Daily Archives: August 14, 2011

“Turns of Life” by Richard Durschlag

Someone was trying to tell me
It's not easy to see or hear
We think we have to be strong
To take everything on alone

Or we worry what people will think
Even those we should know
Will be there no matter what
Who really matter

Life takes us to strange places
Not where we expect
Easy to wonder how
Things end up as they do

Did we somehow go wrong
Even for all the right reasons
Or is it moving to the right place
Without our understanding

Easy to forget
That we have hope
That we can have faith
That we have friends

That we are not alone
And were never meant to be
And that is the strength
We only have to let ourselves see

“Grandfathers” by Richard Durschlag

What does it matter
That mine workers die
Explosions rock the ground
Communities wrecked

Mountains striped of life
Water poisoned
Lungs left black
Bodies worn out

They are only workers
Insignificant people
Cannon fodder
Cogs in the machine

Offerings to the almighty dollar
Corporations rule
Greed stands supreme
Safety forgotten for black gold

An immigrant from afar
After the war to end all wars
Held a passion for the land
And a need to find a job

He carried heavy beams
Deep inside the earth
Suddenly buried underground
I was almost never born

What does it matter
Energy before all
Community life lost
Smoke and profits fill the air

They are only workers
Only means to riches
Only the heart of our families
Only my grandfathers

“First Caving Trip” by Richard Durschlag

Descending down,
it's just a hole
Afraid of heights,
trusting my friend

Vastness unknown
Darkness total,
With lights extinguished

Tight paths
Bending down, squeezing through
Space for my thoughts

Water rushing
Carving its art
Eye-catching beauty
Majesty in stone

Moisture dripping
Eras of history pass
Stone reaching out and up

Over the years
Without a sound
Nature gifting
A masterpiece unsurpassed

“Lovers’ Darkness” by Trevor Austin

The dark surround
The moonlights glow
A midnight kiss
As true love shows

I lay awake
With thoughts of you
Of the great, fun things
We always do

Of our happy sights
But thoughts are fleeting
Until I remember
Our very first meeting

The times were sweet
The problems small
But happy friendship
Conquered all

But one mistake
A slip of the tongue
Made me amount
To a pile of dung

As I attempt
To state my love
Like the last cooing
Of an injured dove

It was my mistake
To cross the line
And beg for the love
Of a woman so fine

Her soft blond hair
Her sweet, light voice
I was far too weak
I had no choice

I begged and pleaded
But had little chance
The girl was determined
That we share no romance

She feared for the end
Of a friendship so great
And she dreaded an end
Leaving us full of hate

So I gave up the chase
And settled in for the night
Giving up the battle
Without even a fight

But the girl in her greatness
Still stands by my side
Our friendship continues
And there she's happy
To reside

“Black Pelican” by Aschatria

Lovely nightly lake
So alike you
Standing out there
Thinking about gallows
So stormy inside
So quiet like a catchword
In the back of your head
Hard to balk the idea
To try them on

You don't want to know
You are the one escaping
One ignoring

And glades like pelican
Black above water so free
And so heavy
When land and
Remember of her

You don't want to see
Her falling by mistake
In between two words
Stop and sorry

So you withal the thrill
When land and feel
There is nothing left of you
But the big black wings

“Intoxication Defined” by Benjamin Nardolilli

Blood alcohol is for the chemists,
Officers of the law and their captured prey,
It is not a number that makes you drunk.

Clumsiness, slurred speech, the loss of inhibitions,
These are only possible symptoms of the stage,
Love too, causes similar accidents.

A hangover in the morning
Is evidence you were once drunk,
But it can only name a state after its passing.

Drunk is hitting the nighttime air
And drowning in directions,
Looking down every street for familiar rooms.

Drunk is spinning without a center,
Without an edge or horizon to head to,
It is not knowing where home is.

But if another takes you with a smooth hand
Down the twisting roads to a bed,
They will have brought you a new home,

And then you no longer drunk, but lucky.

“Premature Elegiac Melodies” by Benjamin Nardolilli

Charcoal on the wall of a cave,
Lace in a baron’s semi-feudal court,
Ancestor distractions of the race.

We have always taken to analysis
But only as an indulgence,
Thought as a delicacy not savored.

Now there are the adventures
Saved and restarted again,
The hope for sequel lives to live.

No distraction is essential
But the screen from thinking
About the universe’s undressing.

We survive and endure thoughtless,
Moments of self-awareness
Manufacture islands of discontent.

They correct our vision too much,
Brining clarity to see the end,
We prefer nearsighted wanderings.

Thoughts of death, if they happen,
Are turned from foreboding precipice
To just another friendly paradigm

Contentment and completism:
Ideologies and religious holding
Us together through our history.

We vested contemplation to power,
To men in monasteries
And those with heirloom thrones.

They too broke from pure thoughts
And had banquets and decadences,
The distractions the powerful afford.

Today we elect our own to a class
We hope finds a distraction
In surviving into the next cycle.

These sideshows can work as long
As someone is doing the business
Of thinking squarely about death.

Friends, my shift has been running
And I have been doing overtime,
But I can’t do it for us forever.

Call up another to take my place,
I want out of all seriousness,
For when we are all not thinking
We will then all surely die.

“Edges Ready to Line Up” by Benjamin Nardolilli

The irregular margins of damage
Completely unpredictable,
A heavy object falling into my arms,
Between my legs, resting,
Then rolling out of bed and falling
Again and away from my room,
Out of my life and pulling memory
Until it split me down a rough middle,
Every underlying structure
Of the old life and its world shattered,
The future nothing but irregular margins.

“Miss Fortune” by Christian Bugal

Your head rests now
on an arm of unrestraint
asleep and dreaming wild
with a smile
warmed by starlight.

Cool, crisp evening
I shuffle through fallen leaves
crunching, crackling
underneath the weight.

Pulling my jacket tight
the wind blows to me
a sad recollection
last year, this night.

Lives exchanged
you feel integrated
potential unleashed
united, consecrated.

Full-moon eclipse
overlapping- soon to pass out of sight
reluctant goodbye
Miss Fortune, my light.

“Castle” by Alan Hogan

I think that I would rather like
To live in a castle
Walking to the downstairs library
Selecting one book among the hundreds
Sitting down by a finely crafted ornamental window
Occasionally gazing out at the perfectly manicured gardens

Or donning a sweater on a cold and snowy day
Relaxing on a regally red sofa
By a towering stone fireplace
The wood cracking and popping
While I sip the finest brandy
From my crystal goblet

Perhaps instead losing myself the entire day
In a few of the many rooms
And not seeing anyone at all
Until dinner was served
On the elongated mahogany table with elegant linen
At precisely six p.m.

“Where is OBL??” by Peter Thompson

the man is the shadows inside airport pubs-
next to the drunken saleswoman
whose lipstick butchers cocktail glasses.

he is that filament in video game machines-
that young slave laborers in the Congo
waist deep have to extract out of the mud with pickaxes.

he is something found in a televangelist's office-
like a picture,cross, or reflection
of ignorant words coming from a confusing, pulp novel.

the man is a cartoon-
something to throw popcorn at in the theatre; a hateful thing-
to make us feel better, closer- and more importantly

to drop a piece of paper in the ballot box
with the right person's name on it on a specific day.

*Our Boy in League, or a.k.a Osama Bin Laden

“Shattered Peace” by Kay Bjordammen

I have been at peace with my life all day
Then something happened to take it away.
It starts very slowly and I try to ignore it
Much to my dismay I have to admit
It is there in my body, and won't go away
Unfortunately the same as any other day.
I just want to sit and peacefully sew
But it's taking me over, that much I know.

Listening to music and doing my sewing
The feelings deep inside me are growing.
"Be strong, don't let it take control",
I try to fight it with all my soul.
My fingers won't go where I want them to.
"Don't let it get the better of you".
My peace was shattered again today
By the shaking disease that takes it away.

Please don't feel sorry for me
"Que sera sera" What will be will be.
This is the cross I was given to bear
Though I have given many a silent prayer
I can still carry on with many a task
But occasionally , still, I have to ask
"Why was my peace shattered today
When I was just sitting, doing OK."

I feel like a pianist without his hands
My body won't do what I demand
Just like a singer without a voice
I have to give in to it, I have no choice.
Like an artist without his paint
Stop what I'm doing without complaint,
Like the marathon runner who gets cramp
Have to give in now, not todays' champ.

I know this will happen every day
But each time it happens I feel the same way.
I'm not sitting here feeling sorry for myself
One again my sewing gets put on the shelf,
I'll find something else to occupy me
Without this inside me, how would my life be?
Surely I'm not complaining if I simply say
"My peace was shattered again today".