Possibly where most of us go wrong
Is that we procrastinate in doubt too long.
We lament and suffer in our woes till we get stuck.
Instead to attempt by mind-control to change our luck?

When life plays dirty tricks, it is up to us alone
To decide which key to play, to find the right tone.
Avoid to feel sorry about what is happening to you
Or the universe will be forced to consider it true.

Suffering is registered in a big charcoal black book
During worry, the devil refuses to let us off the hook.
If on the other hand we manage the dilemma to ignore,
Destiny gets the hint that the connection we tore.

The trick is to be convinced that all is well.
That will make the devil choke in hell.
Get rid of whatever is burdening you,
Experience the world as being perfect and true.

Beyond the Clouds

Far removed from earthly life all new
I picture a future and in it is you
At a stage different from love and lust
We will have arrived bound by trust.

Earthly matters required a short delay
Neither you nor I had much of a say
As our two souls ultimately melt together
We sense that this stage will be forever.

Bodily desires of the flesh will be gone
Two souls now shared heaven as one
We will be engulfed by a mesmerizing light
Millions of once human atoms our guide.

Paris at Midnight

By Jennifer Lagier

Lovers contemplate moonlight on water,
embrace, share their dreams, hidden by shadow.

Passing bateaux overflow laughter,
cheering students, trail distant music.

Along the left bank, book sellers and bistros,
colorful backdrops for romantic drama.

Passion rumbles from ancient stones.
Fountains pulse and arouse.

Along the Seine, empty pill vials,
abandoned brassiere, violet thong hint of scandal.

Pere Lachaise

By Jennifer Lagier

Our guide, Jean-Jacques,
tells us stories,
reads inscriptions
on mausoleums.
Marks a map as I
explore a city of death
with expatriate friends.
We pass grandiose memorials.
Angels and antichrists decompose
beside housewives and saints.
Fading lipstick kisses polka dot
Oscar Wilde’s neutered sphinx.
According to rumor, a bureaucrat
anchors his paperwork with
the severed stone sex.
Someone has stolen Jim Morrison’s
bronze bust, a poppy and twist
of marijuana left in its place.
Gertrude Stein holds her final soiree
among deceased literati.
Effigies of the Buchenwald slaughtered
hold hands and dance.
Cabaret after Sunrise
Once the Moulin Rouge closes, tourists are
sent back to five star hotels, accounts settled,
indiscretions forgiven, slumming concluded.

Seductive courtesans call it a night, wander
home to single beds, feed the cat,
set out tea and biscuits, decide to sleep in.

Daylight scrubs away most erotic adventures.
Young dancers wash their faces, cover up
flawless breasts, pull on faded levis.

Red windmill rotor blades whirl.
Montmartre resurrects; a fresh shift of
pickpockets spill from the Metro.

The ER

By Tomas Sanchez Hidalgo

On my first try and in the singular
I passed that multiple choice driving test,
and we drank that night
the rest of the world,
up to a seventh seal.
Eyes for you blue
of February’s blue blouse
after things that go Boom!
viscous ER-shaped
my horseshoe and blood tongue,
after blind light in front
of daybreak’s wheel:
bitterness’ puzzles
in Nazarene and Shrove Tuesday.

A Stroll Through Paris

By Tomas Sanchez Hidalgo

Early in the morning,
I go for a walk
through the Père-Lachaise cemetery:
in search of lost time
I ran into Gertrude Stein
(and on the other side Alice Toklas
it’s Alice Toklas
it’s Alice Toklas),
and into Delacroix guiding the people;
pictures in front of
Oscar Wilde’s tomb
(winged deity
on its front,
work by the sculptor Jacob Epstein,
off of which some collector
cut the penis),
in front of Jim Morrison’s,
by far the most visited,
in front of Molière’s and La Fontaine’s,
adjacent to one another,
in front of the enduring
beauty
of the pantheon
in which
Eloisa and Abelard rest,
medieval lovers,
in front of Piaf,
Duncan,
Callas,
in front of Balzac.
And while hundreds of Japanese
record all of this,
the world
keeps turning
likenothingwasgoingon.

A Stroll Through Milan

By Tomas Sanchez Hidalgo

I walk down a street,
near Via Manzoni,
on my way somewhere,
thinking about nothing:
advertising on the walls:
“Wash them in holy water”,
an Italian jeans
manufacturer
suggests
with respect to
its latest star product,
into which a spectacular model
with a studied lovemaking stare
squeezes
her voluptuous curves
as
her almost only article of clothing:
advertising on the walls,
thinking about nothing.

A Crepuscular Yearning

By David Thorpe

With sails of enchantment
billowed from whispers and sighs
on my raft we ventured forth,
along a coast of moon blessed night,
rising and falling with the swell
of torrent waves

Your guiding lips my compass
to steer across your torrid tropics
the heights of Cancer,
the depths of Capricorn
till a cry of sweet salvation,
a pastoral landscape in sight

As flotsam and jetsam
washed ashore,
on a beach of promiscuous palms,
where lucid thoughts,
by our insanity were banished,
ere they broke our sidereal spell
of a crepuscular yearning

David Thorpe ®© 2017

Photo by David Thorpe

Music for All Seasons

By David Thorpe

Warmer breezes caress the strings of a consenting harp,
an Elizabethan sonnet of pastoral lyrics in unison to play,
the slumbering nature thereupon to be enticed
to shed its doleful blanket no longer welcome,
but rather a harassment to rays of sunlight,
eager to germinate the seeds of spring blossoms,
their fragrance a balm for an awakening heart

To a Chopin waltz the acacias in full leaf
gently sway sheltering two lovers in their shade,
to escape the heat of summer, from which scented gardens
derive their thirst, as the thirst of love of impatient lips,
longing to taste the nectar sweet and unfurl the flag of passion,
releasing the wings of desire to fly and there to nest
´neath the sensuality of virgin breasts

The “Water Music” of Händel predicts the autumn rain,
dampening the fallen leaves awaiting their dispersion;
November rides on early mists of dawn,
enshrouding the day with humid kisses,
till darkness usurps its rival in a winning battle,
and love withdraws to find the cause misplaced,
once held high on the cherished standard,
now put in question before a disconcerted jury

Beethoven´s “Silence” reflects the image of mute darkness,
frozen speech unable to express the profundity of sentiments
in search of warmth and affection ,
hibernating within the apathy of the winter of love,
exhausted from scars of a thwarted battlefield,
better a time for contemplation of more intrinsic values,
decisions of priority to be taken, should the unbolting of sluice gates
wash away with the torrent, the foundations of sensibility

David Thorpe © ® 2017

Relive Life

By Alexandra H. Rodrigues

I spent time giving it serious thought
A negative response the idea me brought.
After I took seven slices from decades in my life
I did at the following conclusion arrive.

To copy a previous experience seems a futile task.
Double pleasure, double sorrow, one would grasp.
There was meaning in how it all has turned out
Why again should I walk along the identical route.

I rather continue to taste what life still does hold
Search for a fresh, invigorating road.
The past shall forever remain the past
Time, as is, passes anyhow by much too fast.

In the time that is left, for all it is worth
I allow new happenings to take birth.
New endeavors wait daily at the door
There is truly no need for an encore!

As You Like It

Act II, Scene VII

All the world’s a stage
William Shakespeare, 1564 - 1616
Jaques to Duke Senior

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

Poetry for the Modern Man

Collection by Alan Catlin

"All the Poets Have Cell Phones"

No longer do they roam from
field to field, they cruise instead
from one Web Cafe to the next,
tossing off lines like fast food
wrappers discarded by the side
of the road or stock quotes,
ephemeral as the Morning News,
as impersonal as the subject of
a work in progress making
New Age acronyms Art.

All the poets have cell phones
to close deals with, arrange dates,
signings and readings at chain
stores, major independents, venues
large and small, staging happenings,
reservations, intimate dinners for two,
any and all provided that the price is right.

Since all the poets have cell phones,
they have no need for relics like
muses, meter, syntax, rhythm or
rhyme, no need for spirit guides
through the underground, idealized
lovers for inspiration, call my agent,
he'll set up the time, the date, the place.

Now that all the poets have cell phones
all they need is a detailed road map,
calling cards, major plastic, a flexible
credit line and a rolodex to set their
goals and objectives, clear their calendars,
and let their minds roam free.

Poet's in the Park July 14, 2001

Polite homeless drunks
sip Hurricane Malt Liquor
from aluminum cans
at outdoor Washington Park
poetry gig, listen to in-French
chanson, don't even whistle or
ogle young babes in halter tops,
tight jeans, walking by roadway,
honked at by passing motorists,
even laugh when second reader,
Pierre, pauses to allow two Harley
hogs to pass making a barnyard quip,
motorcyclists obliged to maintain their
image of noise making fools, hit the gas,
supply muffler rattling contrapuntal
riffs to readings and songs, though there
are no police or ambulance sirens
during crucial closure lines, no Christian
rock band- 'Jesus Is Love'- lyrics
for the listening, just silent police
cars cruising Park while most
of the Force is further downtown
for huge free Summer Jazz Fest,
keeping other men in blue busy
emptying parking ticket books,
arresting serious drunks, weekend revelers
with an attitude, all missing Pierre
evoking the spirit of poetry in Memorial
verse for Paz, extending a sun metaphor,
the creator's light at dusk on this
Bastille Day, Pierre's birthday;
his gesturing to the sky summons
circling overhead police helicopters
instead of new age of poetry.

Edgar Allan Nobody

All the poets he admired were
opium eaters, laudanum users,
sallow faced scarecrows tainted
by sickroom visions of soul
draining women and of death,
wrote graphic verse in archaic forms,
language so mannered it was
a caricature of the lines he read
aloud dressed as some kind of
Beau Brummell on-the-way-to-a-funeral,
sixties stoned retro that went with
his affected Velvet Underground
tone, a Lou Reed sound alike with
the hint of a lisp and vampire lovers
cold from a grave, thought the tepid
response his work received meant no
one got what he had to say rather
than the obvious, that they did and they
thought that it sucked; thought
that chain smoking Gauloises and drinking
until he puked, on stage and off, marked
him as the genius he was meant to be instead
of the drunk he would become.

Blind Man at the Open Mike Reading,
Social Justice Center, Albany, N.Y.

fingers tracing the words, “A rash
of them,” he says, fingers tracing
the patterns across, then down
heavyweight bond paper, never missing
a line, a beat, a syllable, an image,
turning multiple pages piece, a long
imagistic, visual, lyric poem, describing
warm days and nights, near public gardens,
in downtown parks, at Occupy Albany rallies,
sites, encampment, protesting corporate
injustices against working people, the ill
and the infirm, the disabled and handicapped,
“injustices that anyone could see,” he says,
“even a blind man.”

Featured Reader, Third Thursday Open
Mic for Poetry, Albany, N.Y.

The poet’s last read in
used book store space,
advanced cancer of throat
reducing voice to sparse
whisper no liquid can
refresh. Deep breathing
between short pieces,
he collects himself,
reads on, ruminations
on current affairs, lyrics
evoking beauty of nature,
life; thanks us all for coming,
shakes hands with the assembled,
firm grip and a smile and
then he is gone.

Jazz

By Jessica Goody

Patterns catch the eye, crawling along wallpaper
and upholstery in a melange of colors and textures,
rendering the room as exotic as a harem, draped with  
vivid slipcovers of Moroccan arabesques and damasks.

The wallpaper blooms humid tropical foliage,
blood-red blossoms unfurling behind the heads
of odalisques reclining on striped pillows, the divan
curving beneath them like the body of a lover.

A backdrop of vibrant fabrics curtain the room like a seraglio.
Oushaks and kilims burn underfoot as the light shines
through the lacework windows and shuttered doors,
where beaded lamps drip crystals atop runner-draped tables.

Orchids and potted plants crowd every surface, swarming
the carved mantel and bowlegged iron tables. Lovingly arranged
into precisely disheveled still-lives, the palm fronds spread their
graceful green arms to the sun, tendrils inching upward like ivy.

Joyful nudes dance along the walls. Cobalt blue outlines
like police silhouettes stretch and tumble, leap and caper.
Tinted ultramarine, the color of distant horizons,
they resemble woad-stained Celts, rangy of limb and sinew.

Matisse lies abed in his atelier, industrious as Proust,
surrounded by a sea of colored paper, scattered leaves
and whimsical shapes that might be flowers or flames,
strewn petals drifting to the floor like shards of glass.

Casa Azul

By Jessica Goody

“Cobalt is a divine color and there is nothing so beautiful for creating atmosphere.”
-Vincent van Gogh

That magical blue, royal, cobalt, indigo
catches the eye like a sailing ship amidst
the industrial grays of cinderblocks and
city sidewalks, so blue you cannot look

away. You have built your own palace,
your own temple, a shrine to creativity:
golden steps lead to a mythical paradise
of vivid birds and steaming foliage.

Bright banners form a paper rainbow of red,
purple, yellow, green fluttering in the breeze.
A kelly green door, shamrock-vivid, inviting;
parrot-colored tables, red-rimmed doorjambs,

and window frames gleaming electric orange.
The yellow bistro tables in the courtyard are
surrounded by chairs, a school of tropical fish
swimming against the intensity of blue.

Mesoamerican idols, thick-lipped and wise,
sit like Buddhas among the trees, contemplating
the sky. Potted plants stand ready to receive
their sage advice. Carved wooden spoons and

painted pans hang on the kitchen wall, inlaid
with Talavera tiles in geometric yellow and
blue. Clay bowls and copper baskets gape, as
shiny as new coins, waiting to be filled.

The spices, herbs and oils might be talismans
for shamans and curanderos. The rich oil and
plastic scent of paint fills the room. The wood
table is cluttered with bottles and tubes, each

squeezed and rolled like toothpaste, their tips
clotted and scabbed with dried paint. Here the
consummation of tint and hue are performed,
the yin and yang of colors: Red dips to blue,

begetting purple. Red is diluted to pink on the
advice of white, and meets yellow in secret,
their affair siring sunset. The wheelchair sits
empty, the shadow of her silhouette no longer

pressed into its cushions. The canvas waiting
on the easel will never be filled. The huge old
canopy bed, the convalescent’s chamber, is
out of place among the decorations, primary

colors, the statues and painted furniture.
Here you lay stranded, a plaster golem,
sweating, itching, pained and restless inside
the concrete carapace that binds your broken

vertebra. Bedridden, you lay on embroidered
pillows, spending endless hours contemplating
the ceiling, decorating yourself with rings on
every finger, and floral garlands in your hair.

Madonna and Child

By Jessica Goody

Full-lipped Madonnas hold swaddled babies,
their cloths mingling with the dewlaps of dark mantles
and bell sleeves of their Renaissance-maiden gowns.
Sloe-eyed and olive-skinned, their gazes held
by the fat golden cherub in their arms.

Cupid babies, plump and ruddy, the mothers
dark-eyed, their long hair falling over oval faces,
combed straight and center-parted above
round foreheads and elegant Roman noses.
The devout look of the mother,

sure of the purity and charm of her innocent child.
Her mantle is brown, the tawny chestnut of a fawn’s
hide instead of Massicot bluish-grey, delicate as a dove;
the color of Mary’s mantle, demure and serene.
The twin curves of shoulders, neck and bosom bared,

her linen chemise loosened for nursing.
Red, the most important color, symbolic
of life and death, joy and evil alike,
the longest wavelength in the human eye
possessor of infinite names, like the titles of saints:

Madder, Realgar, Vermillion,
Cinnabar, Carmine, and Sanguine dust.
The red of Christ’s blood as he hangs
suspended and sweating in a trance,
swooning with a masochistic high,

Gandhi-gaunt and pious in a homespun loincloth.
She is a Persephone, sorrow staining aubergine
beneath her eyes, downcast and pensive,
her long elegant fingers plucking at her face
in the anguished penance of one clad in a hair-shirt,

mourning the brutal undoing of her gentle son.
Five hundred years later, her pain still radiates
in waves, unrelenting, her face the chalk-white
of bones smeared on canvas. Vestments rendered
in the yellow spices of Saffron, Gamboge, Burnt Sienna,

Orpiment, Ochre; and in mud of Sienna and Umber,
Medieval browns for monks and priests. She visits them,
aching for solace. There is a therapeutic quality
in the calm hush of white halls, the flash of colors
alternately tranquil and joyful emanating from the paint.

Ornate and massive frames, scrolled and curving like waves,
gilt triptychs as thick as mantelpieces,
heavy enough to crush a body should they fall.
Five centuries have not dulled their golden patina,
nor the vivid colors they encase, classical colors

with antiquated names: The emerald of Verdigris,
Fabulous as plumage, regal as peacocks, tinctures
distilled to the essence of light, crushed chemicals
toxic and volatile copper, iron, lead, sulfur, antimony, arsenic.
The magical blue of Azurite,

Ultramarine powder smeared on the eyelids of dead queens,
the cobalt stain of an unblinking eye aptly named royal blue.
If she had stood here in this gallery, gazing into the eyes
of stoic, patient mothers and rosy infants,
she might have achieved a sense of closure

from the pain of her lost child. She did not know that
his courage and kindness would be immortalized by painters.
She knew only love, and suffering.
She did not know that suffering can be
transcended by beauty, and love intensified by pain.

***

Below, you will find Charles E.J. Moulton's entire composition
about his family's home town of Kalmar in Sweden.
The copyright belongs to Mr. Moulton,
but singers are free to print it out and sing it at concerts.
Poetry and music in the midst of life.

Making Music

By Patrick Bryant Michael

Music is the breath of life for the romantic
pianos
playing
all genres in concert is sweetly fantastic
strumming
guitars
with soft melodies may seem sour or tragic
thunder
lightning
make loud sounds, nature's music is startling, frantic
working
playing
together is music of a different tactic
developing
being
creative is a form of music, more manic
teaming
together
is a music made for being more bombastic
comedies
tragedies
bring bittersweet times that turn to the pedantic
skating
performing
for friends is a form of music, showing poise
reading
stories
shows new ways for music that the mind employs
sporting
events
bring cheerleaders and support music for the boys
marching
trumpeters
trombones and tubas with a kind of counterpoise
radios
bestow
music on the ears while driving, spiritual joys
television
concerts
reward the watcher, listener with sweeter convoys
listening
taking
in the sounds of the forest, those that annoys
walking
strolling
hand in hand with a girl, the time that one enjoys
humming
singles
heard on the radio, ones that stick in your head
chanting
tuning
into the cosmos, meditating a bridgehead
sailing
soaring
in the clouds high above, music by dragonhead
dances
circles
of love cause ambitions to rise, music well fed
lyrics
written
by artists create impressions, by seeing red
producing
seducing
the minds of musicians, a transcending godhead
jamming
instrumentalists
keep a rhythm in the mind, music is not read
rocking
robins
sing a song of love, their music being purebred
albums
recorded
by an engineer, mastered music is flowing
schooldays
daydreaming
comes without warning, the music speaks to roaming
operas
symphonies
give music precise story telling, foreboding
choral
orchestral
performances enhance each show, candy coating
mellifluous
sounding
performances are music to the ears, floating
sonic
vibrations
are nature's music, the Universe is humming
making
whoopee
is music for lovers, heart strings always drumming
living
loving
each other, the music of all life is crowing.

(c) May 3, 2017 by PBM

Adventures in Love

By Patrick Bryant Michael

Romance, an adventure in finding love over time
dating
opening
doors to mystical horizons, trying to stay prime
meeting
touching
hand on hand, eyes focused on each other, as hearts climb
dancing
looking
into the eyes of each other, smiling at the crime
holding
onto
your lover like it does not matter, it is sublime
groping
making
advances to stir the libido, bringing enzyme
teasing
toying
with each others emotions, so parting seems like chyme
working
playing
with each other, forgetting about love's paradigm
lying
around
with each other, making love when the time seems just right
soothing
emotions
of each other, staying up late, vampires at twilight
showing
compassion
to each other often, watching stars in the moonlight
romancing
spinning
tales of love to show how you feel, finding your own light
living
being
yourself more than ever, love frees your soul to take flight
bending
letting
go of regrets, freeing the heart and mind of all spite
pushing
away
rivals using trickery, smart ploys, rather than fight
standing
taller
than your opponents will, for their friendship to invite
making
repairs
on the relationship when loss of love seems gloating
pursuing
romance
with your lover, trying to keep the romance flowing
lighting
candles
to celebrate life and love, candlelight is glowing
maturing
learning
wisdom along the way, with enlightenment growing
tasting
temptations
along the path to romance, no one is all knowing
training
teaching
others how to find their path, by example - showing
fantasizing
subconsciously
making a wonderland for lovers, easygoing
sleeping
dreaming
of pleasures within depths of the soul, wild oats smoking
exploits
taken
to make romance an adventure a new reverie
hunting
mixing
and matching of good times, maintaining full synergy
risking
passion
for love of life, taking ventures for pure levity
researching
studying
all aspects of romance, looking for true revelry
driving
risky
for the thrill of it, yet not risking full brevity
hiking
venturing
about to explore wilderness, absent treachery
climbing
upper
limits of your skills, overcoming true liberty
living
loving
from the bottom of your heart, instilling bravery.

(c) June 9, 2017 by PBM

Charles E.J. Moulton as Danny Zuko in "Grease"
Musiktheater im Revier
Gelsenkirchen, Germany
2010

Make Music

By Lucinda Berry Hill

It can soothe a crying baby.
It can wake a sleeping spirit.
And minds that can't remember,
They do, the ones who hear it.

I imagine from the beginning
Music notes were made
From all that God's hands touched,
From each thing, His hands had laid.

The ocean waters cracking,
The jingle of the stars,
The whistle of the unseen wind
As it blew from near to far.

So sing a song of worship.
Make music for the Lord.
It's sure to bless the hearts nearby
And certain to sweeten yours.

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

Music From My Car

By Lucinda Berry Hill

Songs on the radio
Playing in my car.
Music to my ears.
A message for my heart.

Songs about Jesus
Can melt away my frown,
Can teach me something new,
Can lift me when I'm down.

Even when I'm drifting,
Not paying much attention,
The word of God still reaches
My heart, it's destination.

Listening to the lyrics,
Words about the Lord.
Tapping on the steering wheel.
Tapping on the floor.

I'm thankful for my radio
And songs that I can sing.
Nothing makes my heart dance
Like singing 'bout my King.

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

Just Skip

By Lucinda Berry Hill

Skipping through the fields.
Skipping 'cross the town.
Skipping left and right
Is how to get around.

Skipping up a mountain.
Skipping through the dark.
When skipping with the Master
Nothing seems too hard.

You cannot skip in anger.
You cannot skip and cry.
You cannot skip without a smile
And here's the reason why.

Skipping is like music
Made with every step.
Like a song of praise from your lips
Giving God your best.

When you sing a song to Jesus
You'll begin to feel His peace.
Sing a song, sing it long
And play it from your feet.

Sing a song of love today.
Let your lips sing songs of praise.
Let your feet play music for the Lord
As you skip throughout the day.

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

Japanese Beech

By Karen King

This beech tree, like a Japanese work of art,
Still rejoices in the colour and life of the Autumn.
Its beautiful branches fall gracefully
As if serenading a pretend partner.
Unbending trees stand near this graceful, gentle tree,
Their grey, dour auras drawing me closer to my Japanese tree.

“Pictures and Poetry Book Two” Karen King Copyright 2017

The Dryads in the Woods

By Karen King

Did you hear the Dryads?

The Dryads in the woods?

We stepped through the woods,

Aware of the heavy presence

Of the trees, dripping with rain,

Their remnants of leaves

Grimly clinging to the

Lichen-clad branches.

The grey sky pressed down on us

And the leaves threatened to engulf us

Deep into the core of the earth

With each step we took.

As we walked on,

The air felt heavier,

The woods became darker

And a sense of another world

Enveloped us.

We felt disorientated.

The silent woods watched

As we traipsed on.

The damp earth whispered its depth

As we continued

And the trees spoke of their strength.

We felt we were intruding.

We took another step,

Determined to head towards habitation.

Unexpectedly, the sound of birds singing

Was heard by us, as if turned to full volume.

The stereo sound echoed through the forest

And was overwhelming and enchanting.

It was hypnotic and beautiful.

We were confused by the music

And sped on as darkness nipped at our heels.

We escaped the woods,

Back to the joyful sight of normality;

People sitting having cups of coffee.

Later, I realised, that the music

Was from the elementals

And discovered that the sounds

Were made by the Dryads;

The female protectors of trees

And lovers of music and poetry.

How blessed we were and how perfect

That we should hear these strong nature spirits.

Next time, you walk through the woods,

I will ask you…

Did you hear the Dryads?

The Dryads in the woods?

“Pictures and Poetry Book Two” Karen King Copyright 2017

Charles E.J. Moulton as a nun in the opera
"Le Compte Ory"
Musiktheater im Revier
Gelsenkirchen, Germany
2006

AN INTIMATE ACT OF LOVE

By David Thorpe

November would never have been his choice,
even less to face it alone,
a drear day with depressive drizzle,
his mouth protected by his dampened scarf,
from the oppressive air pregnant with fumes
of grimy chimneys

Terraced houses his sole companions
in their drabness homogeneous,
no word of consolation to be acknowledged,
social contact today he shunts,
a time of sad remembrance

The scattered leaves of naked trees
across the windblown playground scurry,
which with lamentation awaits to hear
once more the cries of joyful children,
come next spring

Alone amidst the silence he stands,
just “the two of them” in hushed reverence,
flowers he so carefully carried
adorn with grace her sentinel grave,
an intimate act of love

David Thorpe ®© 2016

Goaldium

By

John Frazee

In this all too often cold and barren land
What lies out there, what’s left to hold onto
What can we tell the children when they ask?
Where’s someone to worship or look up to

A land so perfect it seems to glow
Tell them of this place where there are no rules
Even running with scissors is allowed
Love reigns and the streets are lined with jewels

Can you see it from where you stand right now?
When long time childhood memories persist
A realm of such breath taking importance
And a place where true beauty still exists

Goaldium is not for every one
Ice cream trucks are made from silver and gold
It is for the young or the young at heart
It is not for those who wish to grow old.

115th Meditation

By

Teresa Ann Frazee

Fragmented thoughts propagate in the resting place of a single recognition
Released from their grasp, tensions shall ultimately pass or drop drastically behind
Excavated moments squirm, liberated from ones buried debris of consciousness
Taking refuge, harmony leaves its amorphous print on the meditative mind

Spellbound eyes, barely registering, focus on violet lights that never go out
Sabbath white textures encourage the poet's wit and the painter to wet his brush
Entering nameless worlds, undetected by instinct, where reality's denied
As muttering mantras, born of euphoria are absorbed in a calming hush

From disturbed liars, creatures with off balanced limbs rub their backs against jagged rocks
Crouched, angled postures cavalierly validate their claim to an erratic existence
Sparks from trampling hooves flicker, appearing like ghostly flames without the terror
A warm breeze dismisses the present, carrying their airborne howls into the distance

Fingertips lightly touch, establishing the authenticity of the here and now
Within the bounds of enlightenment, rootless branches grow entangled through the pavement
I walk motionless amongst lords with flowing embroidered robes atop mosaic towers
And with empathy, fly aside birds whose glinted wings flutter, free from confinement

Being awake and alive under the skin gives a soul the most exalted sensation
This natural resource for insight with banishment of angst and decreased acrimony
Diverts from routine, as worries are now extinguished with an interconnection,
With the vastness of the universe, encroaching toward, a personal epiphany.

The Mystic Shroud Poems

By Thaddeus Hutyra

1.
“Mystic Shroud”

Shroud of life
are your paths
in your Earthly endeavors
with all their shine
and associated shadows.

Shroud of love
is that first eye contact
that is like enchanted wand
followed by lifelong magics
of both of you in arms.

Shroud of you
is the density of air
you are breathing in
and painting
with inspiration.

Shroud of you
are all the little things
in your life
ultimately proving to be
the big ones.

Shroud of you
are choreographic stages
of your own life
with a credo now or never.

Shroud of you
is your ultimate consciousness
you the reflexion of God
across the multiverse.

Shroud of life, shroud of love
shroud of you
is the heart and the soul
of you and me
in the paradise shell
forever and ever!

"Mystic Shroud" by Thaddeus Hutyra

2.
"Shroud of Love"

Shroud of love
is you, my goddess
The ecstasy
of my heart
the elixir of my life
dawn of eternal hope.

Shroud of love
is our spring, my honey
We are engaged
in the gusts
of feelings, eroticism
up to the blue vault
of the skies.

Sex bosons
are our kingdom!

Shroud of love
is our summer, my sweetheart
We are already married
and our flaming minds
are home we have.

The ardor of love
is still consuming us
Endlessly!

Shroud of love
is our autumn, my darling
Our family nest
is welcoming new children.

Everything is
on a good track
Divine care
favoring us.

Shroud of love
is our winter, my dearest
Meritorious old age
closes our Earthly life.

We are still listening
to the melody of life
ready to welcome Our Lord.

Shroud of love
is our whole life
your heart and my soul
your soul and my heart.

Shroud of love
is the weave
of our passions
and mutual devotion
forever and ever, amen.

"Shroud of Love" by Thaddeus Hutyra

3.
'Passions' Whisperer'

Flowing is your beauty
in the noble wind
displaying bosons
gifted to you by the Lord
my dear passions’ whisperer.

Your gentleness is the air
that I breathe in
with the touch of a wizard
magical one
my dear passions’ whisperer.

Your feminine subtlety
are the souls I can feel
in the worlds
of otherworldly dimensions
swirling around us
and within us
my dear passions’ whisperer.

Look at you, look at I
how we are
expressing our love
Pure art!

As if the world
became the Universe
on the wings of the tides
never ending!

As if our hearts
were the noblest homes
there are
in the entire celestial worlds!

As if you and I
were one only wholeness
never ever to be separated
to the tunes of harps and violins!

As if we were it all
poets of starry rays
painters of our passions
choreographers of our very lives!

Shape of you
sweetly enslaves me
The paradise passionfruit!

Giving me a million of reasons
to stay in the womb
of our love!

Playing music of divinity
one of endless notes of sparks
Being my deja vu!

O’ my passions’ whisperer
song of all songs!

O’ my passions’ whisperer
symphony of all symphonies!

O’ my passions’ whisperer
goddess of all passions
shroud of love!

'Passions' Whisperer' by Thaddeus Hutyra

4.
'Beauteous Whisperer'

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

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

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

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

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

In the mornings shrouded by mist
you are there!

In the afternoons shrouded by Sun
you are there!

In the evenings shrouded by twilight
you are there!

In the nights shrouded by eroticism
you are there!

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

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

'Beauteous Whisperer' by Thaddeus Hutyra

Happiness

By Alexandra H. Rodrigues

She was since birth completely blind
Him, an accident had left disfigured behind
Through touch and words they had each other found
A sincere happiness them together bound.

A child to them was born
With eyes, large and blue like corn
They agreed to call their little girl Joy
A trait the child did readily and frequent deploy.

When Joy came of age, she more and more did reject
Shortcomings because of her parents’ defect.
So, Joy made it for her career the goal
With modern science to remedy it all.

It took sacrifices and dedication for years
Times of hope but also of failure’s fears
Then finally came the day
When the efforts with results did pay.

Father’s skin grafts showed results
He looked better than some other adults
Mother a first glance at her husband and daughter took
Her eyes expressing happiness with every look.

Like a fairytale all this might sound
But no, it was a family by utter love bound
Theirs was a heart and soul connection
Happiness they were awarded for this affection.

A Moment in Time

By Alexandra H. Rodrigues

A photo is a true evidence of a moment in time
A clock makes its minutes every hour to rhyme
The shutter of a camera shoots what is real and whole
The video records facts, ignores heart and soul.

A painting might project what the artist does feel
Thus it also with the power of the moment does deal
A sculpture is created of marble, bronze or clay
It transforms the moment in the artist’s own way.

When poets and writers create, the moment shines thru
Music notes with soul, what out of the moment grew
A song or a poem will use melody or prose
To immortalize what in a special moment arose.

Art puts its mark on the moment all the while
Producing different treasures of varying style
Each and every moment in time
Can turn mediocracy into a creation divine!

The Princess ABC

By Alexandra H. Rodrigues

A delheit was the Princess of the castle
B uilt on lush land, a beautiful parcel
C elebrate did she her 16th birthday yesterday
D aintily like a Rococo doll she did sway.

E very year of her young life, up until now
F or vacation plans from King and Queen she did bow
G rown Adelheit finally independence sought
H appily a ticket to a fancy sea resort she bought.

I can swim, ride a horse and drive a car
J ust for a week I’ll have fun, the place is not far
K nowingly her parents although in doubt
L et her go to learn on her own what life is about.

M onday came when Adelheit left for her spa
N eedless to say the sendoff carried a lot of trara
O nce on the train the princess began to wonder
P lenty of luxury at home caused her to ponder.

Q uite uncomfortable and dirty was this train
R olls Royce car rides had never produced pain
S everal hours later she reached the chosen resort
T ired, to keep her eyes open became an effort.

U neventful in her hotel room to sleep she fell
V ery early she woke up with the passing train’s bell
W anted breakfast with an egg in a cup
X cited she listened to the roar of the sea.

Y et suddenly she wished with her parents to be.
Z esty but not as promised it was to be grown up!

Drawing above by Dr. Benjamin White

Cup-of-Coffee Philosophy

By Dr. Benjamin White

As I stare
Into the brewed grounds
For images
Of a future filled
With repetitious hopes
And emerging thrills,
My cup-of-coffee philosophy
Sits half empty cooling
In a saucer
Pooling aromatic flavor thinking
With cream swirling
And sinking
Into ripples
Of gentle disturbance
As spoons full
Of circular stir
Clink the china
And blur
Black into an easy
Karma-colored realization
Of caffeine spirit
Transcending the scene
With what it means
To let
Intellectual reflections
Piece together possibilities
Percolating with the steam
Of a closed-kitchen dream
Where the linoleum
Checkerboards across
The uncomplicated yes-and-no
Of foretold destinies
Sipping the tasteful luxury
Of being –
Simply being.

The Story of How We Met

By Jake Cosmos Aller

It all began in Berkeley, California
In the spring time of 1974

One fateful afternoon
I was doing in my high school
Physics class.

I looked up and saw
A tall, beautiful Asian woman
standing looking at me.

I screamed out,
Who are you?

She disappeared
like she was beamed away from my dream.

I knew that someday I would meet the girl
In the dream

Little did I know
I would have to wait until 1982

Starting that month
I began having the same dream
Month and month and month.

Always the same.
She was saying something
To me in a strange language.

Then one day I had the dream
and knew that she was in Korea.

So, I chose to go Korea
In the Peace Corps,

Somehow knowing
That I would meet her there.

One day I was in a foul mood.
I had decided to give up on dating Korean women,
And on women in general

After having had several relationships
That did not go anywhere.

I was thinking of returning to the States
For Graduate school.

That morning early in the morning
I had the last of these dreams.

This time I understood her.
She said, “Don't worry.
We’ll meet soon.”

That evening
As I was getting off the bus
To go to my class
I saw getting off the bus
The girl in my dream.

It was she!
I was speechless.
I did not know what to do.

Over the course of the evening
I ran into her several times.
Finally, I was introduced to her.

I muttered some lame excuse
About wanting to find a Korean tutor,
and got her number.

The next day she came to the gate of my base.
Where I was teaching ESL to Koreans

She said that she had to speak with me.
I told to wait in the library for about an hour,
and I would cancel class
and meet her then.

We went out for coffee.
She told me that she was madly
in love with me

And simply had to have me.

I told her I felt the same way.
I proposed five days later,
And got married one month later.

Does she believe this story?
She claims she does not believe it
Because it is impossible to be true.

But I know that there are other worlds
And other times.

In a past life we must have been together somehow.
And our love was so strong
That it crossed over the barrier of past lives.

She found me in 1974,
But it took until 1982
For us to meet.

And it has been 26 years
Since we met in the physical sphere
Or 37 years since the dream began

And I still recall the dream
And meeting her

I had no choice
When I met her

We were fated to be together
Until the end of this life time
And the next and the next.

Fate Intertwined

By Jake Cosmos Aller

May 1, 1999

It was many a year ago
Eye 15 years ago
That I was born again

When I met the love of my life
Who took away my sins, my fear
And my self-doubt

And I began an adventure
That has not ended
Together we have moved
Down the path of Life

And together we shall move on
Forever and a day

Our souls intertwined
Our fates bewitched together
Forever more

My love
My hope, my dream, my eternity.

Chasing my Tale

By Karen King

I run around in circles,

In desperation.

Looking for the right words,

Looking for the right feeling.

Sometimes it can take me seconds.

Sometimes I walk away,

Only to have inspiration minutes later.

I may find myself in the flow

As words come into my mind,

As if from nowhere.

Or, I could find only blankness

And I am lost in the darkness of the woods

As writer’s block hits me.

I run around in circles,

Chasing the words,

Chasing my poetic tale

Until the words are captured

And put on paper.

My words are like a seed in earth,

Ready to grow when exposed

And, hopefully, they will be nourished.

I hope my seeds

Will be planted in people’s hearts

And the ink will remain on the paper

Forevermore,

Like a pressed flower,

Remembered in time,

Kept in a special place

Its colour and form everlasting.

Karen King Copyright “Pictures and Poetry Book One” 2017

Destructive Relationships

By Karen King

They tore me apart,

Limbs hanging off me.

Blood dripping down,

The pain driving into my heart,

Like a destructive dagger,

Having the last word.

Yet, my etheric body was already broken,

As thoughtless word after word was thrown,

Each syllable having a portent power,

Which filled me with dark energies to the core.

Before, their silences

And lack of communication

Worked their way through me,

Stopping me cold in my tracks.

A breakdown truck

Worked its way towards me,

Hurtling through a construction site,

Skidding and crashing on arrival.

It crashed into me and

My emotional and mental

Torture were buried in the ground,

Waiting for healing.

My soul screamed for salvation,

Wanting a release from destruction.

It wanted a new life.

It formed a new path.

My soul formed a constructive site.

Trees, birds and a new house

Worked their way from the spirit world

To the physical world

And awaited my arrival.

Karen King Copyright “Pictures and Poetry Book One” 2017

Empty Sky

By Karen King

I look at the empty sky as I empty my mind.

The clouds remind me of

The thoughts in my mind.

Some scurry past, some drift past,

As if they have

All the time in the world.

Some linger, like a bad smell;

Dark thoughts gathering

Before a thunderstorm.

Others gradually become backlit,

Tinged with hope

As the sun embraces them,

Leading them to brighter times.

Let your mind be the sky -

An empty canvas.

Let the thoughts go.

Stop reminiscing about the past,

Stop worrying about the future.

Just relax, enjoy the beauty

In this moment,

For how many more will you have?

Let your mind be the water on a calm day,

The beautiful blue sky reflecting

All possibilities of inner stillness,

Peace and hope.

Let it all go

And just be.

You don’t have to go anywhere.

You don’t have to do anything.

Just stop and time will slow down

As you slow down.

Your body and mind will become one.

Full of potential.

Full of love.

As you become who you were all along,

A picture of peace.

A picture of love.

Look at the empty sky as you empty your mind.

Observe your thoughts,

The dark and light as the echo the clouds above.

Let the thoughts go as they travel through your mind,

Some are freight trains, others are bicycles,

Some are like tractors stuck in the mud.

Let the colours of your thoughts,

Let the colours of the clouds

Go

And calmly drift away…

Paint your perfect picture of calmness

As you open your heart,

Like you have opened your mind.

Spread your new-found-joy

And it will spread throughout humanity

As we all wake up to our true selves

And live in this hidden paradise.

Karen King Copyright “Pictures and Poetry Book One” 2017

The Letter

By Billy Malanga

Dear John, you entered a cell through a steel food hatch on the gallery. He was so glad to see you, then you issued your ruling like a capricious king with a burning scroll you proclaimed: She was no longer willing to live in her own Siberia or starve for him. Her love had faded she was gone now. You made him insane. He wanted to escape the razor wire and track her down.

Dear John, you whispered and licked his ears with your tongue that night. His bed sheet was no longer for embracing, it became his God. It was the only thing in that cell that would bring comfort and answer when he called. When he opened that letter it was like pulling the pin on a grenade. The blast was too much inside that cell.

Dear John, you sat crumpled on the bed as his gray feet dangled in rotten air. He hung from the light fixture by that sheet, like cured tobacco leaves. Amber colored puddles of piss and shit formed on the cement below his dark face, beetroot and eyeballs fixed.

Dear John, you destroyed that singing jailbird and wounded me in measured sentences. You can do many things in this world. You can be a liberator a mentor or a killer. The shrapnel from that blast pierced many people. The image of him hanging, the smell of his waste and the sounds of staff and radios rushing down the gallery would sway in my mind forever.

Angel

By Billy Malanga

High above the labyrinth
of mountain stone
in the silence of a lion’s jaw,
I felt your fiery brilliance
against my neck. You appeared,
a beautiful cosmic light to my dark forest.

How could I have flown
high enough to breathe
your raging flame or free
what waited inside,
by heeding restrictions
placed on my flight?

Who cares if I drown
without wings in the
Icarian sea or wash up
dead on the shore?
I believed your words
before you whispered
them to me. I still do.

Now, I pull you out
of the burning star
again, and again, in the
same spot where you
marked the blue passage
of fate between us
that night.

Nothing Finished

By Billy Malanga

Why keep kidding myself?
I am getting more disgusting
and tired as I age. It has taken
fifty-five years to compose
these lyrics. The crows around
my eyes are closing in on me.
They have migrated up from
my balls to my face and
there is nothing I can do.

I once dreamed of going west into
free land, where horses and guns
settled everything. Where flawed
whiskey lovers in dusty towns
chased me into the hills.
Now I look at the faded dress blues
in my closet, I am ravaged, I am
transience, mutilation, and pain.
Death is coming for me. Nothing
lasts. Nothing finished.

Partyin’ with Elvis

By Janine Pickett

I met Elvis on the bus
we were going to a party
but we argued, him and I,
over who owned
the blue suede shoes
laced lovingly over my feet,
yet rolling lovelier still
over the tongue of his song
we decided on a truce,
he sang, I danced,
blue shoes were given
to the convicts
and the county jail, they say,
has never been the same since

The Art of Being Elvis

Poetry Collection by Alan Catlin

Elvis Country

"So I said to this
first class jerk who'd
been hitting on me for like
hours down at the Wagon
Wheel-'Who died and
appointed you Elvis?'
Which really pissed him
off royal like I was
questioning his virility
or something. The last
thing female that laid him
went BAAA and more
than likely that was in
his dreams too, then I said,
'And furthermore you've
had too much to drink!'
Them’s fightin' words in
the part of Elvis country
he hails from. I can see it
in his eyes, ‘Should I whale
the bitch or let it ride?’
It was the moments
hesitation did that sucker in.
I let him have it across
the chops with the business
end of longneck. Laid him out
flatter than road kill on the side
of an interstate.” That last
confession was like the deciding
factor between buying those
pretty as Mom's homemade
apple pie girls a round or
not. Guess the only way
I'd be going to their corner
of Elvis country was with a
paid admission to Graceland
and a remastered CD of
The Greatest Hits of the King.

Just Another Third Rate Elvis

He was the price you
paid for not seeing
things through all
the way like advanced
degrees that kept you
from nowhere jobs in
dead end hotel lounges
slinging drinks and
watching this third rate
Elvis imitator who must
have thought he was like
the real thing. And so did
all those going on late
middle-age-and-afraid-to
admit-it single or pretending-
to-be-single women carrying
on a very open love affair
with what was hopping
around on the stage
screaming and yelling as
Elvis Jr. did his thing
with his hips, cranking out
Blue Suede Shoes like
there was no tomorrow,
saving My Way for an
encore that would have
the lookers in the first tables
removing their undergarments
and tossing them on stage.
It was like common knowledge
among the staff, those broads
were paid to disrobe and
we weren't supposed to know
or let on if we did, so of
course we told everyone
we saw it was a scam
and, of course, they would
say, 'You're just jealous.
You wish you could be
like him at the end of
the night having the pick
of the litter.' To which I
would reply, 'You got that
half right.' At the end of
the night, I'd like to be
counting his cash in
the dressing room instead
of what I'll be counting
behind the bar, not saying
I knew what picking from
a litter meant, and it had
nothing to do with picking
the choicest girls.

Velvet Elvis's Temple of Doom

Just my luck,
the most outrageous babe
I've had the chance to hook
up within like years and
she turns out to be beyond
weird. Maybe I'll write my
memoirs and call them,
“Horny Man, Crazy Women”,
it ought to be a best seller
for the title alone. Anyway,
we leave the bar & go to
her place & isn't it lit up,
no lit up is wrong, isn't
the place like some sort of
cave with red lights in all
the ceiling fixtures & aren't
all the walls covered with
pictures of Himself spanning
the whole career from Memphis
Hound Dog years through
the Elvis does Hawaii, I'm in
the army now, all the way up
to, I'm the King in Vegas years.
You can't be anywhere in
that apartment without the eyes
of Elvis on you. Remember that
poster of Morrison from the 60's
whose eyes seemed to follow you
everywhere? This was worse.
I won't go into the bathroom decor
but I will say it's the first time
I ever saw a commode cover
with his face on it & I hope
it's the last. I was going to ask
her what the deal was with
the interior wattage when she says,
"I know what you're thinking,
in this light all the men look
like Elvis" I'm not sure
if I should feel privileged
or freaked. I will say trying to
make some music in the bedroom
was a trip, what with that Velvet
Elvis hanging above the headboard.
I thought women who had crucifixes
with a bleeding Jesus on them &
who cried out His name as they came
were weird but this was ten times
worse. Somehow you knew you were
never going to measure up to
a legend. It's real tough to get
the old engine running with that
in the back of your mind. I consider
myself lucky to have made it out alive.

24 Hour Elvis

The cinematic record of his life oared
down to super slo mo. The young,
handsome Elvis you could only see from
the waist up. The movie star Elvis on
Creole, in the Army, Vegas, Hawaii,
the sequined Elvis, dodging panties thrown
on stage. The fat Elvis, bloated and
girdled, lethargic, high on pills. Elvis
with a gun and a badge with Nixon,
Elvis bent over a toilet, Death holding
his hand with a syringe nearby poised
and ready. It only takes a few seconds in
real life to die, but for 24 hour Elvis,
it takes forever.

Elvis in the Off-Hours

During work hours he is
like all the others; a man
scarred by his job, skin blackened,
heat seared, an extra layer of film
and sweat on his body a kind of
slimy, almost gritty to the touch, skin,
clothes soiled from residues, back
drafts, working too close to the pits,
the maddening scuffle of machines
and men in a chamber built to channel
noise, smoke and soot rather than
to disperse---. He wears a hard hat
and safety glasses everywhere he
goes inside, keeps his gloves draped
over his belt for ready access,
a soft pack of Marlboro Reds in
his short sleeve shirt pocket with
the standard issue, ever ready Zippo
lighter, impervious to weather, Un-
expected drafts, the rolling sweat
from his brow. After hours, he is
another man, sitting on the edge of
his white dressing room table,
this shrine to his idol/mentor,
painted plaster busts, collector item/
limited edition decanters, record album
covers, posters of The King displayed
all around the dressing up area;
bare white light bulbs, his hair slicked
back in a 50's wave, black silk shirt
buttoned part way up, skin tight black
jeans and rhinestone studded Garrison
belt; in profile he is the image of the man,
off-stage, rough and ready to greet
the crowds, the adoring fans, to perform,
maybe, even, to sing.

Extreme Art

Lampshades made from junk
mail, planters, pots, clock facings
and vases; a neighborhood map
made from multi-colored crack
baggies found in the gutters and
on sidewalks of those same streets;
a gaping yaw, a lair, made of twist
ties and garden hoses; a floor to
ceiling mural made if duck sauce
packets; decorative paisleys fashioned
from blood, gold leaf, resin and clay
on wood; an allergy series made
of contents of vacuum bags and poly-
urethane; a human skull like a death
mask from dried orange peels and
prominently stitched with waxed linen
threads; the world at war, Gravity’s
Rainbow in paper collage, pills, hemp
leaves, acrylic and resin on wood;
chaos revealed, contained, mechanical
as prosthesis, artificial limbs, hooded
ornaments appended to pink Caddy
fins, every available inch taken by:
ceramic Elvii, plastic Jesuses, Marys,
Josephs, God the Holy Father and
The Holy Ghost; images from killing
fields captured in china plates their
shadow images calling to us, calling
from the other side to save them but
we never will.

Mods and Rockers

By Karen King

They listened to Ska music

On their Vespas and Lambrettas,

Fox tails wobbling as they cruised,

Mirror after mirror glistening

And lights blazing,

Announcing their arrival.

Green coat after green coat

Swarmed in,

Like a mass of unearthly insects,

Unleashed from a subterranean world.

Their music pulsed

As they shouted in anger

At the Rockers on their motorbikes

Who had already arrived.

The Rockers revved their engines,

Showing the boys they were real men,

Their dark leather jackets and boots

A picture of masculinity and strength...

The throb of their engines

Reverberated along the street

As black smoke from Triumphs, Nortons

And BSAs obscured the

Small, shiny scooters.

The real bikes and real men

Liked real, rock and roll music.

Deafening music pulsed out as

Petrol dripped from their bikes

As they bumped over potholes

And the smell of petrol, Brylcreem

Sweat and sex

Permeated the air.

The girls sat behind them,

Donned also in leather jackets.

Their curls and red lipstick

A come on to any man…

The Mods had had enough.

They rode towards the Rockers

And started chatting up the girls.

The girls flirted fabulously

And the fights began.

Brighton beach looked on,

Bemused at the latest fight.

There would be

More front page news,

More blood spilled and

More loves lost.

Still, all in a day at the seaside

When two groups collide,

But never meet in the middle.

Karen King Copyright 15 May 2017

Profile Pictures

By Alexandra H. Rodrigues

The face of a young person finds applause
Being fresh, pretty or cute of course
At that time to have a photo taken is fun
That changes when the advantage of youth is gone.

Next come pictures when of middle age,
Sorrow or problems the image might change
More characteristic all the features do get
Lip lines are now determined and set.

Pictures taken when at a ripe old age
Might show a face wrinkled on the page
Whatever life had handed out to bear
Is carved distinctly below the white hair.

Each picture does have its own way
From a person’s birth to their last day
Many traits that are theirs, strictly their own
Make up memories when they are gone.

Staff Sergeant Presley

By Dr. Benjamin White

Colonel Parker
Was not a colonel,
And you were never
A staff sergeant –
Although
There are pictures
Of you in uniform
Wearing that rank –
A twist
On the self-promotion
The colonel was so good at
As he handled
Your induction
And your time
In the Army
When you got to
Play soldier,
Hang out with Air Force officers,
Adopt one of their daughters,
Drive Jeeps and tanks,
And get advanced through the ranks
So fast
You didn’t have time
To consider
The corresponding
Insignia
But in the post-World War Two
Pre-Vietnam
Wonder glow
Of American culture,
It didn’t matter,
So no-one noticed
The three stripes
For a rocker
Turned into
Three stripes
And a rocker

While you knew
As long as you followed
The colonel’s orders,
You would avoid
The GI blues.

The Hollywood Anthology

Poetry Collection

By Alan Catlin

Hollywood

His last screen test must
not have gone well which
went a long way towards explaining
his confusion. 3 AM February
mornings in Albany calls for
a different kind of garb other
than his khaki Land's End
shorts, Banana Republic polo
shirt with sleeves cut off and
an artificial plunging neckline
to better show off his gold chains
and lame tanning hut bronzed skin.
Stood drinking his straight up
Absolut martinis with his pinky
finger extended. In some bars,
posturing like that would be
reasonable cause for initiating
sudden death syndrome but
in his case, it wouldn't be
necessary. By dawn he would just
be another frozen, roadside
monument to mans' incredible
capacity for stupidity and
monumental pride.

The Thing

The guy who did stats for
the local rag said he was
officially listed as seven foot
four and a half inches and weighed
three forty-five. He could have
played in the NBA, if he could
have shot, run or dribbled a
basketball. All of which went
a long way to explaining why he
was marooned on one of the outer
moons of Jupiter playing minor
league basketball, which was what
Albany was to pro hoops in terms
of the NBA. The way he picked up
a pitcher of beer and absorbed it in
his hand, was the way mere mortals
handled a shot glass. After inhaling
three or four of those, he claimed
to have arm wrestled Andre the Giant
and the guy who played the original Hulk
and won, a dubious claim no one was
about to challenge. A few more snorts
of suds and he looked ready to audition
for a starring role as the title character
in yet another bad remake of “The Thing
from Outer Space”. He wouldn’t even
need makeup.

It Came from Outer Space

A screaming comes across the sky,
not a Von Braun rocket, part of gravity’s
decomposing rainbow, not a meteor as
authorities inevitably proclaim but a cheesy,
glow –in-the-dark, crash landing, space craft
marooned in Arizona desert watched by
stargazing couple on clear night, no one believes.
They who go there some kind of protoplasmic,
one-eyed, see-through creature, able to body snatch
humans they replicate in form, but not in manner,
hoping for low profile helpers while repairing
damaged ship. Xenophobic citizens, being human,
seek a permanent solution, violence against the unknown,
without information gathering: they mean no harm,
but, we, for the greater good, have no interest in
explanations or arguments over intent versus accident.
One man, against all others, aids their escape,
not without fatal consequences, and life, more or less,
goes on. The world was black and white in those
days, now we are blinded by color.

Angels with Dirty Faces

They called themselves undercover experts.
Not agent or spies, just proficient at what
they did best. Were always ready to go,
and for hire, at the right price. Dressed up in
“alternate reality gear” for kicks, depending
upon their mood, and what kind of town,
they were planning to go out in.

Sometimes they were suicide blondes
with shag cuts, obvious hair dye jobs over
black roots, frizzed out and wild the way
“Blade Runner” replicant Pris liked hers.
Were long-legged and favored blood on
their teeth like murderers following an
intimate hit.

Other times, they were Amy Winehouse bee hived,
all hair extensions streaked with wild colors
for a rainbow effect that was impossible to ignore.
Had voices, then, like the jazz singer, three days
gone, and struggling for air.

Were black angels with detachable wings,
dressed for a come-as-you-are party in another
world. Had fine art removable tattoos all
over their bodies like Maori warriors
returning from an mountain outback hunt.

Swore they has no allegiances to anyone but
themselves, but could be bought for a satchel full
of unmarked bills. Would be loyal until the
money, or the contract ran out, whichever came first.

Saved images of their victims in gold leafed
albums as if they were collectible souls in
the devil’s back pocket. Were always on the look
out for new conquests as if they needed to complete
some kind of pre-determined set, only they knew
the order of.

Even naked, they wore a disguise. May not have been
a force of nature but considered themselves: the next
best thing. Date one at your own risk but be sure
to check the, best if used by, expiration date.

Day of the Locusts

“You don’t call the dead.
The dead call you.”
Rachel Kushner

Street barkers selling indulgences,
tickets to an invisible parade,
The Doors Greatest Hits: A Playlist
on portable disk machine:
“When I was in seminary school,
There was a person there
Who put forth the proposition,
That you can petition the Lord with payer….”;
cacophony and blind eye bluster.

Cell phone hot line, no contract
required, prepaid plan gets you
in touch with those who have passed on
to the other side, available here:
ministers and their minions soliciting
among the soon-to-be-anointed
with-nothing, masses, collecting
stipends, royalties against Future
earnings, emptying bank accounts
with a key stroke or a finger click;
you can take it with you.

Self-styled Reality Show hosts:
anyone with a video recorder or
a cell phone can play, everyone
famous for fifteen seconds in
twenty four year cycles; mind
parasites devouring the air waves:
everything is real now, especially
the make believe.

The absolute Femme Fatal

By David Thorpe

Arriving with conquerors in her defeated land,
they later even scorned her as a traitor,
who fell in love again and again,
helpless to do anything about it,
swarmed by admirers around her stardom,
attracted to her like moths to a light

The storm clouds darkening the horizon,
she abandoned her homeland, left to its fate
of marching jackboots, stepping like geese,
with an offer and passage she sailed to America
to realise her ambitious dream,
to become the absolute Femme Fatal,
an Universal Studios queen

Her beauty aged throughout her ninety years,
she remained secluded in her Paris recluse,
yet before she took he final bow,
one last interview with her actor colleague
without cameras, just she and Max
in the intimacy of her boudoir,
a last Aufwidersehen of a Hollywood diva,
Marlene

David Thorpe ©® 2017

Lost in a Dream

By Alexandra H. Rodrigues

Ghosts? Aliens? A trip of the mind
Who the people and images my dreams do find?
Now dead, alive as well as unknown do mix
Visit mornings mostly between four and six.
In my dreams, I often get lost!
Unable to find where to go at any cost
At times I fly wingless and unsuspended
By whom and why am I this destiny handed?
They all act normal like fully alive
No word ever from where and why they arrive
Apparently at my age, days are not long enough
To act out and handle what is extra rough.
Last night, a dream sent me on a vacation
I had not enough time to pack for the occasion
On top the small bag I’d thrown some things in
Ended up spoiled soaked with perfume and Gin .
I wore a lovely, short-sleeved black dress
However, my hair and shoes were a mess
I got compliments, and men asked for my hand
I declined, and to a concert I went.
First, I could not find what was my seat
Unannounced a Union group did meet
Then thousands of people waited in vain
Happy anticipation changed to annoyed pain
I tried to figure out what all this meant for me
No link between dream and reality I could see
At six o’clock sharp my phone rang -- an empty line!
I was awake, of explanation no sign.

Tyrannosaurus

By Tomas Sanchez Hidalgo

It’s seven in the morning
while we navigate through the Leviathan,
without a compass,
and with a wicked Tyrannosaurus
affixed to the very center
of the galleon’s deck,
in the middle of a tsunami.
It’s that simple.
The captain and his command cadre
have suffered their particular Metamorphosis
and, upon exiting a dream
disconcerting and tumultuous,
they have turned into the omniscient pigs
of Animal Farm,
but at the same time they
have once again changed the script,
and, instead of raising mastiffs in the background,
they’ve opted for a Tyrannosaurus
to feed only
a scandalous tax burden,
cement shoes
for the economy,
sponsor
of breadcrumbs
delivered in galleys
to begin draws for the rebellion on board.
George Soros predicted to us the typhoon
at the end of the tsunami,
and you have nothing that says otherwise,
but (not everything is rotten
in the state of Denmark)
the love of the sea is what is inherited.

The Wild Bunch

By Tomas Sanchez Hidalgo

A few years later,
an emerald
and representative selection
of three
of our most famous corrupt
(Notables, people with substance)
will migrate
(an exercise of delayed
poetic justice?,
perhaps),
turning this time somewhat
the sense of rhythm,
the sense of clockwise,
and will shoot, after a film of flags
in Amsterdam
(their bodies are no longer adequate,
perhaps),
all of a western,
a sui generis version
of a classic of the genre as The Wild Bunch,
somewhat chaotic but full of talent,
alternative, indie,
psychedelic,
experimental,
in a studio just outside
El Pueblo de Nuestra Señora
de Los Ángeles
de Porciúncula,
also known as Los Angeles,
also as L.A.,
forty-eight letters
that are converted into two,
automatically and in standard application,
subtle inverse correlation
of such immediate assets,
and, therein,
the referred Holy Trinity
exercises authority
(Sheriff, judge and sheriff)
and, after eating peyote
during breaks from filming
(<<Noticeable how the opposite mountain
was breathing>>,
they come to ensure),
and newly acquired network
and know how,
they decide to continue these careers
in the Non-fiction,
and become invested, in the first instance,
across the Pecos River.
They do creative accounting, and the like,
in parallel to an increasing consumption of psychotropic;
this consumption is
what leads them to wonder,
one day,
totally overwhelmed,
Why is the hotel bar
full of Godzillas?,
and thus they put into practice
the idea,
indicated in that movie
at the time by Peckinpah,
that Good can arise from absolute Evil,
and then decide
to face the giant lizards
(a powerful
drug gang indeed)
to death:
inert bodies,
both sides,
and some supervening bounty hunter,
ours,
and some supervening state tax collection coffers,
ours,
to a Final score
Our Lady,
have mercy on them,
merry bandits:
today they are not guilty:
I'll give them a motorbike

My Agenda

By Lucinda Berry Hill

When I sit to watch a movie
Entertainment is my agenda.
Not to learn or be informed
Just to be in splendor.

At a movie with my family,
I want my mind at ease.
I want to be entertained
And not to be deceived.

There is a place for lessons.
A place to argue and discuss.
But a movie with my family
Should be a time of fun.

I want to be apart from
The world and all that matters.
Sometimes I want to laugh
At silliness and chatter.

When I sit to watch a movie
It's entertainment that I seek.
Not another one's agenda
But my family's joy and peace.

Lucinda Berry Hill Author of "Coffee with Jesus" AND "A Second Cup with Jesus" ©
https://www.facebook.com/#!/pages/Coffee-with-Jesus/355060321207311

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

The Saltwater Buccaneer

By Karen King

He walked along the sand,
Watching the waves
As they crashed on the rocks.
Mount Snowden called to him
As it peeped out
From the tops of the clouds,
Sparkling and inviting.
He smiled to himself,
He had found home;
The mountains, the sea
And the forest.

He turned towards the trees
And to the pile of wood
That had been chopped for him.
He gazed at them,
Admiring the colours,
Admiring the textures.
He touched them, tentatively,
Drawn to them like he has been
When he was a teenager.

He thanked the woodsman
And loaded up his pick-up truck.
He drove back through Newborough Forest
Towards the log cabin in the garden.
He preferred it to the main house.
He slept at ground level,
But the lounge and kitchen were higher
For a better view of the mountains.
He had even built a cellar,
Where he stored his food and tools.
This was where he showered
In his rustic, yet modern abode,
Designed and built by him.
All his electricity was supplied by solar panels
And a wind turbine.
He grew his own vegetables
And was entirely self-sufficient.

He had built a canoe
And travelled around the Isle of Anglesey
Exploring the seaside and the bays,
Spotting secluded seals, hiding behind rocks,
Yet clear to his trained eyes.
Sea birds nested in the rocks
And soared overhead.
He was a mere voyeur,
A speck of a human
In the vast ocean of life.

He explored the hidden depths
And shallow seas,
Throughout the seasons,
Throughout the weathers.
Every day was different,
Every day was an adventure
As he could be tossed and turned
When the Earth was angry
Or gently drifted along
On a lazy summer's day.

He took a deep breath,
Enjoying the smell of salt
As it permeated his lungs.

He touched the water
And felt the familiar
Silken feeling of the sea.

The sun caressed the back of his neck
And the wind chafed it.
He smiled to himself as
Nature touched him

He heard the comforting lapping
Around his canoe and sighed in pleasure.
He was a solitary figure
In the grand expanse of the ocean,
The birds and seals his only companions.

He gazed in wonder into the water
And saw a myriad of marvellous fishes,
Multi-coloured delights
In the amazing underwater world.

He caught some for his supper,

Just a few fish to meet his needs.

He left the rest to play

Amongst the waves

As the sun sparkled in delight.

He had become a man with great skills
And superior craftsmanship.
His canoe was beautifully sanded,
His canoe was beautifully varnished.
Life was indeed an adventure,
Whether on the land or in the sea.

He had started to build a Viking boat,
A contract from the council,
But it wasn’t work to him,
It was his calling.
Working with wood kept him grounded,
Yet on the water he was a modern-day-pirate

As a different adventure every day called.
He was indeed The Saltwater Buccaneer!

Karen King Copyright 16 April 2016

Thrown Upon The Rock

By Lucinda Berry Hill

Like a lifeboat in the ocean
Being tossed about by waves,
I struggle to keep my head up
On so many stormy days.

But every time I'm thrown
I find that I am safe.
I land upon a rock
That fixes everything.

The rock of Christ my Savior,
I've learned to cling to Him,
With each toss and tumble
That gives my life a spin.

He's the one I reach for
When I feel I'm 'bout to sink.
He picks me up and keeps me
And doesn't blink a wink.

So let the waves come over.
Let them toss me to and fro.
'Cause they bring me close to Jesus,
The safest place I know.

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

Are You Sinking?

By Lucinda Berry Hill

Life is full of ups and downs,
Twists and turns,
Good and bad.
Sometimes the bad times
Seem to outweigh the good.
We’re not sure we can handle
All that comes our way.
We feel pressure from all sides.
We feel we’re in a whirlwind and
There’s something sucking us downward.
We feel lost, with no control, and
Unable to see clearly.
We get tired from the struggles we face
And the burdens we try to carry.
We get scared because we think
We’re all alone and we can’t make it.
But God says we’re not alone.
In every situation,
In every hill we climb,
Turn we make,
In every hole we seem to fall into,
God is there.
He didn’t promise
There’d be no struggles,
But He did promise
To see us through them.
So the next time
You feel like you’re sinking,
Swim with Jesus.
He won’t let you down.

Lucinda Berry Hill author ©

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

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

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Life Boat

By Georgina Scott

Under false pretenses
A sailor boarded a three-masted scooner
Heading for the West-Indies,
Claiming to be interested, persay, in ship-work.

Close to Hispanola,
The scooner hit a rock,
and the sailor who wanted to become a mutineer,
was thrown into the open sea.

For three long hours,
This sailor swam toward any land or island,
Close to giving up,
At last finding a lonely boat.

The boat held an ensemble of men,
Rugged fisher types ruled by one angelic persona,
Holding out his arms in embrace,
Calming down the storm.

"We have our mutineer,"
The man said, salvaging the sailor from the depth,
Giving him food to eat
and water to drink.

Soon, the small boat arrived on land,
The sailor strolled on shore,
Heard the man say:
"Never think of betrayal again!"

As the sailor turned to wave his new friends good bye,
But the life boat was gone,
An echo of saving grace
The only remnant of a rescue left.

The sailor found three crewmembers
From the destroyed scooner.
They had all been salvaged
By a mysterious life boat.

The ship was gone, the captain dead,
The crew salvaged, the island fertile,
The sailor ridden with guilt,
Crying himself to sleep at night.

The next morning, the sailor made a decision,
He gathered his three friends,
Wandered the land and spoke about honesty,
Urged his listeners to love one another.

"Never think of betrayal again," he told them,
And somewhere in the back of his head,
He remembered the angelic man and his crew of rugged fishermen,
Men who had saved his life.

Now, the sailor vowed to save others
Like he, too, had been saved.
Lost at sea in a life boat,
Heading for a promised land called faith.

Art Photography courtesy of Jerome Coppo

Ixchel, Lady of the sacred light

By David Thorpe

Arising out of a sea of mist
the Island of Women was discovered
by the Spanish conquistador Hernández de Córdoba,
being the first to see idols and relics of worship
belonging to the sanctuary of the Mayan goddess of the moon,
Ixchel

Her sensual beauty and flowing locks of hair
enticed the lover who became her spouse,
the supreme deity and god of the sun,
Itzamna,
siring thirteen offspring as proof of their fertility

Responsible for the needed rainfall
to provide abundant harvests,
Ixchel took the name of Lady Rainbow,
the lady of the sacred light,
oft depicted with a crescent moon

As goddess of midwifery, medicine and healing
much compassion did Ixchel bestow
on expectant mothers,
the myth, however, has a darker side ,
a jaguar goddess and female warrior
Ixchel´s gaping mouth suggests cannibalism,
the sacrifice of young unmarried maidens
formed part of sacred rituals in honour of her name

Ixchel and Itzamna, deities of heavenly bodies,
the legend tells,
did find eternal life in the constellation of Virgo,
on the mythical planet named Itzamna

David Thorpe ©® 2017

The Whisperer

By Alexandra H. Rodrigues

As the waterfall cascades down the mountain
I hear a strange whisper again and again
It originates from a to me unknown force
A secret power of a special source.

As last rays of a golden sun in the water glimmer
The melody I hear oddly grips my soul’s inner
That it is you, my distant lover I beg to be true
Although where you really are, I have no clue.

As phenomena, you have been with me a while
In wind, water and clouds I often sense your smile
You steadily, one way or the other, accompany me
I feel you, hear the elements, but you I do not see.

Today for the first time in a whisper you speak
You seem to promise me the closeness that I seek.
With joy, I do into the mountain shout and count
The echo and your whisper unite as one sound!

The Sound of the Waves

By Alan Catlin

The ache and the cry
of sea birds before
moon rise.

An offshore breeze in
the tall brown reeds,
in the panic grass.

Wild deer on narrow
cliff paths eroding
underfoot, unfit for
safe passage.

The shifting rocks
dragged by the tides
out toward the sea
over pebbles and moss
and more rock.

Storm wrecked pieces
of ships: disconnected
panels, steering columns
without wheels, one way
ship to shore to nowhere,
radio transceivers.

Sand crusted, weed
infested, knots of blue
rope nets dragging
the beach for nothing.

A lull in the night
where nothing seems
to be moving; the sound
of the waves.

Treasure Island

By Alan Catlin

Mother’s face shines with an
unnatural glow, highlighted by
fast moving tropical storm.
She looms by my bedside, skin
transparent as air, her bones black
as scars on my skin, “Tonight,
all your dreams will come true,”
she says. And they do.

Zen Poem

By Alan Catlin

As seen from
under water:

the movement

of clouds
overhead is

an illusion

like rain
drawn out
of an ocean

of light

Lighthouses

By Alan Catlin

Once upon a time, the vocation of
lighthouse keeper was a venerable one.
It was the perfect get-away-from-it-all
profession like joining the French Foreign
Legion only with water instead of sand.
The job required a special kind of temperament
like being able to withstand long periods of
isolation and to be able concentrate during
times of stress. Watching the seas,
for distressed ships, is a tough business.
Being able to deal with the densest kind
of fog imaginable, being hemmed in with zero
visibility, sometimes for days at a time, is
no fun either. Through it all the keeper had
to keep the lights focused so that ships could
find their way to safety under these kinds of
adverse circumstances. Obviously, the work
isn’t of everyone. Look what happened to Jack
when he took the caretaker’s position in
“The Shining”. Similarly, one of Poe’s last,
incomplete stories, has a rather unstable
personality signing up for a couple of years
in a particularly desolate place, hoping to
finish a novel that wasn’t going well.
As might be expected, stuff of a cataclysmic
nature starts happening immediately, conjuring
images of “The Fall of the House of Usher”
on the high seas, with lost manuscript pages.
And what could be more tragic than that?
Lost manuscript pages that is, given how Poe
was perpetually short of money and got to
the point where he would write just about anything
for cash. Well, we never do find out what
happens, but we know it won’t be good,
given how Poe has stacked the deck against
his hapless narrator. In fact, one idly wonders,
if the lighthouse wasn’t built under the auspices
of the Stevenson clan, given the forbidding location,
though their structures were built to last, unlike Poe’s.
Not many people are aware that Robert Louis Stevenson
was meant to following the footsteps of his famous
engineering family, who considered his dreams of
writing, daft, at best. They basically disinherited him
and he decided to emigrate, first to the US and later,
with the woman he met on the voyage over, to Tahiti,
for his health. Regardless of how you feel about
his work, you have to admit that, plying your trade
on a tropic paradise, beats working on a deserted
pile of rock, off the windy, stormy, Scottish coast.

Ruins

By Alan Catlin

I could climb the forbidden turret in those days,
those hidden castle steps all covered by wet sand,
mounded moss, growing lichen, the elements
overtaking this ruin, this place where dreams went
to hide, a refuge beyond dreaming where no one,
not even a child would be able to imagine this place
as a pirate's den, a hidden place where buried treasures
could be found, where I could stare from the derelict
parapet imagining frigates moored in this cove,
the three tall masts filled with furrowing sails,
a one-eyed man in the Crow's Nest, the Long John Silver
of my fevered nightmare life staring across the beach,
on the alert against intruders, a watcher such as myself
concealed among the recessed walls, listening to sudden
footfalls on the ruin's step, slowly tapping as they climb,
a murderous, deliberate, assured ascent more terrifying
than an executioner's step; only mother could wear high
heels to the beach, only she would come for me in just this way.

The Buccaneer

By Paul Griffiths

I was destined to be a Pirate, it was all that I could be.
Salt water ran through my veins that drew me to the sea.
I was born the bastard son to a tavern whore.
She said my Father was a Pirate and I would be nothing more.

My Mother happily drank herself to death.
She cursed me with her dying breath.
Struggling for breath she whispered clear,
I was damned to be a Buccaneer.

Not yet fourteen I found the sea.
The land had turned it's back on me.
My Mother was barely cold inside the grave.
Yet my heart rose like an ocean wave.

I set sail on a Naval Man of War.
As a powder monkey I swabbed the floor.
I fed the cannon I manned the sail.
Froze to the crow's nest in a winter's gale.

Working hard I learnt fast,
I nailed my colours to the mast.
I fought in battles, watched men die.
I craved for more but I knew not why.

Got into fights and drunken clashes.
Captain ordered Forty lashes.
Through gritted teeth I bore the pain.
Resentment now surged through my brain.

I loved this life on the open sea.
But I hated with a vengeance authority.
Hatred like salt ran in my veins.
I abandoned ship in the Spanish Maine.

Me and authority we were now done.
I lost my ship but found my anchor in a bottle of rum.
In these dingy fleapit taverns I felt at home.
Big men would fight me, I held my own.

One night a young sea Captain bettered me.
He had the darkest heart on the seven sea's.
He told me don't let your grasp betray your reach.
Offering me his hand he said his name was William Teech.

I listened to his advice and I was drawn to his every word.
His crew mates called him Captain, Captain Blackbeard.
I had heard the old sea dog tales thought they were fables.
Now I was drinking his rum and sat at his table.

Speaking only open and true he told no lies.
I could see a black fire burning in his dark eyes.
He knew from the look in my eyes the sea had cursed me too.
Then invited me to sail with him and join his crew.

I loved the life of a Pirate, to steal and plunder.
Many a poor lost soul I now sent asunder.
Davy Jones locker was their watery grave.
I had found the adventure I so long had craved.

Thrived in the battle's, I showed no fear.
I was born to be a cut throat buccaneer.
Blackbeard himself was a fearsome sight.
Most ships surrendered to him without a fight.

He stood at the wheel in a fearsome mood.
His beard entwined with burning corkscrew cannon fuse.
We would steal the gold and silks, only the best.
Take the pieces of eight from the treasure chests.

As pirates go Blackbeard was always fair.
Every crewman got their share.
We left the West indies on a wind of change
Headed to the America's to expand our range

We made our fortunes fast, the pirate life was sound.
Until the ship was cursed by the sea and ran a ground.
Stranded helpless like flotsam and jetsam on the shore.
We were spotted stranded by a British Naval Man of War.

Blackbeard unfurled the skull and crossbones and raised it high.
He shouted the time has come lad's, to do or die.
We were outnumbered and outgunned.
But not one man in his crew turned to run.

Cannon fire and bullets turned the beach to hell.
Blackbeard stood tall as his crewmen fell.
He smiled to me fearless and winked his eye.
Then that bullet struck him true and I watched him die.

It was my turn to die my time was done.
But the bullet with my name on did not come.
I fought to the last with sword and fists
Until shackles were locked tightly on my feet and wrists.

I recognised the Captain of the man of war.
He smiled, buccaneer well we meet once more.
But this time you won't meet the lash.
You will be hanged till dead from the highest mast.

My fate was sealed, I said do your worst.
I was always dammed by that pirate curse.
Send my body home to old Davy Jones.
I offer him freely my skull and my crossbones.

Desert Buccaneer

By Dr. Benjamin B. White

I’m sitting here –
A desert buccaneer
With a Coast Guard career –
In the Southern Rockies
At 5,000 feet watching
The sun climb the Sandias
Where once I would have been
Submerged by a sea
Long receded with its emptiness
And its secrets covered deep
In the layers of desert dust
And suddenly I must
Consider the port authority
Establishing a bordered zone,
Reacting to the majority
Wanting protection
In a plan to finally build
A sea wall, though not all
Policies or projects are justifiable
When reliable waves
Roll in full of the flooding bounty
I moved here to appreciate – leaving hate
In the middle of the country
Where the scenery
Blooms with ironic greenery
In the lush and well-tended gardens
And isolationist harvests harden
To petrify
In the heat of ethnocentric summers
Held up to unknowing ears to hear
The ebbing tides abandoning
Forgotten shores
Where people will be higher and drier
Than I am here in the dormancy
Of this volcanic region
Where all the reasons
To enjoy the morning, the mountains
The sun, the air, the warmth
And the bilingual navigation of culture
Are all contained
In the knowledge that every ocean
Is destined to be a desert
Unless the shores and the waves
Can coexist.
(And it’s beautiful when and where they do)

Landlocked Heart

By Dr. Benjamin White

Water soothes
Landlocked buccaneers
As the sea calls
And the desert hears
The sound of the day
Setting on the barren
Emptiness
Of sun-saturated land,
Time-drowned oceans,
And the notions
Of longing hearts

F-A-C

After Dickey’s “The Energized Man”

By Dr. Benjamin White

F-A-C
Leaves the sea
In a shiny gloss,
And the ship
Is lost
Without the wind and chop –
Full stop
With the sails useless
And energy gone –
Suspended –
The journey ended
Too soon,
And not far enough away
To claim a destination,
And it’s an impatient
Sensation having to wait
With fate depending
On currents
While navigation suffers
Deference, and direction
Has no star
To follow,
So right now
Is too hollow to fill
With any substance
Beyond the emptiness
In the glassy stare
Of consciousness
Reflecting in the comfort
Of the stillness
Longing
For anxiety
To take it –
Move it –
Somewhere
Anywhere.

Nefertiti

A Collection of Poems

By Lyn Lifshin

NEFERTITI

I imagine her sliding
silk over her
perfect arms, the
Egyptian sun's mouth
even at dawn
moving over her,
licking her
tawny skin. Beads
circle her long neck
as who knows
how many ardent
worshippers dream
their fingers might do,
wake up shaking
with fear and
desire. Eyes like no
other eyes, not
even Elizabeth Taylor's,
mahogany jewels,
hypnotic, entrancing,
a gaze so intense
no one needs
to tell you, as her
name itself
does, the
beautiful one

SHE SLIDES

green silk over
her bronze, almost
golden body. Hot
Egyptian light.
How could she
know years later
young girls would
put necklaces on
her statue, lightly
scented candles
and incense. Or
worry, breaking
the snake off a
model of Tut's head-
dress that they
will get a mummy
curse. I think of
Nefertiti, a pale
yellow sky beyond
the palace, pyramids
reflected in still
pools by dawn. She
watches the night
sand begin to
glow, the lavender
shadows, twists
her ebony river of
hair into carved
tortoise shell combs
studded with
alabaster. Near the
canopied bed,
eyes as gorgeous,
if not as exquisite
as hers, the cat
she knows, since
cats dream in
Egypt, has visions
she will, as the
day unfolds,
try to guess

NEFERTITI AS AMERICA'S TOP MODEL

I think of her trying
to win that spot, be
on the cover of
Seventeen and win
a Cover Girl contract.
When Bill Clinton
said he'd like to
ask the Peruvian
Ice Mummy out for
lunch, shouldn't
Nefertiti, with her
gorgeous skin,
beautifully bronze
as Tara Bank's
and even sharing
Tara's so enormous,
stunning, magic eyes,
do as well? Name
another beauty who
has riveted so
many thru time?
Her long slender neck,
lips more haunting,
more luscious
than Mona Lisa?
You know she
would follow the
rules, would
not fight with the
other girls but
keep her dignity. Her
long legs and
small breasts, her
knack for high
fashion and she has
own gorgeous
jewels. How could
Tara, how could
any of the judges resist
her lustrous hair,
sun touched
or frizzed and who
would not kill for
her cheekbones?

SITTING ON HER HUSBAND'S KNEES

maybe whispering his
name, bird names, the
names of flowers.
Look, her long swan
neck, gorgeous as
any goddess. And
those cheek bones,
glistening. She made
her own creams
from the Galena
plants in the garden.
Behind those
huge eyes, names of
spells and hexes,
names of children
coiled in her dreams.
Children with her
hypnotic eyes,
children who would
rule and in their
last hours call
her name out across
the desert

WHEN I READ HOW KING AKHENATON'S

love for Nefertiti is seen
in hieroglyphs at Amara.
"Fair of face," he says
and adorned with double
plumes. I think of how
he must have dreamt of
holding her, called her
love names of course in
reality, he never could.
Delicious names, too
secret, maybe the names
of flowers that only open
in the east. Maybe he
thought of her in darkness,
could almost smell her
hair, shudder at all
the men wild to
hold her

DID THE KING SHUDDER, KNOWING HOW MANY MEN WANTED HER

Did he imagine other
tongues on her lips?
Their kisses falling
over her perfect
body like stars?

But instead, knelt
before her and wrote
of how the king
rejoices at her

voice, how he
hopes she may
live for ever
and always

NEFERTITI

in images, a fertility
symbol often with
her six daughters.
She wears the same
fashions as images
of the gods. From
the palace, little
boats with sails
flutter like flower
petals. Does she
imagine escaping?
Imagine life far from
this new capitol.
The king at her side,
the smell of the Nile.
So much beginning.
Aketaten dedicated
to the royal couple's
new religion where
she would reign,
strong and powerful,
startlingly in her
new tight clinging
robe tied with a red
sash with the ends
hanging in front.
Did she worry, fear
her beauty fading?
That she might
lose the hypnotic
power she held?
Or did she luxuriate
in her Nub can wig,
plaited with a queens'
strands, secured by
a diadem and then
the crown with
plumes on a disc.
Did she imagine
nights she would
call out her
new daughter's
name like a pain cry,
a tombstone she
would not
say again

NEFERTITI

I think of Nefertiti
in her bracelet of
six girls. Who'd
imagine her
striking a female
captive on a royal
barge. She looks
so motherly. Her
long swan neck
seems made for
gold bracelets and
babies' arms.
Think of her in
her mortar shaped
cap, her leonine
aspect, catlike
as a sphinx, a mauve
sky behind her.
Her girls, a
sea of love. The
name for a boy child
like an animal
that won't sleep

NEFERTITI

beautiful as Isis.
The king chose her
image to be engraved
in the 4 corners of
his sarcophagus to
protect his mummy

Carvings show them
kissing in a braid of
their daughters. You
can imagine each of
them praying to keep
the others safe even

as corn bloomed in
the desert, shadows
rose as her cheek
bones and sadness
seemed so far away

Al-Andalus,  ‏الأندلس‎,

(epoca de Abderramán II)

By David Thorpe

Difundiendo en silencio desde los cielos del oriente, el amanecer
sucumbirá dentro de poco al calor y el trajín de las calles de Córdoba.
El joven emir madrugó y mira fijamente la llegada de la aurora,
mientras contemplaba su visión de grandeza y prosperidad,
la culminación de su herencia, Al-Andalus.

En el crepúsculo proclama el sol con discreción el albor de una nueva era,
y los vientos soplan mansamente para no despertar las congojas,
los heraldos de la ola cultural inminente, el músico Ziryab montado en su cresta;
la música y la poesía, agrandeciendo la riqueza y la veneración de Al-Andalus.

Los campos de batalla cerca de Tablado fueron teñidos de rojo con la sangre vikinga,
una venganza sin merced por el saqueo y la violación de Sevilla.
La sangre beligerante ondeaba en sus venas con la fuerza volcánica,
para desbordar como lava en la represalia de Abderramán,
en la defensa de su imperio, su fé, y la soberanía de Al-Andalus.

A través de los años, Córdoba alcanzó su más elevado encumbramiento,
si bien otras naciones actuasen en el escenario del poder,
y aunque la gloria y la influencia de Córdoba quedaron atrapadas en un eclipse perpetuo,
la belleza del legado de Abderramán no es ningún invensión,
dentro de los muros de la mezquita vive aún la quimera de Al-Andalus.

Al Andalus   الأندلس‎,

(epoch of Abderramán II)

By David Thorpe

Silently spreading from the eastern skies the morning light
will soon succumb to the heat and bustle in the streets of Córdoba.
Already awake, the young emir gazes pensive towards the dawn
his vision of greatness and prosperity he long contemplates,
the fulfilment of his inheritance, Al Andalus.

This day the rising sun with discretion a new era proclaims,
and winds of change, blowing gently at first should fears be aroused,
were heralds of a cultural wave with the Baghdad musician Ziryab at its crest
to compliment the poetry of Abd ar-Rahmen, the Emir himself,
thus to enhance the wealth  and affluence of Al Andalus.

The battle fields near Tablada were drenched with Viking blood,
a merciless revenge for their plunder and rape of Seville.
His belligerent blood surged through his veins with volcanic force,
to overspill like lava in Abd ar-Rahmen`s ruthlessness,
in defence of his empire, faith and sovereignty in Al Andalus.

In the following years the sultanate of Córdoba reached its majestic pinnacle,
still other empires were later to act upon this stage of power,
yet, long after the glory and influence of Córdoba were trapped in a perpetual eclipse,
the beauty of Abd ar-Rahmen`s legacy is of no contrivance,
for within the walls of the Mezquita lives on the chimera of Al Andalus.

The Universal Language of Silence

By Karen King

Enjoy the silence.

No TV, no radio, no talk.

Enjoy the stillness.

Of nothing.

Don’t be afraid.

Expose yourself to your existence,

Naked in this busy world.

Quiet, still, at peace.

Be calm, take a rest, just be.

Stop striving for a moment.

What are you rushing for?

Where are you going to?

Find your inner sanctum

Of peace and tranquillity

Where your whole self resides.

Where you are already complete.

In the universal language of silence,

There is so much to hear

If you take the time to stop and

Listen to the silent space.

Karen King Copyright 2015

Listen to the Lessons of the Trees

By Karen King

Have family fun on your bike,

Or maybe even go for a hike.

Take time out in fresh air,

Throw away worries without a care.

Sometimes it’s good to look slightly crazy,

Better than being depressed and lazy!

The lenses of my glasses are so yellow

And are making me feel quite mellow.

We feel enveloped by the trees

And are lost in their majesty.

I revere them as I catch my breath,

Thinking about the cycle of birth and death.

Our wise friends have so much love to give

And can be found wherever we live.

They watch us as we arrive and depart,

Talk to us and offer us their hearts.

Listen to the lessons of the trees

Stop, take a breath and just be!

Karen King Copyright 22 February 2017

The Guru’s Spiel

By Karen King

He put on his glasses,

Yet he already had a clear vision.

To the front, to the sides, in the distance.

His truth was clear and was magnified

When he wore his glasses.

Yet, most of the adults didn’t see,

Their vision was murky and narrow.

Their vision was short-sighted.

There were a few who saw

Beyond a limited perspective,

Who questioned and had a voice,

But these other voices

Were foreign to the followers.

The others spoke a different language,

One they could not comprehend,

For their brainwashing sessions

Had closed them down.

The devotees put their fingers in their ears

And carried on blindly,

Dutifully following their corrupt guru.

Their guru saw the goings on

And more lies sprouted out of his mouth,

Slowly dying like dead weeds in the gutter.

His followers believed every word,

For they only saw fresh flowers and joy.

They thought they were clever,

They thought they were spiritual,

But they were naive.

The guru smirked as gold dripped,

Gorily, off his arms, like blood from a recent kill.

He stepped into his sports car,

Deceptive, dark glasses

Hiding his corruption and greed.

He drove off with his friend, the devil,

At his side, looking for more victims.

Karen King Copyright 2016

Now and Tomorrow

By Alexandra H. Rodrigues

The sun is setting, it was a murky day
Tomorrow will be better forecasters say
The evening under a blue, gray and orange mix
Helps nature at work our mood to fix.

Now picture a dimension with the air all in blue
We would have to have the lights on at all we do
What if the sky was mocha and the ground red
Purple water from natural springs we would get.

Battery steered cars remotely without driver run
Kids playing with robots efforts doubtful fun.
Flowers will no longer bloom as only weeds grow
Poisonous algae into square vases might go.

Food is substituted by pills in black and green
Highly concentrated stem cells as filling are seen
There is no challenge, nothing to create or do
One day passes the other, same old, no new.

In comparison Earth is friendly and nice
Let’s not complain if the sun is in disguise
A move to other dimensions may not be wise
With exception of what we know as Paradise.

Speed of Our Love

By Alexandra H. Rodrigues

I wish I could say it came like a whirlwind
Showered and engulfed with love us both.
In reality, it was just a one-sided affair
Like a stunted, in-bloom unopened rose.

For months I allowed myself
to yearn for a touch of your lips
With the sad fact that you do not care
I have by now come to grips.

I did not give up though
Decided for a new beginning to wait
Knowing quite well that for me
In this life, it is too late.

Land's End

by

John Frazee

Traveling has always been second nature to you
Although you have traveled near as well as traveled far
And yet after traversing maps with the best of them
On seeing your reflection, face the facts, there you are

Seventy percent of earth is covered by water
Therefore, this is an event that occurs quite often
You’re simply trekking along minding your own business
When you arrive at this destination, called lands end

As you reach this point a decision has to be made
Having this trip end early would truly be a crime
You’ve gotten here on shear will and determination
The excursion has always been one step at a time

It certainly did seem to be innocent at first
The path was pleasant enough so you went with the flow
You found the journey to be very rewarding, but
In reality there’s simply no where else to go

To Be a Star

By Lucinda Berry Hill

The fame, the glamour,
The sparkling lights,
Oh, to be a star.

The brightest stars
Were made by God.
He set them in the sky.
He made them shine.
He made them sparkle.
They even seem to dance.
He made them bright
To give us light.
They never dim or fade.
They will always shine
And be a light in the darkness.

Another light was made by God.
He set you in this place
To carry forth the word of life,
To shine
Like floating stars,
To live in love,
To lead the way
To righteousness and joy.
Your light should always shine
For others in the darkness.
Be wise and shine.
When you shine like a star today
You will shine as a star forever.

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

https://www.facebook.com/#!/pages/Coffee-with-Jesus/355060321207311
http://lucindaspoetry.webs.com/index.htm

God Hears All Language

By Lucinda Berry Hill

The Lord will hear me when I call
He knows my voice, it's true.
He understands my words,
Humility, and truth.

Prayer in any language,
To God, it sounds the same.
Each child's voice He recognizes.
Each plea, each prayer, each praise

He knows a cry for mercy,
In Spanish or in Greek,
In Hebrew or in English,
He hears all that we speak.

Prayer in any language,
Words coming from the heart,
Are heard and understood
By our mighty, loving God.

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

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

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

Spielplatzkinder!

A Poem in German

By Maria Wigo

Ein Nieselregen wie gelackt,
Besprenkelt dieses Feld,
Die Örtlichkeiten sind noch nackt,
Und sparsam , schwach erhellt!

Der Kinderspielplatz bleibt noch still,
Die Wippe ruhig steht,
Kein Kind das auf ihm spielen will,
Noch neblig, Dunstdurchwebt!

Die Schaukeln hängen grad und schlaff,
Kein Schwung bewegt sie quer,
Und nur dies quietschende -Kniff-Knaff- ,
Belebt das braune Flair!

Doch dann beim ersten Sonnenstrahl,
Verändert sich das Bild,
Da regt sich was in hoher Zahl,
Das unaufhaltsam quillt!

Mit Neugier durch die Stangen schaut,
Ein kleiner, scheuer Gast,
Ein weitres Dutzend sich jetzt traut,
Besetzt den nächsten Ast!

Zuerst verknittert und halb wach,
Noch zaghaft und genant,
So klettern sie aufs Spielplatzdach,
Bewachsen es rasant!

Sie stehn in Startlöchern bereit,
Nichts hält sie mehr zurück,
Verspielt und durch das Licht befreit,
Ahn ich , Millionen Stück!

English Translation in Prose:

A sprinkled silvery rain,
It decorates this wasteland,
Lit by a naked lamppost,
Carefully enlightened.

The playground is silent,
The see-saw still,
No child craves its attention
Visited only by the mist.

The swings hang dull and motionless
No action kickstarts them into motion
Only a slight squeak
Awakens the brown flair.

But then at the first sign of sunshine
The image changes
Something moves
A plethora of faces emerging.

Curiosity peaks through the bars
A small, shy guest,
Another dozen dares
To climb the next branch.

At first wrinkled and barely awake
Still carefully embarassed
Climbing the playhouse,
Urging its growth.

Standing in starting positions,
Nothing holds them back
Playful, freed by light,
I believe, by the millions.

Below:
Poet and Soprano
Maria Wigo

Photographic Artwork by Jérome Coppo

Freya, Queen of the Valkyries

By David Thorpe

Rays of the rising sun eagerly
devour the morning mist,
the invisible now takes form ,
approaching shadows on horseback
led by Freya, Queen of the Valkyries

Their mission to reach the battlefield
there to select the warriors to be slain,
for half of their souls shall be claimed
to live an after-life within the halls of Valhalla,
the underworld realm of the god Odin

The evening draws nigh as the Valkyries return,
the setting sun making way for the impatient moon,
to reflect her beauty on their shining armour,
inaugurating a spectacle in the Nordic skies,
the marvel of the Aurora Borealis

Nuptial vows she and Odin had promised
yet Freya, goddess of war and death,
practiced to the brim and overflowing,
her legendary unbridled sexuality,
taking pride in her status

as the goddess of sensual pleasure

Dreams

By Alexandra H. Rodrigues

Was I made to pay for a past sin
One I do refuse remembering?
Last night I dreamt I was in jail
The dream covered a substantial tale.

All I recall is the prison cell
A barren room, a slice of hell.
It had a window but I could not see out
A closet with a doll, long forgotten about.

What causes our dreams is hard to tell
Most we never remember too well
It is the nightmares that rob my sleep
Odd images that I’d rather not keep.

It is said if we see deceased who are nice
To listen what they have to say, is wise
They are souls that came from the other side
To entrust us with a secret during the night.

Should their action be nasty and mean
Our imagination had been cause for the dream
Superstition has followed thru history dreams along
About lost teeth and death I could sing a song.

There will always somehow for a belief some source
To accept it is up to you of course
Stick to what supports your happiness
Discard what might end up to bring distress.

Artwork by Titian

The Stone of God

By Lucinda Berry Hill

David and Goliath.
A story long ago.
Goliath was a giant
But David had a stone.

David had a stone
And a mighty God of power.
He knew that He'd protect him
In this all important hour.

He slung it at the Philistine
Who fell and hit the ground.
All thanks to God almighty,
The truest God around.
Troubles come with vengeance.
Your peace they try to rob.
But you will have the victory
When you come at them with God.
So next time you are faced
With problems, you call big,
Remember they're Goliaths
But you have God for strength.

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

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

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

The Don Quixote Baptist Church

By Dr. Benjamin B. White

Lieutenant Commander
United States Coast Guard (ret)

At the Don Quixote Baptist Church
The congregation hurts its members
With sword swallowing, Rocinante mirrors,

And gasoline executions seeking
The heavenly solutions foretold
On the ancient walls of windmills

Where blood distills into wine-
Colored prayer and faith while
Flour is ground into crackers

With grape-juice fate dripping
From the pews of hymnal excuses
Muttered by Preacher Pedro Perez lighting

Fuses with battery-operated candles
Waiting for the explosions
To result in increased offerings

And capacity attendance
With an unholy dependence
On weekly excursions into town

To hunt down Dulcinea sinners
Recreating at the centers of evil
Unable to read past the dedication

Of the adventure written by the memory
Of Sancho Panza’s donkey
That perished from the alacrity

Of burning books in the churchyard.

In Uncharted Worlds

A Poetry Collection

By Alan Catlin

Songlines

Patterns traced in the desert are
scars veined in cracked alkali
where the green ants dream,
are sunbaked so brittle,
only the thoughts of mystics
or the sacred ghosts of aborigines
can walk there.
Diviners of signs tell the scattered
fragments of primitive tales, folk legends,
a music as tenuous as stories passed on
through generations, improved where memory
failed or simply lost, become runes as poignant
as only the eternal, the misbegotten
could be.
Illiterate roadside artists, copiers
of paintings inscribed on hidden walls
or imprinted on interior canvases
like memory, summon forth the living
this way, these restless travelers, unbidden,
the way dead souls are, in uncharted worlds.

An Antediluvian Topography of Block Island

On a darkling, alluvial plain, lost tribes wrapped in animal skins congregate before raging ceremonial fires. Predator birds scale cliff heights, avoiding the warriors encircling this island the gods have seen fit to withdraw the tidal flow. The appointed Elder casts dried bones of water fowl on the dried, cracking silt, reading the nature of Fate represented by a random alignment of bones. Struck dumb by what is seen, the Elder stands, face contorted in a panic of knowledge, he feels in his veins as they all must, the wind impelled tides return. Frozen in belated flight, history, here, becomes subaqueous, legend repeated endlessly, like Atlantic, lost to the sea.

Marianne Moore,

Modernist Poet and Baseball Fan,
Throws Out the First Ball of the Season,
Yankee Stadium, 1968

Ebbets Field is no longer a Brooklyn garden
with real players in it but an apartment
building with a corner stone instead of a home
plate and bleacher bums cheering for the boys
in blue. On the back of an envelope she began
a poem about The Old Professor, Casey Stengel,
a living legend in the Bronx, now a stand-up
comic on Coogan's Bluff overlooking the House
That Ruth Built, telling the worst team
in the history of the game that,"---losing 120
games wasn't anyone's fault alone, it was a real
team effort." Her poem meant to exalt an elder's
patience and imparted wisdom in words surely as
droll as the wit, that double talking man,
although it would remain an incidental piece,
incomplete. Moore threw from the stands
with no windup, unlike "The Babe", Zacharias
not Ruth, who showed a real professional form
pitching from the mound in a full length skirt
at the Stadium twenty years before; still, Marianne,
undaunted, a trooper to the end requested and
received permission to practice her toss a day in advance,
lobbing warm-up pitches toward home plate,
sometimes low and outside but always near the mark.

Unicorns

They really missed the boat.
The only one that mattered:
Noah’s Ark. Or so the legend goes.
These are not the same sad,
unicorns of the Charles Addams
cartoon: the ones on the last
bit of mountain peak, watching
the boat sail away, while they are
left behind in the rain but garden
variety mythical creatures, happy
as a unicorn can be. If you’ve
actually seen a real life unicorn,
the only boats you’ll be seeing
for a long time will be on classic
TV reruns of the Love Boat and
you’ll be on a locked ward in a
place for the mentally imbalanced.

Atlantis

This prime piece of Unreal Estate has been
the stuff of legend and speculation ever since
Plato mentioned it, in a kind of offhand way,
in one of his dialogues. Who knew it would become
a subject akin to Ufology is today: a haven for lunatics,
fringe players and conspiracy theorists, whose only
redeeming qualities have to do with overactive
imaginations, and too much spare time, plus unlimited
access to bad, misleading information of a kind.
Plato was probably repeating something he heard,
that had been passed along throughout the ages
by oral historians who suggested the mythical Atlantis
had been sunk after a falling out with the Gods.
Falling out with Gods was a common thing and usually
resulted in punishments way out of proportion to
the original offense, given how petty and childish,
the Greek Gods were. If there had been such an island
continent, no doubt it disappeared due to some
cataclysmic natural event: like the shifting of land
masses, or unparalleled, before or since, seismic tremors.
One of the pet theories of the Atlantis Lives! theorists
is that the super- intelligent race (see Ufology here),
perhaps even aliens, built a spherical retaining wall of
some sort that surrounds the kingdom and contains a breathable atmosphere, where they exist today. It makes about
as much as creationist theories (cf. virtual tour of Creationist
Museum where Flintstones and dinosaurs actually exist
together. It is a truly hilarious way to spend an hour or so, and best of all, it’s free!)

How they were going to renew
resources such as: air, or raise food, (see Jules Verne here:
10,000 Leagues Beneath the Sea is a good place to start)
remains unexplained ( how could it be otherwise?). Still,
believers persist and theories abound. Some of the
more amusing books of all times have been written
on the subject. One book that remains available, if not
still in print, from the late 1800’s is Ignatius Donnelley’s
Atlantis: The Antediluvian World. (He also has some
cool, outrageous ideas about Stonehenge, not to mention
Shakespeare. His massive tome proving Willie of Stratford
didn’t write the plays was based on bad information
and a false premise. Or so I am told. I haven’t actually
read the thing but it’s nice to know it exists.

From

The Dark Lady Sonnets (127 - 154)

By William Shakespeare

CXXVII

In the old age black was not counted fair,
Or if it were, it bore not beauty's name;
But now is black beauty's successive heir,
And beauty slandered with a shame:
For since each hand hath put on Nature's power,
Fairing the foul with Art's false borrowed face,
Sweet beauty hath no name, no holy bower,
But is profaned, if not lives in disgrace.
Therefore my mistress' eyes are raven black,
Her eyes so suited, and they mourners seem
At such who, not born fair, no beauty lack,
Sland'ring creation with a false esteem:
Yet so they mourn becoming of their woe,
That every tongue says beauty should look so.

CXXVIII

How oft when thou, my music, music play'st,
Upon that blessed wood whose motion sounds
With thy sweet fingers when thou gently sway'st
The wiry concord that mine ear confounds,
Do I envy those jacks that nimble leap,
To kiss the tender inward of thy hand,
Whilst my poor lips which should that harvest reap,
At the wood's boldness by thee blushing stand!
To be so tickled, they would change their state
And situation with those dancing chips,
O'er whom thy fingers walk with gentle gait,
Making dead wood more bless'd than living lips.
Since saucy jacks so happy are in this,
Give them thy fingers, me thy lips to kiss.

CXXIX

The expense of spirit in a waste of shame
Is lust in action: and till action, lust
Is perjured, murderous, bloody, full of blame,
Savage, extreme, rude, cruel, not to trust;
Enjoyed no sooner but despised straight;
Past reason hunted; and no sooner had,
Past reason hated, as a swallowed bait,
On purpose laid to make the taker mad.
Mad in pursuit and in possession so;
Had, having, and in quest to have extreme;
A bliss in proof, and proved, a very woe;
Before, a joy proposed; behind a dream.
All this the world well knows; yet none knows well
To shun the heaven that leads men to this hell.

CXXX

My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun;
Coral is far more red, than her lips red:
If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun;
If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head.
I have seen roses damasked, red and white,
But no such roses see I in her cheeks;
And in some perfumes is there more delight
Than in the breath that from my mistress reeks.
I love to hear her speak, yet well I know
That music hath a far more pleasing sound:
I grant I never saw a goddess go,
My mistress, when she walks, treads on the ground:
And yet by heaven, I think my love as rare,
As any she belied with false compare.

CXXXI

Thou art as tyrannous, so as thou art,
As those whose beauties proudly make them cruel;
For well thou know'st to my dear doting heart
Thou art the fairest and most precious jewel.
Yet, in good faith, some say that thee behold,
Thy face hath not the power to make love groan;
To say they err I dare not be so bold,
Although I swear it to myself alone.
And to be sure that is not false I swear,
A thousand groans, but thinking on thy face,
One on another's neck, do witness bear
Thy black is fairest in my judgment's place.
In nothing art thou black save in thy deeds,
And thence this slander, as I think, proceeds.

CXXXII

Thine eyes I love, and they, as pitying me,
Knowing thy heart torments me with disdain,
Have put on black and loving mourners be,
Looking with pretty ruth upon my pain.
And truly not the morning sun of heaven
Better becomes the grey cheeks of the east,
Nor that full star that ushers in the even,
Doth half that glory to the sober west,
As those two mourning eyes become thy face:
O! let it then as well beseem thy heart
To mourn for me since mourning doth thee grace,
And suit thy pity like in every part.
Then will I swear beauty herself is black,
And all they foul that thy complexion lack.

CXXXIII

Beshrew that heart that makes my heart to groan
For that deep wound it gives my friend and me!
Is't not enough to torture me alone,
But slave to slavery my sweet'st friend must be?
Me from myself thy cruel eye hath taken,
And my next self thou harder hast engrossed:
Of him, myself, and thee I am forsaken;
A torment thrice three-fold thus to be crossed.
Prison my heart in thy steel bosom's ward,
But then my friend's heart let my poor heart bail;
Whoe'er keeps me, let my heart be his guard;
Thou canst not then use rigour in my jail:
And yet thou wilt; for I, being pent in thee,
Perforce am thine, and all that is in me.

CXXXIV

So now I have confessed that he is thine,
And I my self am mortgaged to thy will,
Myself I'll forfeit, so that other mine
Thou wilt restore to be my comfort still:
But thou wilt not, nor he will not be free,
For thou art covetous, and he is kind;
He learned but surety-like to write for me,
Under that bond that him as fast doth bind.
The statute of thy beauty thou wilt take,
Thou usurer, that put'st forth all to use,
And sue a friend came debtor for my sake;
So him I lose through my unkind abuse.
Him have I lost; thou hast both him and me:
He pays the whole, and yet am I not free.

CXXXV

Whoever hath her wish, thou hast thy Will,
And Will to boot, and Will in over-plus;
More than enough am I that vexed thee still,
To thy sweet will making addition thus.
Wilt thou, whose will is large and spacious,
Not once vouchsafe to hide my will in thine?
Shall will in others seem right gracious,
And in my will no fair acceptance shine?
The sea, all water, yet receives rain still,
And in abundance addeth to his store;
So thou, being rich in Will, add to thy Will
One will of mine, to make thy large will more.
Let no unkind, no fair beseechers kill;
Think all but one, and me in that one Will.

CXXXVI

If thy soul check thee that I come so near,
Swear to thy blind soul that I was thy Will,
And will, thy soul knows, is admitted there;
Thus far for love, my love-suit, sweet, fulfil.
Will, will fulfil the treasure of thy love,
Ay, fill it full with wills, and my will one.
In things of great receipt with ease we prove
Among a number one is reckoned none:
Then in the number let me pass untold,
Though in thy store's account I one must be;
For nothing hold me, so it please thee hold
That nothing me, a something sweet to thee:
Make but my name thy love, and love that still,
And then thou lovest me for my name is 'Will.'

Don’t get it?

By Charles E.J. Moulton

What’s your secret, they ask?
Where are you going with this?
But the real secret is that they don’t get it.

It’s gotta be to the point.
Filled with truth and whiskey.

Depth.

So, what’s the deal?

I go, I am what I am.
I do my thing.

Cryptic is the road toward a certain logic.

And here I sit, sipping German wine and Bavarian Cherry Schnaps.
Good old American jazz in my ear.
And Dali rings a bell, telling me about melting clocks.

Why is surrealism so popular?
It’s a riddle, like life itself.

Still don’t get it?

Life’s a puzzle and we’re the mystery.

Bar Talk

By Charles E.J. Moulton

Sit down, she said.
Have a drink.
Get down, what goes around, comes around.
Where you from, Stranger?
What are they playing?
All of me?
That old hit from way back when?
Good stuff?
Let’s dance!
Oooh, you’re good.
The sax player swings.
What’s his name?
Ronaldo?
Hey, Ronaldo.
Play “As Time Goes By”!
No?
Then keep playing what you are playing.
Hey, you want a beer?
No, a brandy?
Hey, order a brandy for the dude!
Hey, you have nice eyes.
Mmh, nice kiss.
Yes.
Indeed.
Where’s your hotel room?
Even nicer.

Ogre

By Karen King

The ogre in the tree sits hunched and huddled,
His extruding eyeballs staring.
Matted moss covers him from head to toe.
The bark stands out in clumps,
Like barnacles to a rock.
A long arm hangs like a distorted foot
Around his distasteful, distended stomach
Towards the dried debris below.
Karen King Copyright 2012

The Devil’s in the Details

By Karen King

He stared into the crowd
As they screamed with laughter,
Almost wetting themselves.
Men no more.
Their voices became high-pitched
As tears ran down their faces.
Once they started, they couldn’t stop.
What was supposed to be a few became many
As one after another was consumed.
Soon, the fights would start,
The madmen’s monologues would start
And real tears would fall.
He stared at the couple,
As they danced, deliriously,
To the cheers and clapping of the crowd.
They were all enjoying the party.
All their money had gone
On this big day,
With no thought of the future.
Most of their money had been
Consumed in food and wine,
While new, false friends, appeared,
Mysteriously out of the woodwork.
He stared at the groom
As he tried to drown his sorrows,
Thinking of past pain.
The groom was trying to escape
The present and was damning his future.
Still, he would be there,
Awaiting the man’s demise
As dark thought after dark thought
Tumbled towards him,
Ready to devour him.
He stared at the human race.
What a stupid lot they were!
Why were they incapable
Of fun and laughter without drinking?
Didn’t they realise
How it all started?
What future would they have?
If their drinking continued,
When they were down,
When they were lonely,
And just to be “socialable”
The devil’s horns grew
As he spied the drunkards
As he peered up from the bottom of
One glass after another.
He cackled, cruelly,
As he relished the downfall
Of one sorry creature after another
As they collapsed onto the floor,
Their lives forever ruined.
The delighted devil danced his way
Into his new victims
And took their souls forever.
They could search in the cruel darkness,
They could search in the crevices,
But they would never find
Their souls again.
Perhaps they should have taken more care,
Perhaps they should have heeded the warnings?
He had watched them all
And welcomed their carelessness.
After all,
The devil is in the details…

Light Rain Early in Spring

By Han Yu

Heaven street light rain moisten like butter
Grass colour bar see close but not
Most be a year spring good thing
Extreme mist willow fill capitalIn light rain, Heaven Street is moist like butter,
The grass is green from afar, but not nearby.
The spring is best this time every year,
The mist of willow blossom fills the capital.

From Aeneid

By Virgil

The Greeks shape bronze statues so real they
they seem to breathe.
And craft cold marble until it almost
comes to life.
The Greeks compose great orations.
and measure
The heavens so well they can predict
the rising of the stars.
But you, Romans, remember your
great arts;
To govern the peoples with authority.
To establish peace under the rule of law.
To conquer the mighty, and show them
mercy once they are conquered.

Of Modern Poetry

By Wallace Stevens

The poem of the mind in the act of finding

What will suffice. It has not always had

To find: the scene was set; it repeated what

Was in the script

Then the theatre was changed

To something else. Its past was a souvenir.

It has to be living, to learn the speech of the place.

It has to face the men of the time and to meet

The women of the time. It has to think about war

And it has to find what will suffice. It has

To construct a new stage. It has to be on that stage

And, like an insatiable actor, slowly and

With meditation, speak words that in the ear,

In the delicatest ear of the mind, repeat,

Exactly, that which it wants to hear, at the sound

Of which, an invisible audience listens,

Not to the play, but to itself, expressed

In an emotion as of two people, as of two

Emotions becoming one. The actor is

A metaphysician in the dark, twanging

An instrument, twanging a wiry string that gives

Sounds passing through sudden rightnesses, wholly

Containing the mind, below which it cannot descend,

Beyond which it has no will to return

It must

Be the finding of a satisfaction, and may

Be of a man skating, a woman dancing, a woman

Combing. The poem of the act of the mind.

Amidst the mists of time

By David Thorpe

Like the birth of Venus the sun arises,
reflecting an aureate beauty o´er the lake,
an ambient of peacefulness prevails
in the silence of this mystic place,
lost in the telling of myths of yore;
yet still vivid after my somnambulant journey,
as I submerged into its darkest depths,
where lies entombed the wondrous gift of Viviane,
Caliburn, returned to its waters by Sir Bedivere,
lone survivor of the slaughter of Camlann

A memento of my timeless wandering,
to the lake´s enchanted isle I came,
the majestic halls of Avalon, echoing still
the wailing cries of Morgana, mourning a royal kin;
for this sovereign´s resting place I searched in vain,
as Glastonbury only its wounds to me revealed,
thereupon did I leave my rose of sanguine red,
to lie amidst the mists of time,
in gratitude for Arthur´s valiant struggle,
a Celtic Albion from Saxon aggressors to defend

David Thorpe © ® 2017

Fire Without a Light

Poetry by Darren C. Demaree

Demaree's work is scheduled to appear in numerous magazines/journals, including the South Dakota Review, Meridian, New Letters, Diagram, and the Colorado Review.

He is the author of six poetry collections, most recently "Many Full Hands Applauding Inelegantly" (2016, 8th House Publishing). I am the Managing Editor of the Best of the Net Anthology and Ovenbird Poetry.

He is currently living and writing in Columbus, Ohio with his wife and children.

TRUMP AS A FIRE WITHOUT LIGHT #541

The sky has fallen to scrape away the quarantine of the introvert. Raise your arms, silent people! This moment is too much like the beginning of the end for it to continue unimpeded. You don’t have to hold any beauty to join a crowd that wants slam into an ocean of hatred.

TRUMP AS A FIRE WITHOUT LIGHT #542

I’ve been thinking a lot about how the first tree was turned into something other than the first tree. Was it shelter? Was it a clue for fire? How many trees came from that first sapling? I’ve been thinking a lot of how that tree might have died, wasted as a curiosity, wasted as the individual before the forest, wasted on the animals that pissed around it. I have been thinking about how much animal excrements are in my front yard. Even the deer have started to mark our oak tree. If a warthog arrives in my yard to yellow any of my plants, I will kill it. I will display it. I will send bad bacon to him. He will take that as a threat, and I won’t have entirely meant it that way.

TRUMP AS A FIRE WITHOUT LIGHT #543

The light flares and I’m awake to the shadows overcoming Ohio. There is so much wasted stillness here. I love Ohio the same way I used to love cheap beer and fireworks and women that hated me; there’s a puzzle piece rightness to the fit for me. That doesn’t mean Ohio is the worst place. It just means the default setting for Ohio is fucking horrible. Ohio can change. I changed. I am still an awful man, but I make other decisions every single time now. Ohio could do that. Ohio will get the same offer I did before I quit drinking. Consumption works both ways and everything in this world can be burnt into ash if it doesn’t avoid the flammables. So, what you gonna do? Ohio, what you gonna do?

Memories

By Alexandra H. Rodrigues

My box of memories has grown so fast
Now is stuffed with unwritten tales of the past
It has no lock, no cover, no key
Yet I am the only one, who what is in it can see.

The contents is a medley of “what was”
Everything that turned to memory as time did pass
It is my choice to dig though the happenings
Expose to the present long forgotten things.

Suddenly they are as vivid as once they were
Urging me that I should still about them care
There is sad and detrimental bygone
The recollection anything else but fun.

However, it was part of what shaped my life
During the War and mishaps as mother and wife.
They want credit despite having caused pain
Some are eager to put me to shame.

I leaf thru them, they have a right in the box
I cut my stay with them like a sly fox
It is the happy memories I let take my time
For them I am grateful that they are mine.

Memories have a power hard to describe
Most of them surface when the time is ripe
All explains why my now has turned a certain way
This box expects to hold even more one day.

Odd but Dear

By Alexandra H. Rodrigues

Look at the picture above real close
It makes me equally happy and morose
It reminds me of the time when I was young
About my dear mother before she was gone.
It ended up as an oddity
Yet it does mean the world to me.

Some stuff is of absolutely no use
Should long have ended up in refuse
The picture does show however a link
Which of seventy years past makes me think.
It is a piece of batiste from a negligee
Black with embroidery in green and grey.

I was only fourteen years old
To want and wear such a treasure was bold
Never a man came close to it
For only two precious years it did fit.
My mother had helped me when I went to buy
The thought how quick I grew up made her sigh.

Thru my life I was mostly on the go
Away much burdening things I did throw
Times when I saw the negligee were rare
Always I would find a reason why it to spare.

The day after a devastating storm and flood
Water from the sewers covered floors with mud
In a puddle floated the long-saved negligee
Now really this rag had to be thrown away.
I took a pair of scissors and cut off a piece
Washed off the element’s grime and grease.

This remnant of keepsake will stay with me
As odd as you think that might be!

The World is Our Canvas

By Charles E.J. Moulton

The world is our canvas.
Let’s paint a good picture.
We have an idea.
We think it, feel it, realize it, manifest it, chase it and create it.
Anything is possible.
We have the angels by our side that work to create it.
Why not create perfect joy for everyone?
God loves us.
All of us.
The world is our canvas.

Carnival, Carnival

Trilingual Poem in English, German and Polish

By Thaddeus Hutyra

German translation by Alexandra H. Rodrigues

1.
‘ Carnival, Carnival ‘
New York City, Rio de Janeiro
Paris, London, Amsterdam
Hong Kong, Bangkok, Tokyo
Abu Dhabi, Jerusalem, Cairo
Just look, ladies and gentlemen
young and old in dance's aureola!
Carnival, Carnival
guaranteed enjoyment
at its best!
Carnival, carnival
let’s dance
till the morning hours!
Carnival, carnival
magics in the making!
O’ carnival, carnival!
Berlin, Warsaw, Moscow
Johannesburg, Irkutsk, Vienna
Venice, Prague, Sydney
Wellington, Buenos Aires
The whole world on frenzy dance
day or night, not really a difference!
Carnival, Carnival
guaranteed enjoyment
at its best!
Carnival, carnival
let’s dance
till the morning hours!
Carnival, carnival
magics in the making!
O’ carnival, carnival!
Swinging bodies
in rapid movements
Ladies intoxicated
by inner happiness
Men on erotic flirting
as never before
That’s what carnival is abut
join us, ladies and gentlemen!
Carnival, Carnival
guaranteed enjoyment
at its best!
Carnival, carnival
let’s dance
till the morning hours!
Carnival, carnival
magics in the making!
O’ carnival, carnival!
Saint Petersburg, Oslo, Ottawa
San Francisco, Los Angeles
Tbilisi, Brussels, Paris
Madrid, Belgrade, Sydney
smallest villages of the world
no one left out, all together!
Carnival, Carnival
guaranteed enjoyment
at its best!
Carnival, carnival
let’s dance
till the morning hours!
Carnival, carnival
magics in the making!
O’ carnival, carnival!

‘ Carnival, Carnival ‘ by Thaddeus Hutyra
© Thaddeus Hutyra February 2017

2.
"Karneval, Karneval"
Poem translated from the original
Version from Thaddeus Hutyra

New York City, Rio de Janeiro,
Paris London Amsterdam
Hong Kong, Bangkok, Tokyo
Abu Dhabi, Jerusalem, Cairo
Schaut’ meine Damen und Herren
Alles tanzt Aureole

Karneval , Karneval
Die beste Unterhaltung die es gibt
Karneval, Karneval
Lasst uns tanzen bis frueh am Morgen!
Oh Karneval, Karneval
Zauberhaft
Oh Karneval, oh Karneval!

Berlin, Warschau, Moskau
Johannesburg, Irkutsk und Wien
Venedig, Prag und Sidney,
Wellington, Buenos Aires
Die ganze Welt hat Tanz im Blut
Sei es am Tage oder in der Nacht.

Karneval, Karneval
Zauberhaftes Vergnuegen
Oh Karneval, Karneval
Schwingende Figuren
In schnellen Verzierungen
Damen beschwipst in Froehlichkeit
Maenner in vollem Liebestaumel
Wie noch nie vorher
Das ist es was Karneval ist
Meine Damen und Herren
Machen Sie e smit un smit.

Karneval, Karneval
Zauberhaftes Vergnuegen
Karneval, Karneval
Lasst uns tanzen
Bis in den fruehen Morgen
Oh Karneval, Karneval

Saint Petersburg, Oslo, Ottawa
San Francisco, Los Angeles
Wien, Bruessel, Paris
Madrid, Belgrad, Sydney
Jeder noch so kleiner Ort
Alle machen mit.

Karneval, Karneval
Zauberhaftes Vergnuegen
Karneval, Karneval
Lass’t uns tanzen
Bis in den fruehen Morgen!
Oh’ Karneval, Karneval!
Orginal Poem in Englisch und Polisch
Von Thaddeus Hutyra. Translation into German
By Alexandra. Alexandra Rodrigues

3.
"Karnawał, Karnawał"

Nowy Jork, Rio de Janeiro
Paryż, Londyn, Amsterdam
Hong Kong, Bangkok, Tokio
Abu Dhabi, Jerozolima, Kair
Spójrzcie, panie i panowie
wszyscy, młodzi i starzy
w aureoli tańca!

Karnawał, karnawał
gwarantowana
super satysfakcja!
Karnawał, karnawał
tańczmy aż do samego rana!
Karnawał, karnawał
co za magia
na naszych oczach!
O’ karnawał, karnawał!

Berlin, Warszawa, Moskwa
Johannesburg, Irkuck, Wiedeń
Wenecja, Praga, Sydney
Wellington, Buenos Aires
Cały świat w szału tańca
dzień czy noc, to żadna różnica!

Karnawał, karnawał
gwarantowana
super satysfakcja!
Karnawał, karnawał
tańczmy aż do samego rana!
Karnawał, karnawał
co za magia
na naszych oczach!
O’ karnawał, karnawał!

Zwiętkie ciała w szybkich ruchach
rozluźnione umysły
aż po taneczny parkiet nieba
kobiety w siódmym niebie
od wewnętrznego szczęścia
mężczyźni flirtujący
na erotycznych strunach
To jest właśnie karnawał
dołączcie do nas, panie i panowie!

Karnawał, karnawał
gwarantowana
super satysfakcja!
Karnawał, karnawał
tańczmy aż do samego rana!
Karnawał, karnawał
co za magia
na naszych oczach!
O’ karnawał, karnawał!

Sankt Petersburg, Oslo, Ottawa
San Francisco, Los Angeles
Paryż, Kraków, Tbilisi, Bruksela
Madryt, Chicago, Belgrad, Sydney
nawet najmniejsze wioski świata
nikt nie może być pominięty
wszyscy razem tańczymy!

Karnawał, karnawał
gwarantowana
super satysfakcja!
Karnawał, karnawał
tańczmy aż do samego rana!
Karnawał, karnawał
co za magia
na naszych oczach!
O’ karnawał, karnawał!

"Karnawał, Karnawał" autor Tadeusz Hutyra
© Thaddeus Hutyra Luty 2017

Maria Wigo (picture above) is Wiltrud Maria Gödde, a versatile published poet who also works as a soprano
in the chorus of the Opera House in Gelsenkirchen, Germany.

For William Smith

Riding Eagle!

By Maria Wigo

The Night is dead, first shiny glow
which tenderly possess
the Stones, the Earth, a Glamour Show
of dancing Lights, I guess.

The Wideness of this Scenery
amidst enormous Rocks
Is boundless big and endlessly,
With Guardians in Blocks.

Scant Vegetation is immersed
in red-orange and gold,
The Colours floating and dispersed
like Diamonds to behold.

But in that Countryside along
Is mixed a magic tune,
The Sound varies from soft to strong,
This Mystery solved soon.

An Eagle riding on his Bike
through rusty, sun-drenched Air,
The humming wheels are on a hike
to reach the sky, a dare.

The Being keeps the wheels in rein,
Sheer Freedom in his eyes,
Tough Muscles press them back to lane
Steel wings, which nearly flies.

Untamed and keen, the Hair wind-blown
Controls breath-taking speed,
He drives a race, …or maybe flown?
Horizon reached, indeed.

A proud creature wrapped in Light,
but no more sound was heard,
Just my desire was in sight,
No Feather and no Bird.

The Eagle was a manly Being,
Fulfilled my burning wish,
Cause … I’m allowed to watch this scene,
The Man, … named William Smith !

June 2010 © Maria Wigo
(Wiltrud Maria Gödde) Germany

Flowers

By David Thorpe

speechless all their lives
with an eloquence
to replace the unspoken

they define feelings
when inhibitions hinder
their expression

they smile with joy at a reunion,
comfort on a sorrowful parting
and offer solace to the ailing

they are a precious necklace in spring

for a princess
in some child´s fantasy

they adorn a grave of a loved one,
herald the rebirth of nature,
endless roles in the theatre of life,
flowers

David Thorpe © 2017

Upward Grace
         by
Teresa Ann Frazee

In the depths of a descending dream
   Veils of fire whirled in upward grace
Emanating a dense topaz mist
   That transcended opalescent space

Light in wisps draped the horizons edge
   Climbing shadows teased a maturing light
Mysteries translated in whispers
   From vague voices of phantoms in flight

A trinity of black entwined trees
   Strain their branches in ancient silence
Toward the monitors of space and time
   With instinctual perfect balance

Hovering over the brink of reality
   High above the restless lives of men
Ever reaching toward the dream driven clouds
   For the union of sky and earth again

       Culinary Grace
           by
Teresa Ann Frazee

So there it grows, this glorious form
Spreading jealousy among the vines
Serene with the scent of paradise
On rainwater and sunlight it dines

How vainly its golden innards float
In the abyss of culinary grace
Pearled in the limelight of rising fame
Making us wish we were in its place

With a growing envious eye, we here
In the garden, see more than we can stand
Yet how we all gape at this gleam of life
This master work by nature’s skillful hand

Spring Rain

A Collection of Poems

By Jessica Goody

Spring Rain

The air is cold with the promise of rain.
Birds sing nonetheless, undaunted by the chill;
they twitter a rain song in the silver notes of a flute.
The grass smells cool and fresh, like leafy salad greens.

The robins are bright against the lawn,
cheerfully industrious as they seek insects
and perform whatever avian chores
instinct compels them to commit.

They will duck into nests upholstered with brambles
and old hair at the coming of the storm.
The mother protectively tucks a wing over the hatchlings,
their frail frames snuggling against her down.

Geese pass overhead in an uneven V,
the sound of their nasal honks reverberating
in the storm-cooled air. A crow, his plumage
gleaming like onyx, provides a sharp retort.

The Color of Rain

The cool air is filled with the green,
expectant scent of rain. The waves
ripple in the canal, dappled with light
the color of old coins. The trees are
streaked with moss the yellow-green

of spring. The spotted snakeskin of
peeling birches resemble elephant seals
tossing sand onto sloughing skin.
The sidewalk is stippled with mica.
The damp concrete glints, bathed in

the afterglow of a passing storm.
The trees are lulled by the rhythm
of the raindrops, their heads bent,
nodding like a sleeping child.

Irises

A purple-petaled flower
with a thoughtful yellow eye.
Golden-throated,
streaked with sunlight.
Regal in its elegance,
petals curving like a waving hand.

Flowers in the Snow

By Lucinda Berry Hill

The snow's almost gone
And what do I see?
I see God's creation
Looking at me.

God paints the sky
And the vast fields of grain.
He also paints flowers
As the first signs of spring.

Yellow and white,
Purple ones too.
Crocuses, a sign
Of a life brand new.

The birds singing sweetly,
A sound that I've missed.
Each song a new present.
Each season a gift.

God's created beauty
Of colors and sounds.
I see Him all over;
His love all around
.
Author Lucinda Berry Hill of "Coffee with Jesus" and "A Second Cup with Jesus" ©

Front Porch Flowers

By Lucinda Berry Hill

I see the Master's mansion
As beautiful as can be,
With a porch wrapping 'round
As far as the eye can see.

Baskets, they are hanging
From every arch that's made.
And flowers fill the baskets
In colors of every shade.

On the marble floor below
Sits baskets more and more.
So many lovely flowers.
What are they all for?
.

There's mothers there in Heaven
And they're honored every day.
God blesses them with flowers
From the children that they raised.

For all that they have given.
For all the things they've done.
Flowers line the steps of white
To the mansion of our God.

If your mother's in God's mansion
Instead of there with you,
Then ask God to bless her richly,
With flowers sent by you.

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

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

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

Ask me about fundraising ideas!

Once We Know

By Alexandra H. Rodrigues

I am honored that you ask for my hand.
That you want me to accept a wedding band
Before I can give you an answer, I need to be blunt
Are you convinced it is me, who you really want?

Is it because I am a natural blonde?
That for sure is not enough for a bond!
Do you actually know who deep down I am?
Do you realize I am not always the same?

Do you know I have bad dreams at night?
Do you know that spiders cause me fright?
I know that my body turns you on!
Yes, for me too, our intimacies are great fun.

How about you. I see that you are really cool!
You are suave, debonair and are no fool.
However, to say I know you, would not be fair
All I saw is your sex drive and your flair.

That you lust for me, is easy to believe
Yet not enough a commitment to achieve.
Let us discover each other’s true personality
Learn how much in daily life we would agree.
If disappointment is the result, no harm was done
We can write it off as having had fun.

Nuance in Love

By Alexandra H. Rodrigues

Any relation that only on sex is built
Will often right after the first quarrel wilt
Sex teases and puts you under a spell
As essence for love it does not bode well.

Sex can be gotten in many a way
It is available for money night and day
To have love lead to sex is how it should be
Sex as sole means for love as lie I do see.

Real love is not at all easy to find
Separate sex and love in your mind
When finally both merge into True love
That kind may last even as life gets tough.

A Poetic Boquet of Flowers

Poetry Collection by Alan Catlin

***

The Flower Arrangement, Jane Austen House, Chawton

Outside the room where Jane
wrote, her sister Cassandra’s
letter describing last hours of
her best friend, companion,
literal sister of the soul, in stilted
handwriting no doubt made less
legible by stress and grief, weathered
now, rust stained, fading so,
a transcription of the text renders
what can no longer be read in prose
as elegant and as poignant as Jane ever
wrote. The rooms and hallways
scented now with garden grown flowers,
dried lavender; the room beyond where
Jane wrote enlivened by fresh picked
blossoms grown nearby, a legacy, like
the words, living on.

Marianne Moore’s Gothic Garden

"our fictions feed on us."
A.S. Byatt

In dark corners of walled gardens
amid carved garden trolls, kitchen
witches released, grave goods distributed,
unearthed in the built up bed, outside
the ground keeper's shed, a lady dressed
in full-to-the-ankle dress and skirt,
a tri-colored hat jauntily set on an angle
and pinned firmly in place to white hair,
gardens nearby, sewing her seeds,
transplanting her latest hot house bulbs,
flowers, grasses, trees, all closely supervised:
Black Night Delephenium, Scwarzkof,
Aconium Arboreum, Blackgrass, Aphiopogon
Planiscopus Nigrescens, Night Shades,
Lobelia Cardinals, Fire Crackers for occasional
coloring, Eryngium Varifolium, Bourgates,
Japanese Maple trees that bend over moving
shadows, a Gothic garden brought to life,
more real that she is.

The Artist Visits Matisse's Last Garden

Matisse-he dead!
he doing the white boy
shuffle dressed as a
vaudeville dancer in
a pale blue suit with
white pin stripes and
leather racing gloves,
slick as his mentor,
Old Mr. Bones, taking
a stroll on his day off,
on a day for the dead,
tightening the knot on
his silk bowtie, cool
for the ladies as an old
dog from hell. Even
the undertaker's top hat
exudes class: only the best
need apply to be in this,
out of season but still in
bloom formal garden, or
is the window showing
the flowers just a painted
drop cloth lowered for
special effecting on this
cold night's dream of
levitating black cats,
their yellow eyes the only
light inside.

Red Daffodils, White Rain

Vermillion sky, empurpled
as a bruise, the dark stain
of alluvial soil along the edges
of an open wound,
red fields of wild flowers:
hybrids, mutant species
chemically enhanced,
their roots drilled into
night shaded bone,
impervious to weather,
these rose madder blooms,
these acres of daffodils
from another life.

The Flower Arrangement at the Dead Photographer's
Exhibit, REQUIEM, The Eastman House,
Rochester, N.Y. May 2001

What music could accompany this exhibit?
Twenty years of carnage begun, continued,
memorialized as an ongoing funeral of an Age,
attended in silence by the curious, the involved,
the mourners; as a gift of remembrance, a warning.
Not Mozart, Not Faure, Cherubini, Handel;
Not even Beethoven, Verdi, Brahms;
Not Britten with his poems by dead soldier poet
Wilfred Owen incorporated into the Mass;
Not Barber's Adagio for Strings, his memorial
for the dead of World War II made into a new
signature for war dead by Stone's, Platoon;
Not the Doors, Apocalypse Now!;
No music at all, as in the image of battle weary
soldiers emerging from their hiding places on
Hamburger Hill, silence more eloquent than
anything scored, ever, and here, besides these
images of death, a simple flower arrangement
between pictures, against a gallery wall;
white lilies in a vase and a small stack of business
cards that say: Viet Center Readjustment Counseling.

Every Day is a Day of Spring

By Karen King

The silent snowdrops shone in the sun,

But they felt lonely.

They had each other,

But they were isolated.

No other snowdrops grew nearby.

No other flowers flourished.

They couldn’t understand.

What had they done?

They thought they were happy,

Doing their own thing,

Minding their own business.

After all, the other flowers

Were not the same as them.

Even the same species of this milk flower

Felt different and alien to them.

They turned their heads to the sun,

Deep in thought.

Perhaps it was time to reach out?

One of the snowdrops lifted a petal,

Hesitatingly, whilst in the sun’s spotlight.

The daffodils turned towards them,

Their heads hopeful, their canary yellow singing,

Awaiting a new start.

Listen to the message of the flowers.

Do not be lost.

Join together now.

We are all one, despite our differences.

Celebrate, be joyful.

Put a spring in your step,

In your life, in everyone’s life.

After all, every day

Should be a day of Spring.

Karen King Copyright February 2016

Gardening with a Choice

By Karen King

Yesterday, you felt invigorated and full of Spring

And stepped out to work in your garden.

You admired the buds, lost in their beauty,

While you brushed away what you hoped

Would be the last vestiges of snow.

The sun shone on you, urging you forwards,

Encouraging you to relish every moment

And beckoning you on to brighter days.

The wind tousled and played with your hair,

The sun caressed your face, warming your soul.

You were lost, lost in the moment,

As you enjoyed the tranquillity of your space, your time.

Karen King Copyright February 2016

Desert Delights

By Patrick Bryant Michael

Tarantulas tantalize, scared - they sting
waiting
mating
cacti, wild flowers, scorpions will bite
weapon
venom
sandstorms, flash floods ravish over wild lands
taking
baking
rattlesnakes slithering along the harsh rocks
roughing
toughing
lizards run about, there's a desert song
teasing
pleasing
Desert Lily, Cardon Cacti stretching
buzzing
humming
honey bees abound, giant centipedes
leggy
ready
Desert Fairy Duster, the Dragon Fly
lovely
comely
sand castles, heat rising high in the sky
sweetness
weakness
Saguaro Blossoms, Indian Paintbrush
braving
craving
barren flats, bright red Ocotilla Blooms
thirsting
bursting
Prickly Pear Cacti to make sweet jelly
watching
stalking
Sphinx Caterpillar, Desert Spot Five thrive
crawling
sprawling
beetles, Desert Leaf Cutter Ants are shy
slither
quiver
Coral Snakes bring bright color to the ground
biting
fighting
venom paralyzes, watch from afar
deadly
heady
Black Widows hide, then jump out to attack
dryness
shyness
Organ Pipe Cactus sit and stay quiet
admire
aspire
Gordon Bladderpod, wearing yellow blooms
glowing
flowing
Banded Sand Snakes patrol through the sagebrush
musing
oozing
Giant Crab Spider's bite can be painful
perceive
receive
Hedgehog Cactus bring purples into view
invite
excite
Desert Lavender whites embrace the earth
writhing
striving
Gopher Snakes slither in pursuit of food
inspect
respect
Big-horned scarabs dot the sandy landscape
skinning
spinning
Fishhook Cactus will capture the mind's eye
gloating
floating
Mojave Sage bloom with purple flowers
thwarting
courting
the Common Kingsnake feasts on insects
rushing
crushing
Red Harvester Ants attack – aggressive
dripping
sipping
Chain Fruit Cholla provide food and water
rainbows
hallows
Globemallow blooms grow both orange and gold
wriggly
wiggly
Glossy Snakes only feed on small mammals
spirit
merit
Checkered Beetles with red-black backs quite bold
hugging
bugging
beware Teddy Bear Cholla, not cuddly
twilight
delight
Tufted Evening Primrose die - morning light
sniffing
spitting
Jerusalem Crickets smell foul and fight
sniper
viper
Cobras enchant with high pitched vibrations
showing
flowing
Claretcup Cactus clumps with reddish cups
seeing
freeing
Spreading Wallflowers are quite colorful
brutish
prudish
Buckhorn Cactus bloom with a copper tone
sifting
shifting
Panguitch Buckwheat is the desert's delight.

(c) June 8, 2014 by PBM

Flower Scape

By Patrick Bryant Michael

The evening sun glistens through the fir trees
I sit and watch with heart and soul at ease
Blue Hydrangea holds beauty to behold
Orange Lilies abound with centers of gold
Lilacs out of bloom, thoughts turn to the past
Evergreens surrounding as if to last
a time for pruning, roses sprouting about
Pinks, Reds and Yellows in bloom seem to shout
silence hangs in the air, a sight for sore eyes
a flower scape set in quiet reprise!

(c) July 21, 2009 by PBM

A Floral Duet

By Thaddeus Hutyra

1.

‘ Ode to Spring ‘

Dear Spring, you are the embodiment
of the very best, a magic bell of bells
the Bell of Life, cementing us all
to the bells of Summer, Autumn and Winter
You are soul-soaring bell of nature
ringing brilliantly across the globe
and announcing like Archangel Michael
the beginning of life giving new season.

O' bells, ring my bells, the bells of Spring
O' versicolored bells of Spring
ring and ring, bring a toast to life
‘cause people reach high spirits
and dance throughout their lives
‘cause life is forever, the gift from you, O' Spring !

Dear Spring, you’re a music to our ears
a Leonardo da Vinci’s painting
a film Scorsese never dreamt about
You’re a polychromatic symphony
of Mozart and Beethoven
the Symphony of perpetual Life
You are the Chorus of Angels
in all your splendor, O' Spring !

O' bells, ring my bells, the bells of Spring
O' versicolored bells of Spring
ring and ring, bring a toast to life
‘cause people reach high spirits
and dance throughout their lives
‘cause life is forever, the gift from you, O' Spring !

Dear Spring, you are the greatest of elixirs
the unprecedented Elixir of Life
never discovered and though existent
in each of us, our very essence
The essence as much of our souls
the Souls of Life, making us immortal
You’re our Guardian of the Universe
on this planet Earth, our home, O' Spring !

O' bells, ring my bells, the bells of Spring
O' versicolored bells of Spring
ring and ring, bring a toast to life
‘cause people reach high spirits
and dance throughout their lives
‘cause life is forever, the gift from you, O' Spring !

‘ Ode to Spring ‘ by Thaddeus Hutyra
© Thaddeus Hutyra 05/05/2015

2.
‘Clouds in the Spring‘

Clouds, the hanging gardens
of the oceanic blue sky
are welcoming us all
they, the spider’s web of the skies
they, clouds in the Spring!

Planes are flying in the meantime
from John F. Kennedy Airport
in all unimaginable directions
bringing us to destinations
where contrysides are full of flowers
and Babylonian alike hanging gardens
fulfilling our dreams !

There you are brought, all of you
there, onto the clouds
Each of them is a paradise island
a dreamland, indeed
one of nature, full of Spring!

There on those clouds
you enjoy your time
swimming in the deeply blue seas
getting sunburnt on the golden sand
or while waliking among flowers
in a florescent Botanical Garden!

There you also are, my maiden
there, on one of the clouds
sending me lots of kisses
in answer to my ones
You, the princes among flowers
there on the islets of the clouds!

The rays of the Sun
are the telepathic post
nothing really is impossible
for you and me
The Spring is our paradise!

Oh, the clouds on the sky
the islands and islets
in the coruscating midst
of the cosmic ocean
the one called the sky
Oh, the hanging gardens
there on the clouds in the Spring!

Here I am finally, my dear
getting on the board of my plane
Soon, quite soon
I am there with you
there, on one of the clouds
in the midst of fragrant Spring!

‘Clouds in the Spring‘ by Thaddeus Hutyra
© Thaddeus Hutyra July, 2016

Voyage to the Moon

An Ode to Georges Melies

By Jessica Goody

Magicians and astronomers wear the same robes.
In their Copernicus costumes
of spangled cloaks and wizard’s caps studded with foil stars,
the astronomers seem to be performing a pantomime,
a class play, child’s game.

Planets dangle like jewelry, charms on a bracelet.
A classroom diorama, celestial orbs represented
by sports balls on strings: Saturn, his abdomen ringed
like a child with a hula hoop. Earth, a swirling agate,
a marble held against a playground thumb.

Squinting through the great golden eye of the telescope,
they gesticulate with animation as they consult the astrolabe,
the ancient charts, the solar disk.
The footage flickers against the twinkly
ragtime accompaniment of the movie-house pianist.

The rocket ship resembles a toy, a tin miniature,
a die-cast model to be meticulously fit and glued.
Bolted with rivets, hundreds of thousands,
silvery fish scales, metallic and gleaming.

Flames explode from the anus of the torpedo
with a roar that sears the blue wallpaper of the sky.
A comet’s tail, bursting upwards like a fired bullet.
The steel cetacean, swims upward through a spectrum of blue,
the colors flashing on its pockmarked surface:
Lapis, indigo, royal blue, ultramarine, cobalt, midnight, ink.

The moon yawns, arising.
Its pockmarked face is blinded by the landing projectile,
flaking the golden silt of sleep, stardust.
On the scalp of the moon, craters spread like sand traps.
It is a war zone of debris. The astronauts descend.
They look down from the night planet onto its reflection.
Everything is reversed. The revolving cosmos
is no longer a world turning upon a still point.

Against a backdrop dotted with the silver pinpricks of stars
lies a cave of toadstools like boulders,
enchanted fungi. The Selenites appear,
those moon creatures who spontaneously combust
in flashes of conjurers’ smoke.

Future Antiquities

by

John Frazee

Dating artifacts can often create problems in the field
     Are they from the far off future or from the distant past?
Is she a passing fancy or truly one for the ages?
     Will she crumble under scrutiny or was she built to last?

How do you find beauty in such dark and desolate places?
     To unearth a treasure from deep within the rubble and rust
Shall I keep her for myself even against her will, or
     Return her from whence she came ashes to ashes, dust to dust

I stumbled upon this piece I am really not sure just where
     The search for future antiquities has taken me far and wide
My endless quest has led to sights one would rather not have seen
     The cost has been quite dear putting my personal life aside

Coming upon this shimmering find something seemed familiar
     I’m sure I’ve seen this face before in a mirror or a dream
I found myself shaken to the very essence of my soul
     As I awoke to the sound of a reflection or a scream

CIRCUMVENTING TIME

by

John Frazee

I have tried many things, some really quite bold
In my feeble attempt to never grow old
You cannot beat time, or so I've been told
Swap precious youth for a watch made of gold

If unprepared, time will sneak up on you
Contemplating it, you haven't a clue
Constantly changing, it is never new
It can quickly arrive from out of the blue

If ravaged by it you start to show your age
While maturing, wrinkles become your gauge
They say growing older is to turn the page
Predict the future, deem yourself a sage

To waste it, is an unforgivable crime
On seconds you may snack on hours you dine
Wash it all down with a glass of fine wine
Your last hope is to circumvent time

Current Observation

by

John Frazee

A wise man we'll call Einstein taught me many years ago
It is not so much what you see but where it's seen  from
The results of your addition might not always be correct
It may not be the total but it will always be the sum

It is an observer created universe, therefore
What you see is truly what you make, reality is yours
Everything changes at the moment you get yourself involved
These aren't my rules it is the universe that makes the laws

Someday this poem may be read by a stranger light years away
I will long be gone yet to him the ink will still seem wet
Try not feeling too comfortable in your environment
Prepare for change, neither the present nor future has been set

Pity the poor physicist who observes change for a living
Observation is your key to many an endeavor
Whether it be literature, fine arts or daily life
Think you are exempt, remember nothing stays the same, ever

The photo "Atadrona" courtesy of Jérome Coppo

***

The revenge of Atadrona

A mutant of Phalypolis

By David Thorpe

Of beauty equal to Aphrodite
sensuality to hypnotise Cleopatra´s snake
attributed with Nefertiti´s political agility
revered as a goddess by womanhood,
Atadrona, Lilith resuscitated

Her determination for equality in Phalypolis,
capital of the cosmic realms
now fallen into the hands of male supremacy
subjection of female intelligence

Her fate was sealed
banished to the rains of methane poison
in the clouded darkness of Titan
incarcerated and laid in coma
in avenging awareness

Where no eyes by her countenance be mesmerised
where no souls through her sorcery be condemned,
she awaits patiently her awakening,
to take her revenge on her doomed oppressors

David Thorpe © 2017

Bodies New and Strong

By Lucinda Berry Hill

I'd like to think, in Heaven
There are no steps to climb,
No tiny print,
No casts or splints,
No twisty little bread ties.

I'd like to think, in Heaven
There'll be no need for glasses,
No glucose strips,
No bathroom trips,
No chalky anti acids.

I'd like to think, in Heaven
That this will all be true.
So shall it be.
I do believe
Our bodies will be new.

For Heaven holds no illness,.
No pain, no fear, no sadness;
Our bodies strong,
The wrinkles gone,
Feeling mighty fabulous!

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

Heaven's Waiting

By Lucinda Berry Hill

Heaven is waiting for you,
It has a room with a view.
It has the warmth of the sunshine,
The light of the moon.

It has smiles abundantly,
Love that is free,
No pain and no sadness,
Just joy and God's peace.

Heaven is waiting for you.
Your place has been claimed.
Christ paid your ticket
When He died unashamed.

Accept God's forgiveness.
Believe, it is true.
Because of His mercy,
Heaven's waiting for you.

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

Humans vs. AI

By Thaddeus Hutyra

1.
‘ Teleportation ‘

Unfathomable are oracles of God
Dante puzzles !

How many universes
there are
in the multiverse ?

With every breath of the Lord
new creation
is being formed
and endless range of emotions.

The breath of the Lord
is your smile
your kiss
your fiery love
birth of your child
yet another universe
in the multiverse.

There will be times
undreamt of
even in fairy tales
One shall hold
sort of future iPhone
just a few entry codes
and one will become a soul.

Unlike now
it will be a pure fun
for by coding back
one shall return
to the former point
back to his own body.

Teleportation simply
will be as easy
as using our iPhones now.

Back and forth
from body to soul
and soul to body.

From what is earthly
or what belongs
to future planetary home
to what we now call paradise
where no time exists
but all the beauty
of the multiverse.

And then back
really back home !
How unimaginable
and though imaginable !
How larger than life !

Quantum physics
is very complex
the entire universe
or perhaps multiverse
firstly all the bosons
and then ...
the gate to the multiverse.

Never thus say never !
O' welcome to Dante puzzles !

‘ Teleportation ‘ by Thaddeus Hutyra

2.
‘ Humans vs. AI ‘

A cat is sitting on the roof
trying to catch the Moon
an eagle is flying
up the nightly sky
destination the stars!

Just imagine
not so distant future
humans will compete
with androids.

They will have
their own consciousness
likes and dislikes
and much more.

We all are built
from atoms though
whether people or androids.

Some time ago I thought
future AI individuals
shall leave humans
far behind.

Androids
due to their advancement
shall be able
to conquer the Universe
molecules of light their starships.

Yet I have forgotten
to notice
the perfectionism
of human brains
The last word
not yet said!

Humans will be able
to use AI
to their own purposes
attaching it
to their own brains
Super humans
shall be born!

It won’t be the end
for furthering
of the human advancements.

Teleportations will become
the next step
enabling humanity
space travel
time travel
entering the multiverse.

The question is
who will solve
all the entirety
of the quantum physics
unveil dark matter
as the first one.

Who will get the key
to the gates
of the multiverse
in a more smooth way.

As in the case of androids
so in the case of humans
molecules of light
will be their starships, indeed.

The magics of deciphering
of all the codes there are
will bring fruits
nobody before thought about.

The question remains
how shall it all develop
Shall the humans
and AI individuals
be cooperating
or shall they be
friends turned foes?

For if they will become enemies
star wars will follow
The tragedy
of never ending wars
on Earth
shall be brought
onto the vast Universe.

So quiet seem to be lives
of some of us
at least in peaceful villages
somewhere there
in the mountains
or on places
overlooking the oceans
that one might say
peace is forever.

Dogs are barking
even at the slightest nuances
of weather patterns
rabbits are escaping
from a dangerous stray wolf
Life is going on...

So I Am Attracted

By Rebecca Villanueva

So, I am attracted to you
Beautiful rugged and towering
Mysterious mountain
Who moved me
That very first day
Of watching you approached me
The evening belongs
To the drunken eyes
With electricity on high voltage
Electrifying us whenever
We look at each other
With our speaking eyes whispering
About the language of attraction
And love defining our act
Of moments of joy and inspiration
And of moving in sleep like trance
While so awake of sensations
Dancing inside us with flaming desire
While an orchestra
Commanded my body to want
That loving music played in my heart
Oh, it makes me want to dance
Instead of mourn
There's thousands
Of moments of wishes
That the look in your eyes reveals
And I wish that the people around us
Will disappear so we'll not talk
In codes with steaming meanings
But dive in the ocean of love
And be lost forever
In the hurricane of sensations
Turning me in a carousel
Upside down
Oh, my thoughts is full of wars
And the sky was in fire
Burning burning burning
Id love to go where the ocean
meet the highest sky
To love you
My beautiful stranger
In my life
RmvR 140516
Copyright 2016

The Future

By Alan Catlin

“So our hope lies in a world without hope,
governed by Satan.”
Ake Edwardson, Sun and Shadow

“Neighborhood girl, 8, killed
by stray bullet while riding
her new bicycle.”
The news article said.

Police canvassed neighborhood
looking for leads but no one saw
anything, though everyone seemed
to have heard the shots. Were on
the street seconds later, and were glad
to appear on local TV offering
opinions about all the things they
didn’t see.

Weeks later a thirteen year old
boy was arrested for the crime.
Said he felt bad about the little
girl. “I wasn’t trying to shoot
no little girl. I was trying to off
someone else. She just be in the way.”

Asked where he got the gun,
he confessed it wasn’t his, was,
in fact, a community gun that anyone
could use, if they had to, as long as
they put it back where it was to be
hid when they were done.

Said, he had to wait until he was 16
to get his gun but guessed, now,
he’d never get his own.

"Hieronymous Bosch

put his finger on the wound"

Terry Tempest Williams

By Alan Catlin

drew the lines for anatomists to follow,
exposing hidden sutures, internal formacations
for those possessed by seizures, see them mesmerizing
the wings from dead angels, draining life fluids
from archaic monsters summoned into being
by evil spirits released from another world;
once their tongues have been removed, their eyes
poked through with sticks, who will remain
to articulate their spent visions?
who will paint the future?

Narcissus in Black with Rings

By Alan Catlin

“I am deformed with beauty.”
Joelle, Infinite Jest

If there was an antithesis to beauty
she would try and find out what it
was and be that person. Self loathing
in her life, was expressed by piercings,
nose rings, lip rings, no doubt nipple
and clit rings, plus multiple pin piercings
in each ear that looked more painful
than decorative. The way she looked,
though, belied her sentiment of total
self-hate, a state of mind that could easily
have been defined by ugly, cheap, impossible
to remove neck, chest and facial tattoos.
but wasn’t. The lack of body art suggested
a hedge against that day, in the future,
she’d wake up in bed with someone so totally
disgusting, someone she’d convinced herself
she had loved but really hadn’t, their naked bodies
sticky with sweat and dried bodily fluids
knowing this would be the day to undo all
the self-inflicted damage and become, again,
the person she claimed she never was.

Trees

By Alan Catlin

I must have felt confined and out of
sort, when the dude walked into the bar,
perched on a stool, gave me a goofy grin and
said, “There’s nothing so rare as a day in May.”
I interpreted this remark as the opening salvo
in a cliché spouting, poetry quoting game,
so I replied, “I think that I shall never see,
A poem as lovely as a tree.”
Listened incredulously as he said,
“I never heard that one before. Where’s it from?”
The temptation was to reply, ”What did you do,
stop going to school after the fourth grade?”
Looked closer at the guy I thought to myself,
“It was a distinct possibility that he had.”
Instead, I said, “It’s from like the most famous
poem in the English language, ‘Trees’ by
Joyce Kilmer.” I waited expectedly for his reply
and was not disappointed.”Joyce Kilmer, huh!?
I never heard of her. What else did she write?”
“Lots of stuff. But Kilmer died young. In WWI.
A real tragedy. Very sad business. There’s still
a lot of work in print, though: poems, essays,
biographies. Just go to Barnes and Noble
and check out the Woman Studies section.
If you don’t find anything there, ask one of
the helpful sales people. They’ll straighten
you right out.”
“Thanks, I will.”
“Don’t mention it.”
The day was looking up and transforming
itself into a rare day indeed: jokers, clowns
and performance artist everywhere.
Who knew what other entertainment options
there were just waiting to be explored.

Night smells of fireflies

By Alan Catlin

and mosquitoes, burnt amber creases
the moon, swirling smoke of unknown
derivation/ like a forest fire without trees,
a desert of water creatures washed
ashore in dreams reclaiming their flesh
under outlaw clouds. Rhythmic pounding
of hollow drums, spirit fires in cloistered
eyes unhinged from pulpits shipwrecked
along an evolving shore. All night the
power wires conspire with the poles to make
noise as hostile witnesses to trials of crimes
against nature. A threat of rain is withdrawn,
stunted pines are pounded down like stakes
into the earth as a mood goes indigo.

She Turned and Saw Him

By Karen King

She turned and saw him.

She felt a strong sense of deja vous

As memories, played on

The corners of her mind.

Like old photographs

In ancient albums,

Where the edges are torn

And the photos are faded.

Like memories of old.

He was waiting for her

At the crossroads

On the path of sunlight,

Unsure which way to turn.

She slowly smiled

And walked towards him.

Together, they would decide

Which path to take.

Both brightly lit,

With patches of darkness.

The future looked uncertain,

Life looked uncertain,

Yet a flicker of hope

Could be read,

Like a book,

In both their eyes.

Karen King Copyright May 2016

The Race

By Karen King

Time does heal,
For those who want it.
You will never forget that person,
As you hold their love in your heart.

Certain items, certain events, will trigger
Thoughts and feelings for them.
Good and memories will bubble up,
Like a soup simmering on the hob.

Yet, if you stay selfishly with the departed,
In your mind and soul,
You will keep them in limbo,
Never to rest in peace.

Is that fair, is that loving?

You will block your progress
With a corridor of cobwebs.

The departed would want you to
Live your life to the full
And enjoy life once more,
For life is for the living.

I am a horse
At Cheltenham races,
Happy to live in the present,
Ready to surge straight on.

What course are you taking?
Is it mine or a different one?
Are we on the same track?
Are we even at the same meet?

Are you going to join me?
Or am I to race, wild and free,
Through the present,
Into the future?
With another horse?

The horses are lining up,
So you'd better hurry,
Before the race begins,
Or you will be left standing.
Alone.

Karen King Copyright February 2016

The Deep Blue Ocean Duet

By Patrick Bryant Michael

Cloudy Skies and Deep Blue Oceans

The deep blue oceans touch the cloudy skies in shades of blue
stretching
beyond
the horizon to far off places, true love to accrue
teasing
mental
persuasions to the Far East, sirens calling, haunting true
cruising
sailing
on the blue ocean, horizon keeps moving out of view
diving
deeply
into the ocean, the sky out of view, minds need a clue
rising
popping
up into the sunlight, the sky touches the eyes anew
shining
billowy
clouds bring animation to the eyes, like a sheer breakthrough
darkness
overcast
skies hide rocky shorelines, grottoes of love bid us adieu
valleys
mountains
appear closer, the blue skies touch the ocean out of sight
coastlines
rhythmic
bobbing up and down, touching blue skies up to the twilight
yawing
straightening
the line of sight, clouds touching the ocean get the limelight
sightseeing
driving
along the coastline see the horizon coming forthright
beaches
campfires
logs burning will bring warmth and snap, crackling as they ignite
drinking
getting
hazy minded, losing the horizon as sleep you would fight
sleeping
waking
to a head ache, falling down from having too much sunlight
walking
finding
your bearings again, the sky blue touches ocean, unite
running
keeping
pace by watching the clouds moving along, as the waves flow
basking
ripples
in the air, heat seems to dissipate as if in escrow
watching
peering
at the skyline, senses touch the horizon, seas will grow
racing
pushing
your own limits, clouds making dragons, as wild winds would blow
dancing
bouncing
with rhythm of waves, touching the sky, feeling a warm glow
raining
droplets
falling on rooftops, the sound is warm and audibly low
darkened
thunderclouds
hides horizons, thunder breaks the silence, scares the scarecrow
dangerous
liaisons
keep the mind haunted, touching the soul, kept on a plateau
escaping
placing
emphasis on the skyline, oceans flowing with passion
inhaling
exhaling
to build a head of steam, touching the sky's interaction
illusions
delusions
come and go, the skyline tapers off, to the seas' bastion
illumination
sunlight
opens the door to new dimensions, sea skies refashion
bending
shifting
the course to new adventures, skylines have no compassion
focusing
translating
shapes in the clouds to forms of the mind, infatuation
dreaming
toying
with an adventure, sky and sea touch in allusion
humming
hearing
a song coming, as the dream skyline touches the ocean.

(c) January 8, 2017 by PBM

Give and Take

Romance is a give and take with clear and open mind
grasping
romance
is only possible with behind the scenes refined
contract
language
dictates the terms of give and take once all parties signed
working
playing
behind the scenes parties that make sure that it is aligned
corruption
stealing
takes place behind the scenes, the company is maligned
dancing
singing
in the rain, splashing in mud puddles, minds get defined
hiding
seeking
behind the scenes, new ideas, for hearts are opined
musing
meditating
the subconscious is inspired behind the scenes streamlined
laughing
coping
with inner demons, groping for new paths, maturing
studying
researching
to be sure of what you are doing while nurturing
persuasion
illusions
fogging up the mind, the heart and soul reassuring
traveling
grasping
the meaning of each journey, behind the scenes luring
sensing
coming
into the light, behind the scenes it is disturbing
chasing
dreaming
of new dimensions, behind the scenes life enduring
eating
drinking
to sate the thirst, behind the scenes someone is adoring
bouncing
ideas
off objective peoples' minds, grappling with assuring
shopping
picking
up bargains with the help of sharp people on the staff
hiring
firing
workers, behind the scenes separating wheat from chaff
gaining
losing
your perspective, rebuilding behind the scenes, to laugh
walking
talking
putting new spins on old ideas, trading one half
parsing
splitting
hairs to make a crucial point, then to choreograph
sleeping
waking
with new light shining, behind the scenes subconscious graph
mystical
imaginings
offer behind the scenes cosmic portal telegraph
pushing
pulling
to gain traction, behind the scenes we find a giraffe
reaching
stretching
our limits to find our tops, watching for new daylight
waiting
yearning
for a new beginning, spinning tales in the twilight
digging
making
a hole to impede others, behind the scenes, a slight
climbing
higher
and higher, behind the scenes there is a big cat fight
calling
hearing
an echo, behind the scenes mountains capture their height
singing
humming
a song stuck in your mind, behind the scenes the limelight
washing
cleansing
the soul, behind the scenes romance, ready to ignite
giving
taking
behind the scenes compassion, the cosmos shines love's light.

Marc Chagall, Couple in a Blue Landscape (1949)

Blue Landscape

By Jessica Goody

(Marc Chagall, “Couple in a Blue Landscape”, 1949)

They lie in the curve of the crescent moon,
a cosmic cradle, a gondola hovering in the sky.
He admires her lapis hair, her bare shoulders

and sodalite skin. A thousand shades of blue flicker,
rendering them luminous and ethereal as mermaids,
blue-green women with bodies as ripe as dark plums.

Floating in a cerulean spotlight, her bare toes pearly
and stricken blue, she strokes his hair, whispering of
the secret world swelling in her stomach. Her bare belly

echoes the curve of the moon, a swallowed pearl.
Seraphim twirl in the richness of a cobalt sky, swooping
and diving like silent, moonstruck birds. Missile-shaped

fish swim in the depths where elemental spirits swirl and
crest like waves. Mythological beasts stalk this enchanted
forest gone as blue-green as the flame in an emerald’s eye.

Green Sentinels

By Jessica Goody

The sky is a postcard, the color
of beautiful days people remember.
The misty periwinkle of smoke and
distant mountains, the blue of ancient

cultures, the fallen and forgotten places.
A day like this is a gift. The hawks swarm
and circle, riding the currents like surfers,
lazily floating on sweet air. They swoop and

dive for the sheer joy of feeling the cool rush
of air on outstretched wings. They dance like
whirling dervishes just because the sky is so
blue, in the wide-open eye of the atmosphere.

Spring Rain

By Jessica Goody

The air is cold with the promise of rain.
Birds sing nonetheless, undaunted by the chill;
they twitter a rain song in the silver notes of a flute.
The grass smells cool and fresh, like leafy salad greens.

The robins are bright against the lawn,
cheerfully industrious as they seek insects
and perform whatever avian chores
instinct compels them to commit.

They will duck into nests upholstered with brambles
and old hair at the coming of the storm.
The mother protectively tucks a wing over the hatchlings,
their frail frames snuggling against her down.

Geese pass overhead in an uneven V,
the sound of their nasal honks reverberating
in the storm-cooled air. A crow, his plumage
gleaming like onyx, provides a sharp retort.

You Sail Away

By Rebecca Villanueva

You sail away
To the vast ocean
Away from everything
And hide yourself
Behind the rumblings of
The ocean storm
You thought
By tracing a map
In the bodies of your
Nocturnal flowers
You'll be illuminated
And be lucky to find your
Final port of call
My silence sings to you
My Lorelei
Not wishing that you jump
To your cold grave
But my silence is calling you home where you left your
Old anchor
Your storms will make you
Wish for shelter
And the fire will be warm
And waiting
And here
I love the ship that will bring you home
To your final port
By RmvR 050516
Copyright 2016

POCIMA PARA CAMBIAR
LOS DIENTES EL POETA

- Daniel de Culla

Ingredientes:
Cuatro versos bisílabos de Avellaneda; cuatro versos trisílabos de Espronceda; cuatro versos heptasílabos de Lope de Vega; agua mineral o tónica con ginebra.
Al atardecer del día, tienes que sacarle la lengua a luna, subirte a la copa de un pino y pasar toda la noche diciendo:
—Por amor herido no viene a verme mi amada.
A la mañana siguiente, deshoja los versos de los poetas citados; tírate de cabeza del pino contra la flor de la canela, y pon a hervir en un infiernillo el agua mineral, o tómate de un trago la tónica con ginebra, gritándole a la Poesía:
—Por la luna reluciente, y ese verso que lleva dentro, que este dolor de muelas se me quite, pues ni duermo, ni velo, ni sueño tengo, deshojando ahora los versos de los poetas por su orden primero:
Noche, triste, viste, ya
Tal dulce, suspira, la lira, que hirió
Pobre barquilla mía
Entre peñascos rota
Sin velas, desvelada
Y entre las olas solas.
Después, haz una tortilla francesa de dos huevos en forma de luna en cuarto menguante y entrégasela a la primera poetisa tradicional de la Mancha Baja que pase, que no tenga muelas ni dientes
-Daniel de Culla

DOSE TO CHANGE THE POET’S TEETH

By Daniel de Culla

Ingredients:
Avellaneda’s four two syllabled verses; Espronceda’s four trisyllabic verses ; Lope de Vega’s four heptasyllabic verses; Mineral water or tonic with gin.
At dusk of day, you have to stick out your tongue to the Moon, go up to the top of a pine tree and spend all the night saying:
"By injured love, my sweet heart does not come to see me anymore."
At the next morning, strip the verses of the mentioned poets; jump out of head from the pine against the cinnamon flower, and put to boil the mineral water in a little bowl, or take the tonic with gin, shouting at poetry:
"By the glittering moon, and that verse that carries inside, that this toothache was removed is bliss, since neither sleep, nor veil, prevails, nor am I sleepy, nor am I I worn out, defoliating now the poets’ verses by its first order:
Sadness, night, seen, just now,
So sweet, the sighs, the lyre, that hurt the sadness,
Poor little mine’s boat
Between mass of rocks broken
Without candles, unveiled
And among waves alone.
Afterwards, make a French tortilla with two eggs with the shape of a moon in the waning quarter and give it to the first traditional poetess from the Lower Mancha who passes not having tooth nor teeth.

‘ Love is Eternity ‘

By Thaddeus Hutyra

Staring towards the nightly stars
trying one’s best
to imagine what’s in there
so many alien civilizations
perhaps even AI ones
that long before
stripped themselves
of their biological forms
but there was a time
they were like you and I.
Ah, where the oceans
meet the blue sky
where the horizons
of our thoughts and dreams
encounter the future
there in love and the Universe
there we are !
What civilizational level
could we represent
in comparison to cosmic aliens?
Certainly we are just type zero
when it comes to the power
of getting energy from the stars.
Not yet a stellar culture
while they might already be
long behind a galactic culture
on the threshold of a universal one
or even so called multiverse one
enabling them crossing
from dimension to dimension
and even universe to universe.
Ah, where the oceans
meet the blue sky
frontiers of cosmos
are wide open !
Have you ever thought
that out there in the Universe
there are civilizations
building sort of Asgardia
we are just thinking about
so large as entire planet
alike our own Earth ?
Or perhaps they are building
so called alien megastructure
enveloping one of the stars ?
The most advanced aliens
can possibly be capable
to subordinate entire galaxies
to their wishes and desires
Dyson sphere megastructures
collecting energy from the stars
multiplied gloriously n-times.
Ah, dear, love is eternity
Come, see me and never leave
for the world is our home
the Universe our fate
the multiverse it all !
Perhaps one day, my dear
it all what there will be
will be our consciousness
stripped of our left behind bodies
You and I in the parallel worlds
of the spellbound multiverse !
Come, my dear, come to me
let me take you into my arms
yet again hold you tight
to remember forever
what we used to be
and say goodbye to it all.
You and I shall be the final
who and what we can be
you and I, the consciousness
free to live the new way
and travel across the Universe
across the multiverse !
Ah, bye, bye the past
of our shortcomings, limitations
bye, bye what used to be
We are now on a challenge trip
called the infiniteness
nothing really can beat us
for we have got godly structure
and are conquering the multiverse.
Ah, let yourself
be carried away, my dear
to the eternity of you and I
for this eternity
is our final destiny.
Ah, where the oceans
meet the blue sky
there we are, forevermore !
‘ Love is Eternity ‘ by Thaddeus Hutyra

‘ Blue Moon ‘

By Thaddeus Hutyra

The dark horse is counting stars
a cock squawks trying to clear skies
cats are having party night
dogs are howling for no reason
What made them all to behave strange
the music from under the nearby tree?
My love, my heart, my only heart
you are tsunami, the tsunami of our hearts
Let it go, let it flood us, I don’t care
underwater we are even safer
in the underwater of our love, of our hearts!
O' the devil in I, your sweet devil, my heart
O' California night and the blue Moon
there we are, my dear sweetheart
there where the nightingale sings
to the tunes of overwhelming, rhythmic music
we are dancing to, we, adult kids in the dark.
Oh, where the oceans
meet the moonshine sky
with symphony of the blue Moon
there you are, there in my heart, O' lover!
Don’t say sorry, they all are our satellites
no harm can happen at all
Love yourself as you love me
never ask what do I mean
as I never ask what do you mean
Our hearts mean it all, my love!
I am not a machine nor you are
we are two soulful beings in love
you, my wildest dreams that came true
one I am not gonna lose, not at all
See, I am untravelled road as yet
enjoy me, your devil in I, O' my heart!
You are my bonfire heart, one I desire
chains are not my life anymore nor red lights
for I do have you, my angel
the crimson phoenix that descended
in the fullness of California night
under the incandescent blue Moon!
Oh, where the oceans
meet the moonshine sky
with symphony of the blue Moon
there you are, there in my heart, O' lover!
Watch me, my love, watch me, O' watch me
I’ll show you the magics of me
striptease first then foreplay endearment
before we’ll engage in all blown love
But for now, my heart, just a bit of dance
sensual one, all touches and kisses allowed
I must make you hot, hottest ever, my heart.
Here you are, my goddess, here you are
under the California night and blue Moon
I think I’ll die a happy man
never ever regretting what we had
The feeling is good for you, O' lover
good for me, mark my words !
The Lord is the enthralling photographer
a magician and a cheerleader
No pressure at all but a dance
of two deeply affected hearts in love
you and me, forever you and me
O' count, dark horse, count the stars
let the song of love fly
across the Universe!
Oh, where the oceans
meet the moonshine sky
with symphony of the blue Moon
there you are, there in my heart, O' lover!
‘ Blue Moon ‘ by Thaddeus Hutyra

Their Song

By Karen King

Her pink breasts blushed

As he rose from the sea,

Because they wanted him

For company.

They had been waiting

In the soulful sand,

Wanting him

From another land.

As he approached,

She started to tingle,

Wanting him

On the shingle.

She started to melt,

Like an ice cream,

As other parts of her,

Drifted into a dream.

He took off his jacket

And put it on the stones,

Looked around and saw

They were alone.

The subtle,

Then strong,

Lapping of the sea,

Matched their song.

He touched her,

Like a melody,

Glistening,

In her company.

Karen King Copyright June 2016

Our Hearts

By Karen King

Our hearts are like the sky,

In which we often fly.

We flitter, like butterflies,

While, inside, we cry.

Our hearts are like the air,

The breeze, without a care.

Yet, you sit on your chair,

Staring at what’s no longer there.

Our hearts are like the ocean,

Forever changing course and motion.

What is this crazy notion?

I need a love potion!

Our hearts are like crushed sea shells,

Lying, forlorn, amongst cries and yells.

What is reality? It’s hard to tell!

Sometimes, this is a living hell!

Our hearts are like sinking sand on the shore,

Which one more lost, I cannot be sure.

I wonder if you will be my cure

Or if you are just some kind of lure?

Our hearts are like living fires,

Flickering flames, climbing higher.

Do this have to be so dire?

Do we have to burn in the pyres?

Our hearts seem like elements of their own,

Who seeds have yet to be sown.

It is time to be true

And, together, start our lies anew.

Karen King Copyright 17 December 2016

I Will Climb Your Tree

By Karen King

I will climb your tree with you to another land,

Where we are lost in sea and sand,

Where the waves touch us and wash us clean,

Showing us what was is and what has been.

They show us that now is time for laughter and fun,

As we rest against palm trees and the setting sun.

You wish to show me your colours,

And touch me deeply as your lover.

You want me to look into your eyes,

While our love gives us a natural high.

Karen King Copyright June 2016

Below: Painting by Charles E.J. Moulton

Time after Time

By Alexandra H. Rodrigues

Haze at the foot of the mountain does appear
My inner is suddenly gripped by strange fear
I am not ready yet to watch earth from above
First I want to show to you my hidden love.

I hang on every word expressed by you
If only the depth of my infatuation you knew
At present, it is only a utopian relation
Future possibilities the sole consolation.

Here I want to have your body conquer mine
Share with you lust and fulfillment divine
Then let the time come for our souls to meet
Seeking eternity high over the mountain peak.

Dawn on the Beach

After the Wreck at the Clark

after JMW Turner

By Alan Catlin

A nightmare of tides
as remote as
Prospero's conjured storm,

those curvatures of
windswept spume
bloated clouds slip through

as discs scattered
along invertebrate
sand sculptures,

beach stones blackened by
volcanic life
undersea, a demon's pit revealed

with each offshore
lightning strike,
an embroilment of waves,

a cacophony of strained
voices calling
their last as ship meets

reef and follows after
the dawn's
dead calming tease,

on shore, the feral beast
feels the dead
as they slip away,

his howling unable
to keep
the spirit world at bay

The Sound of the Waves

By Alan Catlin

The ache and the cry
of sea birds before
moon rise.

An offshore breeze in
the tall brown reeds,
in the panic grass.

Wild deer on narrow
cliff paths eroding
underfoot, unfit for
safe passage.

The shifting rocks
dragged by the tides
out toward the sea
over pebbles and moss
and more rock.

Storm wrecked pieces
of ships: disconnected
panels, steering columns
without wheels, one way
ship to shore to nowhere,
radio transceivers.

Sand crusted, weed
infested, knots of blue
rope nets dragging
the beach for nothing.

A lull in the night
where nothing seems
to be moving; the sound
of the waves.

Waking Dream at Low Tide

with Truck Parts

By Alan Catlin

Cam shaft and engine
block decades gone to

ruin amid black rocks,
several yards from shore.

Dried sea weeds clinging
to stones smeared with

surreal, bright green moss
and mollusk shells;

receding waves conspire
to touch the shore.

High Velocity Sea Breeze with

Unmoving Offshore Windmills

By Alan Catlin

The luminous tips of
white capped waves

geyser spraying where
they meet rock.

The distant shimmer
of encircling dusk

and strange stillness
of windmills, gust

defiant, almost proud.

From Mohegan Bluffs

By Alan Catlin

Unknown dreamtime objects
glimpsed on ocean horizon,

moving landward with
the tides and tail winds:

by soon-to-be extinct
native Americans:

one, two, three, a company
of tall masted ships.

The explorers are
coming with guns.

A Permanent Vacation

By Lucinda Berry Hill

A permanent vacation,
In Heaven it will be.
Nothing but relaxing,
Resting by the sea.

Standing on a mountain top
Looking far and wide,
Gazing at the sunset,
Watching eagles fly.

Nothing but gentleness,
Smiles galore.
Sitting at the feet
Of the one we adore.

Walking through a garden
Led by butterflies,
Looking at the trees
Reaching to the skies.

Won't it just be glorious?
It's what I'm waiting for.
A permanent vacation
Being with the Lord.

Lucinda Berry Hill Author of "Coffee with Jesus" AND "A Second Cup with Jesus" ©
https://www.facebook.com/#!/pages/Coffee-with-Jesus/355060321207311

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

Ask me about fundraising ideas!

"Caribbean Beach" - Photo by David Thorpe

***

Metamorphosis

By David Thorpe

There, where sky and ocean embrace in a Rodin kiss,
my sighs of sorrow melted into the horizon
of water colours painted by quivering sun,
taking its daily bow

There, where the indiscreet waters
of crystal clear rivers enraptured your shed tears,
swirling them downstream,
till as glistening shards they sprinkled lava rocks
with a caressing shower

There, where summer breezes in golden waves
carried our hopes over sunflower carpets,
nodding in approval their golden bonnets
to bless our nuptial wishes

There, where a celestial beam illuminated an earthly lake,
a pool of enticement for our sensual pleasure,
our naked bodies became a sleeping nympha,
awaiting impatiently its metamorphosis
into sublimity

David Thorpe © 2017

Shakespearian Depth

and the Dust of Ages

Theatrical Magic Explained

Poetry by Alan Catlin

***

Self-Portrait with Hamlet's Mother on
the Battlements of Elsinor

By Alan Catlin

Spirits travel here but only certain
receptive souls can see them and interact
without benefit of an intermediary,
a medium whose oracular wisdom touches
the entrails of those who left this life
for the other, troubled and confused.
Oceanic tides are trade winds tunneling
inside the wormholes of a mind made
feverish by strong potions, lecherous
impulses and a grief too awful to bear.
This world is unbalanced, made unruly
by unnatural death: bosky woods no
longer remain rooted to a solitary place,
Hyperion becomes satyr and red wine
no longer act as a balm but is a fiery
draught that kills, one fatal sip is all it takes;
once she swallows, the queen looks
as if she has seen a ghost.

Behind the Scenes

By Alan Catlin

He auditioned all the boys
and girls, personal, in his office,
one on one.
Spread the rumor that if his casting
couch had kept a diary it would
have made Casanova blush.
Would have revealed detailed
information The Hite Report,
Kinsey and Masters and Johnson
had missed.
Claimed all the behind the scenes
work had made him old before
his time, and that might have been true,
in a way, if all the communicable
diseases he had caught and the immunity
to the miracle drugs that were required
to cure them, counted as adding rings
to the tree.
Said he had an eye for talent and
a gift for nurturing it, with a straight
face , when everyone knew it was more
of a, “you do something for me and I’ll
do something for you,” kind of arrangement.
Liked to proclaim that his work was
essentially thankless, foreswearing
personal gain and glory, while compiling
the kind of portfolio that made Wall
Street players envious.
“It was all about the Art, the theater
and the people that made it happen,”
was his standard interview line which
meant, “As long as it benefits me in
the long run.”
Might even have convinced himself that
all the lies he told were the truth,
which it may have been , in a way,
the way good propaganda has an element
of reality, the way self congratulation may
be seen as modesty, to the recipient, but
seen as a mockery of the truth by everyone else.

Secrets of a Queen for a Day

By Alan Catlin

“How long were you in medical school
before they found out you weren’t a corpse?”
W.S. Burroughs

She looks like some kind of
American beauty, Hollywood
Babylon party ‘til you die
survivor, face buried under so
much grease paint, mascara,
and ruby red lipstick, she could
have been Queen for a Day on
the Titanic with a leaky lifeboat
as a prize, reaches for you in
lost, dead hours of the night as if
you were the last man on earth,
keeper of the keys to the Heavenly
Gates and the Liquor Cabinets of
the Gods. Drunkenly whispers
something crude into your near-
deaf ear, suggestions of what you
can do together and where, like
a latter day Marie Antoinette dewigged
on a scaffold, hair a sudden shade of
white, face a hundred years older
than it was the day before, last breathes
of all the men she’d waylaid in
the night exhaled into your face like
a promise of what was to come.

Fairy Tale

By Alan Catlin

The husband was some kind of
traveling salesman joke on the road
so often she was sick of long,
empty nights, solitary pleasures,
“Gone With the Wind” Romance novels
that always ended up the same way and
the lack of resolution wasn’t what she
wanted, needed, desired this far along
in a going nowhere marriage.
She might have loved him once,
might even love him still, in a way,
as in a way of life and as a standard of
living she’d grown accustomed to and
he was willing to provide as a substitute
for what he wasn’t giving her on
a regular basis.
We never got as far as discussing
particulars like whether she thought
he was getting his on the road,
a different piece in every town;
just being there said it all.
Her being there, looking up at me from
the bar stool, sipping Canadian Club,
twisting her wedding ring around her finger,
then sliding it off like it could go away
in a heartbeat, mine or hers. The phone numbers
on a bar napkin that said night or day,
it didn’t matter, no strings, no complications,
no weekends…..
Just like a fairy tale, I thought, all you had
to do was supply your own unhappy ending.

Dancing Freak

By Alan Catlin

Maybe they were teaching
ballroom dancing over at
the psyche center and his
section had let out early or
else he had made his escape
by way of the Frances de Sale’s
shop and scored some tux
and tails O’Malley’s Funeral
Parlor had stopped using for
display purposes. I half expected
most of the suit to be missing
in the back like one of those
hospital gowns he got to wear
around the ward, not exactly
a fashion statement to be sure,
but what he was used to. Or else,
it was his lucky day to score
the whole suit for his ambition,
for his dreaming Fred Astaire
fantasy, though he wasn’t likely
to be scoring any Ginger Rogers
for his partner for those dance
tunes he imagined were waiting
on the jukebox for the right couple
to be stepping out to, not that he
had a buck for playing songs, real
or imagined, or that he could read
anything more complicated than
a Dick and Jane primer despite
claiming to know Dick real well
and Jane too, back in the good old
days before Ginger, “Top Hat” and
the Great War that ended it all.

Photo courtesy of www.celebtoast.com

***

Rehearsal

By Jessica Goody

Threading along the dark recesses of the theatre,
through the rabbit-warren of wings, the black skirt of curtain
drawn like a sail unfurling, stands a backstage tableaux
of stacked chairs and scattered props. A scrim of sawdust

felts the flats; folded ladders lean and slouch against the unfinished sets.
Dark knots burn like sightless eyes in the wood, unpainted and splintering.
People skulk and scurry backstage, as darkly-clad as cat burglars;
specters presiding over a rummage-sale hodgepodge of objects,

assembling and rearranging worlds with every scene.
Actors stand poised in the wings,
straining for cues and dabbing sweaty brows.
They grin with fierce hilarity, struggling to remain silent backstage

with all the desperate necessity of Anne Frank in the attic.
Pinpoints of light stipple the air like burning cigarettes:
flashlights outline faces rendered blank by darkness.
Shadow-puppet games are played in the wings

as scripts are hastily referenced. We meet between the pages,
struggling to engender these microcosmic lives,
tasting the flavors of the words on our tongues,
savoring the precision of a perfect phrase.

Spirituality

By Jessica Goody

We met there,
in the room that was part atelier, part monastery.
I knew you for a kindred spirit then.
The air was serene, enfolding.
Worn woods mellowly shone,
and small objects caught the eye with color,

like a robin redbreast passing from tree to tree,
a vivid spot of scarlet against the snow.
Wind chimes dangle from the ceiling,
making twinkling sounds like birdcalls.
Crystals hang, catching sunlight,
clearing negative energy that spreads like smoke.

A large bleached Buddha crouches on the altar.
His carved face looks like he wants to cry.
True spirituality lies in creativity.
Religion, by contrast, is pure theatricality.
Hellfire televangelists condemning civilization
are nearly Shakespearean in their fervor,

except that they have chosen the pulpit instead of the stage.
The superstitions of the theatre are no stranger,
no less powerful, than the rites of a priest.
With scripts instead of spellbooks,
we worship at the altar of the proscenium.
The thick red gourd lamps light our faces

as we wait for the ritual to begin.
We intone our lines like shamans casting cantrips,
listening to the colors of our voices with every breath.
We fill the hollow shells of our bodies
with other personas, multiple personalities,
in a subconscious altered state.

Potatoes

By Jessica Goody

Potatoes tumble from burlap sacks,
heaped like speckled stones, laying
damp and cool in my hand, their heft
weighed in the paleness of my palm.

Ancient skin is scratched and scarred,
punctuated with moles and liver spots.
The peeler scrapes away the epidermis
of coarse brown paper, revealing gold,

like ore damply shaken from a miner’s pan.
The glint of wielded steel, deftly separating
the toadlike complexion from the prize within.
The brown rind peels away like curling ribbon,

exposing yellow flesh punctured by thumbprints.
The wet-grass scent of freshly-shaven potatoes
bobbing in a bowl like a children’s game, watery
submersibles left to float, like seals in a rookery.

The piled parings resemble rhinoceros hides:
The satisfaction of mounding vegetable peels
heaped like pine straw, the pile of potato skin
strewn like gift wrap on Christmas morning.

The methodical scrape of the peeler as it shreds
the brown tree-bark roughness like scaling fish.
Metaphors abound, similes curling into the air
above as the potatoes slowly fill the empty bowl.

***

Jessica Goody was born and raised on Long Island. She currently lives in South Carolina, where writes for SunSations Magazine. Jessica's work has appeared in over three dozen publications and anthologies, including Reader’s Digest, Chicken Soup for the Soul, and The Maine Review. She received second place in the 2015 Reader’s Digest Poetry Competition. Her poetry collection Defense Mechanisms was released by Phosphene Publishing and is available on Amazon.

Holy Cows

By Lucinda Berry Hill

Driving down a country road,
Listening to the radio,
Something blocked the road ahead.
It was big and black and so widespread.
A herd of cows is what I saw
And they weren't moving; standing tall.

So I went another way.
On that road a woman stood
Outside her car with lifted hood.
She had 2 children by her side
And I heard a baby cry.

I slowed right down then parked my car.
I knew she wasn't getting far.
I offered her a needed lift.
She graciously did not resist.

I drove the woman to her home.
I couldn't leave them on the road.

Now if those cows weren't there that day
I'd not have gone a different way.
I'd not have seen the stranded group;
The woman and her children too.
God saw a need He had to meet.
He led those cows to the street.

Don't ever doubt God sees your needs.
He often works behind the scenes.

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

Behind the Scenes

By Lucinda Berry Hill

God put it on a woman's heart
To pray for her dear niece.
A few days later she had learned
Those prayers, they were a need.

A woman spent her last five dollars
On another who was ill.
The very next day her mail had come
With a lowered monthly bill.

A smoke alarm had just been fixed;
New batteries installed.
And just in time to save the lives
Of a family and their dog.

A couple road to the hospital.
The wife feared she'd be alone.
But God already knew her fears
And answered from His throne.

The Lord, in His timely manner
Speaks words right to my spirit.
I write it and share it just in time
For someone who needs to hear it.

Things will happen for a reason.
It's not always as it seems.
It's not an accident, it's not called fate.
It's God's working behind the scenes.

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

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

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

The Moroccan Man

By Karen King

The Moroccan man glides across the desert,

His sandals sinking into the sand, spilling onto his scorching toes.

He follows the line of curving candles towards the camp fire.

The Moroccan man sits down and the sand embraces him.

Like a long-lost friend.

He smiles to himself as his gaze wanders wondrously

Towards the magnificent mountains.

They glow grandly, pink and orange, illuminating his imagination.

Ponderous, puffy clouds circle the sky, teasingly,

Occasionally peeping from behind the mountain.

The Moroccan man dreams of finding someone special to share

This surreal scene.

He sits, suspended in time, sipping his tea.

He notices a line of camels and men in the distance,

The sky silhouetting them.

This mysterious, magical vision is exquisite and exotic.

As he watches, they fade into the distance,

Their appearance now like tiny particles of sand.

Destination unknown.

The Moroccan man wonders where his life is going,

What is the next path that he will take?

He has his plans, but life is an amazing adventure.

Sometimes when we are not looking,

There is an unexpected event and our lives are changed forever

As one link in the chain leads to another …

As he thinks, the sky darkens, stars shimmer …

The magical moonlight shines sublimely.

The Moroccan man is a nomad

In his imagination.

But he is here just for the night.

The amber light from within his tent tantalisingly flickers,

Casting light onto the nearby sands.

Coldness creeps around him.

Like ghostly fingers in the night.

The Moroccan man enjoys the perfect peace,

His soul serene.

He feels at one with the desert.

There are no boundaries.

Is he the desert or is the desert him?

He is happy in his desert of dreams.

The Moroccan man can sense another presence,

A soft, sensuous feeling surrounds him.

Fantastically feminine and all encompassing.

He can see a white dress billowing around him,

But her back is turned and no face is revealed.

He turns to his tent, wondering who this creature is

And when will she show herself in his life?

Karen King Copyright June 2015

***

The Mechanisms of my Mind

By Karen King

Come, enjoy!

The mechanisms of my mind.

Each cog turns in unison,

Working together,

Yet each as one,

Their fluid motion

Like a well-oiled machine.

Each bit of stainless steel glints

As it gravitates towards

The next bit.

It is whirring, it is stirring,

As one thought

Leads to another

And all is kept in my mind,

However fleetingly.

Some thoughts may just be passing,

Like an object passing my peripheral vision.

Others may stop and stare at me,

Standing in front of me and glaring,

Until they get my upmost attention.

Some thoughts are superfluous,

Fear-driven or mundane,

Others deep and have many layers,

Like an onion,

Where I keep peeling back

To get to the heart of the thought,

Like a doctor performing an operation,

Who delves deep into the core of the person

To alleviate the pain of the past

And to obtain a better future.

Sometimes, I overthink

And the cogs scream in anger,

Coming to a full stop,

Screeching in frustration

As the thoughts go around in circles,

Echoing the shapes of the cogs inside.

I must remember to be mindful,

For what if the cogs should malfunction?

They may become rusty and sluggish,

But I won’t think about that,

For my mechanisms of my mind

May seize forever!

Karen King Copyright December 2016

***

The House of Headaches

By Karen King

My Son complained of headaches,

We both felt lethargic and depressed.

We felt like we were being attacked

As the life forces were sucked out of us.

We wondered if we needed to see the doctor,

Yet each time we left the house

And cycled or walked,

We shook off the feeling.

I started to wonder.

I started to feel afraid.

Could there be a psychic vampire in visitation?

This negative entity could have been drawn

To the nervous energy of my Son.

I tried to be logical and not frighten Vincent,

Yet he sensed this otherworldly reality.

“I think a ghost is here, attacking me”, he said.

“I wondered the same thing”, I exclaimed.

I burnt incense and blew it into all the corners,

All around the house.

I rang a bell everywhere while praying

To God, Jesus, the Archangels, our spirit guides.

I proclaimed the Universal Law,

“In the name of God, negative entity, be gone”,

For it is the law in the unseen world

That they should go when this is said three times.

We felt a settling sigh in the house

And we could breathe freely once again…

Yet, that night, I was woken up,

Thinking there was a storm.

I looked out of the window

And saw nothing.

The ground was completely dry!

I listened more carefully

And was drawn to the DVD player.

The green light was boldly burning

And hissing at me, like a snake.

I looked around, uneasy,

But felt and saw nothing.

I turned it off and went back to bed.

The next morning, I was awoken

By my Son’s watch alarm.

He didn’t wake.

Eventually, it stopped,

Leaving sparks of energy…

Upon waking he checked.

The alarm had not been set!

Yet, suddenly, everything felt calm.

The spirit had had the last word.

We felt like we had been

Sailors sailing in a storm,

Tossing this way and that.

The storm had passed,

The energies were clear

And our house was our friend again.

Karen King Copyright December 2016

Photo courtesy of Jérome Coppo ©

BEHIND DRAWN CHIFFON CURTAINS

By David Thorpe

Behind drawn chiffon curtains
secrets of lascivious dreams are concealed,
where erotic smiles creep from under scorched sheets,
and peaceful corners of a festive table
point to dust filled crevices, overlooked in the confusion,
heaped with indignant expectations,
languid from awaiting postponed decisions

Behind drawn chiffon curtains
a filtered dawn is enticed

to imbue the dozing darkness,
a first blush of morn of an outside world
of disjointed shapes,
a petrified mosaic of jigsaw skies decorate facades,

duplicated into blurred distances

From behind drawn chiffon curtains,

ghostlike images of somnambulists
in Indian file are seen to walk,
whilst stoic scribes search for egoistic solutions
to quench the thirst of an avarice society

David Thorpe ®© 2016

BEYOND THE DOOR

by

Teresa Ann Frazee

Our hearts are broken
   Few pieces get fixed
We move on with
  Our emotions mixed

Bitter words are spoken
   Our pride is abused
A dull ache remains
   Where an ego was bruised

Promises die bleeding
   Through splintery cracks
Vows are long forgotten
   And have since turned their backs

By whatever means
   I would pay the cost
To be relieved
   Of this paradise lost

The fool keeps on talking
   Louder until heard
Just once I’d like
   To get in the last word

The dice are tossed
   Somewhere they land
All that is certain
   Is a life unplanned

For heaven’s will
   I hope and trust
Is in control
   Of what shall become of us

With which foot first
   Either way I fail
I’ve chosen my crossroad
  Through fire or hail

Before the weekends
   All night binge
Please fix the squeak
   On the screen door hinge

The ceiling leaks
   And the fridge needs repair
It would be nice
   If you looked like you care

Yesterday’s lay off stings
   Like a whip’s lash
My checks in the mail
   But I haven’t any cash

I love to dream
   It’s life without a consequence
A surprising turn of events
   Always out of sequence

In dreams I don’t fear mail
   Cause I can pay the bills
I’d have scented candles
   On marble window sills

I’d taste Russian caviar
   Holding polished silver spoons
Have French tipped nails
   With perfectly shaped moons

The Christmas lights
   Aren’t up all year long
My 2.5 children play in the yard
   And they all get along

Into fields of color
   Where spirits rise
I’d turn to find
   No one left to criticize

I’d make a sanctuary
   From a room on the side
Where ideas flourish
   And are not left to hide

Where porcelain dolls
   Sit on crystal swings
And canaries fly
   Without clipped wings

With blue glass dolphins
  In resin pools
And wild eyed cats
   Purr on wicker stools

I’d have first edition classics
   Like Catcher in the Rye
And a Kerouac novel
  On a shelf near by

With a view of sandcastles
   That sculpt the shore
Of miles of beach
  I’ve yet to explore

Dreams give me hope
   Through watery eyes
I listen for clues
   And sort out the lies

I’m jealous of the spider
   Up on the wall
She lives in a cobweb
   Filling a corner of the hall

She’s able to come and go
   As she dam well pleases
With her God given freedom
   She taunts and teases

I watch her
   In her element
Her sense of purpose
   Makes a soul content

It’s plain to see
   There’s a thing or two
I can learn
  From my tiny nomadic guru

Meanwhile I’ll sweep the porch
    Dishes need to be done
I’ll sort the ironing
   The clothes could use some

I’ll feed the howling dog
   And water the plant
Maybe later my situation
   Will have a new slant

One of these days
   I’ll head for the door
Who’s kidding who
   I’ve said it all before

He’ll be back soon
   Itching for round two
I’ll be ready this time
   I’ll know what to do

Me and the wise spider
   Prepare to leave
Out the door is home
   Beyond this house of make believe

The spider will teach me
   Lessons I should know
Like be true to your self
   Naturally she’ll have to go

It’ll be up to me
   Not to let doubt through
To break down the barriers
   I’ll need a wrecking crew

I’ll do my best
   And take my time
Either I won’t make it
   Or I’ll be just fine



Timekeepers

by

Teresa Ann Frazee

Timekeepers monitor every single moment
Their consistent symmetry, bound to nothingness
With precision they weave threads of infinity
Wound from a master spool, vast and measureless

Challenged by their aerial habitation
They exist just outside the realm of mortal view
Like windswept apparitions struggling to survive
Unyielding to earths pull within phantasmal blue

Firm on their mark they don't waste, borrow or kill time
Nor leave anything to chance or a toss of the dice
And so, for the sum of our debt for all our days
For time, their gift of life, we pay the standard price

Under Investigation

by

John Frazee

Cursed poisoned and condemned then poked probed and violated
Histories questioned while deeply hidden secrets are exposed
This kind of scrutiny reeks havoc on the nervous system
The distant past comes to haunt you, indiscretions are revealed

The quandary arises what to leave in what to leave out
When under duress it is hard fabricating alibis
Convincing the authorities of your innocents
The piercing arrows rip through you from disbelieving eyes

Could this just be a case of mistaken identity?
Has someone I trusted provided false information?
Could you survive interrogation of this magnitude?
Once you  realized you are under investigation

Indigenous Vista

by

John Frazee

Staying put has never been the motto of the courageous
     You’d think they would find solace by remaining where they reside
Yet mankind has a restless soul and must conquer what he sees
     But the mountain path is littered with markers of where men died

Concentrate on the near and ignore what’s off in the distance
     Their known world was easy to absorb, it sat there in plain view
Beasts lurked around each bend, it was fear that insured survival
     As to what lied beyond their borders, they did not have a clue

Impassable boundaries established by those who came before
     A unique discovery over each and every hill
What lies beyond the ravine causes the heart and the soul to race
    A new and dangerous adventure in which to test ones will

Try putting yourself in their place and imagine what they saw
     Early in the dawn of man everything appeared sinister
As he gradually became aware of his surroundings
     He grew to find some comfort in this indigenous vista

Warmth

By Alexandra H. Rodrigues

The air around engulfs me like velvety gauze
I imagine your fingertips searching my
Body’s most sensitive spots without pause

I feel the warmth that comes from being
Cared for. Lust of imagination causing
Breathless anticipation I’m soon seeing

Reality and make believe mix a new truth
Promise of an unknown sensation
Chases away any unwanted blues

Like holding hands let our feelings bind
Let our thoughts melt together
Let us be stimulated in vision and mind.

Boarding the Orient Express

A Collection of Poems

By Alan Catlin

***

Murder on the Orient Express

Maybe he thought adding bulk
to his body meant an increase in
brain power as well. That if he
channeled Peter Ustinov and Albert
Finney, he could solve crimes like
a Murder on the Orient Express.
Failing that, he assumed everyone
was guilty of something and if he
had all the suspects shot then the problem
of where the dead body on the train
came from, who put it there, and why,
would just disappear until the next train
to the East, where the same MO occurred
suggesting a serial killer was still
on board.  Killing everyone would
solve the problem, eventually,
ten million dead enemies of Stalin
can’t be wrong.  It felt like an
advertising slogan for a puppet
state when it was said but it wasn’t.

***

Murder Among the Orientals

Charlie Chan and one of his,
very Chinese American born,
native sons, would have solved
the mystery  in a trice or three black
and white reels of thirty minutes each,
or whichever came first.
Maybe he thought if he dressed up
like a latter day Confucian, let his
finger nails grow as long as Howard Hughes’,
and spoke in fortune cookie phrases that
suggested something profound but were
really vague and meaningless, he would
become an ace detective, world famous,
much sought after, and able to command
high fees.
That the actor who played Charlie was named
Howard Toler and didn’t have a drop of
Chinese blood in his lineage all the way
back to before Buddha, only encouraged
his fantasies.
“I mean if he could do it, why not me?”
Forgetting you actually might have to know
what you were doing and that Charlie was
a made up person, like fictional, and that
all things were possible when you were
a creation of someone’s imagination.

***

Orient Express Train to Nowhere

Archangel had a Romantic appeal to it,
in concept, as an essential place to
visit until you realized exactly where  it
was and how you had to get there.
A thousand or so miles of windswept tundra,
Siberian snow drifts, and subzero weather
put you more in mind of the tour of
penal colonies that Chekov undertook
in his professional capacity as a doctor
than tourist destination.
Chekhov’s memoir of that time makes
instructive  reading  along the lines of
Solzhenitsyn and the Gulag  Archipelago
than a story of the last days and nights
of the tsars.
No clean well lighted Orient Express rail
cars now, no dining cars, no cattle cars either,
which was the most likely mode of conveyance
for most of the unfortunates who made their
last railway journey to the East.
Like Mandelstam, sick, under-dressed,
exposed to the elements, on a journey that
never ends, reciting his poems to the wind.
The ones  no one will hear but that will last
long after the man who said them is no more.

***

The European Tour

“She was the type of woman who would
have brought tears to the eyes of John Ruskin”
                                    Maurice Dekobra

Her idea for a gap year was
to save all the tips she made
working as a cocktail waitress in
an upscale pub and from some soft
core hooking on the side. Soft core
hooking, to her, meant causal tricking
                                        without a  pimp, casual hints dropped,
beverage napkin dates, cell phone
numbers exchanged. “I like the older
guys.  They have more money,
are more than likely married,
and don’t ask  questions and, man,
they expect the same. I don’t do
perverted. Not for money anyway.”
Was planning on doing the European
tour, on her back, first hand, in depth
research for a Baedeker’s Guide
to Getting Laid, she was going to
call, “Do it on the Rails: Getting
the Most from Your Euro Pass
and Have Fun Doing It”. Something
like that, anyway. If that didn’t work
out, her back up plan was a Sociological
study on the sexual habits of the horny
European Male: “You Don’t Need
a Translator to Have Good Sex”.
Sociology wasn’t her major, and she
couldn’t write worth shit, but that
was something she’d worry about after
the research was finished, and recorded
in a diary she’d lose somewhere between
Buda and Pest. Thought protection during
intercourse was “for wimps “like playing
Russian Roulette with an empty gun
when it was more like playing with one
chamber empty,  high stakes stud poker
with someone else’s money, drawing a card
for an inside straight.

***

The Discontinued Line

He was the kind of guy you’d
buy a ticket for on an Orient Express
train with instructions to lay over
in a town that did not exist
since you knew he would say
to a ticket agent or  conductor,
“So they discontinued the Express
Train, give me a ticket on the local.”
And he would score a place, travel
for like, forever, and be a thousand
miles from anywhere and get off,
on a whim, some place no one
ever came back from.  The biggest
fear was, despite enormous odds
against, somehow he’d fit right in
wherever he was, have a blast,
and get some kindly, but deluded
stranger, to give him precise,
and accurate, instructions on how
to get back where he started from.
That’s where the insurance comes in”
slow acting poison absorbed through
the skin applied to a pair of matching
gifts like socks. Maybe several pairs.
And some kind of time activated explosive
set to go off, automatically, three days hence.
There might be collateral damage
but the feeling was: for the cause of
the greater good, sometimes unfortunate
sacrifices had to be made.

The Orient Express

By Patrick Bryant Michael

I have read of exploits aboard The Orient Express
clickty-clack
railroad
tracks make sounds, whistles blowing loudly, the ears to impress
criminals
riding
aboard trains, escaping detection, gold bars to possess
passengers
vacationing
to far away destinations, possessing the largesse
travels
adventures
come with a price, every journey has a tale to process
romance
touches
the soul, the heart and mind want adventures to dispossess
chugging
uphill
on steep, mountainous grades, sounding like a transverse process
children
running
up and down the train aisles, parents feeling like an abscess
rock-slides
slowing
to a crawl, waiting for rail maintenance to clear the track
increasing
speeding
around curves, the scenic countryside goes clickity clack
climbing
mountain
slopes slowly as up they go, whistles blowing at the wild yak
racing
downwards
towards the valley below, herds calling the train to come back
mountains
foggy
days hide the beauty along the track, criminals attack
meadows
blooming
in the countryside look serene, it gives the heart feedback
cruising
going
to London, Paris, Vienna, Istanbul, with no slack
riding
sharing
treats and stories, carrying your needs in an old backpack
visiting
relatives
along the way, hopping the train to sense hope in life's flow
planning
journeys
on The Orient Express, luxury meals make folks “whole”
sleeping
arrangements
by class requires payment upfront, luxury is Bordeaux
magical
moments
occur when you least expect it, like twilight has a glow
dreaming
hearing
the wheels go clickity clack, the subconscious is love's foe
champagne
glasses
emptied for celebrations, romance in the wild winds blow
murder
mysteries
beginning in the darkest pitch black, hearing the black crow
castles
riverboats
passing by on the train, whistles blowing, clacking to sow
London's
ferry
took trains o'er the English Channel to France, to reunite
rocking
rolling
to and fro as the train careens, colliding with the night
traversing
alternating
east, west, The Orient Express travels for your delight
luxury
comforts
of the wealthy, penny pinching is held ever so tight
families
touring
European countrysides, watching for a scenic sight
wilderness
animals
so wild they bring the mind to places of subconscious fright
stopping
taking
on food and water, here and there, feasting is a highlight
talking
telling
stories to entertain the riders, choosing the limelight.

(c) December 30, 2016 by PBM

Love on the Orient Express

By Karen King

Coal is loaded, the furnace burns.
The fire is stoked.
There is a hiss, a pop,
A tiny explosion as sparks fly.
The fire begins to burn,
But the heat soon dwindles.
More coal, more heat, more steam.
Soon steam whizzes around the carriage.
The visible becomes the invisible.
Darkness descends, like dark clouds,
Obscuring your vision. All becomes one.
Through the window, a shaft of sunlight beckons,
Welcoming you on your journey ahead.
Final goodbyes waved, the doors shut.
The guard’s whistle blows.
Bags are hurriedly stowed away.
People settle in their seats.
The taste of acrid smoke in your mouth.
The smell taints your hair, your clothes.
Wine glasses glint, awaiting to be filled.
Perfectly polished cutlery shines
And waiters start bustling
As champagne is offered.
People smile and start relaxing
At the first taste of champagne.
They talk and laugh
As the train shows them delights
Only they are privileged enough to see.
Suddenly, there is a shift in the atmosphere,
A surreal feeling surrounds you.
Sensing a presence, you search through the mists.
His presence is clear and real.
Dark coat. Tall and slim he stands,
Watching from afar.
His delighted face penetrates your soul.
He shimmers, like twinkling stars in the night.
You think of many missed sunsets.
The sky has recently turned blood red,
Echoing the pain in your heart.
You cannot believe your eyes.
This is like a new sunrise of
Oranges and yellows.
Full of life, love and hope.
Tentatively, you reach out
Through the remaining smoke.
Only a shaft of sunlight now remains.
On and on you reach.
You are scared.
Is this a figment of your imagination?
Perhaps he is visiting you,
A ghost from another world?
You try to be positive, full of hope and love
As tears trickle down your face.
A touch! Your fingers are clasped.
You feel like you have been drowning
And now you are being rescued.
Your knees sag. You are light headed. Everything darkens …
Weight presses against you, supporting you.
Strong arms enfold you. Hot breath on your neck.
He is here. It is true.
You gaze into this eyes,
Searching his soul once more.
You feel your soul leave your body as you
Travel together on your magic carpet,
Across sand dunes and the sea once more.
To another place. Another time.
To a land long forgotten.
Nothing else matters.
All else fades away.
You are lost in your world of love.
Long awaited embers ignite.
The air crackles as you make your own heat.
The fire burns as you both
Travel towards your joint destination,
Full of hope and love.
The train trundles on
As the passengers sip champagne
And taste delightful hors d’oeuvres.
They enjoy the journey
And their high-up stations in life.
They are unaware that two passengers
Are missing the delicacies
And views outside the carriages,
For the long-lost-lovers
Have their own sight-seeing
And journeys to embark on.

Karen King Copyright 17 December 2016

Diamond or You

By Alexandra H. Rodrigues

I wish you knew
More than a multi-carat diamond I want you.
Obviously, that is not very smart
I feel it does put stress on my heart.
A diamond will never talk back to me
At my side, on my body, it will always be.
A diamond will never lose sparkle or shine
I can always be proud to call it mine.
A diamond will never bring me grief
It will never on its own take leave.
Yet – no matter what the diamond cost
It cannot replace what I desire most.
I need your warmth, your caring, your love.
Therefore the decision is not at all tough.
It would be my pleasure, and I want you to know
With you rather than with any diamond I go.

***

What Now My Love

By Alexandra H. Rodrigues

They were married but not to each other
He was a father. She was a mother.
Neither was in a marriage out of love
Both had succumbed to times hard and tough.
Their vows they had given in rushed but sound mind
Convenience had made them with the partners’ bind
Then out of the blue, there did come the day
When face to face the great true love came their way.
Strangers for minutes, they quickly fell for each other
Could not resist that want and lust pushed them further
Opportunity assisted and afforded them the deed
Their hearts, their lips and bodies like two flames did meet.
Aware that they had committed a sin
With permanent adieu they hoped absolution to win
At a last walk together in pouring rain
Forever they severed their true love’s chain.
Deep in their souls the knowledge of lust did remain
Both devastated that they would have to abstain
Only on the recall of their memory they could thrive
Neither would forget the other till the end of their life.

***

A Friend

By Alexandra H. Rodrigues

Can a friend be someone you have never in person seen?
Or someone with whom once intimate you have been?
Is it better to have many friends or just a few?
The answer to all those questions is up to you!
Friendship is foremost governed by trust
To share with absolute truth is a must.
To be friends requires a steady give and take
Regardless who maybe a sacrifice must make.
Friends do not need eye to eye always see
They do not need on all issues to agree.
They should make the effort to understand
On occasions, be willing their opinion to bend.
Friends will reach out a helping hand
In assistance that is truly sincerely meant.
Each and every one of us is unique
From a friend comes advice and not critique.
To have fun together, play and laugh
Is as important as all the above.
A friend will become an extended you
Never intentionally harm to you do.
It is impossible to call a person one does resent
Under any circumstances, a true friend.
One fact is undoubtedly for sure
The roots of friendship are always pure.

Photo by Karen KIng

Happy Holidays!

By Karen King

Trailing tinsel,

Glinting gold coins,

The beauty of the Spruce.

Crumpled paper,

Presents scattered,

Cries of joy.

Chestnuts bubbling,

Tempting turkey wafting,

An aromatic delight.

The feeling of warmth,

The feeling of love.

Happy Holidays!

Karen King Copyright 3 December 2016

Winter’s Dream

By Karen King

I woke up; I know not why.

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

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

I shivered and snuggled further down into my duvet,

trying to get back to sleep.

But sleep would not come.

All was silent, except a distant hooting.

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

revealing my balcony and, beyond, an intriguing scene.

With dark green shapes of trees, remaining Autumn bracken

and some trees tipped with snow. It all looked very atmospheric.

And slightly threatening!

I wondered what was out there beyond my room.

Would Bigfoot be prowling in the distance awaiting more snow?

Or would sinister creatures be prowling in the night?

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

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

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

small cherry tree and pots with herbs.

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

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

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

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

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

“Delights of Nature – Winter” Karen King Copyright 2015

Painting by David Thorpe

The Spirit of Christmas

By David Thorpe

Chapped and blistered hands,
his hard day´s work loaded on his cart,
from sunrise this frosty December day he toiled,
felling a tree in a pine wood forest

They call him “The spirit of Christmas”,
an act of love and empathy his yuletide gift
for the villages and their children,
the aroma of fresh pine wood an annual treat

Merlin, his faithful nag, leads the way back home,
well aware of the joy awaiting their return,
eyes full of wonder, hearts full of emotion,
for the eve of St. Adele is drawing nigh

Bearing candles the tree stands with glowing pride,
a congregation illuminated in holy reverence,
singing songs of praise around a suckling´s crib
their voices announce the Christ Child´s birth

David Thorpe © 2016

X-mas Time

By Alexandra H. Rodrigues

At X-mas time from year to year
I wonder will I next time still be here.
In old times my husband used to decorate
With a lot of love and often up quite late.
He also mentioned the then pending next year
Saying “I will get more lights, if I am still here.”
It is sad that by now he already is long gone.
Much changed from how then celebration was done.
We had angels big and small with bells of all size.
Some never used – on their wings still the price.
Keepsakes survived from grandma’s and mother’s home!
Now, my grandson with glee in those treasures does roam.
My enthusiasm to lavishly decorate my home is gone.
Now to the younger generation, this is meant to be done.
Getting older, one gets more involved to figure out
What the true reason for the season is all about.
Ongoing the tradition will be
I will hang the rest on my young family’s’ tree
Some of the items -- stars and lights -- I sort out.
I will donate this year to a needy crowd.
The ones that move me really deep
I will display near the hearth and for myself do keep.
Yes, X-mas seems to come faster and faster each year
Let’s enjoy it and cherish what to us is dear.

Without You I am Lost

By Alexandra H. Rodrigues

Winter is on its way
In the snow little kids will play
Thermostats will be set on high to run.
Holidays promise to be great fun.
Order in the world is for what we pray.
Under God’s rules we aim to stay.
Together let’s unite here or far away.
Year after year a star adorns the tree top,
Our fire-place burns to let the kernels pop.
Upholding the good old tradition
I make with pleasure always my mission.
Around the house and in the yard
Music of bells and flutes become a part.
Love and caring for one another
Outs all fear that lately does bother.
Sadness is not part of the deal.
To believe and pray is a way to heal.
----
Read the first letters of each line
Let season and fun begin!

Happy Holidays to All.

Feasts of the Season

By Alexandra H. Rodrigues

The Holidays will be celebrated.
In many a different style and way.
For what we were given thanks we say.
X-mas or Hanukkah the heart does warm.
What matters to you, let that be your norm.
Cheer and sanction that what is dear to you
Adorn with joy what you see as true.
Let as the purpose for this season
Your own belief show you the reason.
Have a Happy!
Be Happy!
Let’s make each other Happy.

Manifest Destiny

By Lee Purcell, “The Concious Poet”

Manifestation is a very easy skill
When I remember the essence of my true self
I am an energetic magnetic copacetic being
With a Theoretic way of seeing this hologram that we call 3D
The truth is we are multidimensional
Interstellar unconventional galactic explosions
Perfectly created within one motion of stars colliding and and providing a gateway
Like a freightway of information
downloaded faster than light
A sight gained through millennials
Of interpretation by those patient enough to just watch the stars for decades
And connect the patterns of the dots in the sky
Nowadays we just walk by and forget to even look up
Waiting an extra hour at the airport gets one all shook up
It's important to make it to the bar this weekend so I can hook up
We've took up enough space to chase a waste of energy
I used to define this world by what I seen on tv
Now I find a pearl within the harmony
Of meditation
Preservation of silence
Sending love
Starvation of violence
Let the division die off
Like so many animals extinct
On this planet
The answers we look for in gurus
Politicians and external saviors
We have it
The answer to all the problems in the world Behring with each of us right now
Look at your neighbor and bow to another
We all come from a sacred mother
We are all Manifestation of abundance
Patiently seeking oneness
I've seen hardcore pain and lost souls
Looking for a way to find something hole
So many empty cups
While other are full
Let's share the wealth
Half full is still full
such a deep kept secret that words can only try to explain
Yet as many words that can fill a dictionary
Most of us respond to pictionary
It might seem scary
But action speaks louder than words
Be the change you want to see
So we all can be free from self imposed suffering
We are all reflecting something
Give the world what it deserves
Give them your authentic beauty
And take on your spiritual duty
I believe in you
Show me what I can do
By climbing ladders that do yet exist
My wish is that we all ascend together
We are all learning how to be the best versions of ourselves through ourselves
And through the heart and souls of the billions of expressions of a similar kind of individual love
Choose love
And rise above fear
Embrace the light
Love the darkness
Be a mirror
So the rest of us can see ourselves
Oh so clear

Photo by Karen King

A Christmas Calling

By Lucinda Berry Hill

The angels were the first to know
Of God's most gracious plan;
That one day soon a babe would come,
A savior for all man.

They gave God's message to a girl
And also to her beau.

Then on the night that Christ was born
The angels, they went low.

They saw the shepherds in the fields
Watching flocks by night.
They told them of the glorious news
And gave to them a sign.

Other angels came around
Singing their Amens;
Glory to God in the highest,
And on earth, peace toward men.

Glory to God, Glory to God,
Glory to God Almighty.
Glory to God, Glory to God,
Please hear us as we sing.

Glory to God, Glory to God,
Glory to God in the highest.
Glory to God, Glory to God,
Glory to God our King.

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

A Blue Christmas Prayer

By Lucinda Berry Hill

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

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

We're grateful
Celebrations aren't the same.

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

We may not get what we want

We have hope because of Christ.

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

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

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

Ask me about fundraising ideas!

The Yuletide Collection

By Patrick Bryant Michael

Whiteout

Morning skies fully shrouded the landscape gray-white
filling my eyes with whiteout to my minds delight
tall fir trees snowbound and dressed for hearts to excite
ground swelling with snow pillows varying in height
rooftops and eaves weighed down make quite a sight
roads and paths closed for children to take flight
folks getting stuck, while slipping, sliding about in fright
laughing and yelling with spirit and a bit of fight
Christmas is coming with whiteout for minds to incite
I think I will sit fireside and watch dear hearts ignite!

(c) January 4, 2009 by PBM

Christmas Hues

A tree well lit, balls in colors of all hues
gold satin, silver bells, mistletoe, some blues
white snow like laces, ruddy and green faces
missing someone close in far away places
smells of baking goodies, fireplace lit yule logs
warmth and closeness, whipped eggnog, steamy hot grog
sights of gifts well wrapped beneath the Christmas tree
lazing about with hearts and minds roaming free
windows frosted, table set for yuletide feast
Christmas hues, shining bright, sounds and smells released!

(c) December 23, 2009 by PBM

Christmas Morn

A hoarfrost covers the ground, all in sight
like a cold-hearted witch spreading her blight
the sun shines down without touching her soul
but the spirit of Christmas remains whole
a closeness felt deep within, shared with kin
gifts opened, sweet surprises bring a grin
hugs and love shared, eyes pop out with delight
coffee and sweets, joking, trying things out
having fun, lazing round, wanting to shout
phone calls yet to make, wishes to impart
the warmth of Christmas morn touches the heart!

(c) June 5, 2010 by PBM

Christmas Lights

Christmas time is coming near
a time of warmth and good cheer
a time to renew spirit and hope
a time for giving blessings to cope
trees cut for the holiday season
lights to adorn for yuletide reason
kids running about, eyes glistening
parents watching, closely listening
gifts to be bought, then put in hiding
kids seeking will get a good chiding
all in good fun for a season of joy
boys acting wild, girls pleasing, acting coy
mistletoe hung for kisses to be won
stockings for fireplaces yet to be hung
tinsel and snow flocking on colorful display
gifts placed under the tree just before Christmas Day
a time for waking to cheer and warm blessings
a meal prepared with all the finest dressings
gifts are opened as kids play with their toys
older folks tell tales of all the old ploys
the Christmas dinner will soon be partaken
Christmas lights shine for those who are forsaken.

(c) December 20, 2009 by PBM

A Poe Christmas

Once upon a bleak, snowy Christmas morn
as I slept in, thinking of my Lenore
I awoke, the raven showed me its scorn
I felt sickly, so fell asleep some more.

My tree looks poorly, my rose wears a thorn
mistletoe hung, no one to kiss, to score
left alone in my abyss, as I mourn
wanting to die, the raven - nevermore.

I want to love my Lenore evermore
in my castle the night makes me feel worn
the raven calls out Lenore nevermore
I miss her so, her dark hair to adorn.

A gift of love, under the tree, I swore
time passes slowly for Poe, as forsworn
Christmas is hard for me, my heart to deplore
the raven promises me “nevermore”.

(c) December 17, 2015 by PBM

The Christmas Tree

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

(c) December 14, 2009 by PBM

The Christmas Stocking

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

(c) December 23, 2015 by PBM

Yuletide

The Winter Solstice cannot be denied
the shortest day of the year shows no pride
snowbound in the mountains, take a wild ride
light is low, a fireplace crackling, wide eyed.

White covering the trees, yule to confide
the days will be getting longer, subside
bobsleds coasting, kids voices amplified
the yule warms the soul, carbon dioxide.

Frosty breaths, inhaling love, frost inside
belly laughs, staying wrapped warm, cold belied
Christmas is coming, nothing bona-fide
time runs slowly, lazy ways dignified.

The past relished, on reverie relied
exhaling warm air, the worth is decried
a sense of Spring overcomes the backslide
love is aware, and warm is the yuletide.

(c) December 21, 2015 by PBM

Happy New Year

Out with the old, in with the new
a New Year dawns, so many are blue
times are ah changin', what seems true
lost in struggles, what to renew
happier times gone to the zoo
monkeys squeal, dogs howl, cats go mew
time passes no matter the stew
Happy New Year to all of you!

(c) August 20, 2010 by PBM

A New Year

The new year comes soon, to it we should cheer
though times are hard, hold on to what's dear
for close friends and loved ones shed a tear
raise a wine glass, toast end of this year
leave the past behind, the future is near
though it seems times are growing austere
life is still good, don't cry in your beer
smile at the future, grin for last year
seldom are things bad as what we fear
nothing's as good as what makes the heart sear
brush off the past, toast in the New Year!

(c) December 30, 2010 by PBM

New Beginnings

At crossroads in life, a New Year marks a time for new beginnings
there is no end in sight, only choices for gain of apt winnings
standing upon the precipice of what will come to be
just wondering, waiting for some decision to work free
by some mystical light, as time marches ever more slow
open spaces fill the eyes, the mind ponders what is whole
which way to wander, gazing upon all the world about
resolutions to make? No! new beginnings or sour kraut
for brave souls to come, to take life wildly by the throat
deal with life's challenges, acting like a billy goat
for better or worse, new beginnings must be freed for all
with minds and hearts wide open, Happy New Years, have a ball!

(c) December 31, 2009 by PBM

New Year Blues

The world's landscape has turned a darkened hue
the greedy laugh at those left in a stew
those who bear the brunt must take a hard view
those who've lost so much will be feeling blue
the ninety-nine percent are over due
Occupy Wall Street may be a break through
the Tea Party hates progress, change they rue
the New Year is another to accrue
what we do with it, may leave us blue
hard times will always leaves the mind askew
dumb and dumber sit alone in the loo
the New Year comes, toast it in, go boo hoo
without real change we will all be turned blue
we all need each other, most have no clue
cultures have died as too much wealth did sue
a house of cards will fall like that of Chou
when we work together, we won't feel blue!

(c)December 30, 2011 by PBM

JAMES BOND 007

By Daniel de Cullá

Solitaire se paseaba por una sala brillante
Con las cartas del Tarot el corazón se le parte.
Entre dolor y dolor, ella saca una carta.
James Bond 007 la está viendo por el ojo de la llave.
¡Es la carta de los Enamorados que él ha preparado
O es el sino con sede en Harlem¡
-Si a la noche viene Bond, yo le daré de cenar
Y si pide ropa limpia, yo le he de mudar.
Bond se ha marchado, creemos innecesario comentar.
A la noche viene Big, cerebro de banda internacional
A rastras, de los pelos, se ha llevado a Solitaire
Que ella con él no quería marchar.
Le ha maltratado hasta en el último pespunte de su capa
Y, también, le ha dicho que Bond es hijo de criminal
Que se hace pasar por espía de Ian Fleming
Que aparece en los naipes de Fergus Hall
Como El Colgado.
La Ciudad tiene una singular fantasía quimérica
Sus mujeres tienen largos cabellos, ojos negros y retorcidos
Los gatos de la ciudad, listados de ojos penetrantes
Estáticos descansan junto a las chimeneas de las casas.
-Buenos días, tengas Bond, ya tenemos a tu belleza
De ella gozaremos si no te entregas a nuestra banda.
-Traigo una pistola limpia y en tu pecho la he de descargar.
-Levántate de ahí, Solitaire, ven y échame las cartas
Que el Amor levanta a las mujeres la esperanza
Y a un espía no le desvía de su texto.
Le ayudó a levantarse, y también, vinieron a ayudar
El Rey, la Reina, el Caballo y la Sota, alegórico Arcano Mayor.
La ha montado en su automóvil largo y flotante
Han corrido cinco leguas y, en el barajeo de los veintiún naipes
La carta de los Enamorados ha salido.
Bond ha parado el coche para llevar a cabo la lectura de la carta.
-Solitaire, detrás de aquella ermita que ves en lontananza
Tengo intención de amarte y de quererte.
Ya llegaron a la ermita, y allí mismo la besó modesto.
Al entrar en la Ciudad, las campanas repicaban
Sonando como lo ha hecho otras veces: “Vive y deja morir”.
Que el espía, para ser espía, ha de tener tres partidas:
Hacer mucho, hablar poco y no alabarse en la vida.

JAMES BOND 007

By Daniel de Cullá

Solitaire walks in a bright room
Her heart breaks, along with the Tarot cards.

Between pain and pain, she draws a card.
James Bond 007 looks through the keyhole.
It is the letter of The Lovers that he has prepared
Or the fate based in Harlem!

-If Bond comes tonight, I'll treat him to a dinner.
And if he asks for clean clothes, I will change his clothes.

Bond has left, we think it’s unnecessary to comment.
At night, comes big, international band brain,
Taking Solitaire, draging her, of hairs
Because she doesn't want to leave with him.
He mistreated her till the last stitch of his cloak
And, also, he told her that Bond is son of a criminal
Who poses as a spy by Ian Fleming
That appears in the Ferguz Hall’ cards
As The Hanged Man.
The City has a unique chimerical fantasy
Its women have long hair, black and twisted eyes
City’ Cats, penetrating Eye Listings
Static rest next to the chimneys of houses.

-Good morning, Bond, we have your Beauty
We’ll fall in love with her
if you don’t surrender to our gang.
-I have a clean gun, and I have to unload it on your chest.
-Get up from here, Solitaire, come and throw the cards
That Love lifts women to hope
And a spy does not detract from his text.
Helping her get up, and also, coming to help
The King, the Queen, the Horse and the Jack
Allegorical Major Arcane
He has ridden her in his long floating car.
They have run five leagues
And in the shuffle of twentyone cards
The Lovers’ card has left.
Bond has stopped the car to carry out reading the card:
-Solitaire, behind that hermitage that you see in the distance
I’ll fall in Love with You
Intending to love You, loving You too much.
They will arrive at the hermitage and there
He kissed her modestly.
Upon entering the City, bells were ringing
Sounding like other begone times: "Live and let die".
That the spy, in order to be a spy, must have three matches:
Do much, talk little, not praising life.

The Spy Who Loved Me

By Karen King

He appeared on my pages,

A lover of nature and photography.

He sent me flowers in the mornings

And words of love and romance.

I felt myself sinking

As the Mediterranean pulled me in.

I was pulled into his palace,

Which was waiting to be built,

But lack of funds from the “bad people”

Had delayed the work.

His palace overlooked the Mediterranean,

With seven rooms and acres of land.

We planned to meet in London

To see what the future held.

My place or his palace?

Perhaps both?

Tall, dark, good looking,

I couldn’t wait.

One day I looked and the page was blank.

After a few days, he appeared.

He told me the “bad people”

Had “cut the wires”.

He had found somewhere to live

With a generator

And had driven through the snow

To a friend’s house to send me a message.

I was worried, I was relieved.

We spoke for ages,

He said he’d be in contact soon.

With trepidation, I waited

And waited and waited…

Three weeks later, I had a message,

“Hello darling, I am well, I miss you,

I tried to get to you,

But the roads were too dangerous.

I will contact you after the war”.

So, I waited and waited and waited…

I contacted people in Libya.

One guy who worked for the government

Tried to find Amin, but a guy with a gun

Went to his door…

I was told he worked at the bank,

But the bank said he had left years ago.

He had “another job”,

Which they wouldn’t divulge.

I felt he was a spy.

I never heard from him again

And the war continues…

Karen King Copyright 31 October 2016

The Love Detective

By Karen King

He is the love detective,

His ways are very effective.

He needs no map to be selective,

For he knows the course and his objectives.

His taste is very subjective

For he finds her rather attractive.

His words somewhat suggestive

And full of imagery and adjectives.

His powerful poetry is not so restive!

Often his words are reflective,

Yet, always, his ways are never defective,

For he is her one and only love detective!

Karen King Copyright March 2016

He Had a Big Telescope

By Karen King

He had a big telescope

And a pair of bins.

He watched her through the window,

She was so beautiful and slim.

He had headlights

With protruding blades,

His second exhaust a projectile,

One of the best inventions made.

He had a boat

With blinding lights,

Only used on enemies

In the depths of the night.

He had a plane

Which threw fireballs in the air.

Should the enemy approach,

He’d give them quite a scare!

He had a pair of glasses,

Which he used to improve his vision.

What was his target, the lady or the enemy?

It was a big decision!

Karen King Copyright 3 December 2016

Ignorant

By Alexandra H. Rodrigues

The curtain falls
Every day, every hour, every second
More and more are being called
To submit to finally being reckoned.

Death does not hurt
One hears frequently said
The fear that nearly all of us have
Is the unknown that waits to be met.

From all of us
Is withheld the certainty of fact?
Is it good or bad, or just a blank wall?
That wherever we go, we can expect.

I am a control freak
Which makes it so especially hard
To not know if in the future
One will play any kind of a part!

Home

By Alexandra H. Rodrigues

He had meant to come home but there it was
No longer a home, only broken stone amass.
On a partial wall, quite neat and clear,
Were printed the words “The beginning is near.”
Last time, when he had stumbled by
When he had not even known what for or why
It was all so very depressing and sad
The house he had built with disaster had met.
When he had left his home that crucial day in the past
He did not even know that it would be a last,
It was the final time the house could be called a home
Then bombs and grenades had left nothing but stone.
Discouraged he bought some heavy string
To do nothing would forever his conscience sting
From that string, cussing and cursing, a ladder he made
Where now was the writing had once been a gate.
He would climb up what appeared a sturdy wall
To find -- the beginning -- he did not believe in at all.
On the other side, he fully expected only garbage to see
“This entire excursion is silly,” to himself thought he.
He climbed up the rather wiggly and unsafe ladder
A sturdy wooden one would surely have been better.
His heart was filled with what now were memories
Of good times spent here long before the debris.
The dreadful war and the fighting was still raging on
People did, like him, mourn many a thing that was gone
When he reached the top, he was not even sure
Why and for what he decided this sight to endure.
What did he try to find? What did he look in the ruins for?
Nothing but stones, stones, stones, no windows, no door!
As he looked listlessly around the devastated yard
Agony and desolation cramped menacing his heart.
Then he noticed the rose bush he had planted years ago
That rose bush had continued despite the destruction to grow
One dark velvety rose over pain and crime was winning
His heart regained strength: There was a new beginning!

November 2, 2016

Homeland

By Alexandra H. Rodrigues

To many countries and places I have been
Have cities, people and customs seen.
The one that stands out among all, is Berlin
The city of my birth! It has my highest esteem.

Durch viele Laender bin ich gereist
Viele Staedte und Sitten fuellen meinen Geist.
Die Stadt zu der meine Gedanken meist wehen
Ist Berlin, wo ich das erste Licht der Welt gesehen.

Spies

By Patrick Bryant Michael

When I was young, I wanted to be a wild spook
fighting
evil
forces, banshees screaming, arresting some old duke
holding
learning
whatever I needed, darkness of soul, a fluke
arguing
trying
to make sense of weird facts, getting a harsh rebuke
stealthily
looking
for clues to open doors to crime, killing a duke
laughing
cuddling
with a moll, embarrassing, acting like a kook
tribal
customs
get in the way of spy business, like Marmaduke
gaining
savvy
and skills in the trade, become tools of the mooch
gambling
taking
risks and chances of the spy game, building good flow
snooping
fomenting
trouble on the horizon, weaving to and fro
prying
peeping
into the private files of big whigs for ammo
moving
funding
from white to black accounts, let the harshest winds blow
jamming
hiding
intelligence from the enemy, to tiptoe
bugging
outfoxing
the evil guys with Intel, finding their plateau
eavesdropping
wiretapping
collecting Intel, so as not to let them know
espionage
surveillance
techniques learned to find evidence where you must grow
interrogating
suspicious
characters that are employed by the enemy
sabotaging
construction
of facilities used for bad, to remedy
capturing
heckling
the culprits, talking to them with intensity
abducting
torturing
to break the spirit, ensuring their pleasantry
treating
compassionately
with small gifts, developing greater chemistry
tampering
discrediting
their stories with new dimensions explicitly
persecuting
harassing
them to spoil their best days, spying implicitly
copying
embracing
their spirits with dubious adds, complicity
undressing
leading
them on, embarrassing them when they try to fight
videotaping
plotting
their fate to gain secrets they would hide in their plight
engaging
ensnaring
them in traps made to trip them up, when they feel right
desecrating
besmirching
religious ideals to make them sense the limelight
accusing
corrupting
their minds with facts that will put them in the spotlight
photographing
charging
them with criminal acts, making their hearts ignite
revealing
hidden
facts that will open the doors to a new incite
oppressing
opening
the bad guys eyes to their evils, in their affright.

(c) December 3, 2016 by PBM

Mastering Life

By Patrick Bryant Michael

To love is only one part of living
growing
learning
about nature, and pathways to thriving
giving
taking
from parents and family, in deriving
winning
losing
pacing back and forth in worthy striving
tasting
sensing
what nature's way is teaching, while climbing
lacking
leaning
in one direction or 'nother, writhing
testing
using
the rules as told, the end not arriving
wasting
changing
our ways, taking a path to surviving
tricking
fooling
others, learning about karma, smiling
mixing
matching
pairs in the world, as life is beguiling
running
rushing
to make things happen, foster contriving
walking
having
patience to do the right thing, enticing
dancing
singing
about love and life, work at moonlighting
washing
cleansing
the soul from time to time through revising
coaxing
hoaxing
friends and lovers, role playing disguising
trying
spying
on our competition, be conniving
sinking
swimming
treading water with a goal devising
eating
planning
a get-a-way before crime committing
failing
earning
your way without any doubts, misgiving
counting
passing
up opportunities, urge resisting
tapping
turning
things inside out, building a good feeling
climbing
finding
what your limits are, laughing, face shining
minding
bending
the rules to find a place worth applying
tipping
eating
out to have a good time, not denying
coping
weaning
yourself from bad habits, while reshaping
working
playing
having a good time, mastering giving
loving
shaping
life into one where you are receiving
coming
going
finding paths of forgiveness, relieving.

(c) October 9, 2015 by PBM

***

The two artworks below were painted by
Gene McCormick

"With a Rose in Her Teeth"

A Collection of Dance Poems

By Alan Catlin

Dances

performed in diurnal circles to an unheard
musical sphere, inner music composed
by musicians residing in metal boxes,
behind filthy glass controlled by remote
transmissions, cable boxes, emanations
from an unknown place near where the mind
dead are exploring endless halls of antiseptic
emptiness, climate controlled, mood altered,
enhanced or muted; the uncommon release
results in a letting go dance, a hellish
choreography for a self-proclaimed Isadora
of Ward 8, she who is dancing her brains
out all over Pilgrim State, formerly detained
against her will but dancing until she is dead
on her feet; no one will catch her when she falls.

Beautiful Losers

“Dance me with your beauty
with a burning violin.”
“Dance me to the end of love” L. Cohen

In harsh lighted disco rave,
nights hyped by Ecstasy and
beer, they fondled a collection
of arcane objects, talisman used for
divining futures for all the beautiful losers
in designer clothes, diamond studded
eyewear, all those jewels for day traders
and hedged fund holders, worn overtly
as if styling was an invitation to be
mugged, gang banged into another
place less copacetic than this one.
Instead of eyes behind dark lenses,
they have an acid based helix of semi-
precious stones, a mind made empty
by highly polished seer stones; all
their visions swept into a muddied pool
only oil can float on. They are so adrenalin
fixed, their skin retains an unnatural
glow wherever they go as if they
were retaining an ultraviolet light
no one was meant to see, even well past
dawn, after a third sleepless night,
their bodies so stoked, they seem miked
for sound like high tension wires during
a massive power surge; the kind that shuts
down the plant, burns out all the circuits,
the smell that lingers after like ozone layers
burning, human flesh.

El Amor Brujo

Sailors offer her vino rojo from cracked
lips of half gallon jugs, whisper passages
from arcane manuals of love in her ears,
press their fingers to her parted lips,
smear the face that demands lost souls
in an open boat, the high unnavigable
seas she commands; enslaved, they kneel,
watch the gitano dance, that solitary tango
peeling layers of desert from unpainted walls,
spreading sand on hardwood floors, building
a dense Black Forest for lovers from which
there is no escape.

Faux Self-Portrait of the Artist
as Spanish Dancer

“there she is with a rose in her teeth,
one more thin gypsy thief”
                       L. Cohen

“Nothing makes a woman look so old as desperately
trying to look young.”
                       Coco Chanel

All the poems she ever dreamed,
duende stolen from the lips of gypsy
lovers she imagined a blood wedding for,
are the essence she tries to impress,
in costume, as a randy dancer, on spider
web sites she pretends to be someone
else for, wishing for a celebration she
could dance at, in black tango clothes,
thigh high cut in the front to reveal legs
defined by murderous hours of modern
dance, classes she audits for the dress
rehearsal rags they play, so she can sing
along with suicide lyrics, or face the firing
squad with someone else’s body,
no blindfold necessary. Not even
blooms pinned to her surgically removed
chest, are ruffled by bullets or insults,
nor the flowers pinned to her hair.
Nothing can reclaim the beauty of her
youth, so remote now, you’d think her life
was photo shopped for effect, as if
false images could remove all the years
time’s acid has etched into her, mostly-
hidden face though try, she will, despite
what the mirror tells her about letting go.

Showing Magritte's House
after a title by Bob Hicok

The unreal estate agent
steps through
a window of clouds

into a living room
without walls
where the floors breathe

changeable as oceanic
tides
to resemble new moons

whole galaxies of stars
are falling
through-descending

debris of human
remains:
disembodied top hats

inverted umbrellas
naked clothes trees
whose hooks capture

a tidal wave
of new fallen
snow that spreads

as carpet-
an Arabian Nights-
the kind solo

instruments celebrate
in locked closets
whose ceilings are

the dance floor
clog dancers
are exploring

with sharpened elephant
tusks fastened
to metronomical devices-

with hand carved
walking sticks
curve handled canes

blind men are
clinging to
for guidance-

the further prospectives
journey into
the interior-

the more
the cost of seeing
goes up

A Dance for Life

By Alexandra H. Rodrigues

When we danced the Tango on the dance floor, I felt you
I could interpret every move you made, it all rang true.
With lust surging thru my loins, I willingly did respond
That day, with that dance, you and I had tied a bond.

Hand in hand back to the table we went, when music stopped
A wish to possess your mind and your body my senses robbed.
You asked if under the stars I would like to take a walk
I knew right then that you too wanted more than a talk.

On the patio, watched by the moon with no one around
We both succumbed to spontaneous sensations abound.
Later inside we sipped some more of the fruity wine
Bathing in your charm and masculinity made me feel so divine.

For the next dance, a Foxtrot, you again me to you drew
Our thrill with each other reached high peaks all anew.
This fairy tale, long ago, now became the story of our life
Today, centuries later, we are together as man and wife.

The Volta

By David Thorpe

What beauty did my eyes perceive,

surely not of human seed,

rather more a child of Olympic blood,

to bequeath a radiance of such delight

They played the music of a volta,

the dance tuned to accepting eyes,

to fingers burning with each sensual touch,

my hands grasping tightly her waist,

my arms lifting her high,

she floating as if in trance,

a slow descent into my embrace,

her heartbeat and mine in a sensuous eclipse

Our affair too dangerous for love,

the stakes too high a price to pay,

or were we breaking a sacred oath?

Ere the music faded into irrelevance,

without a word or a backward glance,

she ran from me in tears,

my lips remained untouched by hers

My restless senses tired of searching sleep,

my heart caresses your mirage

before, enticed by the imprudent night,

to elope together, wrapped in its cloak of darkness

Painting above by Gene McCormick

“Stayin’ Alive”

By Karen King

I used to dance to stay alive,

It gave me hope, it gave me drive.

I used to end up out of time

And I would spoil the teacher’s line.

It was like a P.E. lesson,

But was an after-school session.

We all danced to the Bee Gees

And joined in with their fantasies.

I enjoyed dancing to their beat,

Even though I stood on people’s feet.

Sometimes, I hit people in the face,

So uncoordinated – such a disgrace!

It was all worth it in the end,

The minor injuries could mend.

I never was sent out of the hall,

Although I would sometimes topple and fall.

The teacher could see I was trying my best,

There was no time to think or have a rest.

After several weeks went by,

I started to feel not so shy.

Within my body, there was the beat.

I followed it, despite the heat.

The teacher said I had come so far

And that I was her rising star.

Always remember to carry on,

To persevere and stay strong.

Because, despite standing on people’s toes,

To continue was my only way to grow.

“The King’s Grand Tour of Poetry and Photography” Karen King Copyright 2015

Sunbathing Seals

By Karen King

Today, the sea is choppy,

The seals watch from their haven.

White horses dance,

Sea spray crashes into rocks.

The dark depths twist and turn.

Yet, the seals, unperturbed,

Watch the play

Of light upon dark.

Every change in the ocean

Is a story in itself,

As each wave choses

Its individual path.

Then they join as one,

As they rise and swell,

Gliding gracefully,

Or crashing heavily,

As if resisting one another

And these climatic changes.

They heave, like a breathing entity

And fall, like a deep well, sucking in

Victims of this underwater world.

Today the sea is choppy,

The seals watch from their haven.

“The King’s Grand Tour of Poetry and Photography” Karen King Copyright 2015

Your Ring of Love

By Karen King

You dance delicately in the air,

Displaying devotion,

In a world of your own.

You embrace this sacred place,

The garden of Chester Cathedral,

Its peace and serenity.

You thrive amongst the greenery

And blend in perfectly

With your muted colours.

The eyes of the Cathedral

Watch wisely as you encircle

Your Ring of love.

“The King’s Grand Tour of Poetry and Photography” Karen King Copyright 2015

***

Painting below by Gene McCormick

A Chat by the Fireside

By Karen King

He sat by the fire, smiling to himself

As he, smugly, sharpened his tools.

It had been a good day, so satisfactory

And full of adrenalin.

She really was beautiful!

He lay her down and, gently,

Smoothed her hair

And kissed her perfect cheek.

He’d better beware

She would wake up soon.

She had been easy prey,

A little drunk and

Wanting a ride home.

They knew each other from work

And she had, naively, trusted him

When he asked her home for a drink.

The fire and the mulled wine were warming,

Relaxing him in his tasks.

She sighed, murmured

And moved her head,

Her eyelids flickered.

He held his breath,

Hoping the evening would go as planned.

He didn’t want to use his tools.

She opened her eyes and smiled

And they began to have

A chat by the fireside.

Karen King Copyright 31 October 2016

Gone Camping

By Patrick Bryant Michael

Getting up early, driving into the hinterlands
watching
counting
colored cars with mom and dad, watching for the badlands
looking
waiting
to arrive at the campsite, not into the marshlands
asking
about
the time to arrive, anxious for the larger islands
following
signage
to the campsites, kids' minds filled with wilderness legends
dreaming
sensing
places of the heart, delighting in seeing highlands
driving
taking
curves that spin heads, looking down below to the lowlands
arriving
feeling
high about the camping trip, taking off hold down bands
unfolding
putting
up the tent with stakes to hold it down, making it fun
looking
around
at the landscape, seeing what sort of games can be spun
walking
running
all over, finding rocks to climb on, fun in the sun
searching
finding
cliffs with river running below, diving for the stun
swimming
enjoying
the water, till a chill comes over you, cold to shun
playing
getting
dirty for the pleasure of wanting to be undone
laughing
quenching
thirst, running back to camp, playing with a water gun
eating
satisfying
the urge to eat your fill, not wanting to be outdone
laying
sleeping,
bags in the tents, crawling in for a nap, to unwind
waking
feeling
woozy, rubbing your eyes, the sunshine makes you feel blind
walking
talking
about what fun you had, no thoughts about who you mind
racing
chasing
each other round the camp, laughing when you fall behind
building
firing
up a campfire, cooking dinner for pleasure, well primed
grinning
telling
ghost stories around the campfire, demons intertwined
tiring
yearning
to go to bed, getting sleepy, nodding off, well timed
hugging
saying
goodnight, lugging off to the tent, falling in resigned
reminiscing
subconsciously
pondering adventures in your dreams, feeling delight
sleepwalking
gaining
insight into the dark side, using a weird flashlight
oversleeping
lingering
in the morning light, starting a new day, feeling bright
jumping
wanting
breakfast, bacon and eggs, having a good appetite
wandering
squandering
time in leisure, lazing about, like a socialite
wasting
daylight
with games to play, and having fun till nearly twilight
catching
fireflies
and putting them in bottles, packing up the campsite
leaving
fueling
up for the drive home, playing games as the trips highlight.

(c) November 9, 2016 by PBM

Yellow

By Patrick Bryant Michael

In the Wizard of Oz lies a Yellow Brick Road
colorful
dizzying
a terrifying group of monkeys would goad
turning
twisting
tornadoes left a sense of yellow, the air glowed
stopping
going
fast through yellow lights, for the patrolman to goad
fighting
giving up
feeling small and yellow, as a submissive toad
dressing up
showing off
in costumes with yellow masks, love to be bestowed
cooking
baking
cupcakes with yellow frosting, wild oats to be sowed
laughing
building
a fantasy, a kaleidoscope to forebode
driving
careening
down the road, the yellow line will give you the slip
buttery
creamery
products seem yellowish, the mind losing its grip
caution
danger
is shown around school zones, yellow lights for a strip
sunsets
blazing
on the horizon, reds, yellow highlights, a trip
cornfields
shucking
the ears of corn, yellow kernels shine in kinship
wildflowers
daisies
flowering in shades of yellow, bees in partnership
fireflies
twilight
yellow filaments glowing, inviting courtship
sunrises
morning glow
the sun is yellow on its rise, sunbeams are hip
light-bulbs
flip a switch
a globe turns white to yellow, turning night to day
painting
pastels
shine bright, yellow suns on canvas are a gateway
candlelight
burning
wicks give off aura of yellow, for the gourmet
campfires
bonfires
burning brightly, sparks burn yellow, then will decay
fantasy
sprites
mental images appear, yellow highlights splay
bleaching
the hair
makes dark look yellowish, a roll in the hay
three bears
Goldilocks
runs away, the bears get angry on the pathway
hot cars
racing
greens and yellows break the law on an expressway.

(c) March 11, 2016 by PBM

LOLITA, THE SYRIAN WOMAN

By Daniel de Culla

Lolita, the Syrian woman, running away from war
Comes to Europe,
Dreaming that, as soon as possible,
She'll coming back to her mother country
But no ...
The malicious enemy remains behind her
And then, the other day,
She met with a new enemy,
And in Greece, in Turkey, in Europe,
Like a postman,
He will call her twice,
But not to hand in any letter.
She saunters through a no-man's-land,
Falling too often
Toward the languid ground
And at other times
At full speed
Escaping from that Mr. Pepe, “The Put-Out-Fast”-Pepe,
Christian or Moor,
He will want to abduct and rape her
In the moorish place
Or in the Capital’ fair.

I feel the pain in her heart
The sweat of her brow,
But what's more, what tortures me
Is that there’s no kindness in churches
And if she is killed
The unique that the lords of war will make
Will be tearing up their vestments
And to feel that they have spent
Any cannon balls in vain.

HAIKUS WITH MASTERS’ CORPSES

By Daniel de Culla

A lonely moor
With Emily Brontë’s air
To it we deem.
I muse over Robert Burns
Wandering the Wood and field:
The happless fate mourns.
Come away, Yeats
Peace sings into her breast
To water and wild.
Charles Baudelaire
Glimmering in the Windows
Hope dead for aye.
I’m angry with me
William Blake a poison tree
Behind mine’s foes.
It’s still Poe.
Here’s the breath of God
Sucking the unbroken.

OH, POOR ME

By Daniel de Culla

Oh¡ Poor me¡ mother
Elizabeth, the Cuban girl, ignored me
And I’m out of order and without a sweetheart.
I can't to go to her balcony
For to throw pebbles to the panes of her window,
Not to put my index finger on the door knob
From the so called beauty of her floor.

Oh, what a Love Cross, mother,
Carrying it, I sweat.
I don’t want to remain here, mother,
To dress saints
Putting medals upon virgins
I don’t want to be a “piss on piles”
Or a man to “ put out churches’ candles”.
I want to come back home one day
Telling you, mother,
That I have a new girl friend
That the old is worthless to me,
Not on any account,
Because this new sweetheart
Is looking for me
Because another boy did not come.

Across the Universe

By Alexandra H. Rodrigues

Can being moved into the Universe
Turn out to be an unwelcome curse?
If God created for us the World
We were not meant to be hurled!
Of course it could have the paradise been
Had Adam and Eve toward obedience seen.
Has the World given you all you ever wanted?
Or is the World for you a place to be haunted?
What do you know about the Universe?
Is it our trial period, called life, truly worth?
It’s proven none of us has really a choice
In what’s to be, we don’t have a voice.
Possibly there is nothing after so-called death.
So don’t waste time to hold your breath.
The questions about if and when are manifold
Within reason do as you please, not as you are told.

Smouldering Ashes

By David Thorpe

In silence she gazes at the dancing flames,
mesmerised by their destructive power
over the fickleness of the burning embers,
yielding to their fate of becoming ashes

Her thoughts meander over a relationship
of unbalanced scales of affection,
of desires thwarted by his faded passion,
his sensuality contrived to his caprice

He imperiously awaits her acquiescence,
his face scarred with impetuosity,
his fingers drum the chair with impatience,
the unbearable stillness reflected in his eyes

Slowly she turns her head to face him,
scrutinising for a moment his countenance,
a life of smouldering ashes would not be her destiny,
a cynical smile and a sideways glance
was his only answer

Round the Fire

By Lucinda Berry Hill

Friends will gather round the fire
To share a cup of tea;
To share their plans and their goals,
To share their hopes and dreams.

They thank God for their time for tea,
To share with their good friend.
The one that they can count on,
Who's loyal to the end.

Sometimes they ask opinions.
Sometimes they give advice.
Sometimes they ask for favors.
No need to ask one twice.

Friends will gather round the fire
To share some tea and cake.
They talk about their problems.
They tell of their mistakes.

They reveal their many blunders,
Their hurts, and their regrets.
They pour another cup of tea
Their visit not done yet.

They tell each other private jokes.
They make each other laugh.
Smiles made, tears are shed,
From stories good and bad.

The time they spend is special
They share their hearts and minds
What happens round the fire
Stays there 'till next time.

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

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

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

Devotion

By Alexandra H. Rodrigues

This is an autumn day of special charm
The air is mild and pleasantly warm.
The water in the canal ripples steadily along
Waves like liquid silver whispering a song.

Outside I sat on my bench not at all cold
While thoughts of a lifetime of me did take hold.
Here I had spent the majority of my past life
As daughter, mother, lover and wife.

It is calming when one comes to realize
That in nature all does in a circle arrive
When for the first time I had seen the Bay
“This is amazing” to my husband I did say.

The same expression comes today to my mind
Peace and tranquility in those words I find.
Despite the times when major floods hit
I do not see reason to move from here fit.

Days like this one just now
Make me to the waterfront my devotion vow.

Get off it!

By Alexandra H. Rodrigues

Massapequa

Monica was all alone
In the place she now called home.
A little studio by the beach
From where she could easily the highway reach.
The homeowner was a good looking guy
A few times her attention to get he did try.
She however was sick of time in love invested.
Her patience had been in the past too much tested.
Betrayed by a lover in which a future husband she saw
The wound was still open, the hurt was still raw.
The landlord felt insulted and could not understand
Why out of his way she always went.
One night a really strong storm did brew
The water from the ocean nearer and nearer drew.
Monica was happy that he was home
The first time she preferred not to be alone.
Then she heard the starting of his car
In this storm he could hardly go very far.
How could he have the nerve to leave her abundant?
What if water entered the house and left her stranded?
He had not even shouted up if she was okay
Without any thought of her he had gone his way.
The winds picked up, the water level got higher
Lightning veiled the outside into an eerie fire.
In addition the electric had gone out
Monica could not help it but started to cry and pout.
She now she truly regretted it terribly
That she had not made an effort more polite to be.
Another thunderclap exploded loud in the air.
Monica shivered and sobbed in utter despair.
Finally the fury of nature’s forces became quiet
A brilliant moon surfaced and lit up the night.
Monica heard a car door loudly slam
Voices into the range of her hearing came.
Clearly he had left to be with a girlfriend of his
To protect the one who cherished his kiss.
Monica now realized how confused she had been
The landlord had been cordial never meant to be mean.
More sociable in the future to be she swore.
She had just learned that self-pity no benefit bore.

The Perfect Match

By Alexandra H. Rodrigues

Solace in your voice I found
Although I never have heard its sound.

I sunned myself in your smile
Only in my mind I saw the sensuous style.

The touch of your hands though I never it felt
Made me want into an embrace with you melt.

In fantasy, our juices fueled greatest lust
Now, to turn illusion to reality, is a must.

For me you are the lover to catch
No doubt we could be a perfect match.

At The Supermarket

By Gene McCormick

Men look lonelier pushing shopping carts
than women pushing their groceries.
Nothing seems unhappy about the woman
pushing her cart near his car’s side mirror.
Her movements are staccato; she does everything
she can with maximum energy and focus
including facial expressions even though
nobody, except him, watches her load groceries
into her Nissan. She clicks the remote to open
the hatchback door, a convenience she can do without
but it saves time. She is thin as expected of
someone with a high metabolic rate.
Her jeans are worn and fit her body
without being skin tight.
She has no patience to wear glasses
and wears utilitarian black loafers.
She is wired for expediency.
He makes note of the day and time
as she seems a person of habit and he wants
to see her again if only through the side mirror.
Maybe they’ll meet and talk.
He could ask her if she has ever been to Paris.
Having loaded the car, she stands up
and runs her hands down her clothes,
smoothing her top and jeans as though
she was wearing a new outfit.

*

The strip mall parking lot holds four-hundred cars
but even during the holiday seasons
it is never more than half full.
In the spring a tent is put up in the lot
to sell bags of fertilizers and live plants.
The tent is temporary and so are the tenants
bordering the supermarket: a pizza parlor,
Asian restaurant, hair and nails shop, and
a travel agency. Only the supermarket
proves to be moderately successful.
Eight skinny trees line the sidewalk fronting
the stores, aesthetically inconsequential
and not bulked enough to offer shade
or purify parking lot exhaust-tainted air.
Video cameras are placed at hundred foot
intervals scoping every inch of the parking area.
It takes some heft to return a line of shopping carts
back to the supermarket from the parking area,
often ten or more carts at a time,
and the employees seen pushing the carts
are those who couldn’t be taught to run a register
or stock shelves but have bulk.
Usually female, they wear oversized bright orange
aprons, white blouses and heavy duty black slacks.
They are as visible as a highway chain gang,
and the rattling shopping cart wheels
makes them loudly heard.

*

A fat man walks by, nothing unusual about that
or his walk except he is wearing knee-length shorts,
a red t-shirt and a camoflauge vest in fifty degree
rainy weather. His white socks are heavy duty
and are duct-taped where the back of his ankle
rubs against black workman’s shoes.
The light rain has no effect on him.
*
He most enjoys the supermarket parking lot
on Sunday mornings in the fall when husbands
stay home for a day of television football
letting their wives shop alone.
Sometimes he leaves his car and walks about
offering to help the housewives
load a case of beer into their minivan
which is usually unproductive but once,
and only once,
one such shopper invited him into her van.
Rainy days are also enjoyable to him as he watches
women jogging to the front entrance, hands over
their head to protect their hair.
They come out holding large purple umbrellas
loaned by the store.
The umbrellas are very visible as cars back out
of parking spaces.
Children do not carry purple umbrellas.
Striding toward the supermarkets automatic doors
he veers off and instead walks the perimeter
of the parking lot twice without peering into any vehicles
or trying to open any of their doors before driving off
in his decade-old Dodge van. Pulling out of the lot
he wonders what it would be like to lay flat on his back
and push himself with his feet around the parking lot.
Seeing where he was going would be difficult
and loose shopping carts could be a problem as well.
He also wonders if he will be able to get
his driver’s license renewed.
His name is Ansel. That’s his given name, not surname.

*

He drives from the market to the forest preserve.
Ansel takes trips to the nearby forest preserve
on days when there are high winds
so he can walk deep into the most dense
areas to take off his shirt and stand
next to trees with low lying branches and let
the wind whip the leaves across his back.
The stronger the wind, the harder the leaves
lash back and forth.
Sometimes he thinks of supermarket women.

FORMAL DANCE

By Daniel de Culla

My girlfriend is a lucky damson
And me, like a fool, in love with her
My Dandelion gets angry
When she says she does not dance with me
Getting to dance with another boy
Or another girl
Then me, dandilying on mine own
Attracting her attention
With my St. Vitus’s dance.
Alone and free, but no, I’m not free
Nor from myself.
Look at me:
There’s a Star saying to me:
Stop! Don’t play the fool.
Do you want to dance with me?
Then, the illumination arises, letting go:
pollen, hands, belly
into more giving.
The foot at mind, Me, now and here
Not all there,
Giving life under the dancing Star
Active, more now than ever,
Renewing a mind of primordial wisdom,
Embracing my own body, her body,
Two bodies in one¡
As a Wheel of Fireworks, light trapped in there.
A Wheel of Fireworks, yes
Singing a tale about what goes on my guts
(She is moving her belly with mine own)
Her eyes as stars of a “Yes” going on,
And me, contemplating the Theory of all Theories:
That her lips are the center of my laughs
Rolling the music onwards that sounds
Like its singer
Opening his mouth with a celestial sermon
A musical comedy confirming the fact
That we are all Gods
Delivering our spinal column
In a constant change of paces
Or changing the dancing partner.
Her yellow Venus hair sparkles with light
A coyote yells in my bones
There’s a million kisses at the dance floor
Light trapped in there with poems
And semierotic hypotheses of flesh and blood
Lucid undertanding in our hands
Venturing far too
With the four elements of dancing
Steadied and blotted each other out.
Seeking my alchemic body and her’s
Our blood flowing inward
dissolving in the middle of the floor.
A middle where she and me bent over ourselves
Opening our mouths for a kiss
(She laughs heartily - and me- diving in.)
We are the living.
Isn’t it beautiful?

UN BAILE FORMAL

By Daniel de Culla

Mi chica es una ciruela floreciente
Y yo, como un tonto, estoy enamorado
Mi diente de león monta en cólera
Cuando dice que conmigo no baila
Y se pone a bailar con otro u otra
Entonces yo
Saltando sobre mis propias rodillas
Llamo su atención
Con mi baile de San Vito
Solo y libre, pero no, no soy libre
Ni de mí mismo.
Mira conmigo:
Hay una estrella que me dice: ¡para¡
No hagas el tonto
¿Quieres bailar?
Entonces la Iluminación se me aparece
Sembrando polen, manos, vientre
Para ayudar más:
El fuerte de mente, aquí y ahora
Tontiloco
Dando vida bajo la estrella bailaora
Activo más que nunca
Renovando un espíritu de sabiduría primordial
Abrazando mi cuerpo su cuerpo
Dos en uno
Como una rueda de fuegos artificiales
Con sus luces atrapadas en ella.

Una rueda de fuegos artificiales, sí
Contando el cuento de lo que sucede en mis agallas
(Ella moviendo su cuerpo con el mío)
Sus ojos como estrellas de un “Sí” confirmado
Y yo, contemplando
La Teoría de todas las Teorías:
Que sus labios son el centro de mis sonrisas
Girando a la música que suena
Y su cantante abriendo la boca a un sermón celestial
Una comedia musical que nos confirma
Que todos somos Dioses
Desarrollando nuestra espina dorsal
En un constante cambios de pasos
Y cambio de pareja.
Su pelo Venus amarillo brilla con luz
Un Coyote grita en mis huesos
Hay un millón de besos en la pista de baile
Y la luz atrapada allí con poemas
E hipótesis semieróticas en carne y hueso
Lúcida comprensión en nuestras manos
Aventurándose demasiado
Con los cuatro elementos de la danza
Estabilizados y transferidos entre sí.
Buscando mi cuerpo alquímico y el de ella
Nuestra sangre fluye hacia adentro
Disolviéndose en medio de la pista
Un medio donde ella y yo nos inclinamos
Abriendo nuestras bocas a un beso.
(Ella ríe de buena gana y yo me sumerjo)
Nosotros, ¡los vivos¡
¿No es maravilloso?

Ha Ha Cemetery Established 1800.Sheila Hannah
Albert County, New Brunswick, Canada

LAS ANIMAS ECHAN CARRERAS

By Daniel de Culla

Animas benditas levantaos
sacad las calabazas de vuestras tumbas
encended los cirios y candelas
mirad que vienen ánimas difuntas
por vuestras floridas cabeceras
con ángeles del cielo que van de carreras.
Seguidles a ver quién primero llega
hasta el patio de Halloween
donde la Vida batalla con la muerte
en esta estación otoñal presente
cuando la Gloria descansa
sobre el monte Ocaso bajo tierra.
Aplicaos, pues los primeros que lleguen
rezarán por las almas bellas
las que descansan en paz, y las que no
y por las nuestras, en presencia juntas
cuando hayamos desayunado
y ayudemos al sepulturero ocupado
en abrir y cerrar las tumbas.
Clamores a difuntos salen de las iglesias
agua bendita del Cielo cae.
Yo no puedo ir, que estoy ocupado
En echar una gallina clueca
Para que todos me salgan pollitos.
Que vaya mi alma, si quiere
que está descansada debajo de su mandil
que escuche las palabras de las calabazas
Que llevan un “déjame aquí”
En el Cementerio HaHa de Albert County.

SUNSET BELLS GO FULL OUT

By Daniel de Culla

Arise, blessed souls!
Bring out your pumpkins from your graves,
ignite the candles and bougies,
looking at the deceased souls, coming out
by your flowery headboards
with the angels of heaven, racing.
Follow them to see who comes first
to the courtyard of “Halloween”
where life and death battle
in this present autumn season
when Glory rests
on Mount Sunset under the Earth.
Get yourselves ready, because the first ones to arrive
will pray for the beautiful souls.
Those who rest in peace, or not
and we, in presence together,
when we had had breakfast
we help the busy gravedigger
open and close the graves.
Tolls of the bells ring out frum the churches
where the holy water falls from Sky.
I can not go, I'm busy,
maintaining a broody hen
with her only born chicks.
She went with my soul, and her want is rested under her apron
I hear the words of pumpkins
That listen the pumpkins’ words
Carrying a "leave me here", calming down
At the HaHa Cemetery
of Albert County.

Halloween a la Poe

By Patrick Bryant Michael

Once upon a night at end of October
something touched me drawing me coldly sober
a ghost of the past as cold as a graveyard stone
reached out in tempest fare chilling me to the bone.

My thoughts troubling over love of beauty now gone
I roiled in a stupor wishing for a new dawn
faeries and elves danced in devilish, grinning delight
as I fought with this most evil, dark October night.

As my heart sank into the abyss of dark and bleary
my body weighed upon my soul, as I churned quite weary
feeling the touch of demons dark piercing me deep within
I reached out, grabbed hold my bottle of gin in dreary sin.

As my thoughts turned bleak to such gore of love left in lore
I sought relief, sending these dark thoughts to nevermore
nevermore, these words do ring in my ears like a deathlike score
my soul possessed each Halloween night leaving me ever sore.

As creepy, crawly things lie in wait this Halloween night
I look under my bed seeking what will bring me to fright
my mind lost in decomposing thoughts of long ago
my heart stops beating with thoughts of Edgar Allen Poe!

(c) October 27, 2008 by PBM

Haunts and Howls

By Patrick Bryant Michael

Things that go bump in the night
haunting 'neath beds in delight
creepy, crawly things bring fright
haunting closets out of sight
sneaking out when there's no light
tickling kid's hearts to excite
scaring those who want to fight
out of young souls take a bite
the sounds of a moonlit owl
hooting with a gruffy scowl
thoughts turn to murder most foul
witches flying broomsticks prowl
black cats, hair raised, hiss and growl
kids scream, head under a cowl
hide faces with a towel
moms and dads let out a howl!

(c) October 12, 2009 by PBM

Dark Shadows

By Patrick Bryant Michael

In the light objects cast forth a dark display
in life the past follows us along the way
shadows of forthcoming hide for another day
truths are obscured as dark forces come into play
ghosts cast a pale on souls taken by regret or sin
while goblins and demons howl silently deep within
the shadows of a dark past reflect on the soul
on Halloween Night some like to play such a role
in the light of love dark shadows will disappear
like costumed faeries on doorsteps this time of year
wolves howl at a full moon for love, not to bring fear
take heart on Halloween Night and be of good cheer!

(c) October 17, 2008 by PBM

Dark Days

By Karen King

The day was light,

The day was bright,

The day was beautiful,

The day was glowing.

They chatted through the trees.

Her Son played a tune on his tin can.

The sun flirted on the trunks

And birds sang in the sun.

It was uplifting,

It was delightful,

It was inspiring,

It was life.

The took a new path,

Full of tractor ruts and deep mud.

Darkness fell in the woods.

Branches squeaked in fear.

They felt fearful,

The felt lost in time.

They felt lost in the woods.

They felt lost forever.

Her Son wondered if they should leave,

His Mum ushered him forwards.

They say a dumped car tyre,

Then a crashed and rusty car.

The woods waited.

The woods watched.

The woods laughed.

The woods ensnared them.

Her Son glanced back,

A dark figure materialised

Out of thin air,

His dark cloak flashing.

Their hearts stopped,

Their legs went to jelly,

Their skin dripped in sweat,

Their eyes widened in fear.

The dark figure marched onwards,

Closing the distance between them.

They quickened their pace,

Then saw the dark figure hide.

They ran as fast as they could,

They ran for their lives,

They ran until their hearts burst,

They ran until their lungs screamed.

They looked behind them,

The man was still there,

Flapping his dark cloak,

Like a brain-damaged bird.

A new path emerged,

A chance appeared,

A chink of light welcomed.

A chance at life materialised.

They ran down the path,

On and on through the woods,

Following it for the road,

While trying to be quiet.

It was a nightmare,

It was the darkest of days,

It was petrifying,

It was the end of time.

They followed the barbed wire fence,

Towards the sound of cars,

Searching the trees for the man,

Until they saw a field of sheep.

A man appeared with a dog,

A man with a leather jacket,

A man who looked normal,

A man just walking.

They ran over the gate,

Chased by sheep, keen for dinner.

Even they seemed threatening

So they hurtled across the field.

A road appeared,

A chance of safety,

A false sense of security,

A road built purely for cars.

They walked in the ditch,

Tripping and falling over,

As cars hurled themselves

Wholeheartedly at them.

They had faced danger,

They had met a madman,

They had been chased by sheep,

They had been pushed by cars.

They returned to their car,

Parked by a café

And were pleased to see people.

They welcomed life with open arms.

Was the man real?

Was the man a spectre?

Was the new path really there?

Was the event of this world?

It had ended a dark day,

As darkness from the other side

Slowly crept in,

Filtering from the other side.

It was nearly Halloween,

It was thinning between the veils,

It was scary day and night,

It was threatening in both worlds.

HALLOWEEN

By Alexandra H. Rodrigues

Spooky houses with flickering lights
Invite goblins and gremlins for the next few nights.
If cemeteries usually put you under a spell
Horror stories of Walpurgis Night will do it as well.

Already as toddlers and at a very young age
Kids during those days satanic presentations stage.
Unfortunately, the entire world is so full of crime
Maybe it would be wiser to stick to the sublime.

Go and look for the biggest pumpkin instead!
The one from your garden with a prize might be met.
Carve funny or scary faces into the fruit’s juicy flesh
Hot dogs and apple pie could then complete the bash.

“Never mind, I like the haunting atmosphere,” you say.
Fine, enjoy it. We can, each of us, have it our own way.
As long as we all happily hold hands together in the end
And concur that a good time by all of us was spent.

Spooky or calm it is only for one day every year
So let’s show the little devils that we have no fear.
This day we’ll join into what turns the little ones on
Soon enough all this hocus-pocus will again be gone

A Collection of Poems

By Alan Catlin

Eisenstein's Frankenstein

1-
100 days that shook
the world

lightning drawn from
the sky siphoned through

coiling electrode tubes
provide the power

the means to animate

2-
All the gathered tribes:
peasants and serfs,

toilers and farmers,
village dwellers, common folk

bearing torches en masse
in the night

3-
The drawn bridge
outside the Doctor's castle

or separating gathered
armies from palace grounds

the drawn bridge's
slow descent bearing

the dead

4-
white horse - quick cut
hypnotic poetics of death

strange beauty in slow,
unnatural motion

5-
The man-made monster
befriending an old

blind fiddler, playing
with a child;

innocent encounters
that end with in-

advertent death

6-
in the forest
or in the city

on the Odessa steps
unmoored, a baby

carriage's helter
skelter ride

untouchable
unstoppable

serially montaged

7-
Mary Shelley's modern
Prometheus no longer

a bringer of fire
but the recipient,

a slow, terrible burning;
the near-human torch

Kubrick's Dawn of the Living Dead

1-
Transcendent creatures
existing out of time,

spirits of the dead
walking; zombies

for designer footwear,
clothes, invade a

shopping mall

2-
Omega man on
the run, there is

nowhere to hide:
full metal jackets,

body armor piercing
rounds are of no

use, the dead keep
walking, legions of

them like Roman
armies sent to war

3-
Zarathustra speaks
as the hollow voice

of a time stepper
dressed for violent mime.

Switched-on Master B-
is a long haired classicist

on acid synthesized
to death; pomp and

circumstance becoming
a death march for

stormed troopers rising
from shallow trenches

constructed as open graves

4-
Dreamed sequences
suggest a floating

world, an operatic
score accompanying

orgiastic nights,
a Satyricon in

NYC, an underworld
of smoke and ash.

Albino faces fill all
the subway windows,

the undead uprising,
replacing naked sopranos,

eyes fused wide, shut

5-
Artificial intelligence
is accepted. They are

the relentless stalkers
motivated by impulses,

galvanic as electrified
frogs, their tongues

uncurling bands of fire

Eisenstein's Halloween

1-
Outside slow tracking
shots in silence; the child
wearing the Halloween mask
wields a long butcher knife.

Inside the host family is
dead, ritually murdered by blade.

2-
Years later are denoted
by white lettering on
black screens, the Imperial
Palace is an asylum
for the madmen and women
of a deposed regime.

The man dressed in a monk's
robe is Rasputin, head shrink
in charge.

3-
The long knife has been
retrieved for interior scenes,
the only movement, a montage;
the hand and the blade repeatedly
striking the unseen.

A silent screaming off stage
and on, the captions say.

4-
The sole survivor is a
nursemaid to the children
of the last czar. Years later
she will claim to be the Czarina,
the missing princess, heir to
the Romanov throne.

On a Grand Tour she will
be feted, credit will be extended,

all considerations taken,
ultimately she will be sent
in style to the new world
where a man in a monk's
robe is waiting, waiting with
messages from home and
a knife.

Alfred Hitchcock's To Hell and Back

1-
Jungle thicket set,
impenetrable as
the night; so hot
here, even the leaves
are trembling

2-
There is no sound
until the first rounds
are fired; then what
is heard, deafens

3-
Caught in crossed
fire, the living are
pinned down; souls
of the dead are lifted
from their bodies

4-
Wounded men lie
nearby in darkness;
those who can speak
plead for mercy, help

5-
One soldier defies
the odds, plunges into
the living darkness,
into the unknown
behind the brush

6-
Soon an explosion
is heard, then another;
one machine gun is
silenced

7-
Sniper fire and automatic
weapons somewhere in
the night; neither the enemy
nor the hero is seen or
heard after the firing stops

8-
Then movement beyond
the perimeter; something
is coming for the living
from beyond the jungle
dark

Scorsese's Blair Witch Project

1-
These mean streets of Maryland:
daily transactions on street corners,
at newsstands, fast food hangouts;
pool hall back rooms, after hour bars,
floating high stakes poker games
out of focus, where all the real deals
are cut

2-
Voice over describes what life is
like lived in pain, what happens
when you are taken for a moonlit
drive to discuss past transactions,
loans; waking up outside, wandering
lost though the oft crossed river
only flows one way through planted-
in-neat-rows trees

3-
Amulets left as part of symbolic
designs, signatures of old worlds,
cults: broken cue sticks, burst into
pieces bowling balls, a dealer's
index fingers; muffled voices at
night, heavy feet rustling through
fallen leaves, encased in concrete

4-
Overnight one of the seekers camping
out is among the disappeared;
in his place, an emptied-of-all-contents
backpack, eviscerated game, entrails
left for reading, clues

5-
Slow motion dance with death,
half-tones of filtered night,
sudden flashes of inexplicable
light; terrible screeching voices
remain detached from bodies,
remain unseen

6-
Luminous white house at trail's end,
hand prints of all the missing and
the forgotten; Los Olividados escaped
from asphalt playgrounds of hell
singing nursery rhymes off-key

Momentary Reactions

by

John Frazee

Facing it head on was out of the question
Like nothing I had to deal with before
I was hesitant on how to approach
The fear I felt that shook me to the core

Heroic deeds were never my forte
Yet I have always done what must be done
You’ll find I’m not the first to lead the charge
However I’ve never been known to run

Once more I’m painted into a corner
Needing to use some evasive actions
I had my best moves planed out in advance
All due to momentary reactions

***

Memory Lake

by

John Frazee

All novices are convinced this is the first time it’s been seen
     By its pageantry and power they have found themselves beguiled
As you approach this land you can’t help but feel a sense of awe
     Everyone who’s been here, every man, woman and child

Was it fate that led you here or a well planed destination?
     If lucky enough to linger here for weeks or just for hours
This is a fact on which all visitors must agree upon
     We all take away a memory which is uniquely ours

No one knows what takes place in the mind while departing this place
     They say you remember what you wish to then forget the rest
What takes place within this magical realm I am not sure, but
     Reminiscences from this land always become our best

Having a surface like a mirror or a sheet of glass
     Toss in a stone it causes nary a ripple or a wake
But this is not what makes this spot so hauntingly beautiful
     Remembrance, here in lies the mystery of Memory Lake

***

   Hiding Places

   by

   John Frazee

   Suspend all movement, become one with your surroundings
   Daylight's difficult, it's easier to hide at night
   Stay downwind, achieve oneness with your environment
   You've managed to hide before, quite often in plain sight

   If you cannot be seen, you shall not be discovered
   Remain transparent, while your inner thoughts become sacred
   Companionship is no longer a priority
   Seeking some time alone so your soul may stand naked

   Isolated, within arenas of lost agendas
   Lonely haunts packed with others yet no familiar faces
   I know of no creature who would not give their eyetooth
   For the sanctity of their childhood hiding places

The Witch

By Alexandra H. Rodrigues

There was neither rhyme nor reason for it
Why with the knife her life-line she slit.
Falling she did not make any sound
Much too late for survival she was found.

The story has it that this old witch
As ghost in the mansion for decades did bitch.
Only few had ever a sign of her seen
But devious and nasty she was said to have been.

As result of this her remnants found no graves
Now as ghost of ghosts in the mansion she raves.
It is possible and should no one amaze
If during Halloween she will show her face.

The Following Moment

by

Teresa Ann Frazee

Now as time cradles us in its fragile arms of sand
Balanced between earth and a vortex of whirling air
We soar into the fine mist of uncertain hours
Under God's sleeping eye, we merge into the atmosphere

Descending out of existence with the pace of dreams
Like angels in exile, past the point of turning back
Our molted quills bleaching in an aging sun
And of our whereabouts, even fate has lost track

The present, twining into the following moment
Affirms the agenda of what is and what will be
Adrift in suspended choreography
Lingering among the clouds through eternity

***

Crystallized Menagerie

by

Teresa Ann Frazee

I am a lost stray, leaving my prints less recognizable in the snow behind me
With a strong belief, I am predestined to be dragged into the lair of another
Knowing very well my life hangs in the balance and perhaps may reach its full term
I'm sufficiently impressed with nature's ability to sabotage my future

I have become disjoined by an abandoning master shying from his duties
My ears twitch, so they may be ready for his call, which I would thankfully obey
In silent correspondence, I play host to solitude, my voiceless companion
Perhaps my reward for being one of those replaceable breeds, so easily cast away

The achromatic landscape acquaints my navigational skills with confusion
And not without reason, I'm a creature given to fear when even hope is denied
An unforecasted, insolent wind stings my nose like a cold steel saber without its sheath
While the unfamiliar darkness revels as desolation obliges to be my guide

Stripped of sleep my legs give way on an ice pond that reveal patterns bluer than my veins
Unlike my kind, try as you might, mans strongest trait is not one of loyalty
Yet in desperation, I stay focused on compassion belonging to bygone times,
Fall into a gentle trance and take my place among the crystallized menagerie

***

Eighth Light on the Right

By

   Teresa Ann Frazee

Vague flares circled on distant spheres
   Through the smooth charm of falling night
But soon the path led toward the eighth
   Weaving the way with scented light

A rosy bloom confirmed her reign
   Bathed in a haunting back lit sky
Her curled petals pearled with the glow
   As a green-eyed seraph flew by

Famous among the cobble stones
   Posed with heaven’s grace her best side
Taken with the glory of power
   Her very essence burst with pride

Fallen Apples

By Jessica Goody

Ripe fruit dangles overhead like ornaments
tucked amidst shining leaves, greenly-scented,
dappling the lawn like an underwater sun.

Stumbling over the sharp stones of fallen apples
strewn among the tousled carpet of grass,
stems bitter with sap snapping under the weight

of their solid green heft, rustic baskets filling
with plops and thuds, and the mingled shades
of green: the green boulders of fallen apples

nestled in the roughness of damp grass;
lawn and leaves and piled fruit, crisply bitten
and running juice, bittersweet and glowing green.

***

Autumn Rising

By Jessica Goody

Leaves spasm and shiver
in the breath of the trees,
fluttering to the ground
like brittle butterfly wings,
their tawny sunset flush
fading to ochre. Scattered
now, they rustle and flicker
to the spritely laughter of
wind chimes, gossiping in
the breeze. Auburn leaves
crisp underfoot at every
step, with a sound like
bitten apples, the empty
branches curling like
talons, the smoky scents
of autumn bonfires and
spices lingering in the air.

***

Scarecrow

By Jessica Goody

Bird droppings crust your
ragged cast-offs, hand-me-downs,
patched and frayed.
Spiders nest in your straw;
a baby crow roots in your shirt pocket.

Brambles wind their way around your torso.
The burlap complexion of your Raggedy Andy face
is addled by a learning disability;
you are wise but not smart.
Uncoordinated and limp as a rag doll,

you flop and tumble, bundling your fallen
straw stuffing back inside.
Optimistic, every day you study your alphabet
picture book, repeating A, B, C, sure of your retention.
The next day you are left agape,

straining towards the letters
you thought you knew. They are no longer there.
Your memory is blank.
You must start over again.
Does it seem that the crows are laughing at you,

a harsh, mocking caw,
as you fumble over simple sentences?
They are amused by you, your pitiful efforts at learning.
You cannot keep them from your corn any more than you can spell.
But if they bothered to ask,

you could show off the knowledge you do possess:
Knowing the beauty of green fields, the exact
golden shade of perfectly ripe corn, and when to pick it;
the shapes of clouds as they pass overhead,
bringing storm and seasons, moons and harvests.

Wild Things Happen

By Jake Cosmos Aller

Wild Things Happen
At 3 am
In the dark hour
Of the soul

One wakes up
From the terror
Of the nightmares

And walk around
And cannot sleep

For at 3 am
There is utter clarity
Of mind and purpose

No illusions

The past lies reveled
The muse comes forth
And commands you

Take a look
At what you have done
And what you have failed to do

***

God Drinks Coffee

By Jake Cosmos Aller

When I woke up yesterday
I saw a naked old man
Sitting in my chair
Drinking my coffee
Smoking my pipe

I shouted at him
Who in hell are you
He replied
Never in hell am I

God replied

Your coffee is good
But not cosmic enough

The we stood in the jungle
Watching dinosaurs
Making love

God said
They died you know
When they tried to become like us

***

Requiem for An Era

By Jake Cosmos Aller

Today the dawning sun
Seemed to me to scream
The 6o’es are dead
We have killed them you and I
They died from our neglect
Our tears, our paranoia

The revolution is over
We have killed it
We have lost the battle

Because we gave in to our fears
Our hatred and our absolute paranoia
The world continues to get madder and madder
My mind gets crazier and crazier
The social and political order
Continues to become inhuman
Tremendous infestations of hatred and intolerance
Break out all over our society
Neutron bombs for gaining the ultimate peace

The grinning specter of ultimate evil

Howling at the Moon

By Jake Cosmos Aller

I stood outside
Between the trees
In a field
On the outside of town

Beneath the lunatic rays
Of the blood red full moon

The lunatic lights of the moon
Casts a wild primeval glow
On me

The hormonal chemicals are unleashed
The wild beast within
Escapes it chain
And I howl with delight
A werewolf
Free at at last

To run amuck
Free of its civilized restrains
Throwing off its clothes
Stripping naked

Running wild
Naked and free
A wild man
Enjoying his freedom

As I sit
Under the lunatic light of the full moon
Of the blood red lights of the moon
Full of wild passions
The lustful beast stirs again

And starts running and running
Howling at the moon
Riding into the new dawn
On a demented Harley Davis cycle
With two naked babes on his back

Riding into the sun
90 miles per second
At the speed of though
He disappears into the lunatic light
Of the full moon

And I wake up
Alone,
In my bed
Saying, man that was quite a night
I better not go there again

The wild beast
Laughs
He has heard that before

And I join him
In howling at the moon

Change of Season

By Alexandra H. Rodrigues

The last days of autumn are close
Hardly one finds outside still a rose.
Hills bathe in sun of azure blue skies
Fall a magnitude of beauty supplies.

Small patches of rainclouds I see
Eager to tease the monotony
Still unwilling, moisture to earth to send
They pleasingly with the firmament blend.

Colorful leaves glide from the trees
Form a carpet so birds in winter don’t freeze.
The life span of flora and fauna who can tell
All together is part of a magic spell.

A soft wind strokes a babbling brook.
A chipmunk provision to his hiding place took.
We fill our lungs with the scent of ambrosia
While the woods whisper a mild au revoir!

Above:
Painting by David Thorpe

The forest of disillusioned souls

By David Thorpe

Taking a wrong turning
I found myself lost
in the forest of disillusioned souls
and deceived hearts

Like scrap metal in the firmament
ill- mannered and contradictory thoughts
without a destination float by
to become entangled in the web of oblivion

There is neither cure nor consolation
in this labyrinth of judgements,
only time,
time to search for the misplaced

A search for reasons, motives,
expired excuses and promises
hidden within falsehoods,
whispered during an amorous night

David Thorpe © 2016

Mystical Forces

(A Tideling)

By Patrick Bryant Michael

Romance is whimsical
gratification can be inexplicable
mystical forces must connect with the cosmos.

Dating builds relationships
making love is companionship
mystical forces must connect with the cosmos.

Passion is enchantment
love develops an attachment
mystical forces must connect with the cosmos.

The cosmos connects us all
both animals and people.

Forces of love are mystical
merging of souls is empirical.

(c) October 8, 2016 by PBM

Forests and Magic

By Patrick Bryant Michael

Forests remain part of the dark wilderness magic
creatures
venturing
out to shine magic as part of the forest's fabric
darkness
shadows
in the inner sanctum, forests can create logic
lightning
striking
the forest trees, cause magic that seems all too tragic
living
flora
abounds in a magical world, darkened romantic
twilight
remains
under the heavenly trees, its magic fantastic
mythical
beings
inhabit the caves, the bear shines in the galactic
sunlight
brightens
in the daytime, shadows come out, time grows ecstatic
starlight
twinkles
in the openings between the tree limbs, magical delight
croaking
leaping
frogs and toads bring mystical harmony to ignite
waterways
babbling
brooks winding around like magic pathways that excite
hillsides
spiraling
with waterfalls plunging downwards, illusions invite
hiking
climbing
up pathways to lalaland, where nothing seems finite
fishing
catching
crawdads to use as bait to catch myths flying a kite
clambering
over
creek beds, finding mushrooms with magic powers of flight
camping
sleeping
in a magic sleeping bag, pixies come out at night
fireflies
blinking
their tails at everyone, the sorcery of its glow
mosquitoes
biting
to draw blood like vampires lurking between high and low
demonic
forces
making delusions come forth, love thrives in a grotto
sparkles
rapids
churning down a rocky waterway, faeries flow
valleys
declining
into legerdemain, mercurial gods, seeds sow
standing
looking
down over a cliff, the magic of winds that myths blow
campfires
cooking
is magic while telling ghost stories, banshees feel woe
soaring
sensing
love from the soul, the heart feels a magic to bestow.

THUNDER

By Alexandra H. Rodrigues

No, no, no! I am not afraid!
Outside it is dark but not yet late.
Lightning bolts crisscross the sky
Dark, threatening clouds are rushing by.
The power of nature we cannot ignore
One sure is aware of thunder’s ominous roar.
This is God when he has reason to scold,
As children we were often told.
One can hear the storm approach real fast
And we hope that not too long it will last.
Afraid I am not, but tense without doubt
Even my dog cannot help but pout.
This fiery, noisy show close by
Has rattled my nerves, I cannot deny
Let us from haughtiness refrain
And keep the thought in our brain
That in a superpower’s hand
We are nothing but a tiny speck of sand.
My mind wanders, I think of the Ocean
During a storm each droplet in motion
To weather a storm on the open sea
Would the end to my sanity be.
Compared with such nearness of death
What I witness now does not take my breath.

Point of Return

By Alexandra H. Rodrigues

To follow you I came out here!
This is the spot from where you did jump.
Now I am overcome with fear
There is no need your collapse to trump.
When I think of you at the Ocean ground
My imagination us together found
Nothing of that picture do I wish to come true
Never wanted to spend life nor death with you.
So now that I came here to follow you
my soul does not allow it for me to do.
It hurts that your death results from love for me
While I only a friend in you did see.
By rushing to pacify you now in an afterlife
Would still not make me want to be your wife.
I am sorry my answer did so deep in you burn
Goodbye my friend! To my own life I now return.

The Last Rose

By Alexandra H. Rodrigues

For now, as the grounds harden
I got you, the last rose from the garden.
I’m grateful you are still blooming
As falling leaves now do the grooming.
Soon with fall comes the time
Only when pressed you will remain mine.
Then, during summer next year
Surely your offspring will appear!

Kevin and the Deer

By Alexandra H. Rodrigues

Little Kevin had sneaked out when Dad did not look
To search for the deer he had seen in his picture book
A freezing chill of little Kevin took hold
The woods looked lovely but it was bitter cold.
Kevin’s father often went hunting for real
Which provided the family wild deer as their meal.
A tree offered Kevin an icy, snow-laden stump
Frozen and shivering the boy in despair did slump.
On top of it he had twisted the ankle of his foot
Trying to walk would for sure not do any good
Now Kevin began to bitterly cry
Why had he run out, why, yes why, oh why?
Kevin felt utmost deserted and forlorn
When the shadow of a deer in the distance was born
The deer came close and let his warm body near Kevin drop
Hope returned to Kevin and made his freezing stop.
The boy’s numb limbs turned slowly comfy warm
It appeared the deer must have sensed Kevin’s alarm
When the father, who had searched in panicky fright
Found the two embraced with each other real tight
He swore, never again would he shoot a deer.
No deer would ever his pistol have to fear.
This one they called Bambi and it became Kevin’s best friend
Many good times the two together did spend.

The Ones Left Behind

By Robert Cooperman

For Roxy, it’s almost time, the pain
a badly balanced, overloaded
knapsack she can’t unstrap.
She’s blacked out too often, each time
hoping, as she spiraled down,
“This is it,” smiling to think
she won’t wake up into this world
she’s loved, hated, been wild in,
bore a son into, met and loved
her adoring husband, made friends
who’ll sob when she’s gone;
but always, the exhaustion of waking.
Beth and I visit her this afternoon;
she beams, talks about vacations
on beaches with surf like the white,
billowing manes of running horses.
But as soon as her husband leaves
the room, she whispers,
“Al thinks he’s hid my insulin,
but I’ve got a whole second stash,”
as if she’s talking about the weed
she used to hide from her mother.
“I just hope he won’t go to pieces
when he sees my peaceful face.”
We just nod, sigh, hope for a miracle,
while Roxy relishes to the last bite
the bagel, cream cheese, and lox
she asked us to bring her.

Sonnet XVI:

Mongst All the Creatures by Michael Drayton

An Allusion to the Phoenix

'Mongst all the creatures in this spacious round
Of the birds' kind, the Phoenix is alone,
Which best by you of living things is known;
None like to that, none like to you is found.
Your beauty is the hot and splend'rous sun,
The precious spices be your chaste desire,
Which being kindled by that heav'nly fire,
Your life so like the Phoenix's begun;
Yourself thus burned in that sacred flame,
With so rare sweetness all the heav'ns perfuming,
Again increasing as you are consuming,
Only by dying born the very same;
And, wing'd by fame, you to the stars ascend,
So you of time shall live beyond the end.

Ixchel,

Lady of the sacred light

By David Thorpe

Arising out of a sea of mist
the Island of Women ,(La Isla de Mujeres`) was discovered
by the Spbeing the first European to see idols and relics of worship
belonging to the sanctuary of the Mayan goddess of the moon,
Ixchel

Her sensual beauty and flowing locks of hair
enticed the lover who became her spouse,
the supreme deity and god of the sun,
Itzamna,
siring thirteen offspring as proof of their fertility

Responsible for the needed rainfall
to provide abundant harvests,
Ixchel took the name of Lady Rainbow,
the lady of the sacred light,
oft depicted with a crescent moon

As goddess of midwifery, medicine and healing
much compassion did Ixchel bestow
on expectant mothers,
the myth, however, has a darker side ,
a jaguar goddess and female warrior
Ixchel´s gaping mouth suggests cannibalism,
the sacrifice of young unmarried maidens
formed part of sacred rituals in honour of her name

Ixchel and Itzamna, deities of heavenly bodies,
the legend tells,
did find eternal life in the constellation of Virgo,
on the mythical planet named Itzamna

David Thorpe © 2016

Monster Mash

By Patrick Bryant Michael

A song from the sixties, on the Hit Parade
mashing
dancing
and frolicking, crazy stuff, a big charade
singing
humming
along with a silly spirit, drink kool aid
creating
monsters
on the stage, making them the rage conveyed
drinking
tasting
the lips of your sweetheart, her heart to persuade
bashing
laughing
at silly jokes, winning back souls that have strayed
coming
going
at the dance hall, monster faces to degrade
running
dashing
about the hall, mental failings to evade
mixing
teasing
the kids with monsters to see their eyes light up
sweating
on the brink
of falling down, grabbing some fluid to sup
tapping
making
wild noises, monster like, getting a hookup
dreaming
creeping
around like monsters, forget being grownup
acting
taming
the mental jitters, looking for a teacup
cooking
burning
up the dance floor, dancing with a buttercup
tisking
tasking
a green basket full of monsters, some windup
musing
moving
your feet to the music, while watching the pup
waiting
breaking
into a dance routine, when feeling delight
pushing
pulling
a goony act, like monsters in the twilight
sensing
sorting
out the moody monsters, sleeping well at night
wiggling
giggling
at the monsters under the bed, the limelight
closing
opening
the doors to see monsters ready to incite
jumping
chasing
shadow aliens, monsters give you a fright
dating
baiting
a girl to see monsters on her left and right
holding
hugging
your girlfriend, never going into the light.

The Rapture

By Alexandra H. Rodrigues

Why cry?
Does it really matter how or when we die?
On earth we will not find the answer to the “why.”
Draw a circle from the dot that in the universe is you
Then even if millions of years it grew
The “why” remains, there will be nothing new.
We will continue to be a little spot
Meaningless no matter what means one got
At death to be lowered into the earth to rot.
Now if we could rapture the veil to the Vortex
We might get a glimpse of what is next
It would help our fear about the hereafter relax.

Doubt

By Alexandra H. Rodrigues

To the eternal future as fact
Would our mindset toward peace direct?
Knowing that one is adored and put on a pedestal after death
Would make parting easy, calm a last breath.
It is these questions that cause a fear
The uncertainty which makes us tear
Is there an afterlife?
Will we see the ones who before us arrived?
Will it still resonate when of all bodily charm we are bereft?
Can we continue to observe what on earth we left?
Will what once was important continue to matter?
Is there truth in the promise that all will be better?
Why are we left in the dark?
Why possibly meant into nothing to embark?
Too often doubts torture any belief.
We are condemned to vacillate between hope and grief
As result of man’s original sin
We now in a confusing vacuum spin.

September 7, 2016

A Casual Dialogue Involving

Lost Articles

and Car Wrecks

By Alan Catlin

I was half paying attention
to the game of the week,
drinking pints of Bass Ale
in a methodical, determined
way that meant it would only
be a matter of time when
she sd., "My whole life is in
the back seat of a totaled
Dodge Charger."
"There must be something left."
"Not really. All my traveling
clothes, books, papers, the book
I've been working on like forever.
All my notes, bank books, address
books----I can't function without
all that stuff."
I waited for the punch line nursing
what was left of my Bass, feeling
more and more ill at ease, heading
off track, losing vital time on a
schedule only I could keep.
"What would you do?"
"If my life was in the back seat?"
"Exactly."
"It could never happen to me."
"How's that?"
"I don't drive."
I waited for the sarcastic remark
that didn't come. Watched as she
ordered another tall G&T, thumbing
a wad of cash for a fifty she threw
on the bar. "You about ready?
You look ready. Give him one too."
I was wrong twice: no hard luck
story culminating in a plea for
cash for a bus ticket to a, not too
remote, but fairly expensive destination.
No biting sarcasm to my smart but
true remark. I decided to see what
happened if I sang for my supper.

"I'd try and see what I could salvage.
From the back seat. Junkyard got
the car?"
"Nah. It's been impounded.
State's evidence."
I wondered if I chugged my new pint
whether that would put me over
the top but decided it was way too
obvious a ploy. The evening was
rapidly taking on a new significance,
one that could easily end in some kind
of painful slow death. I waited for he
to explain exactly what State's evidence
meant, mentally inventorying the back
bar for a way out.

On Instituting a Background

Search Request

for a Missing Friend

By Alan Catlin

After providing basic personal information
the search process takes ten, maybe twelve
minutes, to check public records:
police records, hospital admissions,
court transcripts, newspaper morgues....

Occasional questions arise:

Has subject ever been arrested for DUI?
Has subject ever been involved in a personal
injury accident?
Has subject ever been fired from a job?
Has subject a history of violent behavior?

Answering yes to all but the last facilitates
the process, a warning notice:
Pictures of a graphic nature have been found.
These photos could be extremely upsetting,
should we continue our search?

What would be the point? I already knew way
more than I ever needed to know.

Fire Breathing Morons

By Alan Catlin

Maybe he was part of some
subtle mind control experiment
gone wrong or a longitudinal study
on the perverse effects of a lifetime
of stimuli provided by nothing but
what cable television provides.
His signature act could be traced to
that scene in “True Romance” where
Patricia Arquette is trapped in a shower,
six second from certain death from one
severely pissed off heavy, played to
perfection, by future Sopranos star,
James Gandolfini. Somehow she
accesses a can of hair spray and a Bic
in time to blast poor Jim in the eyes
and the rest is history. Best not to
ask where the lighter came from.

Or, maybe he’d been stuck in a time
warp as a ward to a traveling circus
side show couple, all pro fire breathers
and sword swallowers, and he thought,
“Yeah I can amaze and dazzle folks
with my talents.” Which he did.
But, it isn’t like this act was nuanced
or laden with layered meaning.
Quite the contrary. In fact, the show made
quite the indelible impression and several
folks were able to provide detailed
descriptions to the authorities.
Let’s face it, fire breathing with Aqua Net
has a limited shelf life, roughly two weeks,
and three public appearances.
Charges against ranged from creating
a nuisance in public to endangering the
welfare of a child to, acting out as a clown
without a license.

Hollyweird

By Alan Catlin

After the triple x rated punch bowl
incident at one of those So. Cal.
parties where some fried, left-over-
from-the-60’s, hippie chick, part
Manson girl, part Goldie Hawn,
thought it would be really cool to drop
this experimental mushroom based
homemade drug into the communal swill,
stuff that made blotter acid seem like
kid’s aspirin by comparison. After that,
everyday life had become something
that came directly out of underground LA,
Hollyweird Central, sort of like feeling
as is he had been starring in a movie
of his life he hadn’t seen yet with
an off-the-wall insane title life Wolfen 2,
with Klaus Kinski as the lead actor
in his place on the big screen, and
directed by Werner Herzog. Scene
after meticulously set scene, of Kinski
ripping the throats out of the standard
hot bodies bushwhacking in some woods,
or looking for a clearing for a mosquito
feeding frenzy shag or the horror movie
cliché of cliches, necking in a car parked
in the Brain Damaged Victims Only marked
space, totally oblivious to the impending menace,
as the eerie score by that Psycho dude,
Bernard Hermann, gets louder and more
ominous and you know, in your heart,
Bernard was one of those guys who definitely
would not flinch when a horse fly walked
across his face, even as the close up reveals
carnage among the gear shifts. Every full
moon like this, when the body hair grows
longer and the need to kill is a blood red
cloud blacking out the last remaining light.

A Touch of Evil

By Alan Catlin

Her life was one long-follow-
the-bomb tracking shot, crossing
borders no man or woman,
for that matter, should ever cross.
Hot wired to rapid transit bullet
trains as long as the tracks on her
arms that came to a dead stop
in some no address, pay by the day,
or by the minute, hotel, pale as a white
wedding day dress for a bride of Christ
on an ascension eve, blood circles on
the floor where all the coffin
nails/spikes were lain, after they
were withdrawn. She was a kind of
angel in repose, had the look of someone
whose soul had been reclaimed by Satan
and used as ballast on a hot air balloon
filled with rare gases expanding faster
than its skin could hold. Nothing defined
her so much as what she left behind:
someone else’s clothes, several sizes too
big, three paperback novels with the end
chapter and beginning chapter razored out,
overdue notices from no interest bearing
accounts, everything withdrawn, creased
fortune telling cards, meaningless now,
that suggested the obvious, that she had
no future.

The Catcher Moe Berg, in His Next Life

By Robert Cooperman

As one scout observed, “Good field, no hit,”
though he stuck around for fifteen seasons.
Still, you get the feeling his heart was never
in the game, taking time off for law school,
though he never practiced as an attorney.

He could speak almost as many languages
as there are bat weights: handy on his OSS
spy missions to Yugoslavia, to assess
which war lord we should back against the Nazis.
And even afterwards, he loved to stay informed,
read ten newspapers a day, one reason
why Casey Stengel once called him,

“The strangest man ever to play baseball.”

After the War, he never really worked again,
lived off his brother, who finally served Berg
eviction papers, to get rid of the sponge
more effectively than if he’d gunned him down
trying to steal second. Moe spent the rest
of his life living with and off his sister,
who, it sounds, idolized her youngest brother.

When admiring acquaintances asked
what he was up to, he’d put his forefinger
over his lips, to suggest he was still working
on spy missions so secret and dangerous,
even to mention them meant he’d have to kill them
to prevent the leaking of state secrets to enemies.

If he ever did come back from the well of souls,
I can’t imagine what he’d do, as if he’d decided
he’d worked enough in his past life and deserved
a long rest for the service he’d rendered his country
and to the world of Major League Baseball.

The Misty Stallion: Tom Riordan,
Outside Gold Creek, Colorado Territory

By Robert Cooperman

Last night, I shifted aside my tent flap,
a stallion pale as mist, still as a statue
of Bobby Lee’s Traveler, stood atop
the hill where I’d dug and dug,
just enough color to keep me sifting.
Its hooves glittered moonlight, but not
a whinny or whicker: the kind of horse
to make your fortune at race meets.

A month later, with the next full moon,
there it was again, that glorious stallion,
this time pawing the ground, as if to show me
where some color might come in rich.
Suddenly sober, I tried to stroke its mane;
it backed off, and when I looked away
for a second, it had vanished, a rotgut dream.
In the morning, I dug where I’d seen
it pawing, and sure enough, nuggets
to keep me in whiskey and whores for months.

Now it’s another month, and I’m sitting
outside my tent, snow sifting down,
and I’m wondering if that stallion’s real
or a pookah I dreamed out of a whiskey bottle
and hoping for a strike so I can return
to the home farm: pockets full, full of tales,
and riding the finest stepper anyone’s ever seen.
Flames crackle like a careless tracker;
that stallion’s on the other side of my fire;
my heart clutches at the glorious sight of him.

I throw a leg over and grab a hank of mane,
but the world’s tilting, and I’m falling,
and a pain stabs my chest, and he’s gone,
leaving me to gasp on the ground: home
a million miles away and a hundred years ago.

Working for the CIA

By Robert Cooperman

Decades ago, Helen smiles, she worked,

“For the White House,” meaning the CIA.
“It was part of my wayward youth
I don’t approve of now, but the CIA
wasn’t yet the ethical monster
it’s become; besides, it’s a good story.”

Anyway, when she had to transport
sensitive, secret papers, rather than use
obvious attaché cases with handcuffs,
she’d place the pages in the used brown bags
that had earlier carried her lunches,
in those days before email and computers.

“I never lost a file to thugs or spies,
just placed the bag on my lap in the bus,
and read, then walked blasé as a model
into the building and up the elevator
to the floor where I’d hand over the brown
paper bag, and wait for its empty return:

“expensive to buy food I didn’t need,
for a safe courier pouch: the government
as cheap and mean then as it is now.”

The Skull in the Ceiling

By Robert Cooperman

Lying atop my bed, I do exercises
for my bum right shoulder.
Even with the radio news on--
a Homeric catalogue of catastrophes--
the stretches are a slog to get through.

So I stare at the ceiling, and maybe
because it’s Halloween and the eve
of the Day of the Dead, I see a skull
in the swirling stucco. It’s wearing a top hat,
like the symbol of the Grateful Dead,

or those sugar skulls all over Denver,
to honor Dia de muertos: that day
of visiting the graves of those passed into
the great beyond or the great nowhere;
of telling jokes about friends, family here
only in memory, of remembering the continuum
from this plane to any other that might exist.

Counting the required number of repetitions,
I blink, and that toothsome image is gone.
I scan the ceiling as if Keats’s watcher
of the night sky, but can’t find that skull:

maybe a trick of the eye in the first place;
maybe a premonition, a warning, a welcome.

Escape Route

By Gene McCormick

To the side of the restaurant foyer, left
and down a plush carpeted dim-lit corridor
lined with reproduction German Expressionist paintings,
past an alcove housing gentlemen’s and ladies rooms,
beyond banquet room number one, turning right
into banquet room number two and then, to the far side,
there is a locked storage room, empty,
that has an exit to the rear parking lot.
It is a small room, about 10’ x 12’,
walls and floor painted industrial grey,
with no windows or shelving, no paintings on the walls,
no telephone, not even a fire extinguisher.

The maître ‘d shuts the entry door, opens the exit door
to the parking lot a crack and pulls a soft pack of Camels
from his side tux pocket. It is unopened,
and he firmly tamps the pack against the palm of his hand,
pulling the gold tab around the pack but leaving
the cellophane covering on for protection.
He has limited time but takes care to lift the foil
with his fingernail, tearing just enough of the
top edge for a couple cigarettes to show.
He never refers to them by any derivative name
nor by their brand name. They are cigarettes.
The front portion of foil is removed, crumpled,
but the silver that wraps around the cigarettes in the pack
is retained for freshness and armor against the hazards
in his jacket pocket. A soft pack is susceptible
to damages but has a feel, touch and history
that a hard pack lacks. The cellophane feels refreshing
to his uncallused palm as he runs his fingers around
the Camels, tapping out a cigarette, hoping they
never change the design of the camel in profile,
pyramids and palm trees in the background.
A flaring wooden match from a vintage
Diamond match box lights the tip, smoke
immediately drifting toward the exterior door.

The spent cigarette arcs into the rain-soaked parking lot,
a lone firework, a moment’s pleasure. Back to work.

Dinner For Two, Tommy

By Gene McCormick

A woman who is badly perfumed
is not a woman.”—Coco Chanel

1.
To the right of the lobby, or foyer, is the restaurant’s lounge,
a comfortable room with a dark wood bar seating twelve
with surrounding tables seating another thirty or so.
Straight ahead from the lobby is the restaurant proper,
booths and white-clothed tables
seating many more than the lounge area.
It’s late, the shank of a dispirited evening
for the restaurant’s ledgers, and Tommy the maître ’d
is not at his lobby post awaiting the two who just arrived,
their first dinner together. They stand for several minutes:
--Shall we eat at the bar or wait to be seated
in the restaurant?
--We can seat ourselves at the bar and not wait
for the maître ‘d.
The only conclusion was to wait to be seated at a booth,
across from one another, looking at each other’s face
saying and hearing what wants to be said and heard.

He appreciates what she is wearing: a black mid-thigh
raincoat wide open at the top over a white sweater
with inch wide horizontal stripes under a
light beige vest and a necklace of many interlaced
flat silver pieces that looks Indian but isn’t.
There is no other jewelry. No wedding ring.
Her slacks are grey, almost as black as her hair,
which is shoulder length and parted in the middle.
She is wearing Allure by Chanel perfume
and puts on glasses only to read the menu.
A businesswoman’s smartphone is tucked in her purse.

The raincoat may not be true rain gear.
The material feels like plastic-vinyl-polyester
to the touch, the type of synthetic material
that would cost more per yard than silk,
less than cashmere, more than cotton.
It repels water but still is not an absolute raincoat.
It has a belt.
Fashionable body armor covers her,
exposing only her face, her hands.

She is lean, almost lanky.

2.
Two hamburgers each on its own plate.
One well done, unadorned, with a garden salad.
The other is medium rare with cheese
and French fries to the edge of the plate.
Hamburger A is hers, hamburger B is his.
She is drinking a dark Guinness
(--I used to live in London, you know.
--No. When was that?
--My senior year of college and just after.)
He is drinking a whiskey on the rocks.
Both burgers are served open-faced
on a large bun, fresh and spongy to the touch.
They are at a steak house of repute;
they are the only ones eating hamburgers.

The hamburger is large but she puts the bun lid on top,
picks it up with both hands and takes bites.
He cuts a triangle of his burger, still flat on the plate,
and eats it with his fork.
Neither of them comment on the burgers.
Neither asked the steak house server for mustard
or ketchup, no lettuce, no tomato and god no, no sauce.

There is no inspiration to remember the colors
of the server’s uniform (black and white),
nor of the maître ‘d (black). Piped-in music
is forgettable, unlike the Allure
and lack of rings on her fingers.

A clink of drinking glasses before the meal.
Talk during the meal is not memorable.

The Guinness is now warm, nearly empty.
The rocks in the whiskey liquefied
to wetness at the bottom of the glass.

3.
But the evening lacks sparkle.
The conversation is not stilted but is flat.
After just over an hour he helps her on with her coat,
holds the doors and they walk to their cars
in the parking lot, having driven separately.
Living in the same community, they each patronize
the Shell station to the west side of the restaurant,
and the community bank to the east. The parking lot
is in the front of the restaurant with a smaller
such area in the rear. The lots are usually full
or nearly so, and totally so Fridays and Saturdays.
It is a mature customer base; BMWs and Lexus’s
outnumber Chevys and Fords ten-to-one.
She drives a sports vehicle and lives nearby, two miles.

The night sky is all black, no blue, few stars;
a Monday evening that is neither cold nor warm
but it is raining slightly.

She hugs him goodnight and he says
I don’t want to let go.
You have to, she says, and so he lets go.

The Discovery Quartet

Four poems by Alan Catlin

***

“Too Much to Dream”

Where Beach Meets Ocean
                       after Heather Sullivan

All morning the evanescence:
the crows, black wings and beaks
tugging the day back into night.

Then there was rain in
the wind, “Too Much to Dream”,
to discover in the early morning,
of electric prune flashbacks:
all of eighteen again,
facing the wind wiped,
frozen plain, frostbite and
ice nine eyes; too young
to die but trying to anyway.

There on the horizon point,
a row of votive candles
burning beyond the light,
snuffed out one by one
by the living dead
in the floating world
where the insane people
are.

Now, the Difference Engine
has plundered the past,
has made history a scroll
with nothing left on it,
too delicate to touch.

Now, a swirl of birds
circling a black hole
in the Sound; whatever
drops in, stays.

***

Self-Portrait Inadvertently

Growing a Wing

                       after Claudia Bernardi

This is the way Trojan Women
grieved, their tragic masks facing
the flames featureless as fire, lit by
an unnatural, lingering glow.
The ones who survived wrapped
in burlap, flesh tormented by a
thousand spear points, all memories
erased but the current ones, lanced
by fevers and by sores, the end
of reason nearby. Facing the sun,
they discover a wind made into a canopy
of thorns, each breeze as sharp as razors
that cut the day into squares nothing is
allowed to thrive in. Facing death
and living, is the worst kind of defeat,
a torment like witnessing the sea
forever receding inside an inverted
hour glass; visible but impossible to touch.
Wide awake and dreaming, futility is
their eyes weighed down with scales
instead of lids, lead weights for limbs,
organs hard as stones, and a mind made over
with visions of more carnage, more wars,
each one as unavoidable and as unnecessary
as the one before. The past and the future
merge as one and make victims of us all;
even an inadvertent growth of a wing
has no purpose now that the spirit has
left the body and there is no place to go.

***




Vincent Ferrini’s Wire

“And your gravity fails
And negativity don’t pull you through”
                       Bob Dylan

1-Solar Eclipse

Strange fade of light
at high noon.
Absurd shadows
without clouds,
without objects to
cast them.

2-Lunar Eclipse

Bareheaded scarecrows
at foraged field’s end,
slicing black birds
from the sky;
darkness is the latest
discovery.

3-Event

Stanley Spencer graves
open. Rapt, the free ranging
dead rise to confront
the nacreous sky.

4-Horizon

Crazy bones hang from
downed flagpole ropes,
downed wires lie in a ditch
electric as impulses for
recharging the earth.

5-Vanishing Point

Halls of mirrors
with trick lock boxes
to put them in;
all these self-contained
worlds without end.
Inflorescence

“Death the cicatrix”,
as her poem says,
is the subject of
the book she never saw
in print, though
the galleys were corrected
and ready to go.

She was Sexton’s inflorescent
step-child, playing in
bedlam’s garden of last resort,
the poem’s whiskey breath
sends us reeling, overcome,
astonished by the suddenness
of it all.

The afterword, essay,
an appreciation, a rueful rite,
a lament, for a friend,
too-soon-dead, a suicide,
as she, the friend, would be
not long after, another
doomed poet writing against
the end:

Two poets,
two last books,
two suicides

Death the cicatrix,
have you discovered all
you need to know?
Are you happy now?

***

Work Anxiety Dream #9

This anxious dream centers on the work-
place, introduces a wound, a glass cut
to the bone, blood in the ice. No one
cares. It’s all about the bleeding self
carrying on, working, tending bar
one handed for ten hours without a break.

Everyone who sees the wound says
it needs stitches. Lots of stitches.
The bleeding wouldn’t stop, the stained bar rag
slipping, hanging loose around the wrist.
But there I am, building cocktails with my right hand,
deliberate, but carrying on, all fluidity lost
for the duration. No one cares how I feel,
if the wound is dealt with or not.
No one cares how I am unless the drinks
are tainted.

Till the day will come

By Alexandra H. Rodrigues

Sure to die one day will come the time
Till then I accept what life wants to be mine
There are nights that do not want to end
As if from a distant place a warning is sent.
Those dark, mind-consuming hours do say
For favors received we do need to pay.
An equality exists that evens it all out
Birth to death, good and bad it is all about
A flower as it blooms is highly admired
Then it wilts and of its own beauty gets tired.
Animal’s life is usually quite restricted
To cannibalistic pleasures are many addicted.
A butterfly has only a very short life to live
Concentration lets it more pleasure give
On earth to purify our soul to perfection
To measure up for possible resurrection.
We are just a tiny, minute floating speck
Understanding of the divine reason we lack.

Would – Should – Could

By Alexandra H. Rodrigues

I am an autumn leaf holding on to the tree.
An Alien in the world of technology.
I am a Poet in the search of inspiration.
An accomplished writer after re-incarnation.
As applauded actress I play on the stage of life.
Have given many years to being mother and wife.
I know the fine line between having humor and being smart
Still my brain often overpowers my heart.
I could be an elf in a Midsummer Dream
Like a flickering candle in the wind it might seem.
I am not rich when of money one speaks
Neither feed off the blood that a vampire seeks.
Some years fly by like mellow red wine
I always did and still value my time.
In all areas, even remotely related
I strive to find the purpose for which I was created.

For Now

By Alexandra H. Rodrigues

I am still walking the earthly ways
With wrinkles and wasting waistline for age I pay
My husband for years already watches from above
Not knowing for sure is rather tough.
My son is sporting by now some white hair
Has wife and son himself to take care
So the world does turn
Thoughts of what was so often us burn.
What is unavoidable is pretty clear
Not to think about limits the nagging fear
It all at times feels like a movie I see
I am an actor who plays the role of me.
On the sidelines I now find myself to sit
Taking notes of it all bit by bit
During the remaining time I have on earth
I plan to record my life since day of my birth.
Maybe the power that decides our destiny
Does my endeavor as worthwhile see
Will let me continue while of sound mind
Till nothing more to say I find.

Turfed

By Jennifer Lagier

There is zero privacy
once you are admitted,
confined to a hospital bed.
You shed clothes, dignity,
give yourself over
to uncommunicative doctors,
unfathomable procedures.
People with unreadable name tags
wander in and out, check blood pressure,
temperature, pulse.
Every act is public.
Beeps, needle sticks interrupt rest.
It is impossible to sleep
undisturbed through the night.
Others make life and death
decisions on your behalf.
You are one more medical mystery,
dysfunctional organ, chronic condition,
extensively tested, prodded and probed.
The length of your confinement
is indeterminate.
Hour elongate, melt together.
You lose all landmarks.
The walls have no clocks.

Strafed by Life

By Jennifer Lagier

Camille is blind-sided
by the phone ringing at 6:30 a.m.
It’s a recently dumped lover
using his one call to request
she post his bail.

He’s spent the night
in a holding cell
among other losers.
Says he’s counting on her
to get him released.

“Jail’s where cheating assholes
like you belong,” she snarls.
Savors the thought of him
rotting behind bars.
Slams the receiver.

Psychedelic Sailboat

By Jennifer Lagier

She rocks with the tide,
spins around submerged anchor,
a gaudy technicolor sloop,
painted orange, turquoise, yellow.

Staid white yachts surround her,
canvas tightly secured,
conservative sailboats
within tame marina.

She’s unique, free-spirited,
exudes humor & whimsy,
a gleefully garish ship,
new-age nautical gypsy.

http://jlagier.net

A Unique Umbrella

By Karen King

She stood amongst the grey umbrellas,

One rosy red amongst the sameness of society.

The grey umbrellas lined up, dutifully, row upon row,

The same distance apart and unmoving.

A heavy silence was raining down on the umbrellas,

The owners were answerable to an unseen God.

The red umbrella twirled in anger,

Whilst it stood out in the crowd.

Its owner stepped away from ignorance,

Its owner stepped away from monotony

And found her unique way

As her umbrella glowed with happiness.

Karen King Copyright 1 September 2016

A Romantic Stroll

By Karen King

He wandered dreamily through the water,

His wife following behind him.

The trees waved in the breeze,

Fish swam through the water.

The sun kissed his wife’s tanned shoulders

And her eyes sparkled, like the water,

Touched by the sun.

The water lapped, lazily onto the rocks,

Time had slowed down.

The couple relaxed as they strolled on,

Touched by the Summer’s day.

They were wearing only their underwear,

For there was no one around

And they had thrown away

The worries and the cares of the world.

They had had a pub lunch

And the local cider was working

Its way through his system.

He answered to the call of nature

And felt instantly relieved.

He smiled, lost in the moment,

And admired the scene around him,

The birds singing in the trees,

Joyous to be alive.

He stopped to share the moment

With his beloved and they kissed.

He realised his wife’s hands

Had lowered as he felt aroused.

He showed his appreciation

And he started touching his wife…

His wife stopped and slapped him.

He stepped back, shocked.

Her hands were nowhere to be seen.

What was happening?

His name was Candiru,

The vampire catfish!

Karen King Copyright 1 September 2016

NERO’S LYRE

By Roy Dorman

Officials of Rome’s Fire Department
announced today
they have invited the Emperor Nero
to provide the entertainment
at their annual benefit dinner
where the main dish
will be duck flambé served tableside.

THE LOSS OF HER CHOCOLATY LIPS

By Roy Dorman

He came upon her standing in the sun
eating a messy chocolate bar.
He kissed her,
covertly licking her lips,
then threw himself to the sidewalk
to confirm her shadow’s lips
were as delicious as the chocolaty lips on her face.
While he was licking the gritty sidewalk,
Chocolaty Woman
wiped her hands on her jeans and walked away,
conversing quietly
with a homeless woman pushing a grocery cart.
Her shadow got up, hesitated,
and then walked off in the opposite direction.

Grounds In Your Cup

By Lucinda Berry Hill

Unpleasant, unexpected,
Nasty, cruddy, yuck!
There's nothing worse
Than grounds in your cup!

Just rinse out the filter,
The cup and the pot.
Then try it again.
Just give it a shot.

Whenever we get dirty
From falling in sin,
God washes us clean
And we try again.

He gives us that chance
To start a new life,
Again and again
'Till we get it right.

So wash out the filth
And try it again:
Your coffee delicious,
Your life without sin.

Prayers and Apple Pie

By Lucinda Berry Hill

Mom's apple pie is finished.
Her cleaning up is too.
She sits it by the window
Letting it get cool.

The bible on her table
Holds the recipe of life:
A pinch of this, a dash of that,
And stir till all is right.

Mom peeled and cut the apples.
She rolled out dough for crust.
She sprinkled on some cinnamon
And did it all for us.

Cause that's what Mother's do you see,
They cook and bake and clean.
But the most important job she has
Is praying through the week.

She prays for daily safety,
For guidance as we walk.
She prays for blessed wisdom;
To think before we talk.

She prays that we'd show kindness
To people in our day.
And for our hearts to blossom,
Taking time to pray.

We thank God for the blessing
Of our vegetables and meat.
We clean off all our dishes.
Then apple pie we eat.

The apple pie mom made us,
From the tree branch to the oven,
Is just another way she shares
All of God's good lovin'.

Chocolate Cupcakes

By Lucinda Berry Hill

Chocolate cupcakes
A fine, "How do you do."
Greet me with one
Or greet me with two.

Chocolate cupcakes
With a cherry on top.
Cupcakes with sprinkles
And a swirl that won't stop.

Chocolate cupcakes,
Best with a friend.
They'd be even better
If they never did end.

Chocolate cupcakes
For a snack or for lunch.
Chocolate cupcakes
I'll take a whole bunch.

Chocolate cupcakes
Oh so delish
My tongue loves the frosting
The cake loves my hips.

Chocolate cupcakes
What can I say?
Thank you dear Lord,
For cupcakes today!

They're Good for You

By Lucinda Berry Hill

Eat more fruits
Not with labels.
Eat more fruits and vege-tables.

Greens are great.
Red ones too.
Leafy greens are good for you.

Lots of beta
Carotene.
Nourish your heart with leaves of green.

Fruits are good.
They fight disease.
Apples, bananas, and blueberries.

Coconuts
And peaches too,
Lots of iron that's good for you.

God made them all,
They can't be wrong.
They keep our bodies lean and strong.

Eat more fruits
When you're able.
Eat more fruits and vege-tables.

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

Look, Ludlow!

By Karen King

Look, Ludlow!
It shows you life back in time.
Lives once lived,
Loved and fought.
This medieval castle
Still stands today
And has outlived
The vestiges of time.
Stand on the ground,
Look up at this ruin.
Much still remains,
The rest can be imagined.
Stone walls and floors have gone,
Yet the gaps can be filled in.
In our minds.
Touch the walls.
Climb the old, worn staircase.
Smell the mustiness of time.
Listen to the shouts
Of our ancestors as
They travel through time
Back to us on this day.
Taste the medieval banquet,
Enjoy the mead
As we travel towards them
In our minds.
Two worlds collide,
The past and the present.
It’s as if time has stopped
And exists no more.
Stand on the turrets.
Look at splendid Shropshire.
Its rolling hills,
Unspoilt by man.
Enjoy the beauty of the town -
Old houses and
A market bringing life
To this medieval city.
Look, Ludlow!
It shows you life back in time.
Lives once lived,
Loved and fought.
This medieval castle
Still stands today
And has outlived
The vestiges of time.

Karen King Copyright July 2016

Annual Physicals

By Robert Cooperman

My uncle cracks joke after joke to his doctor
while he checks Phil’s heart, lungs; palpates
organs; listens for the flow of blood; examines
his legs for swelling; looks for suspicious spots;
asks him to memorize three words he’ll spit back;
and of course, the dread digital prostate exam.
All the while Uncle Phil keeps up a stream
of anecdotes, jokes, one-liners, and puns:
his way of propitiating a capricious god
into finding nothing that has to be specialist-tested.

I give information and advice to my doctor,
hoping to mollify him into finding nothing
too terribly wrong with me as well; I confide
the best tactics for solving the Saturday
New York Times crossword puzzles,
the ones that reduce grown men to tears.
I tell him about our summer plans for Europe,
ask about his toddler daughter, Sagan,
named for the scientist whose exuberance
made us all fall in love with the cosmos.

When my doctor examines my wrist, I tell him,
“Scars from a near fatal childhood accident;
the memory of blood and shattered glass
still gut-punches me, like right now,”
I shudder and flinch, “so my blood pressure
might be a tad high,” hoping he’ll tell me I’m fine,
no need for further scrutiny, and will send me home.

But he’s not fooled, puts me on a new med,
says he wants a specialist to do an ultrasound
of a tiny, hardly worth mentioning, throat node,
and reminds me I’ll need a colonoscopy in two
more years, should I live so long.

One on One

By Alan Catlin

It’s not every day
you get to see a guy
about eight foot tall
pushing a shopping cart
through produce on his
way to the beer coolers
for a couple of cases
of frosties.  He looked as
if he’d been playing
Arbus’s Jewish giant
in a hard fought one on one
half court game, he’d won,
eventually, by a deuce
canning a set shot the
larger man was too weary
to block.  A work out
like that builds up a
powerful thirst 24 cans
of Coors Light can’t
begin to touch. The cans
must have looked like
thimbles in his outsized
hands just like the cart
looked like a carry-all
to the rest of us.
He wasn’t nearly as ugly
as The Giant, but kids
stopped and stared.
Asked rude questions like,
“Did he escape from the zoo?”
A remark the large man
addressed by saying,
“I did. And I eat kids like
you raw for breakfast
every day.” Maybe the way
he said it, with a straight face
and a scowl, made those
children freak, had them
crying long after he was
gone. Twenty years later,
more than one of them awoke,
in the middle of the night,
shaking violently, cold sweat
tearing their eyes.

Live and Let Die

By Alan Catlin

In his dreams, the women all
have porn star names: Monica Mayhem,
Lexxi Love, Victoria Sin. All of them
ached for his He Man body, though in
real life, he resembled Oliver Hardy
after a weeks long Roman feast that
the emperor Nero would have enjoyed.
Thought beer, Cheetos and nacho chips
with a synthetic product like cheese
was fine dining.  After the repast,
he savored packs of generic menthols
he lit one from the other. The only known
exercise he got was lifting the remote,
pressing buttons and extended coughing
fits that anyone with final stage emphysema
could identify with. Was headed for one
of those operations where they remove
the voice box and replace it with an
electronic device you could use to order
take out with on speaker phone.
Was destined to be the kind of guy
who smoked through a blow hole in
his threat and bitched because he could
no longer blow double smoke rings to
impress the ladies.  Such as they were.
Wouldn’t be kidding when he wanted
to know why they couldn’t put bourbon in
his glucose drip when it came to intravenous.
People began asking him what it was like
to die as if he’d ever been alive.

Fresh Air Fund

By Alan Catlin

They were in the country as
part of some kind of benevolent
Fresh Air Fund thing to get kids
off the street and into the woods
for a few weeks.  While they meant
well, it only made some of the kids
feel displaced, out of their element,
lost.  A couple of days of activities
and they were bored out of their skulls:
hiking in the woods, swimming in lakes
and trying to figure out how best to
sink the canoes, they were forced
to learn how to paddle, without getting
caught.  A few acts of petty vandalism
later, it was time to book. Hitched
a ride on the back of a 4 x 4 to
the middle of nowhere: a back lot
cleared by a meth lab fire, black as
death and just like home.  Felt
comfortable amid the beaters on blocks,
algae infested refrigerators, sprung
couches, empty propane cylinders,
porcelain sinks and toilets, BVM’s
on the half shell peppered with buckshot:
headless and desecrated like the parish
ones back in the hood.  And the tires:
truck tires, tractor tires, car tires,
bicycle tires, a regular petroleum
product paradise waiting to be torched.
What’s a field without black smoke
and the stench of burning rubber?
Took the edge off of not being home,
where their friends were, acting like those
guys in the Leonard Michaels story,
convincing some geeky newbie that
because he was wearing PF Flyers,
he could jump from the roof of a high
rise and ride the air waves. Just coast
the way hawks did on the wind.

Emperor of Ice Cream Man

By Alan Catlin

“God of course was good and a vampire was not.”
                        Neil Jordan, Mistaken

He had the kind of face you see
in an alcohol withdrawal dream.
The kind you can never forget
no matter how many drugs
you take to make it go away.
All he needed was some white
grease paint and a cape and you
could imagine him as Bela Lugosi
in Dracula saying, “I never drink wine.”
Was the kind of barista who,
first thing in the morning,
you might have been better off
getting run over crossing a main street,
rather than ordering an Americano
with a double shot of Espresso from.
Seemed capable of extracting a dose
of caffeine from each order filled.
Was the kind of energy vampire who
grew in stature and strength as the day
progressed.  A few under his belt and
he became a Dybbuk in dungarees,
a Colossus of Rhodes, straddling
Caroline Street to Phila, a thin gypsy
thief with a toothpick between his
teeth, an alcoholic’s wet dream,
six sheets to the wind.

In the Moment

By Alan Catlin

“Death steals everything except our stories.”
                        Jim Harrison

No one is more in the moment
than the laughing rummies of
Lark Street. Like Zen acolytes
with a pint stuffed in their sagging
jeans back pocket, they stroll in a
kind of single file, content in their
confusion, embracing chaos, time
meaningless in the void where thought
should be.  Walking, theirs is a kind
of death march, draughts of liquid
courage maintains, sustaining rigid
smiles on their cracked lips, the high
color of their waterlogged skin almost
purple, all of them covered in a layer
of grime and dirt from sleeping raw
in the park under benches and picnic
tables and, later, after the daily, nocturnal
rousting, in cul de sac alleys between turn-
of-some-century brownstone buildings.
The Roshi among them drinks Olde English
40’s from brown paper bags, cracking wise
to his fellow travelers when he is able to
speak.  Everyone of them carries a Zen
Death haiku in a leather pouch tied to a
belt loop at their waist.

“The old man in the window,
what’s the deal with him?”

By Alan Catlin

“I put a spell on you.”
            Screamin’ Jay Hawkins

The power of his delusions
could be traced to one too
many nights spent in Voodoo
Lounges drinking flaming shots
of tequila azul and mescal,
always demanding the worm
at the bottom of the bottle he
chewed into small pieces that
reproduced in his wet brain
until all the grey matter looked
like wormwood gone to a dry rot
that stank of cactus pulp and corpse
flowers in full bloom. His life
was about what you would expect
from a guy who began his career
as a poster child for Death,
with naturally concave cheeks,
purple lips and snake bitten eyes
that came from parents who played
with reptiles and who fucked on
the floor under a blood red moon,
the curse of a wronged woman upon
them.  Still, even now, when the visions
overcame him, he could speak in
tongues with such conviction and
unbridled emotion, he could hold
an enormous room captive, make
the people inside, inert as living things
in dead bodies, their eyes affixed on
who knew what.

Macbeth

By Karen King

The banquet hall is the start of his serious demise,
The revellers are shocked and can’t believe their eyes.
He questions the murderer of Banquo,
Eventually, Lady Macbeth, tells the guests to go.
Macbeth is very aggressive and loud
And is no longer upstanding and proud.
He says, “There is blood upon thy face”
And, obviously, feels the murderer is a disgrace.
“Is he dispatched?”, Macbeth says about Banquo’s death,
Wondering if Banquo has drawn his last breath.
The feasting does not start, there is a tense atmosphere,
People sense trouble and freeze in fear.
“His highness is not well” and “Regard him not”,
Lady Macbeth states as her shiny apple starts to rot.
For Macbeth is starting to lose his mind,
A more tortured man you could not find.
Macbeth’s mind conjures up Banquo’s ghost,
Yet, “Come, health to all,” he declares in a toast.
Once more, he sees Banquo. “Quit my sight”,
He declares as he starts to give up the fight.
“You make me strange,” he says to his wife,
As he completely embraces the darker side of life.
“He grows worse and worse,” Lady Macbeth states,
Although it was her that wanted him to change his fate.
Lady Macbeth wanted him to be the ruler,
Although her hero is becoming smaller and smaller.
He ends up lost in his own world of torture and pain,
Surrounded by misery and shame.
The scene puts questioning thoughts in everyone’s mind,
Although, once, a stronger mind you could not find.
At this stage, Lady Macbeth is still strong,
Yet the lust for power makes their lives go so wrong.
Look at Macbeth when power becomes our desire,
For we too may get burnt in the ferocious fire.
Enjoy the simple things in life for peace of mind
And happiness we will definitely find.

Karen King Copyright April 2016

Rembrandt To Rembrandt

Poem by Edwin Arlington Robinson

And there you are again, now as you are.
Observe yourself as you discern yourself
In your discredited ascendency;
Without your velvet or your feathers now,
Commend your new condition to your fate,
And your conviction to the sieves of time.
Meanwhile appraise yourself, Rembrandt van Ryn,
Now as you are—formerly more or less
Distinguished in the civil scenery,
And once a painter. There you are again,
Where you may see that you have on your shoulders
No lovelier burden for an ornament
Than one man’s head that’s yours. Praise be to God
That you have that; for you are like enough
To need it now, my friend, and from now on;
For there are shadows and obscurities
Immediate or impending on your view,
That may be worse than you have ever painted
For the bewildered and unhappy scorn
Of injured Hollanders in Amsterdam
Who cannot find their fifty florins’ worth
Of Holland face where you have hidden it
In your new golden shadow that excites them,
Or see that when the Lord made color and light
He made not one thing only, or believe
That shadows are not nothing. Saskia said,
Before she died, how they would swear at you,
And in commiseration at themselves.
She laughed a little, too, to think of them—
And then at me.… That was before she died.

And I could wonder, as I look at you,
There as I have you now, there as you are,
Or nearly so as any skill of mine
Has ever caught you in a bilious mirror,—
Yes, I could wonder long, and with a reason,
If all but everything achievable
In me were not achieved and lost already,
Like a fool’s gold. But you there in the glass,
And you there on the canvas, have a sort
Of solemn doubt about it; and that’s well
For Rembrandt and for Titus. All that’s left
Of all that was is here; and all that’s here
Is one man who remembers, and one child
Beginning to forget. One, two, and three,
The others died, and then—then Saskia died;
And then, so men believe, the painter died.
So men believe. So it all comes at once.
And here’s a fellow painting in the dark,—
A loon who cannot see that he is dead
Before God lets him die. He paints away
At the impossible, so Holland has it,
For venom or for spite, or for defection,
Or else for God knows what. Well, if God knows,
And Rembrandt knows, it matters not so much
What Holland knows or cares. If Holland wants
Its heads all in a row, and all alike,
There’s Franz to do them and to do them well—
Rat-catchers, archers, or apothecaries,
And one as like a rabbit as another.
Value received, and every Dutchman happy.
All’s one to Franz, and to the rest of them,—
Their ways being theirs, are theirs.—But you, my friend,
If I have made you something as you are,
Will need those jaws and eyes and all the fight
And fire that’s in them, and a little more,
To take you on and the world after you;
For now you fare alone, without the fashion
To sing you back and fling a flower or two
At your accusing feet. Poor Saskia saw
This coming that has come, and with a guile
Of kindliness that covered half her doubts
Would give me gold, and laugh… before she died.

And if I see the road that you are going,
You that are not so jaunty as aforetime,
God knows if she were not appointed well
To die. She might have wearied of it all
Before the worst was over, or begun.
A woman waiting on a man’s avouch
Of the invisible, may not wait always
Without a word betweenwhiles, or a dash
Of poison on his faith. Yes, even she.
She might have come to see at last with others,
And then to say with others, who say more,
That you are groping on a phantom trail
Determining a dusky way to nowhere;
That errors unconfessed and obstinate
Have teemed and cankered in you for so long
That even your eyes are sick, and you see light
Only because you dare not see the dark
That is around you and ahead of you.
She might have come, by ruinous estimation
Of old applause and outworn vanities,
To clothe you over in a shroud of dreams,
And so be nearer to the counterfeit
Of her invention than aware of yours.
She might, as well as any, by this time,
Unwillingly and eagerly have bitten
Another devil’s-apple of unrest,
And so, by some attendant artifice
Or other, might anon have had you sharing
A taste that would have tainted everything,
And so had been for two, instead of one,
The taste of death in life—which is the food
Of art that has betrayed itself alive
And is a food of hell. She might have heard
Unhappily the temporary noise
Of louder names than yours, and on frail urns
That hardly will ensure a dwelling-place
For even the dust that may be left of them,
She might, and angrily, as like as not,
Look soon to find your name, not finding it.
She might, like many another born for joy
And for sufficient fulness of the hour,
Go famishing by now, and in the eyes
Of pitying friends and dwindling satellites
Be told of no uncertain dereliction
Touching the cold offence of my decline.
And even if this were so, and she were here
Again to make a fact of all my fancy,
How should I ask of her to see with me
Through night where many a time I seem in vain
To seek for new assurance of a gleam
That comes at last, and then, so it appears,
Only for you and me—and a few more,
Perchance, albeit their faces are not many
Among the ruins that are now around us.
That was a fall, my friend, we had together—
Or rather it was my house, mine alone,
That fell, leaving you safe. Be glad for that.
There’s life in you that shall outlive my clay
That’s for a time alive and will in time
Be nothing—but not yet. You that are there
Where I have painted you are safe enough,
Though I see dragons. Verily, that was a fall—
A dislocating fall, a blinding fall,
A fall indeed. But there are no bones broken;
And even the teeth and eyes that I make out
Among the shadows, intermittently,
Show not so firm in their accoutrement
Of terror-laden unreality
As you in your neglect of their performance,—
Though for their season we must humor them
For what they are: devils undoubtedly,
But not so parlous and implacable
In their undoing of poor human triumph
As easy fashion—or brief novelty
That ails even while it grows, and like sick fruit
Falls down anon to an indifferent earth
To break with inward rot. I say all this,
And I concede, in honor of your silence,
A waste of innocent facility
In tints of other colors than are mine.
I cannot paint with words, but there’s a time
For most of us when words are all we have
To serve our stricken souls. And here you say,
“Be careful, or you may commit your soul
Soon to the very devil of your denial.”
I might have wagered on you to say that,
Knowing that I believe in you too surely
To spoil you with a kick or paint you over.

No, my good friend, Mynheer Rembrandt van Ryn—
Sometime a personage in Amsterdam,
But now not much—I shall not give myself
To be the sport of any dragon-spawn
Of Holland, or elsewhere. Holland was hell
Not long ago, and there were dragons then
More to be fought than any of these we see
That we may foster now. They are not real,
But not for that the less to be regarded;
For there are slimy tyrants born of nothing
That harden slowly into seeming life
And have the strength of madness. I confess,
Accordingly, the wisdom of your care
That I look out for them. Whether I would
Or not, I must; and here we are as one
With our necessity. For though you loom
A little harsh in your respect of time
And circumstance, and of ordained eclipse,
We know together of a golden flood
That with its overflow shall drown away
The dikes that held it; and we know thereby
That in its rising light there lives a fire
No devils that are lodging here in Holland
Shall put out wholly, or much agitate,
Except in unofficial preparation
They put out first the sun. It’s well enough
To think of them; wherefore I thank you, sir,
Alike for your remembrance and attention.

But there are demons that are longer-lived
Than doubts that have a brief and evil term
To congregate among the futile shards
And architraves of eminent collapse.
They are a many-favored family,
All told, with not a misbegotten dwarf
Among the rest that I can love so little
As one occult abortion in especial
Who perches on a picture (when it’s done)
And says, “What of it, Rembrandt, if you do?”
This incubus would seem to be a sort
Of chorus, indicating, for our good,
The silence of the few friends that are left:
“What of it, Rembrandt, even if you know?”
It says again; “and you don’t know for certain.
What if in fifty or a hundred years
They find you out? You may have gone meanwhile
So greatly to the dogs that you’ll not care
Much what they find. If this be all you are—
This unaccountable aspiring insect—
You’ll sleep as easy in oblivion
As any sacred monk or parricide;
And if, as you conceive, you are eternal,
Your soul may laugh, remembering (if a soul
Remembers) your befrenzied aspiration
To smear with certain ochres and some oil
A few more perishable ells of cloth,
And once or twice, to square your vanity,
Prove it was you alone that should achieve
A mortal eye—that may, no less, tomorrow
Show an immortal reason why today
Men see no more. And what’s a mortal eye
More than a mortal herring, who has eyes
As well as you? Why not paint herrings, Rembrandt?
Or if not herrings, why not a split beef?
Perceive it only in its unalloyed
Integrity, and you may find in it
A beautified accomplishment no less
Indigenous than one that appertains
To gentlemen and ladies eating it.
The same God planned and made you, beef and human;
And one, but for His whim, might be the other.”

That’s how he says it, Rembrandt, if you listen;
He says it, and he goes. And then, sometimes,
There comes another spirit in his place—
One with a more engaging argument,
And with a softer note for saying truth
Not soft. Whether it be the truth or not,
I name it so; for there’s a string in me
Somewhere that answers—which is natural,
Since I am but a living instrument
Played on by powers that are invisible.
“You might go faster, if not quite so far,”
He says, “if in your vexed economy
There lived a faculty for saying yes
And meaning no, and then for doing neither;
But since Apollo sees it otherwise,
Your Dutchmen, who are swearing at you still
For your pernicious filching of their florins,
May likely curse you down their generation,
Not having understood there was no malice
Or grinning evil in a golden shadow
That shall outshine their slight identities
And hold their faces when their names are nothing.
But this, as you discern, or should by now
Surmise, for you is neither here nor there:
You made your picture as your demon willed it;
That’s about all of that. Now make as many
As may be to be made,—for so you will,
Whatever the toll may be, and hold your light
So that you see, without so much to blind you
As even the cobweb-flash of a misgiving,
Assured and certain that if you see right
Others will have to see—albeit their seeing
Shall irk them out of their serenity
For such a time as umbrage may require.
But there are many reptiles in the night
That now is coming on, and they are hungry;
And there’s a Rembrandt to be satisfied
Who never will be, howsoever much
He be assured of an ascendency
That has not yet a shadow’s worth of sound
Where Holland has its ears. And what of that?
Have you the weary leisure or sick wit
That breeds of its indifference a false envy
That is the vermin on accomplishment?
Are you inaugurating your new service
With fasting for a food you would not eat?
You are the servant, Rembrandt, not the master,—
But you are not assigned with other slaves
That in their freedom are the most in fear.
One of the few that are so fortunate
As to be told their task and to be given
A skill to do it with a tool too keen
For timid safety, bow your elected head
Under the stars tonight, and whip your devils
Each to his nest in hell. Forget your days,
And so forgive the years that may not be
So many as to be more than you may need
For your particular consistency
In your peculiar folly. You are counting
Some fewer years than forty at your heels;
And they have not pursued your gait so fast
As your oblivion—which has beaten them,
And rides now on your neck like an old man
With iron shins and fingers. Let him ride
(You haven’t so much to say now about that),
And in a proper season let him run.
You may be dead then, even as you may now
Anticipate some other mortal strokes
Attending your felicity; and for that,
Oblivion heretofore has done some running
Away from graves, and will do more of it.”

That’s how it is your wiser spirit speaks,
Rembrandt. If you believe him, why complain?
If not, why paint? And why, in any event,
Look back for the old joy and the old roses,
Or the old fame? They are all gone together,
And Saskia with them; and with her left out,
They would avail no more now than one strand
Of Samson’s hair wound round his little finger
Before the temple fell. Nor more are you
In any sudden danger to forget
That in Apollo’s house there are no clocks
Or calendars to say for you in time
How far you are away from Amsterdam,
Or that the one same law that bids you see
Where now you see alone forbids in turn
Your light from Holland eyes till Holland ears
Are told of it; for that way, my good fellow,
Is one way more to death. If at the first
Of your long turning, which may still be longer
Than even your faith has measured it, you sigh
For distant welcome that may not be seen,
Or wayside shouting that will not be heard,
You may as well accommodate your greatness
To the convenience of an easy ditch,
And, anchored there with all your widowed gold,
Forget your darkness in the dark, and hear
No longer the cold wash of Holland scorn.

Symphony of New York