Daily Archives: October 29, 2009


“For My Grandmother in January ” by Nicole Robinson

Last night the snow fell quiet and simple,
covering the yard, the birch pines,
the broken bird feeder.
I was going to play in the cold,
build something as I had tried with you.

I do not want to see you today,
the hum of oxygen, a screen
I cannot read: hills and valleys,
a line nurses call your heart.
Even the weather has grown
confused. Rain pelts the shingles,
snow melts, birds search for earthworms.

Some other day I could handle death,
send you to your next life knowing
I did all I could. But today
I am unsteady, fickle
as the weather. Tomorrow
the rain will quiet itself
to ice, even the wind
will not bend the trees.

“Oh, Cats Have Their Secrets” by Bernard Gieske

They have many passions
Sleeping, grooming, eating.
One that can't be missed
Is their passion for places.

Basking in a sunny spot,
Cuddling up in a sofa cushion corner,
Even a basket of unwashed laundry will do.
If you happen to sit in their place,
They will not so kindly let you know who must move.

They can pass through any space
That is whisker wide.
They will seek out secluded places
In which to nap and hide.

One secret it knows is repose
And toilet training need not be taught.
Never, never disturb a cat while it naps.
Always, always feed it when it persists.
Better let it live with uncombed hair.
Don't give a second thought about trimming its nails.

In the eyes of a cat there are certain no-nos.
If you do not know these.
It will teach you soon enough.
Rendering services is not on its list.

Cats know not how to negotiate.
Wise and calm and curious they might appear.
Sometimes they gaze incuriously at nothing at all.
Open a closet and they will suddenly appear.
Turn your back and just as suddenly they disappear.

Cats kertuffle in their litter boxes.
Ponder life with a Scheherazade of dreams.
Between their napping and grooming
Where do they find time
To have all those kittens?

“Rareform” by Joshua Olson

A cathartic outburst grows in volume.
Mass emotion outreaches to an audience
as a single microphone adheres itself
to the lips of it's possessor.
Scream
pain, nonsense, confusion
all is understood by listeners.
Peculiar sound and language used as an emotion.
Words are more than lines on a page
or oral murmurs.
You feel them.

“Will Bridges of Understanding be Laid?” by Farhat Bessrour

Will bridges of understanding be laid?

The thirsty mountains stand dejected
And await the return of the rain
The meandering river itches for love
And flows in introverted solitude
The trees along the banks strain to listen:

Will bridges of understanding be laid?

The recluse bushes hunger for the sun
And shiver in moist-soaked silences
For millennia, paths have been craving for steps
Or hooves or paws to come by:

Will bridges of understanding be laid?

The lonely islands heave their bosoms
And unfurl their emptiness
Their virgin wombs hug the waves
And kiss them feverishly but in vain:

Will bridges of understanding be laid?

“Isn’t the Heart Enough” by Keith Perks

rules and regulations
telling them what is art
telling them not to paint that way
not to write that way
not to photograph that way
i rather something with soul
in common word
an innocence
maybe with some fault
but it is more pure
than some academic
with nose in air
writing
painting
photographing
from his cloud
wine and hors d'oeuvres
art snob
lit whore
did it hurt when the blood
drained from your heart
what happened to your edge
maybe it's been dulled
by all your words
all your paint
and lost in your shallow
depth of field

“Moirae” by Drew Hoenigke

Clotho, spin me a string
So delicate, so thin
You bring me about
In a world full of doubt,
Greed and hatred and sin.
Lachesis, measure my string
So delicate, so thin.
You make up my life
Of anger and strife
'til it's time to end, then begin.
Atropos, sever my string
So delicate, so thin
You don't forgive, you just take
From a world full of hate
And I wonder: why bring us in...

“Remember When Summers Were Long?” by Keith Perks

there's this feeling
that comes with spring.
as the grass
gets its green back
and as the flowers
grow again,
something inside me
sparks to life.

once dead
from the winter frost,
warms in the sun
and stretches
outward.
it reaches for
blue skies.
it reaches for
the smell of rain.
it reaches for
timeless days.

the summers
aren't long enough
anymore.
when we were young,
we had endless
summer nights.
we chased fireflies
as we chase
the minutes today.
trying to capture them
delicately in our hands
and jar them
to watch their light.
but their light fades.

nothing shines forever.

with winter's last snow
and spring on the rise,
i know the smell
of autumn will be
here in the blink
of an eye,
preparing me
for another winter.

what was stretched out
like a mighty oak,
will crawl back down,
deep inside and
pass away quietly
and slowly
into the cold dark night.

“Revision” by Matthew Wester

There is a cave where myths
attempt to rewrite themselves.
They scrunch faces in earnest,
dog-ear every forlorn fragment of
emotion. Draft each sigh and squeak,
thinking maybe something will come
of it?

Seeds scatter on the hard packed earth,
candlelight flickers, scanning each wall
and surface whether glistening with the grease
of warfare or patched with the rough burlap
of sturdy sack and trade.

Some beat their chests,
some cower by the bullocks.
Every shadow hewn and splayed.

Eurydice asks Ophelia,
"Should I translate this
under water or under earth?"

Ophelia turns to Hamlet,
"Am I not tender? Do I not wash over
the skin like holy water?"

Hamlet turns to Zeus,
"How much control do you really have?
Is every charge mundane or do you jump
at the sheer snap of every bolt?"

Zeus turns to Hera,
"Must we always choose
matriarch or patriarch?"

Hera turns to Eurydice,
"Always send the reader under earth.
If you stay on top there is nowhere to go.
Except down, of course."

On the other side of the room
Daphne tests, "We are revisionists."
wrapping her lips around every prodigious sound.
Unsatisfied with the taste of it,
she keeps clacking away on her trusty Ticonderoga.

"Did you know?" she asks Apollo,
"poet laureate comes from bay laurel
which was wreathed upon winners
each every Olympic games?"
Apollo isn't paying attention, nods, hums.
"No one remembers," Daphne laments,
"the origins of things
or the loss-side of battles."

A few minutes later Apollo falls asleep
under the boughs of a new laurel.
It's inevitable, this falling asleep...
a daily end we're all fated for.

“Why Did I Even Bother With You..?” by Chris Burns

jogged on the beach
the other day and saw
a bright beautiful reddish stone
from a glance: sun rays glazed through
turning the stone into amber.
strange how on my routine i came
across a rarity: my interest grows
immensely like the rising of the tide.
jog back, explore more, for maybe
there's just a chance that this
is what i've been yearning towards.
she's beautiful, this curved eccentric
piece of beer bottle.
a heavy sigh precedes my
tossing away the hopeful future
a shallow short shrug follows
after the splash ripples out.
now, continue the jog while
not giving it a second thought.

“The Evil One” by John Leal

In the early morning mist,the dark shadows of the night creep away.
The night winds calm as the burning star rises.
Sticks cracking, leaves rustling.
Run before the star surprise.
In the early morning mist,the shadows of the dark creep away.
The early morning winds calm as the star rises.
Silence.
Now it lays itself to sleep.
Pray before It's lord to keep.
In the early morning mist,the dark of the night creeps away.
It lies awaiting for the end of day.
The night creatures it sleeps with.
Guarding. Watching. Keeping.

Hang 'em high noon, waiting for new moon.
Lost his family to a grateful beast.
Angry, nothing to do but fill his belly with yeast.
Waiting for new moon, Hang 'em high noon.
Lonely, spending his time with a worthless feast.
Angry grief, grieving hate.
Waiting for new moon to bait.
Fill his belly with yeast, nothing to do but, anger.
Hang' em high moon, waiting for noon.
He sits and waits for the beast of gratefulness.
Hateful grief, grieving anger.
Silence.

The dark shadows creep among us.
The burning star falls to six.
Guarding, watching, keeping no more the night creatures it slept with.
Leaves rustling, sticks cracking, witches cackling.
The burning star fades to blood to black.
Howling at the four winds of hell.
Silence.
Hang 'em high moon, waiting for bait of a worthless feast.
Dead memories come to life.

Howling with the four winds of Hell.
Blood shot sky, in death we dwell.
Sharpened razors pierced milk white flesh.
Her face, ash white pale.
Gift of life made, again, refreshed.
Moon lit eyes filled with goodbyes.
Her heart, so frail, her hands seize to shake.
Her lifeless eyes just staring.
The infernal slaughter she'd seen, no one would dream.
Filled with lies turned into cries.
She wept tears of heaven's blood.
Night cords humming, Death's heartbeat drumming.

Her body soon to be buried into a darkened cell.
Eyes watched her fall to six.
Who would know she would end like this.
Can't explain this feeling of Hell.

It came and went with the four winds.
That night it came with Death's wings.
To pierce her flesh and life to bring.

Her family can't see why.
With her eyes they cry.
Can't explain this feeling of death.
They wish they could bring her breath.
"In death we dwell" it whispers in a distance.

Lifefull memories die.
Leaves rustling. Silence.
Sticks cracking. Silence.
The dark shadows vanish.
Gray puffs of smoke hide the blood red moon.
A fire flash. Darkness.
Howling for the four winds of hell.
Two minus one equals one.

In the early morning mist,the dark shadows of the night creep away.
The night winds calm as the burning star rises.
In the early morning mist,the shadows of the dark creep away.
The early morning winds calm as the star rises.
Hang 'em high noon, waiting for new moon.
Lost his family to a grateful beast.
Silence.