Candy Ray | Susan N. Aassahde
sly octopus baseball
pinata maze
tomato hoof crease
poetry
December – A Poem by AM Spence
No snowman stands in snow,
the runway of lamplights
glow orange along the flat
snow-path in the public park
where the red-bench looks
hotter covered with snow
tinsel-bits of snow-deco as
blindly-snow dustily floats
mistily on me into cool-wet.
Slept with the Window Open – A Poem by G. S. Katz
Slept with the window open
Clarity through cool breezes
Good dreams for once
Just enough morning chill
To don my light jacket
Reached into my pocket
Found a dog treat
Left over from sometime in the spring
Shaved most of my beard
Leaving only some chin music
Deli coffee still only $1.25
French Vanilla, dark, no sugar
No bagel, wife says I gotta lose 10 pounds
Home to oatmeal and blueberries
Could be worse
‘I Neglect Nothing’ | Jim Bellamy
I neglect nothing –
Your furled scent, the bitter tea,
The merciless maxims spurting
Diamate into the fire.
I conclude us both, like a Will –
The one impressed is me,
And you are filigree wrought,
Your stare as kvetch as desire.
(Now you must own no friends –
With your head howled back,
Like a sightless toy, like
A figurine, you must seem closed.
Childless, your mouth is contorted,
Splintered, epileptic – mine
Is an ovum, disposed
As an idol on a grave).
You placed a cigar to my lips –
I, laughing, put out the fire,
Congruous and calm. Yes,
I recollect babies and flowers:
A slap about the face of death.
And then you quietly rocked
From side to walled side and moaned
Like a gale of sadness starting.
More at https://www.jamesbellamy.org/.
The Little Leaf | Alexis Karpouzos
i saw a little leaf whirling in the wind,
didn’t want to fall from the tree
but the leaf keeps falling over,
i prop it up, it falls again .
At the end, the heartbroken leaf
leaves a tear when it falls
and says goodbye to the tree.
Now, the little leaf, reincarnated into the earth
and started its cycle all over again.
Little leaf, the storyteller of our life.
Peaceful Co-Existence | Stan Morrison
I want to get my old life back
want-need-love-hate-feel sad
doesn’t diminish my unrest
I just want to get my old life back
no reading, drawing or writing
no reichian breathing, meditation
can move the needle backwards
I sincerely want my old life back
I made peace with the remedies
designed to seem rather than be
what I have is not what I did have
I still dream that my old life is back.
Murmur – A Poem by JD DeHart
The whisper grew
Into a voice.
The voice put on a tie
And went to find a job.
Alas, the tiny tingle
In the ear was not attractive,
Nor the booming sounds.
So what came was a whimper.
More at http://jddehart.blogspot.com.
Mom, Was Jesus A Skinner? – A Poem by Richard William Kirkpatrick-Thorne
It Listens,
Long Waxed-Legged Like In Dali,
Carnivorous On Its HindSight While Footing Fifty,
No Dead Skin Upon Its Elbows,
Floating Its Heels ALong The Linoleum Slide,
No Pores WithIn Its Face,
It Does Not Breathe To Subsist…
…
It Can Bend Its Knees Back,
When Under The Bridge,
To Tease Curfew InTo Its Open Skirt,
Playing In Limbo Rouged As Any Bimbo Bell-Ringer Could,
Kneeling For The Knell To Deliver…
…
To Pucker Up A Golden Arch… Or Suck Around The Clap…
…
…
Opaque And Split-Second Quick,
Sticking Its Mouth Through The Threshold,
Its Body Invisible To All But Its Fraternity,
With A Flower On Its Cap… Or Several Inches Beneath The Rafters,
Hidden By The Whites Of Its Lies…
…
It Pokes And Molests Those Sleeping,
As Diplomacy Watches From A Bubble…
…
…
It Hatches New Goofs For Its Nursery Terns,
Boxing The Ears For X’s And O’s,
Then It Disappears From Breakfast For The Chance Of Trickle-Down,
For A Drip-Feed From Sourced Code To Hack And Conquer…
…
Then… Ascot-Cotton’d Or Scarf-Silken’d Or Neck Bared,
It Returns To SweetTalk Those By The SideWalk…
…
…
And, With No Bicycles Constructed Tall Enough For Its Shadow,
The Skinner Leans Chainless Against The Back-Drop,
Easeing InTo The Bricks For Its Mother Of Periphery,
As It Allows For Distraction To Wipe Its Collar Clean.
More at http://rwkt.blogspot.ca/2014/10/mom-was-jesus-skinner.html.
The Way You Look at Me – A Poem by G. S. Katz
Your pensive smile
Bending the rules of attraction
Secret desire
Contained but obvious to me
An unspoken language
Harbored within symbols
Traveling through my day
Signposts of love posted on the walls
Collected and owned
Spiritual moodiness
Growth and distance
Defined and wanting…
Heirloom Tomatoes | Mary Bone
Heirloom shopping,
nostalgia called
my tomatoes are called heirloom.
I ate them.