You know what I miss
About the Lone Star state?
The Tex-Mex food —
The chicken fried steaks.

The white cream gravy
To blanket your biscuits —
And ice cold beer
With Bar-B-Q brisket.

But the weather and religion
Can be so hard to bear.
Still Texans are always saying:
“Ya’ll come back now, you hear?”

And I do not miss the roaches,
The mosquitoes — all those bugs!
Bigger isn’t always better —
In terms of insects, faith or floods.

More at http://about.me/dklawitter.

Despoiled leaves,
memory corners lurk;
the past in a wish list, as echoes
of the wind saunter
in cleavages, who knows
what? Who does or does not?
Kills or kills not,
suddenly flood waters
are stained with red.
We write poems while people, flood-driven in a country, lie in
an anonymous heap. Who cares or cares not?

We feel too damn much
Rather than going too far inside
or drinking to oblivion
We write

The writing saved me
Opened up new worlds
Gave me a voice that lay hidden
Helped me reach across the aisle to touch

Sometimes we write the same thing to death
Other times we nail it spot on
Often we are searching for the perfect verse
It’s a long game, out on the wing, penning…

The floor is uneven
and so am I
but we keep on trying
tilting in our own ways.
Balance is needed
yet balance is lost.
Out of sync with everything,
un-level once more.
I stumble ground-wards
and rise with every step
a painful chore.

More at http://paultristram.blogspot.co.uk/.

It is another day, informal
with these rains hounding you
casting shadows across hills
inside the worm creeps, desultory walking
monotones increase
so do drones of heavy vehicles, let’s go a roundabout way, placing myths in corridors of time.

I swam across seas
blinded by thrill,
I knew no one.
When the waves rose
to touch the shore
I rose too,
the apprehension within me
solid to the touch.

I flew across skies
Managing to avoid
those voiceless shrieks,
the vivid fears,
the piercing pulls of gravity.

I ran across mountains,
braving the days
braving the nights
and everything in between.

I was shaken from a stupor,
The blindfold removed
I felt the transition
I felt me
The phantasma was real…

She lives by a lake.
After a heavy snow
she looks out the window
and sees black swans
in a long, straight line
carefully step ashore.

More at http://booksonblog12.blogspot.com.