Daily Archives: November 6, 2013

“Sadness” by Ilya V. Bubnov

The house stands bare and empty,

And sadness smoothly flows;

The changes in life accepting,

I whisper, ‘So it goes…’


Un-curtained panes are crying

Under the autumn rain;

The things that pass in flying

No one will then regain.


Wind-whirled leaves are spinning

In streets without a name;

It’s moving on to evening

That’ll never be the same.


The wings of night will cover

The streets and yards and ground,

And bonfire light will hover

In darkness all around;


The heartbeat keeps on streaming,

Entrapped between the days;

An endless bridge is gleaming,

Connecting our fates;


The house stands bare and empty,

And sadness wearily flows.

Another day expended.

The sleep comes. So it goes.

“FEAST” by Chad Curtis Rose

Reclusive between fields and horses

drenched of rain

whiskey and grain

his rolling logic

is lost on slow visits

green death

Plow blades furrow the Earth

into miry, shallow graves

Fasting for days from interaction

The townspeople shun

the mysterious man on the knoll

imbalanced inside with his own chemistry

His seclusion becomes tavern fodder

Curious crimson red faces

hover above rock glasses

slurring through gin and rye eyes

Brooding patrons in a drunken plot

to visit him with lowered inhibitions

oblivious that a strangers knock

on his November door

and a word shared

Give that man a conversation

and he will dine like the kings…

“Horns In the Valley” by Zach Fechter

There are horns in the valley,

Jazz tumbling over the edge

Like ice water,

Clean voices echoing in the trees,

An age of light and sun, endless,

And whose soft face is there?


Here is a man

Alone in the mist,

Beating the drum of solitude,

And I wish to join him.


Here is old and wrecked rubble,

Scattered remains of a

Long dead poem,

The valley’s grass having

Swallowed it up long ago

As children now climb and stub their toes

On the retired colossus.


Now, opening upward the gaze

Of men upon fields

(Meaning youth),

Wishing for remembrance,

Erecting statues to remind masses

Of the eternal crying out:

To remain young!


And through the tears

A blurry vision:

Humanity in her struggle

Limping across blank verse

To open our eyes

And cry upon the valley…

“A Clear Eye for the Watercolor Sky” by Heidi Bellile

Today I will paint the sky for you,

Watercolors merging together.

The dawn will rise to meet your clear eyes

Painter’s pallet invents new colors.

The start and end of the blues, the reds,

Those primes fused together forever.

I’ve invented this blend for your dreams.

When you wake and open your bright eyes

You will see your own original

Love commissioned watercolor sky.

“Ain’t We Able to Do Anything” by Shailendra Chauhan

My daughter
wishes to become
sometimes P T Usha

Towards sports her attraction
is simply positive
When live commentaries of sports
are telecast
she would be sitting
throughout the play
before TV

Impressed with her school teachers
she becomes teacher while playing
would write questions on blackboard
seeking answers

While playing with her sister
she acts to become
doctor or engineer
kindled with her desire
to become somebody
is quite good

But, since a few days
she has stopped
talking ambitious ideas

Scared is she
listening the news
everyday about
killings and deaths

She asks now
Why so many people die
Who are the killers
From where is got
the ammunitions

What’s the role of Police and Army
and the Ministers
Ain’t we able
to do anything?

“Winter Fun” by Robert O. Adair

Thirty below zero,

a sunny day in St. Paul!

When school let out

we didn’t rush home,

we played in the snow!

Children with rosy cheeks,

wet gloves from throwing snowballs,

pulling a sled with red runners

and wooden boards

over the thick blanket of snow

to the top of the hill!

Fur lined parkas and leggings,

handy for lying on the ground

to make snow angels.

Our eight foot toboggan for

use on Randolph Hill,

building snowmen.

The crisp cold air,

not making us shiver,

but numbing our bodies.

When you couldn’t feel anything

halfway down your thigh,

it was time to go in.

Hot Chocolate

before a roaring fire!

Ah! Those were happy times!

“Soulmate” by Chad Curtis Rose

Her hands soothe the slippery colonies of my heart muscle

massaging velvety liquid life past the gatekeepers pain

my mind’s daemonic dragons lay slain in her petite wake

even amidst her very arduous life

she shrugs the challenges off of her collarbones

with a spring in her step and a twinkle in her eyes

the depth of her resilience is abysmal

halos visibly challenge each other

vying for space above her beautiful mind

I can taste her selfless breath when she speaks

the words are sweet

and glisten like the seventh stone

solitaire diamonds embroider her aura

her presence competes for my breath

night after night I’m rendered speechless

by her allure and

unparalleled powers of love and healing

she stands guard in the watchtowers

above my beating heart

eternal day

infinite night

she waits vigilantly patient

to slay my next foe

as I lay still

and sleep a peaceful sleep…

“Strains the Rope” by Diane Webster

The pickup’s camper shell strains the rope

tied across it from fender to fender

to hold the bulging contents to the bed.

Newspapers threaten to spread pages

like giant phoenix wings emerging

from egg shell flung aside.

The front seat packed for the driver only

in form-fitting newspapers, fast-food cups and napkins

lets the old man owner escape beside

the grove of newspaper stands

carefully checking his pockets

of tissues, napkins, store receipts

for metal quarters, dimes, nickels.

The urge to throw litter beside the truck

to see him snatch it like a pack rat

with a prize scurrying to his nest

overwhelms me enough to check my pockets.

“Chapters” by Kim Davis

Chapter One

I came into the sun

an empty canvas to fill

the foundation was laid

I was painted with love

and it’s love that colors me still


Chapter Two

my knowledge grew

I learned the meaning of pain

shadows appeared of trials and fear

they blur and blend in the rain


Chapter Three

I learned about me

splashes of color arise

rich and vibrant

bright and bold

the night must end

the sun will rise


Chapter Four

I opened new doors

to see the details beyond

I couldn’t know if I’d chosen the best

but I’ve chosen my path

and I won’t abscond


Chapter Five

it’s good to be alive

brilliant highlights emerge

the birth of my son

miraculous one

all of my paths converge.

“Damaged Souls” by Zach Fechter

It is me,

And it traveled hundreds of

Miles to get here,

And here I stand,

Alone on an endless parking lot,

Vast and flat and hot,

Piles of mortar and trash,

The dust flat upon the harsh blackened crust,

Laid dead by the rolling heat.


There are shimmering dancers in the distance

And beads forming on my brow,

Cement trees rising up,

A concrete parting of the Red Sea,

A distant horizon,

A wasteland of brick and stone and glass,

A hot city;

There is no heart here,

There is no love song here.


A radio lies broken

Next to a pile of stone,

Like the kind from modern Athens,

And I hear it

Coughing up the last words of man:

“Oh sweet damaged souls,

Sweet damaged souls,

Hold hands and cry tonight

So that we may finally have some rain…”

“Photographs” by Christopher Pine

I did not know what was written in the leather-bound notebook I found in the park just next to the old orphanage. I didn’t know about the photos taped inside, or the entries inside. Had I known, would it have stopped me looking inside the tome? Would it have expedited my intention to turn it into a lost and found somewhere? No, I don’t think so. Once I’ve set my mind to investigate something, I’m rarely able to stop.


Entry #1

I’ve secured the position of groundskeeper at Lonely Home Orphanage. I’m using the name Garon Jackobs for this job. The paper doesn’t understand why I wanted to do this job, why this place. My gut tells me something’s odd about this place though. I can’t place it, but just looking at the building… It seems off, there’s a haze around it, like it’s not quite all there.


This entry had been accompanied by a Polaroid photograph of the orphanage. I turned to look up at the place. With it’s high towers and jagged walls that made it look like it was some defensible building out of an old horror movie. The picture had looked a bit blurry, but the building had never given me any kind of particular feeling about it. Did it look blurry?


Entry #2

I mow the grass and trim hedges and trees, job stuff. Nothing big yet, but I’ve been provided a shack on grounds to sleep in, so when something does happen, I’ll spot it.  Seems the children are usually outside playing while the sun is out. I met a girl about 7 years old by the name of Suzy who insists on calling me Mousier Garon. Cute kid, I hope that my gut feeling doesn’t mean something’s being done to her.


The book had a pattern it seemed. Left page photograph, right page entry. The second photo was of a young girl. She had bright blue eyes and wore her raven hair in what started as a ponytail and ended in a sort of braid. A deep red dress was draped over her small features. Presumably this was Suzy smiling vibrantly out of the photo at me. I think I’d seen her through the gate once or twice when passing the eerie place. The kids playing never really dampen the effect much.


Entry #3

Suzy brought me lunch today, a roast beef sandwich and cherry pie. She’s such a sweet little girl, always smiling and laughing. Always wearing the same dress though, or what seems to be the same dress. I should try and look into that, the kids should be being provided enough clothing. I’ll make another entry when something interesting happens.


Another photograph of Suzy, this time grinning up at the camera holding a plate of food. There where eight small squares of sandwich, filled with folds of beef and a light sauce, each topped with a leaf of parsley and held together with toothpicks of various colors. Filling the rest of the plate was a perfect slice of pie absolutely filled with red cherries. They looked just soft enough you could cut straight through without disturbing any other cherries. Nothing on the plate was less then four inches tall.


I found my mouth watering just looking at the plate. Could that little corner café still be open? No, it was close to two in the morning, nothing was open. I turned my attention back to the notebook, turning the page as I placed myself on a swing.


Entry #4

Here it is, the big thing I’ve been waiting for, nothing all week until Saturday, now. Suzy was giving me my lunch as she has been, when a tone sounded from the building, like a microwave had gone off or something, and she dropped the plate in my hands and turned to head inside. All the children just stopped what they were doing, and went inside… It occurs to me I’ve never actually been inside the building. Strange, I’ll investigate tonight.


An image of Suzy leaving with all the other children heading inside is the occupant of the left page. Dozens of toys lay scattered across the grass. Toy cars up-ended, block towers unfinished, dolls abandoned. They have actually, almost literally, dropped everything to leave. Suzy’s in the middle of the picture, her ponytail braid stilled in a wave. I shivered. I could actually see a few toys sprawled out in the orphanage yard. It was an eerie comparison.


Entry #5

This was a terrible mistake.

I don’t know where the children have gone, but this is not what I’d call an orphanage. the halls are lined with candles, and the walls have strange markings on them now and then. Lots of circles with odd writing. This could be worth the front page… but at what cost? I’ll venture further, I should at least find the kids.


A dark photograph of the corridor. He wasn’t joking when he said lined with candles. There must have been hundreds of them. Weird runes and markings were carved into the stone walls, some of them even seem to be just claw marks. Which seems a good guess, as I remember my heart skipping as I had noticed a clawed hand gripping a corner around the wall in the photo. I stood and started pacing down the jogging path, notebook firmly in hand. I figured it was about time I started back on my way, and it didn’t hurt I was putting distance between myself and that crypt of a building.


Entry #6

What were those things?! Those horrible, horrible things…

I need to leave, I can’t stay here any longer, my arm is bleeding where one of them gashed me, I need to get help.

I keep hearing Suzy in my head… “Mousier Garon!..” I wish I didn’t have to leave her with those things… but I can’t fight them, what can I do? I’ll just have to come back with help. Wait, I see her, she’s standing by the gate, we can both leave.


There was a break in the pattern here, two entries with one photo. The first entry seemed to only have barely been finished. A stroke of ink seemed to dictate a period, and little red droplets spattered the page. I tried not to think about it too much.


The picture for this one was of Suzy standing next to the gate, her back to the photographer, Garon. Still in the same red dress, immaculately clean. Standing there just off the path that went through the gate. She was holding something white in her hand.


Wait… was that today’s date?


I turned the page once more, heart beating a hole through my chest.


“Ah, I see you’ve found my notebook.”


I jumped at the voice, as I almost ran into the figure standing in the middle of the path. There in the moonlight stood a man in a trench coat, holding a cane and wearing a hat that cast farther shadow over his eyes. He stretched out his hand as I stared at him. “Thank you so much, I really did need that back.”


I struggled to take in breath, and just stood there in shock as the man reached towards me and lifted the journal from my hands. Faintly, I could hear rustling around the playground. I could swear I heard a faint “Mousier Garon” off to my left. But I couldn’t make myself react to that right now, I couldn’t stop staring at the man’s eyes.


He had the same eyes from the last photograph.


The last photograph that showed Suzy, in her red dress that was incredibly clean, and with her hair in the ponytail braid. That showed her turning to stare at Mousier Garon with glowing, yellow, slitted eyes, and smiling with sharp pointed teeth forming a grin, holding that strange white mask up next to her face teasingly.


I finally forced myself to move, breaking into a run past the creature in front me. I don’t remember him trying to stop me, but my shirt bares a torn sleeve that says otherwise. I still haven’t been able to get the picture out of my head. The picture was accompanied by the seventh entry, scrawled in ragged letters.