One Day

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Contributor: Michael Plesset

- -
Is it two dimensional to feel
that time has slowed today
that sun and moon have lost
their life long practiced way.

Graceful clouds have come to stay
attracted by the empty sky
or by sheer happiness

Because there is no war today
and every creature’s fed.

But only for one day.

For panic seizes everywhere
and measurements are made
it was an error, quickly fixed
and all is back in place.

Tomorrow, all is as it was, except
that we remember,
there was one time
such a day.


- - -
Michael Plesset has published numerous pieces of poetry, short fiction, and non-fiction, and has written material for a stand-up comedian. He did graduate work in mathematics and philosophy, worked in high technology and teaches English to Chinese students.

Autobiography Revision

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Contributor: Jennifer J. Pruiett-Selby

- -
Unraveling the shroud of mistakes
to reveal the canvas, an innocent skin
fresh and free from scars, the burns
from the fire of choices made
tracing now the thread back
to so many times, so much kindling laid
years of broken arrows, missed
targets, until the smoke nearly suffocated

Watching from the mirror this tapestry,
though eyes weaken and sight fails
air now clear, fire dissipated: Lifting
the needle, I begin to repair the tears
Mending first the seams, then weave
again this tattered life, charred and worn
working by the taper’s careful light,
until the piece has been reconstructed

This shroud now shows an illustration,
illuminated colors with true tones
and brilliant hues, depicting another
life, unmarred and ameliorated
the forsaken child now cherished,
adored in the soft arms of a mother
and a father to guide her through
a new life, and shield her from harm


- - -
Jennifer J. Pruiett-Selby is a teacher and mother of four, with a Master’s degree in English from Iowa State University. Jennifer currently lives in very rural Iowa where her column {just a word} appears in the local newspaper. Her work has been published in Red River Review, Matter Monthly and Four and Twenty.

My Clearest Day

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Contributor: Jason Sturner

- -
I went to question the angels
about their reason for tearing her heart from me
but the clouds, they closed their doors
and even the sun looked away—
that was my saddest day.

I pleaded with devils and gods
to obtain some solace in their reason
but they spoke thunder through storms
and left me drenched in rain—
that was my darkest day.

So I traveled across land and time
to find a wise man who knew the nature of love
but the sands of earth became giant pits
and I could not reach him—
that was my most frustrating day.

Then, I decided to look within myself
so that maybe there I'd find a better man
but I had grown so tired that it no longer mattered
and the idea drifted off on a forgotten dream—
that was my clearest day.


- - -
Jason Sturner was born in Harvey, Illinois, and raised in the western suburbs of Chicago. He has published three books of poetry: Kairos, 10 Love Poems, and Selected Poems 2004-2007 (all available as free downloads; see website). He resides in Wheaton, Illinois and works as a botanist at the Morton Arboretum in Lisle. Website: www.jasonsturner.blogspot.com

Dreams Beneath the Boab Tree

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Contributor: Matt Norman

- -
Everything happens
in the dark-
you cookie-cut open
my skull and reached in
up to your elbow,
left a dream there of
me telling you what your eye looks like
under the moon and close to mine;
all black and in the middle,
a cookie with the texture
of bark from the tree of light,
like a card they might give you
at the store for astral wallpaper, telling you
this is what it will look like in your home,
above your tranquil sleep,
plastered around the inside
of your mind beneath the
stately boab all aglow in the
peace of the storm


- - -

Grandparents in a Zeppelin

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Contributor: Donal Mahoney

- -
We retired on the same day,
several years ago, my wife and I.
We sat around the house
drinking espresso coffee
and playing canasta till
my wife began to grouse.

We sold the house, bought an RV
and drove around the country
visiting, one by one, our five kids,
all married and in different states.
Were our grandkids doing well?
Were they getting the best?

After we had spent a few weeks
in their driveways in our RV,
the kids would politely suggest
maybe we should go back home.
Trouble is, we'd sold our house.
All we had was the RV.

Again my wife began to grouse
and so we sold the RV
and bought a zeppelin.
Now we float from state to state
over the driveways of our kids
and watch our grandkids

dashing home from school
wearing backpacks like the soldiers
landing on the beach in World War II.
The little darlings are geniuses,
I tell you, light years smarter than
our brilliant kids.


- - -
Donal Mahoney lives in St. Louis, Missouri.

Richest Red

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Contributor: Ben Riddle

- -
A glimmer of sunlight catches
On a sliver of moisture nestled
Within the inner crown of a rose;

The reflection as radiant as the dawn
Of a rekindled hope, stolen from ash
And breathed into new life.

Reborn like the phoenix, the light
And replanted rose glow as if
To celebrate the joys of existing;

Stolen from the gods by Prometheus
In the form of poetic inspiration,
Natural altruism and hope.

Redefining the sublime, I’m left to ponder;
Perhaps there is a little Prometheus in all of us?


- - -
A nineteen year old aspiring Australian writer, studying English and Politics at the University of Western Australia.

Words

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Contributor: John A Miller

- -
Why do I sit here and write down words that rhyme.
Some would think I’m foolish and it’s unused time.
For these words have meaning to me and no one will care.
Our lives have a purpose and existence can be unfair.
So I write these words for no one, but as proof to me.
One day you will realize or maybe you will see.
That words are more than verses and life takes its toll.
These are not just words; they’re part of my soul.


- - -
I Write fiction novels and short stories and like to dabble in poetry when the mood strikes me.

The End of the Questionable Affair

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Contributor: Rich Ives

- -
don’t hug the angry lover
until she’s done biting herself

when the guests are like family
let them act as they wish but remind them
they don’t have to be themselves

had an accident and now
I’m afraid to do anything on purpose

you’re never prepared for your own axe

don’t give your extra dollar to the broken man
or to the rich man but to the man with only one
he knows what it’s worth

the worst exile is not across the sea
but inside you where the government has no pardon

one side of the dust is on the other side

do exactly what they want and you’ll be fine
but they will go looking for surprises

do you think that after she’s finished doing nothing
there might still be enough left for you


- - -
Rich Ives is the 2009 winner of the Francis Locke Memorial Poetry Award from Bitter Oleander and the 2012 winner of the Creative Nonfiction Prize from Thin Air magazine. His book of days, Tunneling to the Moon, is currently being serialized with a work per day appearing for all of 2013 at http://silencedpress.com. Tunneling to the Moon and Light from a Small Brown Bird (poetry, Bitter Oleander Press) are both due out in paperback in 2014.

Heartbeats and Rhythms

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Contributor: Ron Koppelberger

- -
Natural, frequently concealed in secret by shy
Grins and flirting promenades of
Concern, the need for sentimental
Discourse and sustenance in heartbeats and rhythms
Of blushing birth, a love borne of
Necessary fruit and the shadows in
Coy dance.


- - -
I am aspiring to become established as a poet and a short story writer. I have written 96 books of poetry over the past several years and 16 novels: I have been submitting my work for the past year and am thrilled by acceptance. I am always looking for an audience. I have published 305 poems and 133 short stories in a variety of periodicals. I have been published in The Storyteller, Ceremony, Write On!!! (Poetry Magazette), Freshly Baked Fiction and Necrology Shorts. Also I recently won the People’s Choice Award for poetry In The Storyteller for a poem titled Secret Sash. I have been accepted in England, Australia and Thailand. I love to write and offer an experience to the reader. I am a member of The American Poet’s Society as well as The Isles Poetry Association. I hope you enjoy my work.

Haiku in Amsterdam

| Filed under

Contributor: Glenn Allan Lyvers

- -
Between the Boathouse and Anne
Frank’s, I read a favorite Haiku
over and again, until the words
have no meaning. I listen
to the sounds. I hear the poem
as though told by strangers,
and when I stop to think it
through, the Haiku, about birds
riding southern autumn winds,
is like sipping a dry familiar wine,
over and again, its insistent
finish lingering on the palate—
the way bells resonate long after
they are struck by the hammers of monks.

In the Van Gogh Museum, I whisper
the haiku to the Starry Night,
and the stars become birds pressed
into swirling winds, and I become
the face of the North Wind, blowing
with puckered lips. When I whisper
to Sunflowers, its seeds become blown-
birds slowly exploding into a paper-sky—
a smearing yellow-orange blur
suspended in the creamy air—oddly
possessing some intangible meaning
greater than the words themselves.

And long after I leave, Amsterdam,
the haiku will remain on the wind.
It will be twirled by working windmills.
It will be the unseen passenger on trains
passing through blooming tulips fields.
It will be remembered by the red-light-
district-whore I bedded. It will undulate
forever with her pale body. It will be eaten
by café diners, and scrolled on bathroom walls
by mindless travelers who believe
they thought of it first.

And when I return, someday, to Amsterdam,
I will draw it from the river. I will roll it around
in my chops. I will chew on it, like a perfect fig,
eaten over and again, until it is consecrated
on my tongue—until it transfigures, forever
dissolving like a wafer in my mouth,
something placed there by a poet-priest
—a man immortalized by a tiny haiku.


- - -
Glenn Lyvers is a poet and author living in Virginia Beach, VA. Lyvers is currently the editor of Poetry Quarterly and several lessor known journals.

Van Halen

| Filed under

Contributor: Tonya Moreno

- -
I picked you up since I invited you
New to Memphis and new to you
Formal with each other and a bit nervous
The Pyramid loomed large and mysterious
Against the skyline down by the river and nervous
I turned the wrong way down a one way
Meeting a bus head on and backing up quickly
We laughed and relaxed a little cheating death

I couldn’t help myself when they played
“Right Now” I stood up swaying and wanting
So badly to dance and sing along with the crowd
To lose myself in the music and just let go
But I looked at you still in your seat and
I was too self conscious and sat back down

I didn’t know until years later that you
Didn’t’ even know any of their songs
That day I asked in the teachers’ workroom
If anyone wanted to go with me to the concert
And you ran alongside my car as I was pulling out
Tapping on my window in the high school parking lot
Telling me you would go with me to the concert

I didn’t know then it would be my last first date.


- - -
A retired opera singer and volleyball player, I currently serve as an adjunct professor of English for East Tennessee State University and Northeast State Community College. My work has been published in Elle Magazine, Fiction Addiction, Black Mirro Magazine, and The Mockingbird.

Dawn

| Filed under

Contributor: Craig Bradley Owens

- -
I rise slowly
From the cozy womb
Of flannel sheets.

Swinging my bare legs
Over the side of the bed
I sit for a moment.

The weight of a new day
Pulsates just above my eyebrows.
I’m forced to stand.

The steaming droplets
from the shower
pound the night from my skin

and the early morning talk
from the radio
crafts flaccid emotions.

I press the towel,
Damp with humidity,
Against my reddened face.

I pause in front of the
Fog-shrouded mirror
Before I dress

And shuffle off to my car.


- - -
Craig Bradley Owens is an Asst. Prof. of English at Walters State Community College in Morristown, Tennessee. He has recently been published in the Deadmule School of Southern Literature and Black Mirror Magazine.

Strange Conversations

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Contributor: Mark Goodman

- -
It started out almost too subtle
to perceive, a lingering during
intimate discussions, the timing
of her departure was uncanny
to coincide with each conclusion.
But then, things escalated.
I've talked to her for years
in a high pitch, always knowing
it was unrequited. Last Thursday,
I asked if she wanted some milk
In her bowl and thought I saw
an imperceptible nod, and a
knowing, somewhere way back
in the recesses of her cone shaped
eyes.

And then, it was all routine, holding
up a dress before gong out and
looking for a nod or shake,
asking if what was playing on Pandora
was well received. Later, when I asked
how the world would end?
Nothing, just a cat sitting
by the door.


- - -
Mark Goodman especially likes the task at hand, which right now is parenting two wee boys. Mixed in there is the joyous compulsion to carpenter some phrases and float mountain lakes on watercraft.

My Father is Old

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Contributor: Heather Browne

- -
My father is old.
Blind.
A softened smile when I cross his linoleum speckled floor
to his bed.
Time to share.
I spoon him careful chunks of apple pie
as he talks of long ago.
Climbing trees high for the grandest view.
Looking off for tomorrow’s rain.
Vanilla ice cream dripping down his grizzily chin.
I gently wipe the memory away.
“Thank you girlie girl”, he chirps in his aged scratchy voice.

I look in his blinded eyes
clouded.
As blue as a summer sky.
My father is old.
He cannot see.
He cannot see me.


- - -
Heather Browne is a newly launched published poet. Residing in So. California with her husband of 20 years and her 2 amazing teen kids. She is a faith-based psychotherapist.

What Me Worry?

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Contributor: Donal Mahoney

- -
Why be anxious?
Why worry?

If you believe
one day you will die,
what else matters?

Whatever catastrophe
occurs in your life,
it's one of many
that may occur.

If you don't believe
you will die, that's
another matter.

But if you know
you will die,
one reason
to be anxious
is whether
there's a heaven,
a hell or nothing.

If you believe
there's a heaven
but no hell,
why be anxious?
You're home free.

If you believe
there's a hell,
you know if you
have reason
to be anxious.

If you believe
there's nothing
after you die,
no reason to worry.
Covet your neighbor's
John Deere.

The bottom line?
If you die,
you'll wake up
some place nice
or not so nice.
Or you won't wake up.

Christopher Hitchens
knows for sure.


- - -
Donal Mahoney lives in St. Louis, Missouri.

Heart-shaped Cocoon

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Contributor: Jason Sturner

- -


-for Denise-


A folding of your wings;
home from gliding
across
the clouds.

You’re weeping—
you’ve discovered
that eternity
exists.

Now you understand
why we hurt so badly:

You saw love without its veil,
and the gossamer threads which lift you,
which pull you straight down;
which brought us together,
which tossed us apart.

But we’re still in love.
We always have been.
We’re only transforming our love
into something new,
into something better.

Hence our lonely days, our poetic hearts;
in separate beds, in perpetual dark.

I once had wings
and that same urge to fly.
And I did, and I stood at the edge,
and I wept your same tears.

Yes, I once had wings too—
who do you think gave them to you?


- - -
Jason Sturner was born in Harvey, Illinois, and raised in the western suburbs of Chicago. He has published three books of poetry: Kairos, 10 Love Poems, and Selected Poems 2004-2007 (all available as free downloads; see website). He resides in Wheaton, Illinois and works as a botanist at the Morton Arboretum in Lisle. Website: www.jasonsturner.blogspot.com

He Says...

| Filed under

Contributor: Stacy Maddox

- -
He says he likes my bare feet
The way they make footprints in the sand
Or when they are covered in mud
After I've been walking in the garden.


- - -
Stacy Maddox lives, dreams and writes in the fast-paced city of Lawrence, KS. She loves to soak up the sun by the river and feel the rush of water over her feet while spending time with her family and pets. Stacy has been published in over 15 books, print magazines and online websites. She has been passionate about Art in any form for over 30 years.

Kindred Soul

| Filed under

Contributor: Ron Koppelberger

- -
Each and every whisper of a bidden spirit,
By the fire in love's hearth and the unclouded substance
Of passion, the love and nearness of
Kindred souls, of similar sensations in spring
Seasons of sparrow sashay and sunshine
Affections of
Passion.


- - -
I am aspiring to become established as a poet and a short story writer. I have written 96 books of poetry over the past several years and 16 novels: I have been submitting my work for the past year and am thrilled by acceptance. I am always looking for an audience. I have published 305 poems and 133 short stories in a variety of periodicals. I have been published in The Storyteller, Ceremony, Write On!!! (Poetry Magazette), Freshly Baked Fiction and Necrology Shorts. Also I recently won the People’s Choice Award for poetry In The Storyteller for a poem titled Secret Sash. I have been accepted in England, Australia and Thailand. I love to write and offer an experience to the reader. I am a member of The American Poet’s Society as well as The Isles Poetry Association. I hope you enjoy my work.

The Light from a Dead Star

| Filed under

Contributor: Dan Slaten

- -
my love for you is like
the light from a dead star
someone out there
a million miles away
a million years in the future
will look up and see it
burning bright in the night sky
and believe someone else
beneath the light of a dead star
dead a million years
feels the same way they do
the way I felt about you.


- - -
Dan Slaten writes poetry in a small notebook he bought at the Los Angeles Public Library.

Windsor Knot

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Contributor: Donal Mahoney

- -
Do you remember how
to tie a Windsor knot
the way your father taught you
on graduation day
in eighth grade

the man who wore a tie
twice perhaps at most--
on the day he got married
and the day he was put to rest,
the same tie for both events.

Then almost every day for 40 years
you tied that Windsor Knot
because office attire required it.
Now you haven't worn a tie
since the day of your retirement.

You'll need that knot
twice more for certain--
as pall bearer for besotted
Uncle Pat and for yourself
the day you're buried.

Both days your Windsor Knot
had better pop out right
or the ghost you don't believe in
may drop by to show you
one last time how to tie it.


- - -
Donal Mahoney lives in St. Louis, Missouri.

Moments in Time

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Contributor: Michelle Kopp

- -
Present time’s lady haemorrhages
at the wrists -- hauntings in her mind
slipping through
wet fingers

Stars explode the universe -- nothingness
what she wants most is a second
moment to hold her baby
girl -- soft pink flesh and light blonde hair
bright hazel eyes
small hands wrapped around fingers


2.

Past time’s maiden held a hand
over her stomach
twirled a pen between her fingers

Textbooks piled high
she kissed her lady lover -- cotton candy lips
-- porcelain face with hazel eyes
chokecherry lipstick in myriad starlight


3.

Present time’s woman kneels at
smooth tombstone carved
with myriad moonlight

Rain cracks from the skies
glistens upon a black granite
angel peacefully resting
on a double heart -- one etched with --
together with God but forever in our hearts
and the other --
a bud on earth to bloom in heaven

Curled into the foetal position
she conceals scar tissue beneath
silken scarves of cotton-candy pink,
reminiscent of past maiden’s lips

She prays.


- - -
Michelle Kopp is a full-time graduate student and part-time writer in Saskatchewan, Canada. Her work has appeared in 'The Diverse Arts Project' and 'Yesteryear Fiction'.

Summer Canvas

| Filed under

Contributor: Andrew P Weston

- -
Childhood memories of a British summer,
Amid landscapes of fickle mood,
Of sundrenched days,
Spent in languid relaxation,
Or hiding from windswept drudgery,
In a blanket of cloud and rain.

My playground was the mountain pass, or bone-chilling tarn,
A conical pike, and fast-running river,
Ruddy, windswept, wild-grass moors,
No Xbox required.
Not when isolated, ancient oak,
Served as castle against a thousand foes.

Free-roaming sheep, as wild as any savage,
Cropped the hills and flowered the slopes,
In mottled hues of cream and grey,
Tones, that blended with the moss riddled slates,
Of antiquated village and russet lanes,
With telephone kiosks of pillar-box red, in contrast.

I had it all, in the spring of my childhood,
A Wordsworth and a Constable of immaculate hue,
Lay before me each and every year,
Absorbing me into its multifarious medium,
And immortalizing summer’s splendid canvas,
Forever in my heart.


- - -
Ex military, ex police veteran, now living on the sunny Greek Island of Kos with a growing family of rescue cats. Can be seen most days getting easily confused by just about anything.

Thrive

| Filed under

Contributor: B. A. Varghese

- -
Light
leaps from the sun,
dancing downward to a green
swaying forest. I fly with the birds in, out,
around leafy branches of the tall noble trees. A
mother swallow warms three tender fledglings under
her wings. Alive by wind, the trees rock to her song of glee.

My careless cigar relights a smothered campfire. A spark
grows into a blaze, ripping the forest. Smoke hides
light and fire cuts in to dance on life and leaves
behind ash, soot, silence. Under
a charred wing, emerges
a baby bird
alone.


- - -
B. A. Varghese graduated from Polytechnic University (New York) in 1993 and has been working in the Information Technology field ever since. Inspired to explore his artistic side, he is currently working toward a degree in Creative Writing from the University of South Florida. His work has appeared in Apalachee Review, Rose Red Review, The Camel Saloon, Foliate Oak, and other literary journals.

Losing You

| Filed under

Contributor: Nancy May

- -
holding our stillborn
a day of memories
one photograph

gazing on a star
an empty cot
in our room

under the willow
taking a moment
thinking of you

a name on the grave
our child’s final
resting place


- - -
Nancy May has haiku published in Haiku Journal, Three Line Poetry, Poetry Quarterly, Inclement Poetry, Twisted Dreams Magazine, Vox Poetica, Eskimo Pie, Icebox, Dark Pens, Daily Love, The Blue Hour Magazine, The Camel Saloon, Kernels, Mused - the BellaOnline Literary Review, Writer’s Haven and Dead Snakes. Haiku will soon be published in Danse Macabre – An online literary magazine.

She has reached The Heron’s Nest consideration stage twice. Haiku is published weekly on Haikuary.

A Poem To My Dead Love

| Filed under

Contributor: Jason Sturner

- -
My tears have filled my hands for centuries
and for centuries more, I’ve cried.
A broom of misfortune swept you away
and there hasn’t been a day
I haven’t missed you.

The time between sunrise and sunset
is a region of despair, and my nights
are wretched with the silence of a dream;
a dream which dreams me alone.

I once was a man of polished marble,
strongest simply because you loved me.
Fortune had been my blessing, and you my bloom—
the world then was an answered question.

But my god, how quickly the puzzle drops and splits apart,
a million pieces lost in earth and time;

how in the blink of an eye
my eyes could matter no more;
how I’ve longed for more of death and less of life,
just to be closer to you, my love.


- - -
Jason Sturner was born in Harvey, Illinois, and raised in the western suburbs of Chicago. He has published three books of poetry: Kairos, 10 Love Poems, and Selected Poems 2004-2007 (all available as free downloads; see website). He resides in Wheaton, Illinois and works as a botanist at the Morton Arboretum in Lisle. Website: www.jasonsturner.blogspot.com

Continuity

| Filed under

Contributor: Donal Mahoney

- -
I'm just a dog barking,
I tell my wife who's upset
with my yakking on and on
at our weekly meeting
on a Saturday morning
stationed in our recliners
facing forward as if we were
in the same row on a plane
with the middle seat empty.

I tell her eventually
any dog will stop barking
if you give him a bowl of kibble
or let him in the house
or find his ball and play fetch.
Or do what my mother did
when I was an infant bawling
and woke my father who faced
work as a lineman the next day.

My mother would get out of bed,
grab her old bathrobe
and whisk me to the rocker.
Even to this day,
many decades removed,
it's the best solution:
Put a breast in my mouth
and silence will ensue.
Eventually I may even coo.


- - -
Donal Mahoney lives in St. Louis, Missouri.

Poltergeists (Moving Things Around Inside My Head)

| Filed under

Contributor: Bradley Mason Hamlin

- -
Sick again
ill from mutant virus
sent out by control central
so we’ll rush in and get our
flu shots
so they can inject another
mind control chip
or tracker
I’d rather tough it out
but the colds seem
to hit harder
than the old days
no lying in bed
reading comic books
head hurts too much
and no caffeine or alcohol
for days
so memories
flood back
haunting
the faces, places
of yesterday
you think you drink them
away
but they just turn into
ghosts
and you feel nostalgic
for those
disappearing moments
what did I say back then?
what did I do?
why did I do that?
what if I had done it
differently?
the bottle won’t wash away
the specters
that surround you
I know that
and you know it too
spirits invoke spirits
to the fiesta
so you’re no stranger
to talking with the dead
but now
when the banshee winds howl
outside your window
you’re going to have face
the phantoms
with nothing more
than cold medicine.


- - -

Shimmer

| Filed under

Contributor: Michelle Kopp

- -
Summerlands are gateways for lost souls
trembling as their mortal vessels decay
two feet beneath the garden of remembrance

valleys of lilies grow over fresh soil
their roots bind tight round paper caskets

frozen mists shroud my eyes to bury me
deep within Goddess eyes -- embracing

November’s playgrounds shimmer in autumn memories
forgotten in the minds of Goddess children
playing on hushed swings in the Summerland

to await innocent mortal flesh

-for chibi-


- - -
Michelle Kopp is a full-time graduate student and part-time writer in Saskatchewan, Canada. Her work has appeared in 'The Diverse Arts Project' and 'Yesteryear Fiction'.

Wounded Dreams

| Filed under

Contributor: Ludle

- -
My dreams are wounds:

Suspected deep tissue injuries
of full thickness and
foul purulent exudate.
Crimson red blood still blooms
into a violent revolution
as mind takes over heart
and the pain changes color,
color that turns bright sunshine
into black, wilted flowers.

Dreams are bruises
and bruises on memories
do not fade with time.

My dreams are wounds that never heal.


- - -
I am a South African with the sun in my veins and dreams in my pen.

Nostalgia

| Filed under

Contributor: Ray Miller

- -
In the park where part of British Leyland stood,
they’ve planted maples imported from Germany.
On Northfield Past we’re aghast, it is nicht sehr gut
and the site’s in a state of emergency.

We’ve left jumpers for goalposts, walls chalked for wickets
and the railways before Dr Beeching,
we’ve forgot happy days of ration books, Rickets,
those nights without worries or central heating.

Where the planes were made by our grandfathers,
that prised this land from beneath the jackboot
and forged the downfall of Der Luftwaffe,
the enemy wood is at last taking root.

On Northfield Past there’s talk of tunnels being dug,
fungal diseases that cannot be treated.
Careless talk costs lives – don’t tell those you love.
Change group privacy from Open to Secret.


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Scotland's Bagpipes

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Contributor: Stacy Maddox

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In the first week
Of September's arrival
I started listening for
The lonely mourning sounds
Of Scotland's bagpipes

From across the park
I had waited weeks to hear
The sole musician
Only to realize one day
He wasn't coming after all

I missed him
It had been too long
Since last I felt the sorrow
Drawing my wanderlust spirit
To another time and place

The steady rain tonight
Reminds me of what
His far-away home
Must have been like
In his notes and melodies

How I long to see
The heather that he speaks
So fondly of lying upon
His kilt a warm blanket
In the rare sunlight

I wish to immerse myself
In linns and lochs of mystery
He has built his life around
Bathe in the cool waters
Of healing and promise

Doorways of abandoned castles
Hold deep secrets for me
Where once heroic kings
And beautiful queens once roamed
The dark and cold hallways

How different his world.
Will always be from mine.
But his song will always
Inspire me to dream
Of memories from his past


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Stacy Maddox lives, dreams and writes in the fast-paced city of Lawrence, KS. She loves to soak up the sun by the river and feel the rush of water over her feet while spending time with her family and pets. Stacy has been published in over 15 books, print magazines and online websites. She has been passionate about Art in any form for over 30 years.

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