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Spring!
by
Anna Maria
Spring comes
Unfurling my leaves .
My beloved is in my garden
Searching for me.
With him the dew
The gentle breeze
The buzz of the bees
The musk of the trees .
My anklets make music
My heart does a spin.
My beloved spies me.
Arms open wide,
spring in his smile.
My bangles create symphony
As I loose myself in him.
He covers me with dew
I become his vine.
My petals make way
he hums his way in!
Wafted by love
spring is in the air!
Melody
by
Anna Maria
Have you felt the
drizzle on your face
its music on your naked skin cold?
Lifted against yours you
Showering kisses on mine.
A different harmony
on my naked skin warm.
Raining right down
drenching me.
hearts drumming
bodies twirling
drowning in the beats
of a drizzle that began out cold,
to be lost in the din
of the ensuing crescendo.
Encore.
The tale of
the tree
by
Anna Maria
Exposed like this
my branches bare
my leaves shed
the seasons
the spring the summer
the autumn the winter
take a backseat.
You perch searching
necking flitting cooing
nesting .
I bear the leaves the seasons
Standing .
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Rivers
Flow
by Melissa Fry Beasley
Rivers flow to a sea
That never fills
As you try to smooth out
The past like skin
Not everything you wish to remain hidden
Is unseen
But beautiful
Despite its sorrow
There is hemlock near the water
Silvery fragrance of darkening night
Fog like memories and clinging
Like children to skirts
Or ghosts wanting to let go
Knowing they are still bound to place
I have been flowed through
By a thousand streams
Rushing from pure hands when touched
The way stars tremble between fingers
And the heavenly tongue of space
Time
Stretches into eternity
Full of Spring
Beloved.
The
Unexpected Froze Me
by Melissa Fry Beasley
The unexpected froze me
Shock of disbelief
Choked off crying
The unsaid and unlived
Imagined endings
Deepening knowledge
About the price
Of holding back
Softening of one's commitment
Letting go
Is willingness
To experience
Unconditionally
Turning points
Alter
Everyone
World
Fragmented suddenly
From this lifelong martyrdom
Realizing every denial
Is an affirmation
Red
Clay
by Melissa Fry Beasley
I remember the red clay of which I was born
With no earth to lose
Thought slaying everything
That memory awakens
Waiting for the peace
Of loving life
Place becomes time
In a land of no Fathers
Where widows and orphans seek
Mothers who work too hard
Give too much
Leaving little left over
Except clothes
Hands covered in blood
Space between being and nothing
Between death and yesterday morning
When we walked out
Of our bodies and sat together
So far from our destinies
Legs dangling freely over the edge
Of this world and Into the next
Very present in our absence
To
Sing You Down
by Melissa Fry Beasley
While in heaven
Our ghosts are tears
I come here to this place
Where songs are born
To sing you down
So you can fill my throat
With voices other than my own
I bring you down in remembrance and honor
Ghost warriors descending
Singing the great deeds of our ancestors
Bewailing their deaths
Weeping for songs
Crying for a vision
Only borrowed from the other world
These are not forever here and
We merely come to dream
Through many restless wanderings
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A
Day Like This
by Luis Cuauhtemoc Berriozabal
You grow to like a day like this.
It presents itself at your window
and you don’t have to go to work.
It is a slow and steady day.
Perhaps tomorrow you will be
staring at your computer screen
and you will still be buzzing
and thinking about the day before.
You will grow into this moment
and you’ll hear yourself talk,
but don’t take it for granted.
It’s hard to get the time back
when everything happens so
fast. Smile upon a day like this
The
Dreams That Lead To Madness
by Luis Cuauhtemoc Berriozabal
I fear the dreams
that lead to madness.
I don’t want to be there.
Trampled under wheels,
steel-belt tires
the first step I take outside.
The
Wicked Sun
by Luis Cuauhtemoc Berriozabal
He tried to obliterate the sun.
He would hurl stones at it.
He put all his strength into
each throw. The sun was too
far away. He loved evenings
and darkness before dawn.
The wicked sun shone down
on his head laughing at him.
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Round
4
by
Darren C. Demaree
What part of a man
gets left outside the ring
when death watches
where the blows
are struck? How long
does the black carpet
stretch, if your whole body
is on the line? When I
squint, I see the corners
expand into colonies
of possible mourners.
I see children proud
of their father’s
willingness
to die for honor
& a heavy paycheck.
I suppose it makes sense
for the first month’s bills.
After all, the sport, the toys
that come after,
that is man in total.
Round
5
by
Darren C. Demaree
Knocked underway
the stress of battle
below the brain
the loosening
& swelling of skin,
the thickness
of which is judge
& dance, steps
that have no rhythm
hold no weight,
builds no steam
for no release.
Two
Right Hands His Head Could Not Bear
by
Darren C. Demaree
Awake, beating
& beaten, if we knew,
if Ray knew
it was actually
the third blow,
the kick back
of his skull
to the canvas
that took the pain
away from Kim,
took the light
from his lungs
with roots,
the trouble
of what we do
with our muscles
away from the field,
away from the field,
when the battle
is bloody theater
would that lesson
the lesions
if we could tell
a story that ended
without a feeling
of contagion?
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urgency
parade
by
Kenneth Kesner
you’re so where
and i keep it backwards
to myself
turn
entertained
to the few
shines
and we thought
confused
cares this way she feels
must then
in all time
rise up for now
linotipe
by
Kenneth Kesner
then
can’t you know
how serious
this isn’t
can you hear them knocking
simply knocking
how’s the festival of where
i’m running with you
and i want to
that’s all
they’re simply knocking
and i’ll go away
to follow
you caught me laughing
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Voices
of the Earth
by Gert W. Knop
Voices
of the earth,
mirror
of the world,
like
songs in the wind,
a
dance.
Evening,
glowing ashes,
embedded
in my thoughts,
a
music.
A
green world has a joyful sound.
The
sun,
the
silver stars.
Songs
of the birds,
game
of the wind.
Remembrance,
a
beautiful summer day,
like
poppies.
Faces
in the fog,
the
sunset.
Voices
of the earth,
vibrating
sound,
winds
of hope,
caress
nature in harmony.
Game
on sunlit meadows
play
hide-and-seek.
Let
nature remain
in
joyful chorus,
and
let us join.
The
world,
a
whirlpool of
thoughts
and deeds.
So
let us hold
in
love and praise
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The
Mosaic's Stunning
by Lyn Lifshin
Inside Chora Church
out of the hot sun,
bodies pressing bodies.
Mary and Jesus
surrounded by their
family. One of Christ
raising Adam and Eve
out of their sarcophagus,
the gates of Hell under
Christ's feet, the
colors stunning, skin
that looks like skin.
Lighting and shade, the
power and movement
in the figures amazing
some say, an explosive
feeling of the grave
bursting open and the
Easter miracle occurring
before our eyes some
one says as I try to feel
something I somehow
can't
Who
Wouldn't Like To Say The Words Hagia Sophia?
by Lyn Lifshin
the way the words, the vowels
roll off the tongue like liquid
honey. Who would want to
be held for centuries in
ivory arms surrounded by
gold mosaics, glittery panels
or be the black eyed mistress,
mother of the emperor's
only son. Who wouldn't bask
in the glow of Hagia Sophia,
feel as overwhelming,
unbelievable, fantastic
23
Days Before Fire Gulps My Driveway Kills The Green
by Lyn Lifshin
I coaxed almost
half my life. It's good
I didn't know what
was waiting, would
unfold like the prayer
mats that will leave
me down on my knees
as much as anyone
praying. Better to drift
in legends and myth,
in the eyes of black
haired giggly girls.
It's not too late yet to
feel soft morning light
move over apricots
and olives, kiss my skin
like a lover, not an
arsonist
Dust
Pink Tuff
by Lyn Lifshin
from 30 million
years ago. Strange
shaped fairy chimneys.
I want to free frame
this dusky moment,
magical horses and
camels, a penis that
is a toad stool. I
think of where we've
come from, of all
the people, this
moment frozen
before thunder. Lights
start coming on in
caves, stars, rhine-
stones. The smell of
rain before it comes,
the yellow fluttering
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Terrestrial
Illumination No. 417
by Duane Locke
I listen to the conversation between roots
And the earth. A tiny sprig from a root hair,
Curved and bright white under the earth is
Touching the rainbow colors on a hexagonic sand grain—
A hexagon too complex for an Euclid to understand,
As the plant and earth converse. The root hair is a projection,
Something like a flying buttress, from a stem but is
Shaped like a Jerusalem column in the Vatican’s Baldacchino
And moves like a ballerina. The root hair and the sand grain
Interpret each other other. The sand grain is giving a sliver,
Silver of water it saved from last week’s rain for the root to drink. I listen
But my mind does not understand their language,
But my body, what is called, really miscalled, my physical body
Understands and stores their conversation’s wonder, wisdom and exaltation
Inside the chemical telephones concealed in the red closets of my blood.
Terrestrial
Illumination No. 418
by Duane Locke
We meet, two thinking objects, the lichen
On a cypress and myself.
The lichen is red, has impasto surface, and its red
Is bordered by a curled green.
My limited perception renders the tree beige bark immobile.
Something invisible that requires a new thinking to understand
Passes between us.
What passes between our inner subjectivity is a type of silent music.
This body of mine of which I am aware does not hear the music,
But the part of my body that is unknown to me hears the music.
I don’t have any knowledge of the silent music’s reaction on the cypress.
This silent music composed by my relationship with the cypress
And that is entering me defies conceptual grasp. It is known by what
We as human beings do not yet conceptually know, the mystic force of the earth.
I stand here, filled with this silent music, I am reminded of St. John
of the Cross,
“All I know is what I do not know.” But I do know that what is
not
Conceptually understood, but understood by corporeality is the highest
And happiest understanding. This strange, ineffable understanding is
so joyous.
The lichen is now a part of me and participates in my actions.
Terrestrial
Illumination No. 419
by Duane Locke
The ecstatic moment is always near—an ecstatic moment such as
When the face of a Praying Mantis is encountered
And becomes the exclusive possession of an intense gaze,
When the shape of the green and yellow face centered
With a shape of red that resembles human lips is translated
Into an inner transformation of wonder and later into the action of behavior.
The ecstatic moment is always near,
But is shoved away
By what appears to be near, the ordinary,
What Is spoken of by the many as being near,
What Is mandated by the many to be near,
If not believed as being near the believer in truth, the apostate, is
ostracized,
Outcast, but what is spoken by the many as being near is not near,
The many speak a language of lies, what they speak of as being near
Is far away, illusions are always distant,
Actually what is called “ the ordinary” does not exist,
There is only pretense the ordinary exists—only
The extraordinary exists, and it shoved away by the many,
The unlearned and the learned.
Terrestrial
Illumination No. 420
by Duane Locke
“The implausible univocal unsituational imposed by one object,
Or imposed by a committee or legislature of objects,
Equipped rationally and logically with false authority and petty power,
On another object made pliable and docile by allowing
Mass opinion to osmose into his corporeality from words spoken
By slave mentalities is he meta-narrative and foundation
Of social cohesion, this strange chaos called ‘organized society.’
The words of mass or popular opinion
Smear and erase the blueprint of the inner organism, and
Transfigure natural corporeality into the psychopathic who
Become so prevalent and widespread that the situation is deemed
‘Normal’ in textbooks and by word of mouth of both the
Learned and the unlearned, and thus the normal person is derogated
As being ‘odd, eccentric, or weird.’”
“Well, Amaryllis, here is the money in payment for sporting
In the shade and listening to me.”
Terrestrial
Illumination No. 424
by Duane Locke
An opal’s opacity
When in a spotlight or the quick flame
Of a struck match is like the reflection of painted boats
On the mermaid-eye green
Of white-tipped waves’ breath on the basalt Amalfi coast.
The opal is a kaleidoscope.
She in Amalfi was opalescence as the opal
Mounted in simulated gold on a much used ring finger. Should I be Lacanian
And cadaverise my position, since the living mind
Substitutes fantasies that become reality effects and speed boats.
It is axiomatic we only have approximate knowledge of why we address
Girls that wear opal rings, but we have no knowledge of why the
address is returned.
We will never know for certain what animates and motivates the other.
So we are in a state of approximate knowledge
Flashing and glittering with no knowledge, like an opal before it is shadowed.
Are opal rings female praying mantis.
I contribute this speculation to my being in an Almafi defunct monastery
Now an albergo with amaretto standing where the crucifix once stood
On this bar board before the altar was converted into a bar.
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The
Sudden Death of Wonder
by Austin McCarron
Living on scraps in a city
of imperial smells, I know a tramp
of inconsolable friendships,
who is poorer than a lover of dead art,
a God
of empty clothes and silent imagination.
Drinking the soup of garish machines,
of crusty civilisation,
of inept doctrines,
I know a tramp of inexplicable dawns,
poorer than sticks
of gold in banks of unspiritual gardens,
who lives in a mansion
of streets, a palace of bitter drains, where
rats of the sewer pass
through his grounds like images of creation.
I offer him money in a bowl of hours but he
seeks shelter with animals of
glass, bearing waves of non-existent water.
I take him across the river to a city
of exceptional lawns, where the sun fits
perfectly into its foaming mouth. We pass
through a tunnel of wounds and into
a courtyard of winding, sulphurous dreams.
I see the fruit of dust in a tree of fallen eyes.
I draft a pitch of desert snow and clouds.
Above us grey swirling towers with concrete
wings. I follow a path of music and flames.
We drink blue water in a valley of breezes.
The sand we climb is higher than roots of air.
The city is like a spark of trembling hands.
Behind pale effigies of human suffering, the
future is like seed of broken life, stored in
sheets of time. There is the hunger of lambs.
There is the slab of stone. There is the milk
of voices, fresh with colossal names,
unburdened by images of magnificent rain and
servile floods. I offer him the sweetest knife
and he lives with a crown of death. I offer him
the younger of blood and he turns to me like
a man caressed of souls, of giant cathedrals,
who pleads for proof of innocence and light.
The Memory Inventor
by Austin McCarron
On cliffs of silence,
I grovel at the feet of heaven,
with lips of undrinkable wine,
and in my hand, the
science of mystery, the hat of time.
Downcast, I aim a rifle of flames
at rivers of undreamed ascents.
What possible storms could blind
me now?
I foam with blood of sleep. On hills
of lush green farms,
the udders of consciousness drip with
fat of unbuttered milk.
In windy skies, birds of fallen territories
unravel a tongue of clouds.
I am young as windows, bent over views,
seeing within.
On a wall of
patient colours, I frame light and sound.
On failed pastures, I comb
images of water, waves of unruly hair.
In cities of the world, stars of harmony
shine like marbles in a suit of caves.
On the coast of the future, I see the blood
of oceans,
bearing my laughter, faithless and clean.
The Body is a Civilisation
by Austin McCarron
The body feeds on scraps
of knowledge, putting on
shelves books of light hearted
ailments, where groins with
hairy windows open like polar
shadows undisputed titles of air.
On stomach walls, pictures of music,
kicking out with feet of silent art.
The blood roams in a sea of spaces.
Dreaming up more serious diseases
is like speech to organs of time.
On a desert of ribs, on a torso of lakes,
the body is a civilisation, a plain
of mythologies, with gifts of common
ancestors, and lunar paths and visions.
In silken Alaskas,
demons of bone, valleys of skeletal flame.
Flags of New Zealand
by Austin McCarron
The sea is like flesh
of storms, brought inland
on trees of Botanical snow.
Over graves of rock I cherish
the laughter of fallen birds.
The sky is like paper on words
of time.
I return the mask of solitude
to a bay of gentle breezes and
each drop of rain is like a new
face to a lover of silent dreams.
I examine the image of sand with
foot prints of animals and light.
In a forest of red and blue gorse
I find a river of immaculate pine.
The rope of existence is torn in
trances of glass and gold. I build
its inner life, with architects of fire,
with dancers of dead possessions.
I caress a swarm of indignant lunar
flies, helping stars to live.
I pick the flower of darkness and
from a distance watch it fail.
I return with the dust of youth and
I am calm like sparks of blood, like
waves of polar sea.
In the morning I am home and the
sun burns like a finger in spaces, like
a shadow of springs.
On hills of dark green wood the cloud
is like a troubled flame.
On hills of crouching stone the wind is
like a tribe of beautiful Maori names.
In the city the cleanest wound
is patched up with treaties of Maori light.
In tears I pick up death on terraces of snow.
In drops of lakes I pass divers of air. I see
walkers with blind dogs climb higher than
churches of frozen religions.
The spirit on my shoulder is drinking a cup
of silence and nations. In barren winter
I open the world of my origins and it is like
thighs of music, passionate song, begging
me not to step on leaves of a bitter sound.
I Sit on a Roof of Cities
by Austin McCarron
I sit on a roof of cities
and please summer with
the music of wells.
Happily I play to my lover
with voices of a silent crowd.
Sparks of the river I hide
in cracks of immense glass.
On the other side of the street,
the scaffolding is half dismantled.
Traffic edges past
the hospital with shaking eyes.
The sun is like a tiger, picking
at bones of light.
Over great rooftops, the city is drawn
like wine of a religious feast.
The sweeping stone
of our life falls on sand of desert water.
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Transparent
by Neila Mezynski
.
Mound, heap, sparkle, fill up go. Outside with huge over the top. No
difference . Inside. Much. Rope around heap bead kink Milky Way. They
ask. To see. To me. For.
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My
Chicken Has Bones
by David R. Morgan
Every night, beneath the tree, an identical
werewolf waits for The Princess to fall
down, into the gravel circle the children
draw each day for marbles
(gravel fine as salt: ground
into your knees it has to
work itself out)
Each night the same werewolf waits and no
one else is there to save The Beauty
waiting alone inside her
flowing yellow hair, the wolf snapping at her
plain blue skirts, draped gracefully
over the lowest branch
(skirts the mice her only real
friends will trim with ribbons, lace, scraps
her wicked step-sisters don't need)
So there's no question: each night
in my car, driving, driving
past the playground, my heart
in my knees even before
I see her, my Princess
(in the tree where she always is)
struggle open the door,
struggle her into the seat beside you,
struggle to slam the door on the wolf who is
already gobbling down
(as you knew he would, painlessly) my
own legs from toes to knees
waking me
right at the hemline of my suit;
knowing it's happened before, my toes are
still there, not to cry out, knowing it's after
all the price I pay for fatherhood.
Cover
of bird Book of fish
by David R. Morgan
The book emerges from the bird: swimming
tail curved, head raised, the weight a fish would be
if it could be held in motion…
The girl with the book around her neck
sits quietly on a jutting rock by the sea.
The waves curl foamy fingers towards the rocks,
smash their delicate salt bones to glass.
Everywhere is a fine damp mist.
The girl pulls back the left sleeve of her scales,
and with a mixture of sand
and clay and tries to draw a map on her skin.
It is not thick enough; the wet sand will not make lines,
only prickle her as it winds its way along her forearm.
She pulls her sleeve back down.
A boy approaches the rock on which she sits. He looks up at her.
She looks a long moment.
"Come up," whispers the girl to the boy with a book around his neck.
"Come up here."
He does, with his hands to the rock, his shoes like hers,
his covering like hers.
He unbuttons the neck,
unwinds the mantilla from his neck.
There is a book there, the same length and width as hers,
black cord threaded through its sewn leather spine, knotted shut.
He reaches for the knot with slender fingers.
"Wait," she says, "wait." She unbuttons her neckline,
unwinds her pashmina, bares her own book for the opening,
bites her lip as she looks at him.
"Are you sure?"
"I want to tell you a secret," he says, firm.
They open their books.
They turn every page as if touching each other's cheeks.
They read the same word, the only word,
buried in each book's deepest heart,
nestled up against its sewn leather spine,
behind its knotted ribs.
When the tide comes in,
it finds a clutch of soft grey feathers sticking to the rocks,
spilling from the pages of two tiny books with no words in them.
The tide stretches; licks them like a feline;
it tangles the black cord that threads them, knots them together,
and accepts them into the sea.
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Silence
on a Summer Dreamt:
by Callum Norman
The voices that I have loved fade
Into wholeness long since spoken.
The words themselves are less severe
Than what it is the tones bring forth.
I cannot rage for that
Which cannot rage for me.
*
The future will write what I know
Having known each one's colours well.
Though I would rise to see detail,
I've more to me than you have known.
I cannot rage for that
Which cannot rage for me.
*
This death soon might wake a tempest,
Or a land that occupies snow,
Or a ripple in a vast sea,
Or silence on a summer dreamt.
I cannot rage for that
Which cannot rage for me.
The Face that
does Turn
by Callum Norman
The truth turns suddenly and unashamedly
Though many would have him kept facing back
As before he held our strength irreproachably,
But now is smeared for needing looks,
Like a child in battle garments.
*
We know the power as he looks away;
The muscles are as stone, the back as a forest.
It allows us to carry our loved ones convincingly.
Such can be taken by him turned away
That allows us his mystery.
*
It may take a deceptively long wait of time,
Or it may seem to happen too often,
That he bears his great pain to all
That carries one cared for off to yonder.
*
No longer in him do they trust
For he does let his eyes gush forth.
They ask him how he didn’t think of them
And with that he doesn’t feel so distraught.
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After
the Poet Said When I’m Gone, I Hope Someone Finds My Journals and Burns
Them
by Scott Owens
Moleskin jacket sending up
all the colors of a photograph,
pages filled with words
that burned once and now again.
Why should you care now
what they say,
what they think they say?
Perhaps they’ll find confirmation
of what they always suspected.
Perhaps they’ll misunderstand
and hate you, but of course,
it won’t be you they hate
(they can’t touch you now)
but a construct of their own perception
forever altered by what they read
when you can no longer
explain, deflect, contextualize.
It’s the lack of relativity
we rightfully fear, when things
are made to stand as they are
or as they might have been.
This reminds us something still hurts
when a life is extinguished
or the record of a life ignited.
Two Found
Poems Finding Each Other
by Scott Owens
Marco, a boy calls out.
I took orders from customers.
The waves rise and fall.
When I put the salad bar together,
Shells sing their clicking song.
I had to make sure everything was fresh.
A long-legged bird rises and falls.
I took care of whatever the customers needed.
No Polo replies.
Sometimes I would come in on my days off.
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Near
the World Bank
by Frederick Pollack
Over the summer, the University
expanded downtown, acquiring
basement offices for classrooms. Now
students walk many blocks
into regions
that seldom saw them before. And the hours
in which they walk correspond
to those in which executives –
junior executives, who
must visit other offices
to brief or be briefed, or descend
ten floors for a cigarette –
are on the streets. The sidewalks
are veined with concrete barriers
to discourage carbombs. Planters
(a willow, a bonsai maple
drooping in the superb
rainless September) are
similarly beige, awkward, and solid.
Possibly the students
stay more to one side of the barriers, the
executives another; it isn’t clear.
What is clear
in a subtle, inadmissible way is
the quality of their mutual
inattention. The students, with
their backpacks, T-shirts and bare midriffs cluster,
clingingly, around the age
of twenty and look downward;
the young executives, in
suits, are all about
thirty and look –
even the somewhat alienated smokers –
away.
Each sometimes laughs at someone else’s joke.
It wouldn’t be realistic
to expect much
interaction between them, discourse, romance;
at most a demonstration.
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Epitaph
on a Nameless Grave
by Iolanda Scripca
I've heard roots digging underground for me
they need my concentrated pain to blossom
in whispered scent of angels bringing Spring
and pure white hope of finding ageless love
Phone Wire in
Graves
by Iolanda Scripca
Waiting for a phone call
Hoarding memories surrounding
A nest of sorrow
She's deep asleep
I watch her...
She's
dreaming dreams of happy times but gone...
Busy walls with mounted smiles
A mute TV screen displaying a tragic comedy
Curtains shielding tears
Three phone devices that do not ring...
I must go back to my reality
I cry, she cries...
Our phones do not even sound busy...
Invisible wires of the soul crash in memories...
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from
Of these Voices
by Felino A. Soriano
pause
sincerity engrained its
or
the
singular renaming of a remodeled corporeal
regulation: the act of
purposeful aging neglects the aging of naturalized
youth-forgetting properties: an
ornament of sound
hangs
from the hollow hand of
arthritic angles, the notion
of light’s deliberate fade
(or dusk, in the traditional manifest of dictionary interrogation)
wearing tomorrow as skeletal goal to
become into an existent fulcrum
of memory’s welcoming
wait
cold
(as gatherer)
steps improvise (clustered
remedies of alone’s catatonic effort)
accordance
structural data (analyzed, over)
we’ve
watched
faces appear in the realm of fractal deliverance
prophesize
origami
futures
lace
as lessened by physical adherence
over
upon
extracting
this
skin of unfelt absence
circulating
a warmth needed by the
prose
of longing’s evaporating syllables
dragonfly
in the freedom of maze
layered glaze
muffled blur
contoured algorithm
lost in the found focus of clarity’s later alteration
among the zigzag customary etch:
tremble this
turquoise
this
running from
desire the eye
contends as
radial returning
of hope, unsolved
becoming
act
of the crawl dissertation: growth yet/now, yet the building
into
diverse structural mathematics this
attribution of need excels
continues into bone as the end
in
that sense hardens
softening
across the spectrum of age’s relevant dilemma of voice
in
the echo of ache’s determined actuation
home,
away from the syllables
focal
watching the window|s| wear|s|
absence
slimming as the shadows’ dimensional monotony
paralleled personal attention
introspection deliberates
teetering
into balanced frequency of
rain’s
angled
language:
this space, delineated subjective uses
holds
within web of interlocking
hands
each or every gild of the voices’ incorporated build of
architectural
camaraderie
being,
or in the isolation of severity
touched, this
able vernacular, language of
interwoven hope
plural
diameters involving swell of
the fingers’ ability to allude
spoken similarities
tone or tonal (either in the
facet of vision)
spectral influence
this
silken endeavor to roam
amid fractions of watchers’
summary of simulation
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To
My Father, the Image
by Shelby Stephenson
Had I Infinite’s form I’d know my lie
From some
place far off comes, unknown, no rent,
Or tear, to
stream here on Paul’s Hill, that tint,
A picture I’ve been saving from your Goodbye,
Incantations of your stories, your sigh
At
checkerboard, playing Yourself, content
To say,
“Oh, that’s my man, Son – “Crown me, Saint” –
Your name for what you knew in fields of air
The Old South
shaped clear and loud, your own key,
Just by being
willing to let Her fly:
Packhouse, the chair, your hands, some leaves, cigar −
That must have helped you through walls of time – see −
As if July,
slave girl, danced in your eye,
Fan-feet, long legs, sorrowfully ajar..
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The
Breath of Fire
by Joanna M. Weston
waves gather music
into light
turn harmony to fire
breathing on land
in susurrations
of pleasure
flames caress sand
rock trees
with tremulous notes
stroking them
into the warmth of life
in my mouth
Space and to
Spare
by Joanna M. Weston
our shadows stretch
down the beach
long and white
east to the horizon
while dune grasses
and thistles
whisper to us
and we lengthen
before the sun
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