Yard | Cattail Jester
We all gather
in the yard telling
stories, but the stories
go nowhere
but to winning
games, empty lives
empty houses waiting
to be filled up.
read poetry
Almost Always Not Quite Maybe | Roger Still
A shade of what
might have been cut down
living life looking backward
or even sideways
is a difficult way to travel.
But I have my mug
all of my supplies
with a beaten path forged.
Right Time Right Place | Michael Kagan
I just happened to be passing by
there it was
lying in a garbage can
a post card
in a knotted language
I could not read it
but somehow it was clear
the long awaited answer
the elusive one we hoped for
looking so humble
for all the world it contains
I will have it faithfully restored
professionally mounted
and elegantly framed
a feature documentary
about building a long wall
out of a billion lost emails
with innocent burnt edges
limited edition books
a full-length movie
smoke and mirrors
make the point
with a great supporting cast
the wonder of it all
I just happened to be passing by
Rhizome | Tempest Brew
Let the root
spread
run ragged
stretch out
even down
to the heart
that way
it’s harder
to destroy.
Zone 5 | G. S. Katz
my compartment
zone of the interior
safe deposit room
chamber behind the stairs
good place for writing
a quick sandwich
a 15 minute nap
or a quick romp
everyone needs a space
to call their own
to find solace
or fill a desire
zone 5
is my sanctuary
will I see you there?
bring napkins…
Bittersweet It Tasted | Chris Byrne
As the years go by
I grow older, wiser,
Always thinking of that
Young lad slowly wasting
What tragic life he had.
Gifted was he, yet he never had
Seen the gifts hidden within,
The laughs and the beers
Hiding his pain, drowning
His sorrows, his gifts and talents
Becoming obsolete, getting older,
His voice keeps on going,
You’re getting there,
Bellowing deep inside,
You’ve realised your gift,
It’s using words. The old man
Thought to himself, if only
I had listened to
That young lad
As he sat back whilst
Enjoying his beer
Thinking of distant
Memories.
The End | Pragati Gupta
Peeping into the cage
At my mom’s atrocious call,
I figured out life
That haltered at my neck
Somehow.
The mother bird was to become
Medea.
The beak was stony with
Solidified blood,
Like rock salt upon the poor man’s table.
The featherless end
The crucial end.
The unmotherly end.