XX/XX/XX a thursday i've forgotten where exactly some no-name desert wash folded in the arms of an arroyo perhaps i recollect a cactus
sought by other sightseekers after a door to the fourth popped open for a dime and men who shun the nickelodeon
dose mystic tourists with fleshy brew kamikaze color bombards startled rods cortex visual aid ignited, core impact in:
T-5 arbitrary units of measure
honed steel grip cramps guts expected projectile purge of spirits -- evil or otherwise -- thrown to thirsty dust
suspended slide forward into vacant space tethered by one last ropy nerve bungeeless plunge off the step snappy 32ft per second per second whack
thick walk through molasses grass the saurasaur dewdroppedin andohfuck Godhandle rends reality daily refracted lightening from every angel
catch eyeful of impression a swirly world awry, welcome to the state-line of the psychonscience
Trvth: the Amerikan Way
So, there it sat; truth, blacked in a puddle of oily lies. Everything is fine, thank you.
Adore those sprats, sparkling children. Pretend to enjoy wonderfully whiny company and not to ache for flagged freedom.
Caked creamy skin once ivory laden drapes in cheesy folds from thighs, make-believe time, play dress-up in support hose.
And that rotted stench that rides your husband's beery breath as he rolls over and pumps you for 2 minutes, oh yeah baby, pretend you dig that too.
Shark a smile at your boss, tip a wave to the nabes, come home and get zoned on cathode rays. Everything is great in Anyville, America.
Life is good, now repeat your mantra.
A Migrant's Simple Story
Field-worked scars of table grape toil grace Abuela's joints; arthritic rings worn on browned hands. Bent back and fingers gnarled under hard labor of freedom's promise.
Melisande Luna. Currently, I am a junior at the California State University, Bakersfield. My major is Geology and poetry is a relatively new pursuit that I have grown to feel quite passionate about.
I started spontaneously writing poetry a few years ago while in the throes of a manic episode. The symptomatic clang association and frenzied thoughts drove me to find new outlets to express my inner turmoil. Unfortunately, and to my sheepy chagrin, a great many of those early poems were of the Romper Room Rhyme variety. * smile *
I enjoy exploring the art and theory of poetry; I joined a number of online forums to hone my green stick skills, and now co-administrate over a moderately successful poetry forum appropriately titled Postpoems.com. I enjoy the interaction with my literary brethren; I've learned incalculable lessons and hopefully shared some of that won knowledge with less experienced poets in order to help them reach their writing goals, whatever they may comprise.
a rubik's cube in motion, changing sides, switching colors, manipulating, pulling strings, a chameleon ever morphing, speaking varied tongues.
contriving, a manifestation, carefully built, with no revealing cracks to allow for light, nor glaring clues that lead to conclusions.
yet letting go of reason, using instinct as a guide, the answer is revealed, with release of thoughts, and all emotion, intuition given vision.
it sits now, so still, a solid square, sides of even colors, no longer a twisting enigma, but truth confirmed.
sitting in darkness, awaiting the light, time crawls on its crippled knees. silent images flicker and fade, flicker and fade... as probing continues, painfully...incessantly. a sharp query pierces my ear, ushering in strings of confusion, tangling one thought with another, until knitting needles could transform them into a sweater, bearing all the variations, tinges, and textures of my mind.
I could then don the creation, whenever I must see her, and never have to speak a word.
she sat, the book in her lap, and opened it to page three-hundred and thirty-five, where, long ago, she had filed them within the huge, anonymous tome.
rose petals lay before her, now brittle, faded, pressed till all signs of life had bled upon the yellowed pages, the weight atop them, too much for their sentiment to withstand.
she touched them tentatively, tenuously, and, yet, they disintegrated into pieces, muted red, dingy scraps, with no tell-tale hints of what once was.
the tips of her thumb and fingers rolled the pieces between them, over and over, till she'd formed a dust, a finely-ground, faded rose dust, which she let fall upon the pages where they'd laid.
then, carefully, she lifted the book, took a deep, full breath, pursed her lips, and blew the dust, the petals, the rose, the sentiment,
Kristine Karinen lives in the metro Detroit area in Michigan. She is active in mental health advocacy, and leads a support group for MDDA.
Two roads diverged in a yellow wood and I took neither. Instead, I ate a magic toadstool and spun around counterclockwise
until I collapsed from exhaustion and a mildly upset stomach. When I awoke a decade later, my stomach had settled,
my body had shrunk, my mind had expanded, and a furry little troll had set up house in my whiskers. He told me: According to the Furry Troll
Handbook, I am obligated to grant you a wish. I replied: Ummm. So he turned me into a poet. Now, I drink vodka and Gatorade in my coffee, and wear my beard in beaded braids.
When I venture outside, I skip hand-in-hand with Mary Magdalene down the sidewalks of New York City, blowing kisses at angels and poltergeists.
Sometimes I disappear for days on end, and they find me naked under my bed, choking on splinters and conversing with termites.
All the while, I feel deeply for the tall, clean-shaven inhabitants of this world, who have never even written a Rondelet.
I bet that when they look toward the Heavens, all they see are shapeless popcorn clouds and a big blue exclamation point.
Man's Best Friend
Hey, why did you lick my ear? All the others just stepped around me, adjusting their toupees and making kissy faces at fancy handheld mirrors, while I sprawled on the pavement, all five limbs caked in mud, drinking from a puddle through a crazy straw.
But you must have caught the scent of confusion in the breeze, and bravely came trotting to my rescue. I believe that, had you opposable thumbs, you would have zipped my fly and buttoned my coat.
And if only had I been blessed with a longer, fluffier tail, I would have wagged it in your direction. I swear.
Whatever happened to that crazy old bugger? You know, the guy who wore a filthy wool cap all summer long? He had torn, greasy trousers, and his shirt was held together with safety pins.
One time, I gave him a few cigarettes, three, I think, and he patted me on the butt and whispered in my ear, somewhat accusingly, "Rasputin only eats raw lamb, and sometimes boiled carrots".
Last time I saw him, he was fishing for bicycle tires in the Potomac River. I was jogging by, and he adjusted his crotch in my general direction while giving me the one finger salute.
I suppose now that it's cold, he's living in a shelter downtown, passing out soap and handkerchiefs to all the bag ladies who stop by for biscuits, gravy, and some good, old-fashioned groping.
Every now and then, he stares out a cracked, dirty window on the third floor and snorts at the pathetic, gnome-like creatures on the sidewalk below, randomly bumping into one another on the way to Hell.
Richard Jordan is a PhD mathematician, and also a poet. He was born in Massachusetts, and has lived in Pennsylvania, Michigan, and New Mexico. He currently resides in Virginia, where by day, he works on the mathematical modeling and analysis of the spread of infectious diseases, and by night, he tries his best not to contract any such diseases. His poems have been published in over a dozen print and online magazines in the past 4 months, including Kimera, GW Review, Snakeskin, Virginia Adversaria, Beginnings, Branches,Facets, and Poetry Super Highway.
"…compare thee to a Summer's day?" Oh, please! More like a glacial bay whose visage shifts to groan and grate with tides that surge then dissipate. Cold comfort, sun: moonrise for me. I'll stay and bask in moon glow: be so silver-streaked, moon lightened, striven, to wax and wane. I'm lunar driven. You crave to thaw my frozen touch? Beware! This moon's dark side is such that braver men than you have died in the attempt. Be warned, or pride will be the death of you as well. Small comfort. There is warmth in hell.
"And what if all of animated nature, Be but organic Harps diversely fram'd, That tremble into thought, as o'er them sweeps Plastic and vast, one intellectual breeze, At once the soul of each, and God of all?"
Samuel Taylor Coleridge, The Eolian Harp
How could he know, how perceive the very dance of life whilst in poetic idyll?
One intellectual breeze that sets up a vibration as skitters down the eons a-dance in double helix waltz. So entwined from molecule to Milky Way: faint kiss of a whisper grown into the Music of the Spheres.
How could he know?
Primordial seas fired by tectonics churned by solar winds send crashing walls of water, spume high as mountains become becalmed and languorous lapping shoreward, sending forth first spray then mist born upward to rise into the atmosphere coalesce dissipate distill into droplets that gather to freshet brooklet rivulet stream river raging torrent that forms and shapes mountain canyon rock stone pebble granule. And each granule myriad molecules vibrating in a dance with choreography known only to the helix and the Source of the sigh.
How could he know, and so express this reality known even now to chosen fellows of artful science and certain mad poets at idyll.
Freada Dillon: I am manic-depressive and most of my poetry is an attempt to help others see the world from my perspective. I was born and raised in Pensacola, Florida, and traveled throughout the southern U.S. while raising 4 children. I have lived and worked in Metro-Atlanta for almost 2 decades. During this time I served on the staffs of Habitat for Humanity in Atlanta, The Atlanta College of Art at Woodruff Arts Center, and The High Museum of Art.
Currently, I am the Poetry Editor for Beginnings Publishing. The web site that accompanies our print magazine may be found at www.scbeginnings.com.
My doctor is convinced in order to be a truly gifted poet, one must be bi-polar. Who am I to disagree? However, this gift has exacted its toll.
Most days I may be found at my computer keyboard or my sketchpad. Self-statement has become a fulltime pursuit. I am working on several collections of poetry and flash fiction pieces.
I can feel it welling up inside. A bobcat claw rips the elk, powerful, fast, frightful.
The endorphins flow in my brain. These feelings overwhelm me, I try to keep them tamped
but like a snake who bites without thought the blackness rises like sap.
I embrace the anima I become, Color leaves me and I stalk in black and white,
cold, calm, tenacious, the hunter. There is no guilt nor care of consequence
only wont for dark aggression. How do I explain Mr. Hyde when my outer persona returns?
Look how the light is just out of reach. Here I sit, unable to move, my equanimity lost, everything is grey. I bleed black holes.
Comb wet hair squinting in a steamy mirror. My profile appears in a sideways glance at my reflection, Alfred Hitchcock looks back.
Slip on the requisite khakis and polo shirt, slide the change from the bureau and watch gnarled hands melt into the burl sheen. It's always the same but today I feel old.
Dave Ruslander has bipolar disorder but is able to work and create. He lives on his horse farm in Virginia and works as a computer network engineer. He's been published in numerous e-zine and print publications.
Oh dear, dear, dear, it's such a hot day. I wish for the basket, for I can not stand to stay. August sun is baking me into a pie. I wish someone would pick me says an apple close by. The whole tree agrees, the apples that is. That being in this heat wave, is a small price to pay, just to eventually ripen someday. Shhh, someone is surly passing this tree. She's looking quite tempted to eat us up all. All the apples quarrel that it's them she should see. For Autumn seems distant and it hurts just to fall. Lilith wonders at this beautiful site, and she thinks to her self will it hurt if I bite? Well I'll take a few home with me maybe today. The insects would destroy what they could anyway.
The Lost Colt
Spring arrived and a young horse rode, by a lone green field, on an old stone road. The budding of leaves, the sound of a brook, a broken old tree, in the sun by the brook. He flew here today, the robin still perching. He knows he will stay, or always keep searching.
Searching for Nature's Cure
Herbs and mushrooms, growing in the forest. Pick them and put them in your basket. Wind and leaves, so earthy, so wild, siamese trees! Soups ready; smells good, like the forest.
Jennifer Arbour is a crafts person doing stained glass and an artist painting in acrylics. She is also a song writer and singer as well as a guitar player. She has a poetry web site at this URL: www.geocities.com/SoHo/Workshop/5210 She has just been published in a book titled A Tree is My Friend: Poems, Stories, Thoughts, Images which is now available at Amazon.com. She says if she ever gets famous as a poet, she is going to help with an Amnesty InternationalCampaign. Even now she is thinking of ideas for such a campaign.