Daily Archives: August 14, 2011


“The Present Is Not Always a Gift” by Sofia Vaz Gomes

Roller Skates for Sale-Size 3 in Children's
She eagerly shredded the paper
She ripped the top off and marveled at their presence
Eyes widened with joy
Heart beat fast with excitement
Sandals ripped instantly from her feet
Immediately criss-crossed the laces
But tied only once

Skates placed in the box
Like a body placed in a casket
Authentic, simple and genuine

Kept in the same spot on the floor
Just the way they were left
Frozen by the memory of the fatal accident
That took her life away
Reminder of the violence and keeper of the silence
Shining white
Untarnished laces
Wheels polished and outer part unscratched
Original packaging included, plastic still inside
Roller Skates for Sale-Brand New

“Whale Migration” by Lauren Reynolds

A sick woman,
she always wanted
to go on that cruise
to Alaska to see the whale
migration.
She would go alone,
she swore.
She wouldn't take
her daughter,
her only daughter,
whom the grandeur of such
an experience was sure to be
lost on.

The whales invite her,
‒without words
they say something to her
in echoes.
The shoals of fish
glassing the water,
glitter in her
wind-up mind.

She is a product
of her time,
the whales will say.
They'll shake their heads
and watch her drink
her box of wine.

Closing her eyes,
she sends their words
into the deep.
She is broken, partly.
Disease has curled her up.
She will wilt
into her own
cigarette smoke.
She will crackle up
like a leaf
on fire.
Their sex is dazzling.
It swirls in underwater
spells. Magicians
of the sea.
As two ex-husbands would attest,
no sex of hers
ever healed
like the sound
of a whale's longing
which, is real
because it is not filtered
through fast-food dinners,
through cars, the pretty linen
frames of clothes,
alimony checks, or boats.
Boats that take you,
wholly,
to these places,
places we want
to become.

“Enough of This” by Brian Lawson

I can never douse this fire
burning high
until it singes my only sky.

the little witches
and black magic,
arrogant bitches
cause friction and static

and my blood can't take it

no longer can I fake it.

the nerve pinches,
my shadow has a heart attack;

return again, leave, and never come back.

“Old Deer, Old Hunter” by Brian Lawson

An old deer chews his last cud
in the morning as a hunter dresses,
puts on his long-johns, boots, and coveralls
and prepares his body for the cold winter morn
by warming his insides with hot coffee.

An old deer chews his last cud
in the morning as a hunter loads his shotgun,
pops three shells into the chamber
and readies his weapon for death.

An old hunter loads his last gun
in the morning as a deer grazes,
eats farmers' crops, and shuffles its ears
at early birds fluttering in the trees.

An old hunter loads his last gun
in the morning as a deer sleeps,
dozes in the thicket, and dreams of the day
the hunter will leave him be.

“What It Isn’t” by Carol Causin

It isn't in a timely matter, or like a crescent moon,
Soft and silky, you can't hide.
Into the dark of night,
Or anywhere.

Wisped away, and sitting on the end,
Of my finger tips.
Each one has a home,
Or does it?

It isn't fashionably late, or like a harvest moon,
Orange and transparent from afar.
I can't hold it in the palm of my hand.
Or can I?

“The Bridge” by Carol Causin

Standing on the bridge,
On a cold and snowy night.
Looking down below,
Remembering the angry fight.

The water cold and dark,
Like the emptiness in my soul.
The ones I leave behind,
Is it my time to go?

The bruises on my neck,
My heart is filled with pain.
The scratches on my arms,
I love you just the same.

I lift my foot upon the rung,
My hands upon the rail.
I cradle the feelings in my mind,
My body feeling so frail.

My voice cries out so sadly,
As I look below.
My son, my son, how could you?
I gave birth to you,
Fifteen years ago.

I turn around and take a look,
Before I say goodbye.
And there you stand before me.
A tear drop in your eye.

Your hands come out to hold me,
To take me off the ledge,
But before I have time to think,
You push me over the edge.

I grab the rail as I start to fall,
My heart begins to pound.
A shot rings out in the night.
I see you drop to the ground.

Your body cold and lifeless,
As people try and see,
I won't hold on any longer,
There is nothing left for me.

“Analytic in Love” by Amy Hikel

Can I strip you naked before me
without you being frightened?
Can I bruise the surface
of the disease that lay within?
Can I tell you what I see,
and still have you look me in the eye?
Can I lay, on the table, my reality?
Will you still trust in my love?
Never do I aim to break the link of love.
The connection is essence and in it lay life.
I will do anything to maintain
the essence of life.
How could you cut the cord?

“My Wish For You” by Lori Ulrich

to see
the book you have written yourself into
stories of life,
choices made,
loves, loss
no regrets for the ones that do not work out
better to live, some say,
than dream
faraway places hold adventure treasures,
find a book that suits you, with lots of pages,
blank, waiting to hold your story
write with pens of different colors, gels and glitter,
soft shades for the passions
you dive into,
get half way in and retreat
write about your lovers, those who stay awhile
and those you wave goodbye to more quickly,
thank them for the good times as you leave,
down a new path, new direction
carefree, just knowing you desire change
gypsy hearts wander,
pack stories into a well worn journal
leave me wishing
it were my life
pens of color trailing down my book pages

“A Postcard to Summer” by Brian Lawson

I'll send the summer a postcard now:

"Greetings from Winter," it'll say.
"I hope you're enjoying your heat,
your houseflies, your poison ivy
and days like novels. You can keep
the swimming pools and beaches
all to yourself; I'm happy here in the new chill,
basking in hoodies and
football and
cozy nights in my bed.
I'm a long way from you now,
but I'll be back when you come back,
it's inevitable. So take your time,
stay to the west,
I'll take a stroll
with the man of the frost."

“Writer’s Block” by Emily Norton

I'll sit and think
Just think
And when every inch of my brain aches and trembles,
I'll run
When I run I'll think
I'll think about the past
Memories, family times, triumphs, tragedies, good times, obstacles
I'll think about my future,
College, graduation, careers
And when every inch of my body aches and trembles,
I'll take a shower
When I shower I'll think
I'll think about the present
Today, in one hour, homework, in two hours, tonight
When the hot water causes every part of my face to ache and tremble,
I'll talk
I'll talk to my mom, my dad, my sister
I'll text my friends
I'll make a phone call
I'll talk about my future
College, graduation, careers
And when my mouth aches and trembles,
I'll write
I'll write about the past
Memories, family times, triumphs, tragedies, good times, obstacles
I'll write about the present
Today, in one hour, homework, in two hours, tonight
I'll write about my future
College, graduation, careers

“Young Writer” by Alicia Lowden

Dew drop
Morning light
Touches the dark skies,
Sweeping across the land.

Faintly, it reveals
Hidden dew drops
Nestled in their beds of grass,
Reflecting the light
Like fiery stars.

Children of the morning,
Unmoving in body,
Dancing in spirit
Fade away,
Dead in the eyes of the sun.

Born in night's womb,
Disappearing
To the touch of warmth.

“Capitulation” by Jesse H. McKnight

Sooner or later
Circumstance requires
The Presence of
The missing gene
Preventing the perfectly good man
From joining the perfectly good world.

How can bottomless depth
Be made to appear shallow,
The cresting wave
To conform to the level plane?
How can the ineffable
And endlessly attenuated
Be made to appear precise,
To conform to the tight,
Delimiting measure?

That which was not made for the box
Will die in the box.

“Ice” by Don Colgan

She gleamed with cunning, seeing such a chance.
He spotted her. His blood congealed to glass.
Her brittle features turned a sort of dance.
He statuesquely let her glory pass.

She could not catch him in her waltzing net;
He shook his head to render null her glance.
He stands, a monument to waiting-yet,
His frozen soul impervious to dance.

"The game is up, my earnest, you cannot,
You cannot teach an icy rail to dance."
He drips into her shadow, lot by lot,
Escaping such a thin, indicted chance.

“Desert Highway by Night– On Passing a Crushed Tortoise” by Don Colgan

Sometimes, when the leaves have peeled away
On autumn wind, leaving only evergreens,
I tear my gaze from the sun and
Move under shelter for winter.

I tack up my favorite flotsam,
Hold the chill at bay. In my box,
I make way relentlessly toward
Some sort of renewal.

Like a desert tortoise
I make way toward the other side.
It lies across the road. I can be
There by spring if no trucks come.

One might. I've heard they run all night.

“Godless Speaks” by Don Colgan

Who is not a failure to the race?
No matter the fertility of
Your gainful occupation
You powder in the breeze.

Poems worthless as unmined salt,
Books unbent;
Monuments to irrelevance.

Even at your finest
You disappoint.

Poetry sags like elder faces
Trying to be dignified.
Who is not a failure?

But then, who is?

“End of Dream” by Don Colgan

At the precise moment
When every song
Wails a mindless drone,
When poetry breaks
Into atoms of
Meaninglessness,

When every game
Ever played,
Every gambled bet,
Every lie exposed,
Melts like chocolate
Inside a car in August--

At this instant
All fortune
Misfortune
Cosmic dreamlessness
And the color black

Sleep on the head of a pin,
And the mystery of life
Is solved.

“Suicide” by Betti Bernardi

Where rests the soul
of torment's birth
that struggles through
tangled, thistled rigidity?

Where hides the solace
comfort's arms and
mighty peace sought
with silent, screeching plea?

Where travels the mind
of tranquil bent,
turned tumultuous within,
seeming serenity without?

Where resides the justice
that would prevail
when worldly strife begs
demands perceived too dear?

Where goes vitality
when lethargy provokes,
lending false observations--
credence over reason?

Where lie the answers
to searing questions
that fire the imaginations
of those left bereft?

Where found the sweetness
life delivers, given
hope to light the way for the
Blazing fire survival seeks?